KIMOTA ANTHOLOGY

Horror, Science Fiction and Fantasy fiction

edited by Graeme Hurry

First published by Kimota Publishing © Graeme Hurry 2011

cover art by Martin McKenna

Authors retain copyright of individual stories:

AGAINST THE SKIN © Mark Morris 1991

AGNES IN WONDERLAND © Annemarie Allen 2000

ALTERNATIVE HOSPITAL © Neal Asher 1998

ALWAYS THE PAST © Paul Edwards 2000

A MATTER OF BLOOD © Martin Owton 1997

AMYGDALA © David A. Sutton 1998

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE OR MINERAL © William Meikle 1995

A ROOM OF MY OWN © Kevin K. Rattan 1994

A TOTALLY ORDINARY WOMAN © Hugh Cook 2001

BEHOLDERS © Trevor Mendham 2002

BEYOND THE HELP OF MORTALS © D.F. Lewis 1998

BOXES © Hugh Cook 2000

COLD COMFORT © Mark Chadbourn 1996

CONCENTING ADULTS © Hugh Cook 1998

DEEP BLUE © Stephen Laws 1994

DEEP INSIDE © Steve Dean 2001

EATING OUT WITH MR BENN © Caroline Dunford 1995

EUGENE © Paul Finch 1997

FLY ON THE WALL DOCUMENTARIES © Jonathan Taylor 2000

GAME OVER © Stuart Young 2000

GOD'S FAVOURITE CREATURES © Julie Travis 1997

GOOD VIBRATIONS © Simon Kewin 2000

HOME COMFORTS © Peter Crowther 1995

HORIZON © Caroline Dunford 1997

IDLE HANDS © John Travis 2000

JULY © Paul Finch 1997

LIMBO LARRY © Hugh Cook 2001

NOVIE'S ARK © David O'Neill 1999

ON THE EDGE OF REALITY © Davina Marsland 1996

PERPETUAL MOTION © Julie Travis 2002

POISONED © Stephen Gallagher 1997

REMEMBER, REMEMBER © Kevin K. Rattan 1995

SIMPLE BALLET © Nicholas Royle 1997

SIRA © Derek M. Fox 1998

THE ABRIDGED NOSTRADAMUS © Peter Tennant 1999

THE CLOSING HAND © Christopher Kenworthy 1996

THE EARTHLY PARADISE © Peter Tennant 1997

THE FIRES OF SUMMER © Steve Lockley 1997

THE FUNGUS COMUNION © Alexander Glass 2000

THE GREEN BELT © Steve Dean 1998

THE HAPPY CLAPPER © Jonathan Taylor 2001

THE IDIOT STICK © Steve Dean 1996

THE LAST DOOR DOWN THE HALL © Paul McAvoy 2000

THE MURDER MYSTERY © Peter Tennant 1995

THE TERROR AND THE TORTOISESHELL © John Travis 2001

THE SHOE BOX © Suzanne J. Barbieri 1998

THE SIMULATOR © Paul Finch 2000

THE STRANGER © Trevor Mendham 1998

THE WEDDING JOB © Paul McAvoy 2001

TIME'S CHANGE © Barbara Davies 1999

TREADING THE REGOLITH © Cate Gardner 2010

TRIPLE GLAZING © John Travis 2000

TROUBLE DOLLS © Suzanne J. Barbieri 1996

VIDEO NASTY © Caroline Dunford 1995

VINCENT'S LAST PICTURE © Martin Owton 2000

WAR STORY © Caroline Dunford 1996

WAY BACK WHEN © David Price 2000

WEE ROBBIE © William Meikle 1998

DEEP BLUE

by Stephen Laws

If I think back about it, the whole thing really began with Charlie Otis and his drunken talk about what music can do to you, depending on what kind of mood you’re in.

He felt like talking that night, so I let him. That’s the thing about The Portland. It’s a kind of haven for people who feel the need to get seriously drunk or talk, or get seriously drunk and listen. It’s a pub that’s managed to survive the plague of brass and chrome that’s infected so many of the city-centre drinking places since the late seventies. Just your old-fashioned, no-nonsense, peeling wallpaper kind of place; with a scarred bar top and fast service for the professional drinker. It’s the kind of bar where a draughtsman, a Chief Executive, a shipyard welder and a solicitor can get drunk and talk about their problems with whoever’s there, without resorting to talk of work, influence or profession. Anybody who breaks the unspoken rule gets the cold shoulder. Anyway, I digress, and you may as well know from the beginning… I’m no bloody good at telling stories, but bear with me.

So anyway, Charlie Otis worked at the Breweries, something in the Orders Section I think (not that it matters, like I say). I’d already got a couple under my belt when he walked in, but he was onto his fourth before I’d ordered my third, and he was pissed off. He didn’t want to talk about his problem, whatever it was… just around it. There’s a time for talking and a time for listening. In The Portland, you’ve got to be intuitive. So I in-tooted, and listened.

“That’s the thing with some music,” he said, “If you’re in a good mood, you can listen to a real bluesey piece, about some fella who’s lost everything, you know? And you can enjoy it, get into the feeling of it, without feeling too bad. Know what I mean? But if you’re already blue… well, it can make you suicidal. You must know what I mean — you play that sort of stuff for a living.”

Time for another digression. He’s right, I’m a professional musician. I played Working men’s Clubs for years with a group — if you can call our Rag Tag bunch that — by the name of ‘The Hellbenders’. Yeah, I know it’s a corny title, but we’d seen a Spaghetti western back in the sixties with that title, and it sort of stuck with us. We were what you might call ‘soft-rock’, I suppose. My ambitions for super-stardom vanished a long time ago, and I don’t play the clubs anymore. I’m a session man, but strictly small-time stuff. You ever listen to the music that backs those kids’ commercials? You know the sort of thing — the heavy rock stuff behind Super Auto Man or Lightening Raiders. I’m proud of some of it, actually. Even cut a single of the Raiders theme, but it didn’t go anywhere. Anyway, whereas the work pays the bills and the maintenance money for my Ex and two kids, it doesn’t have any sort of street cred, so I don’t talk about it too much.

So I said: “It’s just a job to me, Otis.”

“Come on, don’t give me that,” he says. “You’re a musician. You’ve got to feel what you’re playing.”

“If I felt everything I played I’d be burned out”

“But that’s the point, see?” He was on his fifth, and I was starting to tune out. “I mean, if you really felt some kinds of songs, I mean really felt them it would depress the hell out of you, wouldn’t it? I mean… take "Run for Home", that Alan Hull song. I can’t bear to listen to it, ’cause that’s the day Alice walked out on me…”

And so on and so forth.

Okay, so we’re skipping ahead now. This is about a month later. I was in the same bar, and the same seat, getting on the outside of some happy hour Canadian Gold whisky, when Gerry walked in.

Now I’d known Gerry for a long time. He had his faults, but he was basically okay. Actually, I owed him, because it was thanks to Gerry that I started in the commercials work. He was involved with Implosion Studios in town, and that’s where I recorded most of my stuff with the other session men that Gerry used to pull together for these kids’ adverts. We were good and we were cheap, and the stuff we thrashed out for those London firms was bloody good, if I say so myself. But the thing with Gerry was… well, he was an entrepreneur. He thought he was Big Time, but he wasn’t. And you had to ignore the way he went on sometimes about wanting to make the Big Big Time. For a while, I was dragged along in the enthusiasm of Gerry’s dreams, but experience taught me that most of those dreams would stay that way. Gerry wasn’t involved with commercials anymore at that time, he had moved off in search of his Big Dreams. Despite that, despite the fact that I’ve probably turned into some aged rock and roll cynic, we still had a beer occasionally in The Portland and I let him prattle on about the big deals he was always going to pull off.

Now, this was the second conversation, so I’ll try and get it right.

Just how the hell we got around to talking about Buddy Holly, I don’t know. But we did.

“Ask anybody,” said Gerry. “Anybody…” (and he belched loud enough to draw the attention of the barman) “anybody who knows. And they’ll tell you that Buddy Holly was the greatest, the most influential… the greatest…”

So I wasn’t really going to argue with him. You know, it had been a really hard day and all I was really looking forward to was to wind down, not wind up. So I took another mouthful of Canadian Gold and started picking idly at one of the rough scratches on the battered bar counter, remembering the time Stanley Usher had his teeth knocked out on it by some pissed-off long distance lorry driver.

“Who’s arguing?” I said. “I think he was great, too.”

And Gerry swigged down some more of his Newcastle Brown and said: “But… I mean… he was the greatest.”

And round about then I started to think that he’d already been drinking tonight before he came into the pub. And maybe one too many snorts of the happy-baccy. I wasn’t in the mood that night for meaningless, meaningful discussions, know what I mean?

“Know how he died?” asks Gerry.

“Plane crash,” I replied. “Him and the Big Bopper.”

“September 7th 1936 to February 3rd 1959,” said Gerry. “And here’s a quote:‘One day soon the reservoir of Holly’s songs will be drained. I give the cult five years.’Adrian Mitchell, London Mail 13th July 1962.” Gerry ordered another Brown Ale and a whisky for me. So who was arguing?

“The Day The Music Died,” I said in return.“Don McLean’s ‘American Pie’. And he was singing about the day that Buddy Holly died.”

“But it’s not dead,” Gerry said. And there was something about the way he spoke that made me wonder if he was as stoned as I thought he was. “Not anymore.” There was an eagerness about the way that he spoke; the keenness cutting momentarily through his drunken blur.

And then he fumbled in his inside pocket and took out a brown manila envelope, swatting it with dramatic emphasis on the bar. He sipped his drink again and sat back, leaving the envelope there, staring at me with that intense expression on his face — like I was supposed to say or do something. Instead I shrugged, invited him to carry on.

“Know what’s in there?” he asked.

“A contract for me to play with Bruce Springsteen on a world tour.”

“You wish. But in fact, it’s better than that. More than better. This is a bloody gold-mine.”

There was a pause then, and Gerry seemed to be savouring the moment. Then he nodded at the envelope, inviting me to open it. With a sour smile at his dramatics, I swept it from the bar and did just that. Inside were two sheets of yellowed paper. When I opened out the heavily creased and folded pages, I could see that it was old music paper with the two staves on it. It was a song. Hand-written, with the blue ink faded to grey. The scrawl at the top of the first sheet was hard to decipher, not helped by the Canadian Gold blur in my head.

“Deep… deep…”

“Deep Blue,” finished Gerry, swigging back his drink and ordering another for both of us. “It’s a blues number. Read the signature.”

I squinted at the scrawl again, holding the page up to the light for a better view.

“Buddy…”

“Holly,” finished Gerry.

I looked back at him for a long time.

“You’re telling me that this is an original manuscript for a song by Buddy Holly?”

“Not only that. But it’s the last song he ever wrote.”

I finished my drink, still looking hard at Gerry. When our two refreshers came, I sipped at it for a little while, and then said: “Bullshit.”

“I’m telling you. It’s Buddy Holly’s last song. Never been played, never been recorded. It’s a goldmine.”

“It’s a forgery.”

Gerry seemed impatient now. I’d obviously not reacted according to plan.

“No it’s not. It’s the real thing. I guarantee it.”

“There’s one big reason why it can’t be a Buddy Holly song.”

“Why?”

“Because Buddy couldn’t read music, much less write it. He was self taught.”

“You think I don’t know that.”

“And you still say it’s genuine?”

“I’ve had the handwriting for the lyrics tested by experts. Not only that, but every crotchet and quaver matches the handwriting style. They were written by the same hand, by the same man. Buddy Holly.”

“I still say, Bullshit.”

“I’ve got the evidence. Look, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. But — maybe he’d started to learn. The simple fact is — it’s his song. And it’s his last.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Indirectly — from the site where his plane crashed.”

“You mean someone just picked it up off the ground, and it’s never been heard of for more than thirty years.”

“That’s right.”

“That bull is still straining in the ditch, Gerry.”

“Some hillbilly farmer picked it out of a tree. Didn’t know what he’d got, but his daughter did. Just like a lot of kids back then, she thought Buddy was Number One. Devastated by what had happened. She just kept those two pages locked in her trunk. A last personal reminder. Never let on about it. Just took it out of that trunk every once in a while and looked at it.”

“And never thought about trying to sell it? Maybe make a fortune out of it a few years later?”

“She died. Suicide or something. Someone else found it in that trunk.”

“So how come you’re the first to get your hands on it?”

Gerry tapped his nose. “I’m not the first. I’m number ten, to be accurate.”

“Nine people have had this song — and it’s never been recorded?”

“All nine owners died.”

“They all died,” I said, kind of flat, to get a reaction out of Gerry.

“They died. Tell you what, that song was destined for me.”

“Sounds like you’re spinning me a tale. What is this — a song with a curse?”

“A song that’s never been recorded. This is the one that’s going to make the big money.”

“You sure this song wasn’t composed by Tutankhamum?”

“What?”

“You know. A curse or something.”

“Don’t be bloody stupid.”

“I still think it’s all bollocks.”

“Yeah? Well, bollocks to you, an’all. I was going to cut you in on a piece of the action. I’ve got something really Big lined up. Special feature on a prime-time television special. And you could have been playing lead guitar on this one.”

“Here, let me see.”

“Hands off! You think it’s all bollocks, remember? You may be able to sight read, and I might not know a crotchet from a jockstrap — but this is mine. And you just blew your chance to be part of Rock and Roll history.”

Maybe it was the whisky making him more touchy than normal, or maybe he was just so hyped up about the whole thing that he wouldn’t take anything except wonder and amazement and envy from anyone hearing his crazy Buddy Holly story. But that was when Gerry stamped out of the bar, jamming that envelope back in his pocket. No one looked up as he made his angry way to the door — melodramatic exits were rather a feature of The Portland — and this only served to make him more angry. I could hear him cursing all the way out onto the street. I remember laughing quietly then as I turned back to my drink, wondering just how much Big Money Gerry had coughed up for the rights to this forgery.

I haven’t laughed since.

All the way home that night, in my blurred state of senses, I had this peculiar feeling. You know the sort of thing I mean? As if you’ve forgotten to do something, something important. And it nags away at the back of your mind. Even when I let myself through the front door of my rented apartment, I paused on the threshold and tried to remember just what it could be. Nothing would come. Inside, I decided against coffee and took the whisky bottle out of the cupboard. Had it got something to do with Angela, my ex-wife? Had I forgotten to send this month’s maintenance money for the kids? Maybe it was the kids themselves, Jamie and Paula. No, their birthdays were four and eight months away. Pouring myself a house-measure of the old anaesthetic, I pulled my acoustic guitar out of the cupboard, flopped on the sofa and began to strum a few chords.

After a few minutes, I realised what had been chewing at the back of my mind.

It was the so-called Buddy Holly song.

Just as Gerry had said, I’m a pretty good sight reader from sheet music, but I also have a pretty good memory. I’ve only got to play a new number through once, and I can generally log it up in the old beanbox and remember it for the future. And although I’d only had a brief glance at the forgery, I could still see the image of it imprinted on my retina. It was a standard 4/4 signature, but there was something about the chord combination that seemed curious. I closed my eyes, and tried to strum out a brief snatch of what I’d seen. There was a chord change here from E major to A minor which was easy enough. Sorry, maybe you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Now what can I liken that chord change to? Well, it’s used a lot by that film composer, John Barry. It’s the opening two chord-stabs from Goldfinger, and he uses it a lot in his other stuff. Unusual to start a Blues number with a dramatic “Stab’ like that . But, anyway, I kept on, swigging on the whisky bottle and trying to remember how it went on from there.

Yeah, A minor to A, then G — then…

Then I don’t remember a lot after that.

What I do remember isn’t very pleasant at all.

I remember the sounds of screaming, a feeling as if the whole world was tilting. When I try to think back about it, I only see “flashes’: like I’m seeing some kind of psychedelic film that makes no sense. I remember something made of glass breaking. Later, they found that my front window was broken and there was blood on the panes, so I suppose it must have been that. They found the guitar out there too, on the street. I seem to remember running through rain (although it wasn’t raining that night), and with the sounds of that hideous screaming all around me. I seem to see faces swimming out of mist, leering at me. But in retrospect those faces must have been passers-by on the street shrinking back in fear as I hurtled past them in the night.

Then I remember the car, swerving around the corner with its headlights stabbing the night. I remember a shrieking of brakes that matched the terrified shrieking all around me. Then the impact. A horrible black gulf of pain that killed the screaming dead. A feeling of flying, and the knowledge that the screaming was not coming from all around me, but was actually coming from me.

Then it was like I was kid again, at the dentists. Back then, when I had gas for an extraction, I would suffer the most terrible hallucinations. I reckon it must have been some reaction to the gas, because the experiences were always hideously painful. Jumbling black-white-and red shapes. Magnified sounds, like the crashing echoes of someone dropping a tray of cutlery. And the twisting and turning of those shapes, and the sounds of that crashing cutlery were all, in themselves, causing the most hideous, gouging pain. Distorted voices moaning obscenities. Waves of nausea creeping and swelling through the pain…

And then I was awake again, fully expecting to be leaning forward to the unconvincing voice of a dentist telling me that everything was all right and would I please spit into the bowl. I tried to struggle up, but that hideous pain had transferred to my leg. I slumped back. I wasn’t ten years old, I was forty.

I was in a hospital bed.

Sweat soaked my face, and I could feel it in the small of my back. And oh God, had I pissed myself as I lay there?

I lay there a while, breathing deep and trying to orientate myself.

There had been an accident. I remembered the car with its blaring horn and its shrieking tyres. My leg seemed to be in some sort of splint under the covers. Yes, that was it — I’d been hit by a car. But what about all that other stuff? The screaming and the breaking of glass and the running through the streets — and something to do with music? No, that must all be part of the shock of the accident. If I just lay still for a while and took it easy, everything would come back to me gradually. Maybe I’d just left Gerry in the pub, and walked outside, full of whisky — straight in front of a car. That made much more sense.

Gerry.

Somehow, I could hear his voice. I rubbed my face, screwed my fists into my eye sockets, shook my head. I could still hear his voice, then I could hear the shrill Liverpudlian voice of a famous TV star — and the sounds of an audience laughing.

I looked up.

There was a television set high up on a shelf, just off to my left.

And there was Gerry — on the screen. Chatting to the TV star.

My senses were still a little blurry . I tried to rise again and felt the pain, thought about ringing the bell at the side of the bed for assistance.

“So tonight’s the night,” said the woman in the bright red hair, “After all these years. You must be feeling very excited.”

“More than excited,” said Gerry’s familiar voice. “I’m proud. Just proud that I’m part of such a big moment in Rock and Roll history.”

“So no one’s heard the song, none of the band back there have rehearsed it?”

“That’s right. This is the first time that his last song will have been playied to an audience. Just like the band back there, the vieweres will be hearing Deep Blue just as Buddy composed it — for the very first time.”

“I can’t wait, chuck. Believe me. So, viewers tune in for tonight’s Big Event - just after the regional news…”

And that’s when I tore the IV wires out of my arm and shoved the stand aside. The wires sprayed liquid over the bedspread. I knew that the pain was going to be bad, but hadn’t appreciated just how bad as I pulled myself out of bed as my strapped-up leg swung down to bang against the mattress. The pain almost made me throw up. I gritted my teeth, felt the enamel scraping — and hobbled to the cupboard. I was right, my clothes were in there. I dragged them out as the loud and brassy television theme filled the room. My head was still swimming as I dragged the clothes on. There was a walking stick beside a chair in the corner. I grabbed it and hobbled to the door. So far, no one had noticed that I’d come around. I staggered, putting too much weight on my splinted broken leg. This time, I did throw up; reeling to one side as it came out of me.

In the next moment, I was out of the ward and hobbling down the corridor head down. I hoped to God that no one would stop me. Each step of the way, I gritted my teeth or chewed at my lips with the pain. By the time I’d reached the end of the corridor, there was a salt taste of blood in my mouth.

Outside, it had begun to rain. I stood aside as an ambulance pulled up at the entrance, kept my head down and tried to pretend that I was just a patient having a breath of fresh air as the back doors of the ambulance banged open and two of the crew loaded out some poor old guy on a stretcher with an oxygen mask on his face. As soon as they passed me, I hobbled out into the night.

How long had I been lying there in that hospital bed? Days, weeks, months?

Prime time television special, Gerry had said. How long would it have taken him to fix up a deal like that?

I stared out into the darkness. I’d never make it to the main road with this leg, and there was no guarantee that I would be able to flag down a taxi. I had to go back inside the hospital, find a telephone, hope that I wasn’t spotted. How the hell could I convince anyone at the studios?

Then I saw the driver’s keys, still in the ignition of the ambulance.

Now or never.

I yanked open the door, threw the walking stick inside, drew a deep breath and began to clamber in. My leg bumped against the door as I climbed it — and I’m sure that I passed out then. In a kind of dream I saw myself being hauled out of the ambulance, put onto a stretcher and taken back inside. But then the dream dissipated, and there I was, half-in half-out, lying across the seat. My leg was on fire. I struggled up and pulled the door shut. The walking stick was going to have to serve the purpose of my damaged leg on the accelerator.

I gunned the 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 an automatic response of weary disgust, but her words shrivelled in her mouth when she saw my face, saw what kind of state I was in. Her mouth opened wide, and she had no time to react as I hit that half-opened door hard with my free hand. In shock, she staggered back against the wall and I blundered straight in past her.

“The kids!” I yelled. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re watching the telly — what the hell do you think you’re doing, busting into my house like that? There’s a restraining order against you coming here. You know that? And what the hell is that ambulance doing…?

I shouldered the living room door open. Jamey and Paula were already looking my way as I came in, eyes wide and fearful.

On the television, the red haired woman said: “And without further ado — not that there’s been any ado going on anyway (laughter) — Gerry Cainton’s band, Surefire, are here to play — for the first time — Buddy Holly’s Deep Blue.”

As the audience applause filled the room, I limped towards the television set, forcing myself not to care about the agony in my leg.

The band played those first two chords. Major to minor. The intro.

God in Heaven, I couldn’t bend to switch the damn thing off, or even pull the plug out of its socket. The pain was too great. If I was to fall, I’d never get up again with this leg.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the kids shrinking back on the sofa, away from me.

The drums began, the bass started a riff. The lead guitarist strutted forward to his microphone.

And I seized the top of the television, yanking it from its table and screaming like a wild animal at the pain as the weight of it forced me to stand on both legs. Then I lunged forward as that first lead guitar phrase filled the room - and stumbled towards the windows.

The set’s lead jerked free from the socket just as I hit the window. It shattered with a juddering crash, and the set went straight out into the street in a glittering wave like broken ice. I fell over the jagged edge, feeling the glass slice through my clothes and across my stomach and chest. I saw the television hit the gleaming pavement; saw the screen explode with a hollow cough, spitting out blue sparks, glass and shattered filaments in its last buzzing, spluttering death rattle.

I couldn’t get my breath.

As I tried to suck in lungfuls of night air, as the rain spattered through that shattered window and the sounds of that ambulance siren wailed in the living room, I was racked by a keening, sobbing convulsion deep in my chest. It had something to do with the pain, the agony — but it was more to do with relief, with the fact that I never thought deep down that I was going to get there in time.

Now, there were hands on my shoulders. Small hands, gentle but strong.

That sobbing seemed to be convulsing my whole body as I was lifted out of the broken window. It was Jamey and Paula, their faces no longer terrified, their eyes no longer wide with fear.

“Here,” said Jamey. “Here, Dad.” And they were both trying to guide me to the sofa.

In the doorway, I could see Angela in her dressing gown. Face white and set in a mask of fury. She was on the telephone. I knew from that expression that she had just dialled 999.

“Police!” she snapped firmly at the ’phone, her eyes still fixed on me.

“Oh God, Dad…” said Paula, her voice filled with a kind of soft horror. “What’s that?”

I struggled to control that sobbing, and turned to see her looking past me, back out of the window.

“Listen,” she said.

And I heard what she had heard, even above the sound of the ambulance siren.

Someone, somewhere out there in the night, was screaming.

And even as we listened, we heard the sounds of other voices joining in. The sounds of someone in mortal pain, or in an agony of distress. Another voice, and another… and another. Then the sound of breaking glass, another clattering smash out there somewhere on the streets. A shriek of tyres, another juddering crash. More voices were joining that swelling chorus. Now it sounded like the caterwauling of night animals; a hideous and insane shrieking. Like the sounds of souls in Hell, souls in torment, filling the night air.

It was growing louder and nearer.

Now, people were screaming behind the doors of houses on this street.

An insane, heart-rending cacophony. The sounds of desolation and despair.

Those sounds had drowned the ambulance siren, as the kids clung to me staring out wild-eyed and frightened into the night.

When I turned back to Angela, she had dropped the telephone. It swung at the end of its flex from the table in the hall. Her face was white, but this time not with fury as she stood watching and listening.

“What…?” she began.

And I could give her no more answers than I can give you now.

POISONED

by Stephen Gallagher

Dylan told his mother that he was going to read in the garden. It was a fine day, and it always seemed to brighten her up when he chose to read. Even a book with very few words and mostly just pictures was reckoned to be better than nothing. She said he watched too much television. She’d talk about rationing his TV watching, but then she’d never do anything about it.

Thank God.

“Stay where I can see you,” she called after him.

“I will,” he said.

The garden was a long one, and he could disappear into it. There was the part you could see from the house, and then there was the part beyond that had been let to go wild. It had dense bushes and an overgrown pond, and a derelict shed that he’d once turned into a den. Along the back of the garden, there was a wooden fence. This was rotten in places, although the greenery before it was so thickly-grown that there seemed to be no way to reach it. His father probably had no idea what state it was in. But if you knew what you were doing, and where you were going, there was at least one way to get through.

“Dylan?” his mother called.

“I’m right here,” he called back.

He left his book in the shed, went around the old pond, ducked and squeezed through the greenery, and then wriggled out through the gap that had been made by some dropped planking. Beyond the gap stretched a dozen yards of clear ground, not exactly a track because no-one ever came down here, and then the perimeter fence of the local sports field. Turn left, and the corridor went into a dead end; but go right, and it would lead along behind the other big houses with their big gardens and come out into a descending valley with a stream. If he should follow the stream down, then the landscape would open out endlessly before him.

Halfway along behind the houses, he stopped and listened. Was that his mother, calling his name again? She was always checking on him. He lingered, torn by a vague sense of guilt. He knew that it was probably her, but a part of his mind was working hard to whitewash this out.

When it had succeeded, he turned and carried on.

The stream fed down into the first of the Ponds. There were three of these. There were also low hills, and flat plains, and sandy-coloured paths that snaked around and joined each other in unexpected places. It was something like a cruder version of a golf course, without the golf. The council had called it a country park, and put signs by the road. The river ran through it at the far end. Very few people came here.

He turned and listened again. But he heard nothing now.

So then, with a completely clear conscience, he went on.

His parents watched him all the time. Talk about angels hovering around us while we pray; his parents hovered around him, whatever he tried to do. It nearly drove him mad. He’d been their only child, and he spent most of his time either alone or in their company. Their idea of a good day out was to look around the shops in a town they hadn’t visited in a while, and then find a cafe for afternoon tea. All three of them, together.

Occasional escape was the only option.

He’d lost count of the number of sit-down serious talks they’d had on the subject of the Council Estate children. His parents wanted him to stay away from them but they could never give him a single solid reason, other than to say that anything else was ‘inappropriate’. By Dylan’s understanding, that simply meant that his parents didn’t like the idea. No reason, just reaction. But how could he make them understand? Everybody needed friends, and he’d never had any problem making them. The problem seemed to be that he’d never made one that they’d considered suitable, and probably never would.

He followed the path of beaten sand, down into a field that had been churned up by horses’ hooves into a surface like a choppy sea. Gypsies had camped down here for much of last year, and they’d left the place litter-strewn and blasted. Dylan’s mother had been horrified by the gypsies’ presence even more than by the prospect of her son following the Estate children around. She’d signed a petition, and had organised their immediate neighbours to sign as well. Now all the country park’s access roads had been blocked by concrete-filled drums and heaps of earth so that no vehicle could get in. If it had been quiet out here before, it was even quieter now.

From the gypsy field, Dylan could hear voices.

Over a hill and down the other side, he found them. In the dip stood a bent tree with a rope swing hanging from one of its branches. A length of log tied had been into the lower end of the rope to make a crude seat. The ground underneath had been worn into plain dirt.

One was up and swinging, three were watching. He knew them all.

Fat Sam, Jason with the ever-runny nose, Kelly’s brother Michael - the youngest by a couple of years - and Kelly herself. Kelly, the savage one, the tomboy; the one who both scared and fascinated Dylan. The boys were in jeans and trainers. Kelly was wearing a spotted dress, and sandals.

He stood at a distance for a while, watching them, not wanting to approach uninvited. He heard one of them - it might have been Sam - say, It’s him again, all the more distinct because it was said quietly and not shouted. They didn’t give any sign of awareness, but their game suddenly grew more elaborate, more of a performance to make him envy the fun that they were having.

And it was hard going, because the rope had worn and snapped so many times that the seat had been repositioned too high for any of them to reach it with ease. When, finally, they got fed up and started to move on, Kelly turned toward him and called out, “Are you coming, or what?”

It was the closest to an invitation that he was going to get. He ran to catch up.

Michael was telling the others about a one-legged cat he’d once seen.

“A one-legged cat?” Sam said.

Jason, who seemed to have a permanent cold and whose nickname was Silversleeves because of his habit of relieving it on his pullover, said, “I’ve seen cats and dogs with three legs, but I’ve never seen a cat with just one.”

“Well,” Michael said uncomfortably, “this was.”

It was obvious that what he’d had in mind was a three-legged animal, but now he was in a corner and he felt obliged to defend it. Better to try to persist in a mistake, the logic went, than to face the derision involved in admitting one in the presence of elders.

Sam said, “How did it manage to walk?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “It just did.”

Kelly said, “What do you call a one-legged cat?”

“Pogo!” Jason said, and everyone except for Sam hooted and cackled for as long as they could force it. Sam looked dark.

“Snot fukkin funny at all,” he said, with grievance.

Dylan, just happy to be along, said nothing.

They were trooping down a narrow cut with bushes to either side. Without warning, something burst out onto the path ahead of them. It was a black and white sheepdog with a pale wall-eye, and it must have been attracted by the noise they were making. Kelly gave a shriek.

“It’s all right,” Dylan said quickly. “I know it.”

“He looks mad,” Michael said, grateful to the point of eagerness for any change of subject. “Look at his eyes.”

“It’s a she,” Dylan said. “Those are just ordinary eyes for that kind of dog. Look at her tail.”

The tail was wagging.

“Come on, Sherry,” Dylan said.

But the sheepdog, having checked them out and finding them of limited interest, dodged his outstretched hand and headed off and away. She was a neighbour’s dog, forever escaping and coming down here to hunt for rabbits. Her owner would set out looking for her, blowing a special whistle which the dog would ignore. Sometimes she’d drag home the day’s catch, to audible effect.

Dylan said, belatedly, “That’s how you tell with a dog. You look at the tail.”

“That’s only for normal dogs,” Jason said. “Dogs that get out here go funny.”

“They don’t go funny,” Kelly said. “Our Rex used to run all over around here.”

“I know, and then your dad had to have him put to sleep.”

“He did not. Our Rex went to live on a farm.”

They walked on up to the crest of the hill. There they sat in a line, looking down onto the river. It was some way below them. Where it turned, a brown foam gathered and piled. From here, it looked like dirty snow that lifted and moved when the wind blew.

Jason wiped his nose in the usual way, and told them about a local dog he’d heard of whose puppies had been born without any eyes. This had been years and years ago, but for some reason people were starting to talk about it again.

He said, “One of women from the big posh houses came knocking on the door last week. She was trying to get everyone to go to a meeting about it.”

Sam said, “If it really was dangerous, they wouldn’t allow anybody down here.”

Dylan said nothing, knowing that by ‘the posh houses’ they meant the road on which he lived. The newer council housing was almost right alongside. Both sets of residents stayed aloof. The people in the big houses were still trying to get the street layout altered so the council residents wouldn’t cut through. The council tenants accused the private residents of wanting to put up a dividing wall.

Kelly said, “Them in the posh houses are always trying to get you to join something or sign something. Our dad always sends them off.”

Jason said, “My dad says there’s all sorts under the soil out here. Before it was fields, it was all mines and factories that got pulled down.”

“I know there was mines,” Kelly said. “That’s what those fenced bits are.”

“There was a battery place and a dye works as well. That’s why all that orange and green stuff comes bubbling up when it rains.”

Dylan’s interest in the subject was waning already. There were trees, there was grass. All was fine. End of story. Could he hear a whistle? Jason was saying, “Then the dogs probably go home and lick their paws after they’ve walked in it. Then they go all strange and then they die. It’s poison.”

“It’s not poison,” Kelly said. “I’ve supped some of that.”

“You don’t know.”

“I know more than you.”

“My bum’s all damp,” Michael said, and so they got up and moved on.

Walking down the side of the hill, Dylan looked across the fields and saw the figure of Mr Johnson, Sherry’s owner. He was alone. He lowered the dog whistle, and Dylan guessed that he was staring in their direction although at this distance it was impossible to be sure. He wondered whether he ought to wave, but he didn’t.

Dylan felt guilty for a while. But the guilt passed as they continued to descend, and Mr Johnson was lost from sight.

Kelly, whose grandfather had been a miner, was talking about the pit shaft heads that dotted the reclaimed industrial area underlying the country park. To Dylan, these were no more than occasional fenced squares about the size of a small vegetable garden, all in unexpected places on otherwise featureless slopes.

Kelly said, “The tunnels are all underneath us. They go for miles.”

“They’re supposed to have been filled in,” Sam objected.

“They’re not,” Kelly said. “There’s all sorts down there. There’s a town.”

“You liar.”

“It’s for the politicians if there’s another war,” she said. “It’s got streets and shops and everything, but it’s completely deserted. They used the miners to dig it all out and then they sacked them all to keep it secret.” Dylan said, “Is that true?”

She turned to him. “You can see it, if you find the right place to go in,” she said. “They’ve got hidden doors. I can show you one.”

A few minutes later, they were climbing the next hill toward one of the shaft heads. Like the others, it was no more than a dozen metres square and contained by a wooden rail fence with barbed wire strung along the top and between the rails. Inside the square Dylan could see tall grasses and young, stunted saplings. As they were making their way up toward it, Kelly was whispering something to each of the others in turn.

It looked secure, but one of the fenceposts had been splintered at its base. It went over when Jason pushed, and the wire went with it. It didn’t go all the way to the ground, but it was low enough for them all to be able to pick their way over. Michael got one of his socks caught on a barb, and squalled until Kelly pulled him free.

Dylan was scared and excited, both at once. Scared at being caught somewhere that he wasn’t supposed to be. Excited for exactly the same reason. There didn’t seem to be much else to get worked up about. The shaft had been capped with concrete pillars like railway sleepers, and the cap filled over with several feet of dirt. What had happened here was that two of the pillars had crumbled and dropped, and the dirt had collapsed downward through the opening. The result was a depression in the middle of the square, and it was deep enough for the five of them to descend into. At the bottom of the depression was the way in.

“It’s not like a trapdoor,” Dylan said. “That’s just a hole.”

“It’s a hole where the trapdoor used to be,” Kelly said. “There are stairs inside.”

“It’s dark.”

“There’s a light you can switch on. Don’t you want to see it?”

Dylan looked around. He realised that only he and Kelly had descended to the opening. The others were all back up at the top. Suddenly selfconscious, he said, “No, thanks.”

“You’re the only one here who’s not seen it,” Kelly said. “Don’t be such a baby.”

He could feel himself starting to blush. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m just not that interested.”

“I’ll come in with you,” she said. “Go on.”

He had to duck to get under the rusty wires that were sticking out from the fallen concrete sections. He’d go in as far as the daylight reached, and no farther. Kelly was close behind him. She was still talking about how there were stairs and a light switch somewhere inside. It didn’t look likely. The space beyond the hole formed a dark chamber. It looked as if the gypsies had used it to dump stuff. There was a car wheel with a bald tyre on it, and some bags of refuse that were split and seeping.

“Feel for the switch,” Kelly said from behind him. “It’s on that wall.”

“There isn’t a wall.” There was only rubble.

“You’re not looking properly. When we get down there, you can just walk into any of the shops and play with all the things in them. It’s great. There’s no-one around who can stop you.”

Enticing as the prospect was, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. Steadying himself on the uncertain footing, he started to turn. Let her find the switch herself, if she was so certain it was there. He was certain now that she’d only brought him down here to make fun of his readiness to believe.

“Hey,” she said. “Look at this.”

She was silhouetted against the daylight. All that he could see was that she’d pulled her knickers down to around her knees and she was holding the lower part of her dress up high with both hands.

He didn’t know what to do. There was braying laughter from outside and he could hear one of them saying, “She’s doing it! She’s really doing it! Have a look down and see his face!” The outlines of their heads bobbed in and out of the entranceway, and Dylan felt trapped and scared.

“Stop it!” he said.

Kelly hauled up her knickers and turned, as if to run with the others and leave him there. She didn’t see where she was going. As she spun around she went straight into one of the dropped beams, whacking her head into it at eyebrow level. She stopped. She’d made no sound, other than the cricket-ball crack of bone against concrete. Then she dropped with a certain grace, and landed with none.

There was a silence. Then the others started to call to her.

“Kelly?” Sam called.

And Jason shouted, “What’s going on?”

“She’s banged her head,” Dylan shouted back. “You’ve got to come and help.” But nobody came down. He could hear them talking outside. There was urgency and concern in their tone, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Come on,” he called out to them, but still nobody came.

He had to do something. Kelly was lying in the rubbish. He got hold of her under the arms, and started to drag her out. Would she need an ambulance? He was wondering how one could ever get in here, given that every track into the park had been blocked. To get one at all, somebody would have to call for it. That meant a lurch into the world of responsibility. The very thought made him feel sick.

Kelly’s dress caught on something and when he struggled to pull it free, it tore. He hadn’t looked at her too closely. She might have been dead, for all he knew. But as he was dragging her, she suddenly revived and started to cry, as if he’d jogged some wires that had sparked her back into life. Once started, she wouldn’t stop.

Outside, she sat on the ground bawling while the rest of them stood around her and watched. Her forehead was cut and the rest of her looked pretty wretched.

Michael said, “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Dylan said.

“Our mam’ll go mad.”

Still crying, Kelly was arranging her torn dress over her scratched and dirty legs in a belated act of modesty. She was putting out the same loud, sobbing note, over and over. Her face was all twisted up and streaked with clean teary tracks through the grime. She sat on the pressed-down grass, looking utterly helpless.

Dylan wondered aloud whether they ought to call someone to come out for her, hoping that someone else would volunteer, but this was quickly deemed unthinkable.

Jason turned to look down at Michael and said, “You’re going to have to take her home.”

Michael, stricken, looked up at each of them. “I’ll get killed when mam sees her,” he said.

“You’ll get killed if you just leave her here screaming her head off,” Sam pointed out.

They all tried to help her to stand, and she beat their hands away the first time but then couldn’t manage to get up on her own. They raised her to her feet. She was bawling too much even to say what hurt.

The four of them went off one way, in the direction of the Estate, and Dylan went another in order to pick up the path that would lead him toward home. He watched them as they crossed the lower fields, and could hear Kelly all the way. She never let up.

Dylan re-entered the garden using the same route by which he’d left it. His book was gone from the shed, so his absence had definitely been discovered.

He got back into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom without being seen. Some of his clothes were dirty and so he quietly changed them, opening and closing his drawers and the wardrobe door with elaborate slowness. He hid the soiled clothing under the bed, and then he sat on the coverlet and waited for his mother to find him.

She found him.

“I looked all over for you,” she said from the doorway. “Where did you get to?”

“Just on a walk,” he said. She was obviously displeased with him. “You don’t ever leave the garden without telling me first,” she said. “Especially not to go down to the Ponds. What’s out there has brought us enough unhappiness. How many times have I got to say it?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s always sorry. But it never sinks in, does it?”

She left him and went back downstairs, and he sat alone in his room for a while. He looked at his model aeroplanes, hanging from the ceiling on lengths of fishing line so that you could squint a little and they’d look as if they were actually in flight. They never moved, but their shadows passed across the walls again and again as the days went by.

Mostly he could put things out of his mind, once they’d happened. Without immediacy, it was as if they faded and left no stain. But the hurt of Kelly and the others turning on him as they had. . . for some reason, this seemed to be something that wouldn’t go away.

He lay back. The hurt shifted. But still it stayed with him.

Visitors came calling, some time later. He heard their muffled voices down below. He wondered. He wondered who it was. Then he thought he heard his name. Nobody called for him, but after a few minutes he heard his mother coming up the stairs. He tensed as she approached his room along the landing.

He’d expected her to be angry, but she wasn’t. Just very, very deliberate. She sat on the bed, and his heart dived in despair. He’d known scenes like this before, but only rarely. When loved ones died, or his pets “went away”. The serious moments, where his life took some kind of a turn that he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t control.

She said, “I’m going to ask you something. I want you to tell me the truth.”

Dylan said nothing.

His mother said, “Where did you go when you went out this morning?”

“Just playing,” he said.

“Who with? The ones I’ve had to keep telling you about?”

Again he said nothing, but the way that he avoided her eyes was a form of admission.

She said, “There are two policemen downstairs. They’re going to ask you this, but I want you to tell me first. Did you touch Kelly at all?”

Touch her? He’d had to. He said, “I pulled her out when she banged her head.”

“Pulled her out of where?”

“This place they were showing me.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the other part.

“Were they making fun of you?”

“We were all just laughing.”

Then his mother said, “Listen to me, Dylan. They’re children. You’re twenty-six years old. I’ve tried to explain this to you but I can never seem to make you understand. You’re not one of them. They’re not your friends and they never can be. Now, tell me again. Did you touch her?”

Dylan swallowed.

“Not like that,” he said.

The hurt was coalescing into something deeper and more vivid now; an apprehension that was all the more fearsome for being without a shape or a name.

She said, “Come on, Dylan.”

“Come where?”

“We’ve got to go down and talk to these policemen.”

“I don’t want to,” he said.

“I know you don’t,” she said.

And then she took his hand, and he had to let her lead him down the stairs.

[Originally published in Kimota 6, Summer 1997]

COLD COMFORT

by Mark Chadbourn

The house was perfunctory, some would say charmless, but it was theirs. Plain front, flat windows, nothing to trouble the eye or mind. The front lawn was small, square, a little overgrown. There was a similar one at the back. The street was quite reasonable, not too busy, not too quiet, not covered by the warning paint marks of the utility workers. It was on an estate called The Green. Every town had one called The Green; it was one of those great unwritten rules.

John Robson stood on the pavement and looked at it ambivalently. It was a small, detached house which, thanks to the curve of the cul-de-sac, stood a little apart from the neighboring properties. He would have preferred something with a bit more character, something older, but they could afford this one easily and with a child on the way it wasn’t wise to take risks. When they had first received the estate agent’s particulars it had hardly seemed worth looking around it. The layout of the house was quite obvious from the photo; squares and rectangles, three bedrooms, one of them barely big enough to be called a closet. No surprises there.

Gill slipped her hand inside his pocket and gave his own hand a little squeeze as if to reassure him they had done the right thing.

“Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?” she asked.

“At your size? I’m a man, not a JCB. Anyway, you only do that when you’re newly-weds.”

“Since when did romance follow logic?”

“Okay, maybe not logic, but definitely the laws of gravity.” He glanced at her swollen stomach; not long to go. John put his arm around her shoulders and led her towards the front door, swinging the key almost absent-mindedly with his other hand, but really thinking about romance, or the lack of it. Sometimes it hit him like a punch in the stomach. Their friends always said they had the perfect relationship, never arguing, kissing, caressing, in public, in private, two as one in perfect harmony. They married and honeymooned and lived together and gradually things changed. Sex went out of the door like an unwanted pet, not noticed until it was a neighborhood away. The touches and the hand-holding had disappeared around the time they decided to sit at opposite ends of the lounge in their rented flat. Their love didn’t really go. It just became frozen in a block of ice and by the time they noticed it, it seemed too late to chip it out. And so they carried on as they were, listening to the arctic wind that howled through their home into the night.

Gill took the keys from his hand and slipped out from under his arm, skipping up the path with surprising lightness of foot. She stayed a few steps ahead of him throughout the house until he caught up with her in the smallest room. It was actually bigger than he expected, but not much. Gill was on her knees, plucking something from the floor in the corner when he walked in.

“Look at this.”

She held up a child’s dummy, covered with dust, a cobweb trailing from the ring.

“It’s a sign,” Gill said. “This room will be the nursery.”

John took it off her and examined it closely. “I don’t remember seeing this when we first viewed the property.”

“You probably missed it. Give it here. It’ll be a good luck charm.” She placed it on the window ledge. Then, as she walked back into the centre of the room, she clapped her arms around her and shivered. “Is it me or is it cold in here?”

“It’s in the seventies outside,” John replied.

But he felt it too.

There were a few complications at the birth, the umbilical cord looped around the baby’s neck, but nothing the doctors couldn’t handle. It was a boy, 7lbs 3ozs, and they decided to call him Christopher James after their fathers. John had been extremely apprehensive before the birth, worrying about the effect it would have on both their lives, the erosion of self, of freedom and privacy. But in the end the baby was almost a relief, a focus that kept them from having to recognise and deal with their relationship’s cancerous problem.

During the first few weeks when Christopher slept in a Moses basket next to the bed, John diligently worked on the nursery, hanging the brilliant yellow paper with coloured building blocks which Gill had chosen when she was pregnant, fixing the work surface for the changing of nappies, hanging the mobiles. Pride of place was given to the dummy they had found. Gill tied a new piece of ribbon to its ring, but left the old ribbon dangling, and John hung it from the light. He always banged his head on it when he went into the room, but somehow it seemed to belong.

When they moved Christopher into his own room for the first time they had a little party, just close family and next-door neighbours. No champagne. Beer and cheap wine was all they could afford on John’s wages.

The house-warming came later, when Gill had stopped breast-feeding and Christopher could be palmed off on her parents for a night without too much trouble. Twelve weeks of enforced isolation proved too repressive for both of them; John had finished a four-pack before anyone had arrived, and though Gill swore at him for his thoughtlessness, she had secretly started working her way down the vodka. By midnight they were both drunk, ignoring each other, flirting with anyone who came by, yet each sneaking glances at the other and wondering what had gone wrong.

Gary Pearce came up to John at 1 am, his expression creeping between embarrassment and pride and back again. John had seen him talking to the younger sister of one of Gill’s friends. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew she was only 18. She had spent most of the night staring wide-eyed into Gary’s worldly-wise face as he rambled on semi-coherently, probably about his job as a lawyer which seemed interesting at first hearing until one studied the minutiae of his daily chores.

“John, I’ve been your mate for a long time,” he began, moving in close so he could whisper in John’s ear.

“Spit it out, Gary. I don’t need a preamble after all this time. What is it, Durex?”

“No, no, I’ve got them.” He looked back at the girl, pretty in an immature way; she flashed a nervous smile. “I need a room where I can... you know. Somewhere where we won’t be disturbed.”

John glanced at Gill, laughing raucously with four of her friends in a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Christ, Gary, do you have to.” He looked back at the girl, suddenly remembering how he used to be, and caught himself. “There’s only Christopher’s room. There are coats and things in the others. But for God’s sake, don’t let Gill find out.”

“Thanks, John, you’re a mate.” Gary tapped him on the shoulder with his fist and then hurried back to the girl and whispered in her ear. A second later they were gone.

John watched Gill laughing at the centre of the whirl. It was just like when he had first seen her, that night in the bar when Andy Johnson’s stag party had stumbled across Gill and her friends’ Friday night out. The memory burned brightly in his mind, casting a long shadow over the last few months.

Gary Pearce appeared at his elbow. “Come on, John, raise your game,” he laughed. “The room’s locked. I need a key.”

“There’s no lock on the door, Gary. You’ve had too much to drink. Remember what a door handle is for? You turn it, the door opens.”

“John, it’s locked, I tell you.” There was a snap of irritation in his voice. “We both tried it. Yes, we turned the handle. And I put my shoulder to it. Maybe it’s jammed.”

John shook his head. “You’re going bloody mad. It never jams. A breeze could blow it open. Come on.”

He pushed his way past Gary and led the way up the stairs, stepping awkwardly around the bodies in various stages of inebriation and romantic entanglement. The girl was standing outside the nursery door looking sheepish. John tried the handle and the door opened instantly, revealing a crack of darkness about six inches wide.

John looked at the girl, then Gary, and sighed wearily. Gary was shaking his head. “No, it was definitely...” He turned to the girl. “Did somebody...?”

The phone rang downstairs. Alcohol always diminished John’s tolerance and he had had enough of Gary’s stupid game. He went to push past him to go downstairs when he had the strange, magnetic feeling that someone was watching him through the crack in the doorway. Nerves fizzed up and down his spine. Slowly he turned and looked in, and for the briefest instant he thought he saw something. In the gloom there was a flicker of a shape that had seemed like a round, white eye staring from a shadowy face. Watching him. John turned back to swing the door open fully.

At that moment, Gill’s voice echoed loudly above the thumping music and the hum of chatter. It was edged with panic.

“John! Where are you? It’s Christopher!”

There were only a few people in the casualty department; a drunken student supported by two friends, his face a patchwork of small cuts; a sad young woman sitting alone, red streaking her blonde hair from a gash on her head; a stern-faced middle-aged couple waiting for results that were too long in coming. John had sobered up the instant that Gill had told him the news. Someone from the Royal Infirmary had called on behalf of Gill’s parents; Christopher had been rushed in. They had no other information.

The drive over had been a blur of jumped traffic lights and erratic over-taking. All John could remember was the argument that had raged inside the car over whose fault it was, who had wanted the housewarming the most, who had suggested Christopher spend the night with Gill’s parents. They arrived at the hospital in seething silence.

James, Gill’s father, rushed out from behind a curtain before they could ask where Christopher was. He looked pale and ill.

“It’s okay, don’t worry,” he said, trying to throw his arms around both of them at once in relief. “Christopher’s going to be fine.”

“Dad, what happened?” John recognised the hysteria that crept into Gill’s voice whenever she was pushed to the edge.

“He gave us a right shock,” James replied leading them through the curtain into a cubicle. Christopher was asleep in the moses basket that they had obviously brought him in, looking as peaceful and relaxed as when Gill had kissed him goodbye. Her mother, Marjorie, kept a vigil next to it, her face still streaked, pink tinting the bags beneath her eyes.

“It was Marj who noticed it,” James continued in a whisper. “She went in to check on him and she could tell straight away that something was wrong. He didn’t seem to be breathing.” He bit his lip. “He wasn’t breathing. Marj screamed and I rushed in and picked him up and...God, Gill, he was as stiff as a board! And he was so cold.” He shook his head in disbelief. “He felt like he’d been in the freezer.”

They all looked at Christopher, his cheeks flushed, his tiny lips puckered in an imaginary kiss. “What did the doctors say?”

“They couldn’t find anything wrong with him,” Marj said croakily. “He recovered almost the moment we got him here. They did a lot of tests - the poor tyke was bawling his eyes out - but they were all negative.”

“So what do we do now?” John wanted to pick Christopher up and cuddle him, to comfort himself more than his son.

James shrugged. “They just said keep an eye on him.” He paused and stretched out his hand before withdrawing it, as if he wanted to touch Christopher to prove to himself he was still alive. “He was so cold.”

John and Gill barely spoke during the next seven days. Christopher’s mystery ailment put even more stress on their piano-wire relationship which was still reeling from the protracted loss of freedom a new child brings. Neither of them could rest. Every time Christopher was asleep they would dash in every five minutes to check on his breathing. On the odd occasion they were together in the lounge, angry words would crackle out of the tension. John was concerned that Christopher’s skin was taking on the faintest blue tinge like snow in brilliant sunshine. Gill was worried about his respiration. Once she was sure she had seen his breath plume even though his bedroom was centrally heated and his cheeks were warm to her touch.

On a foggy day in mid-October, John had finally escaped to the garden from the pea soup atmosphere of the house. He had never been much of a gardener, but among the dried-out buddleia and the fading, crinkled roses he felt he had found some kind of sanctuary. As he sat on the slabs outside the kitchen door, picking the mud from his boots with a pair of secaturs, Gill stepped out distractedly, saw him and let out a sudden shriek.

“Jesus Christ!” she snapped. “You scared the living daylights out of me. How did you get out here so quickly?”

“I’ve been out here for the last hour.” He didn’t try to disguise the irritation in his voice.

She shook her head dismissively. “Don’t lie to me, John. I heard you moving around in Christopher’s room. That heavy tread of yours could wake the dead. You walked over to the cot and looked in. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t keep going in to him.” He looked at her as if she was crazy. “I was in the dining room, for God’s sake. Right beneath his room. I could hear your elephant footsteps going across the floor just over my head.”

John returned to the inspection of his boots. “I haven’t been in there. I’m out here to stop myself going in there. You’re just acting guilty because you can’t leave him alone.”

“And what are you doing out here?” she continued, ignoring him. “What about all the things inside that need doing? Am I supposed to do them while you wander about the garden in a dream?”

“The garden needs doing as well...” But she had already gone, slamming the door behind her.

That night Gill tried to make up. “Come to bed early,” she said, pausing at the stairs door. It was a euphemism for sex, but it had been so long since they had done it that John no longer knew if he could. He couldn’t even bring himself to see her in a sexual light. Recently, in the depths of his subconscious, he realised he saw her only as The Enemy, waging a constant battle to stop him being himself. He smiled and shook his head with mock apology. “I’ve got to get this book finished,” he said, tapping his paperback. She didn’t believe him for a minute, and she disappeared up the stairs without saying good night.

“Sorry, mate, I can’t help you.” The central heating engineer closed his box of tools with a clang. “I’ve checked everything top to bottom - pressure, pump, boiler. It’s all working fine. Look, feel it.” He put his palm on the radiator in Christopher’s room. “Hot.”

“But it still feels cold in here.” Gill rubbed her arms.

“Maybe you’ve got a draught.”

“It’s double-glazed,” John said acidly. Christopher was starting to nod off on his shoulder, his lips sucking at his dummy in a steady rhythm.

“Could it be cutting out?” Gill asked. “Coming on intermittently, but not enough to heat the room?”

“Maybe it decides to come on when you’re in here and switches itself off when you’re not,” the engineer replied sarcastically. He slipped out of the door before anyone could ask him any more stupid questions. Gill followed to let him out. John gently lifted Christopher off his shoulder and laid him in his cot, throwing a couple of blankets over him and then, as an afterthought, the small cover from his moses basket.

Through the window he could see the heavy grey skies that had transformed the mellow autumn into a biting foretaste of winter. The first heavy frost had iced the lawn that morning; it was imperative they sort out whatever was wrong with Christopher’s room as soon as possible. The problem had been building steadily; however warm the rest of the house was - and it got very warm - Christopher’s room always felt like an icebox. With the memory of that frantic flight to the hospital still strong in his mind, John didn’t want to risk anything which could trigger another fit. They had considered moving him, but the other spare bedroom had become piled high with junk, and if he slept in their room their sleep was always disturbed.

Gill returned and beckoned to him to come out of the bedroom. “Well, what are we going to do now?” she said in a hard voice as if it was his responsibility to find a solution.

“I don’t know. What do you think we should do?”

“For Christ’s sake, John. I’ve got a heap of washing to do. There’s a sink full of dirty pots that you should have...”

“Oh, shut up!” He forgot himself and almost shouted it. There was a split second pause and then Christopher let out a loud bawl of shock that developed into a wailing cry.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Gill hissed, pushing past him.

John had stomped halfway down the stairs when Christopher suddenly stopped crying. A second later he heard Gill catch her breath. He leapt back up two steps at a time before she had a chance to call his name.

“What is it?” he said anxiously. Gill had plucked Christopher from the cot and was staring at him, wide-eyed and frightened.

She held the baby out, mutely, and John took him in his huge hands, afraid of what he would see. Christopher was still breathing, but he appeared to have been frozen: his eyes were wide and staring unwaveringly, and his little lips were blue. His body was rigid, like a block of wood, and there seemed to be a spiderweb tracing of frost across his skin, following the pattern of veins. It glistened in the light that came through the window. John was transfixed with shock. Gingerly, he stretched out his fingers and brushed the down of Christopher’s cheek. It was like touching a window on a mid-winter morning. He snatched his hand back and rolled his fingers into a fist as if that would deny the sensation.

“Christ...”

Christopher hovered there for a moment, and then John clutched him to his chest and ran downstairs. Gill found them in front of the gas fire in the lounge. Christopher was swathed in thick towels from the kitchen as the fire roared on full, while John rubbed his son’s delicate hand, the tears streaming down his cheeks.

“What’s going on?” he said as Gill breezed through the door. He looked pale and lost. “This isn’t right. It’s not natural.”

Gill ran forward and knelt next to them, holding John tightly as the emotions bottled up by the stress of the previous few months came flowing out. For a moment, things were just as they had been. All John could feel was the bottomless well of love he had felt on his wedding day, and he could tell Gill felt it too. It washed out around them and swept them together, making them forget how they had drifted apart. It’s not dead, John thought with a rush of relief, and then he looked back at Christopher and everything was driven from his mind.

It took half an hour before the chubby pinkness returned to Christopher’s limbs. Soon he was chuckling and kicking on the mat in front of the fire as if nothing had happened. John and Gill felt emotionally drained and they flopped back on the mat with their son silently while they tried to make sense of what had happened. Nothing could account for the blue frost or the depth of cold his skin radiated. They couldn’t bring themselves to discuss exactly what was the root cause, but in the privacy of their thoughts, they both turned to dark, unscientific things.

That afternoon John cleared all the junk out of the other bedroom and moved Christopher’s cot in. He was convinced the nursery was the basis of the problem - “cold air currents circulating or something like that” - and he knew the spare room was always like an oven when the central heating was on.

It took them both a long time to get to sleep that night; they had returned to their old routine of repeated checks on Christopher’s well-being, even though he seemed warm and relaxed in his new home. The worries persisted, even in their sleep.

Gill woke suddenly in the early hours. The clock radio glowed 3.15am, but she felt clear-headed and alert as if someone had slapped her across the face. The Green was dreamily silent, the only noise the soft thrum of occasional traffic along the dual carriageway half a mile away. John was fast asleep, his face frozen in an expression of worry and irritation. She remembered when he used to look like an angel when he was dreaming.

Something had woken her. There was a vague sense of irritation, like a bad taste in her mind, that had dragged her from her sleep and shocked her awake. A dream; nothing more. She eased out of bed and walked over to the window. The night was clear and bright with stars and a near-full moon, and there was a carpet of glittering frost across the road and lawns. She shivered.

On the way to the toilet, she paused outside Christopher’s room. There, on the floor by the door, was the old dummy they had found when they first moved into the house, the one that had been hanging over Christopher’s cot earlier that day. Why had John left it there? she thought with a brief burst of annoyance. As she bent to pick it up, she decided to look in on Christopher. His breathing had been coming through loud and clear on the baby monitor in the bedroom, but still, she thought. But still...

She pushed open the door.

Her eyes fell first on the cot and then on the figure next to it. Limned against the moonlit window, it resembled a giant spider, black and angular and hunched, boney hands resting on the edge of the cot, the rest of its upper body bent over into the pooling shadows around Christopher’s sleeping form. Gill could not see her son or what was being done to him.

She caught her breath, frozen in fear and horror, and the tiny sound scythed through the silence of the room.

The figure stirred suddenly, then looked up. There was a slight stop-go motion to its movements like bad animation which detached it from reality as the head rose from the cot and turned to look at her. It was a man, an old man, but his great age seemed to have been magnified through some dark glass until it was far, far beyond the normal span of a human life. His face was a mass of wrinkles, not one square centimeter untouched, and the skin flapped loose under his jaw and pulled in hollowly around his cheeks so that the shape of the skull was visible beneath. His eyes ranged huge and white in the sagging folds around his sockets, and when he smiled, briefly and maliciously, he showed a row of chipped, brown teeth.

Before Gill could cry out, he moved, bounding with surprising, animal-like agility towards her. Then she did scream, loud and piercing, as she turned her head to the door to cover her face. A breeze from his passing whipped at her hair, and she heard him vault over the banister and land on the hall floor far below. A split-second later Gill rushed to the banister to look after him, but the hall was empty. All the doors off it were tightly shut. She had heard none of them open.

Gill ran back to Christopher and pulled him out, clutching him tightly to her shoulder. She saw the familiar frosty bloom to his skin. He was rigid, as before, but he was still breathing.

It took several minutes for her to wake John and get his sluggish mind to comprehend what had happened. His first thoughts were for Christopher, but when he saw there was nothing he could do he went downstairs to search the house.

A nightmare, was his first thought. All this trouble with Christopher, it’s starting to get to her. And then he thought sourly, Or maybe she’s just going nuts.

Finding no sign of any break-in, he returned to the bedroom. Gill was back in bed with Christopher under the duvet next to her. She looked as pale as snow.

“Anything?” she asked edgily. He shook his head. “God, John, you should have seen him. There was something about him that wasn’t right...” She shook her head, unable to find the words that could describe what she had seen.

“An old man?” John asked incredulously. “Who jumped the bannister and landed in the hall? I’d like to find out what pills he’s on.”

“That’s what I mean.” She bit her lip. “It was like I was dreaming, only I wasn’t dreaming, John. I saw him, and I saw the look in his eye. I felt something from him that made my stomach turn.” She knew what she wanted to say, what she sensed on a very basic level, but she couldn’t bring herself to give voice to it. “He didn’t look real, John.”

“What do you mean?”

She paused, wrestling with a thought that was too big for her. Then she said, “I’m frightened.”

“Come on. Come on!” John hammered the steering wheel impatiently. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper along the main road into town, creeping along at such a snail’s pace that he would be late for work by at least fifteen minutes, if not longer. In his mind’s eye, John saw the look on Gordon King’s face when he walked through the door; tardiness was King’s major bugbear, and it would just give him another opportunity to make John’s time between nine and five more difficult.

Carefully, he edged his way out into the stream, ignoring the blare of a horn from a red-faced man in a BMW. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see him mouthing some expletive. John smiled to himself, taking some small pleasure from the irritation he was causing. These days it seemed to be the most enjoyment he could get.

He glanced down at the passenger seat. The dummy was there, on the old bit of ribbon, looking worn and out-of-date. He didn’t know why they had kept it. Gill was the one who had believed it was a good omen, but now she seemed to have changed her opinion. Since her experience with the intruder in Christopher’s room, she had changed all round; more nervous, inclined to jump at the slightest sound, Introspective, even depressed. John had tried to comfort her, but he had got little response.

That morning she had handed him the dummy and said simply, “Get rid of it.”

“Why?”

“Just dump it. I don’t want it around any more.”

And that was that. Gill had decided. He would throw it in the bin outside the office and God forbid her if she changed her mind and phoned up later asking for it back.

The traffic came to a halt. There was some kind of disturbance ahead; he could see people craning their necks out of windows and he could hear raised voices. A shunt. That was all he needed. He increased the tempo of his beat on the steering wheel and tried to think of a song to hum to himself, but nothing would come to mind apart from the words: I’m going to be late.

Why did Gill keep the stupid dummy in the first place? It was so unlike her. A good luck charm! Sure, they’d had lots of good luck, hadn’t they? The thing that was happening to Christopher. They’d had him checked out by specialist after specialist and all of them had found nothing. Some of them had been so surprised by the symptoms, they virtually implied that John and Gill were making it all up, addicted to wasting doctors’ time like those hypochondriacs who became hooked on operations.

There was a man walking up the other side of the road from the direction of the hold-up, clutching at his face as if he was crying or in pain. His path was erratic. The raised voices seemed to have grown louder, barking angrily, yelping like caged animals.

They had had their problems before they moved into the house, he and Gill, but they had grown infinitely worse since. Now they could hardly bring themselves to touch each other. It wasn’t even just the two of them. It was the atmosphere in the house too. The erratic heating, the sudden snaps of coldness, had become more than irritating. Gill’s encounter with the old man - or ‘the thing’ as she called him - had had a dramatic effect as well, and John had to admit that it was starting to influence him as well; he never quite felt alone in the house any more.

He looked down at the dummy.

It was starting to bother him for some reason, or perhaps it was just his paranoid thoughts. As he stared out of the window, he could sense it on the seat next to him.

Stupid. Stupid. He looked down at it. Just a dummy.

Was that a whisper? A paper-thin rustle of sound?

He could hear sirens. Someone was screaming, the sound rising and falling, rising and falling, in sync with the siren. On the street corner opposite, a woman was rigid like a statue, staring in the direction of the hold-up, her mouth frozen in a giant O. That was it. He would be there forever.

There was something else. A feeling, like the one he had in the house. His skin prickled and a flush crept slowly up his back. Someone was watching him. He could sense the eyes, the concentration; he could almost feel the emotions behind it. He shuddered.

He couldn’t stay there all day. He had to find a short cut or his neck would be on the chopping block. He glanced up the street opposite and remembered a route; long, through, winding streets, but it would get him to town quicker than if he sat where he was. Ahead of him, he could see they had started to wave the oncoming traffic through. An enormous lorry was beginning to build up speed. He would have to move quickly or he would never get across the road. He could just about do it. He yanked at the steering wheel, revved up and popped the clutch.

His car shot out of the queue of traffic, halfway across the road, and then stopped dead. It didn’t stall or judder to a halt. The power simply disappeared in the blink of an eye.

In that split second, as his mind raced, John caught sight of something in the rear view mirror. Eyes framed in the glass, staring and wide, surrounded by sacks of wrinkled skin. He smelled something like stale tobacco smoke and heard that rustling whisper once again.

Then the shadow of the lorry fell across the bonnet.

“Are you going to be okay?” Donna gave Gill a comforting hug.

Gill dried her eyes and forced a smile. “I’ll be fine. I just need some time to get on top of this. It was such a shock...”

“It’s bound to be a shock. Lord, if the police had told me Mike had been in an accident like that I would have gone to pieces. You’ve just got to focus on what the doctor said, Gill. He’s going to be okay.”

“He might not be able to walk...”

“He might not be able to walk, but he might be able to. Nobody knows yet. There’s no point in worrying about what might not happen. And you know John. If there’s a slim chance of fighting his way through, he’ll do it.”

Gill nodded. Donna always had been a comfort, ever since school when she became adept at soothing hearts broken during those passionate teenage romances. She couldn’t get her own life together however much she tried, but she was a carer for others.

“Are you going to be okay looking after Christopher until John’s home? I could always stay over to help.”

“Thanks, Donna, I’ll be fine. Mum and dad are coming tomorrow for a while. I just hope he doesn’t have any more relapses with, you know, what’s been wrong with him.” An image of a wizened face and a hunched, spindly body flashed across her mind. She passed a hand over her eyes and blacked it out. “Things have been so bad since we moved in here. Sometimes I think there’s a jinx on us. All these problems with our relationship, and then Christopher, and now this. I feel there’s something sucking the life right out of us.”

“You musn’t say those kinds of things, honey. It’ll only make it worse. You’ve got to concentrate on the good.”

Donna didn’t understand - how could she? - but Gill put on a brave face. “I’m going to give Christopher his afternoon nap now. Do you want to come up with me? Then we can have a cup of tea in peace.” She poked a finger into Christopher’s tummy and made him chuckle.

They harmonised on Rock-a-Bye Baby as they climbed the stairs and then Donna took the teddy bear while Gill opened the door to Christopher’s new room. She paused in the doorway and then looked back at Donna with a puzzled expression. “Where’s his cot?”

She found it in the nursery in its old place under the light. “John must have moved it back here this morning. I wish he’d talked it over with me. He’s always doing things without consulting me.”

Donna saw the concerned look on Gill’s face and attributed it to thoughts of her husband in hospital, drugged up on painkillers, unable to raise even a smile.

“And I told him to take that thing with him and dump it. Why doesn’t he listen to me?”

Over the cot, hanging from the light, was the old dummy.

Gill laid Christopher down and tucked the blankets around him. “Oh well, no point in thinking about that now. Let’s get that tea.”

Gill selected a get well card for John from the newsagents on the edge of the estate. It seemed like such an insubstantial, pathetic thing, but she wanted to feel like she was doing something and at least it would show she had been thinking of him when she visited that evening.

Christopher squirmed in his cuddlepack as Gill went up to the till to pay for the card, but he calmed down when the newsagent, a ruddy-cheeked woman with tight brown curls, began to coo over him.

“Are you settling in all right, love?” she asked between the baby talk.

Gill said they were. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her about John’s accident, the gruesome details that would have to be recounted, the gossip and constant checks on his health that would ensue.

“Because you’ve been there a few months now, haven’t you. Makes a nice change.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, people don’t seem to stay there long. A few months. A year at the most. When I was younger, kids used to move into a house and stay there all their life. Now they’re always on the go, always trying to get bigger and better places. Their lives suffer, but they can’t see it at the time. That’s why we don’t have communities these days, you see. No one stays around long enough to know their neighbour’s first name.”

Gill agreed with her, but there was something in what she said that sent tremors running through her mind. “Did an old man ever live in our house?” The words sounded innocent, but to Gill the question hung in the air like a threat.

The newsagent wrinkled her nose and thought. “There’ve been so many and I haven’t really known them all. I think there was, just after it was built, but I can’t think of his name for the life of me.”

“What happened to him? Did he die?”

“I don’t know, love. He...”

“Yes, he died.” The voice was cold and hard. Gill turned round and faced a woman who had been flicking through the magazines when she came in. She had bitter, dark eyes and a face that had grown comfortable in a sour expression. “What do you want to know about him for?”

“I just wondered...”

“Nobody mentions his name any more, the ones who remember him.” She looked at the newsagent. “You know who he was. I came in to tell you when the police came for him.”

The newsagent turned slowly red. “Oh,” she said quietly.

The woman turned back to Gill. “He was a pervert. An old, sick bastard.” She caught at her breath and composed herself. “He used to get the children to go to his house for toffees and cakes and to watch his TV. Then one of them went missing, a boy, a little boy. Never did any harm to anyone. And two more, twins, a boy and a girl, the cutest little pair, just six years old.” Tears came up into her eyes and she blinked them away. “We knew it was him. The police got him before we could. They took him off in a van and we never saw him again. The bastard died before he got to court.” She heaved in a lungful of calming air. “It was nearly 25 years ago now. They never found them, the kids. They never found my Tommy...” Her voice trailed away along with the bitterness and she suddenly looked as if she had been beaten about the face.

“I’m sorry,” Gill said weakly. She hugged her arms around Christopher and hurried out into the cold, fading light.

Gill had to know more, although her rational mind was screaming at her to leave it alone. For hours she scoured the estate, talking to anyone old enough to remember that dreadful time. No one could recall the man’s name, or if they did, they wouldn’t speak it aloud; but no one had forgotten what he did. He had moved into the house when it was first built, a sour, irascible man who never spoke to his neighbours. He smelled of cigarettes and sweat; they all remembered that. No one found out where he had come from, what his job had been, if he had had a wife, or what he did in the curtained house all day. He was a blank slate, and eventually he slipped into the background so people barely noticed him on the occasions when he trawled along the streets. Even when the first child disappeared, no one thought of him. When the twins went, neighbours suddenly made a connection. “You’re just blaming him because he doesn’t fit in. There’s no evidence at all,” the police said, until they were chided into investigating and discovered a lock of one of the twins’ hair. The old man never admitted it, gave no clue as to what had happened. They found him dead of a heart attack in the cells one morning. The police had already torn up the garden and checked the floors of the house for disturbance; there was no sign of the missing children, nothing to put their parents’ memories to rest. “But who was he?” Gill pleaded. “What motivated him?” No one could give her an answer.

As twilight drew in, Gill became lost to her brooding. She tried to convince herself the old man was merely a terrible part of her home’s history, lost to time and best forgotten. The frightened child at her core refused to accept it. She wondered about the nature of evil and its longevity until her head was swimming.

The visit with John had been harrowing, but ultimately hopeful. The doctors were a little brighter about their prognosis; after an intensive and grueling period of physiotherapy they expected him to walk again. But it almost killed her, watching him lie in that hospital bed, in constant pain, disorientated through the drugs. It awakened feelings that had been buried so deeply Gill thought they would never see the light of day again. She loved him and she would die if she lost him. Before she left, she had wheeled the portable payphone into his room and insisted the nurses leave it there in case he wanted to talk to her at any time of the night or day.

The house was silent apart from Christopher’s regular breathing on the baby monitor. Donna had babysat during visiting hours and Christopher had been as good as gold. Through the open curtains, Gill could see huge flakes of snow drifting down through the blackness to lay a white film over The Green. Inside it was warm and cosey - she had turned the central heating up a notch - but she couldn’t relax without John there. The TV was an irritation. She couldn’t bear to put on any music. She guessed she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night.

It was quiet, so deathly, unnervingly quiet.

She closed her eyes to listen to the sound of nothing.

The morphine was a snow-white highway that led John away from the real world. Occasionally he would surface from the cocooning warmth, but the harsh light from the corridor outside his room and the thousand razor cuts of shattered bone and torn muscle forced him back under. In the white world of his dreams he saw faces and thought thoughts and everything made perfect sense. He knew why and he knew who.

Sometimes when he found himself back in his broken body it was still difficult to tell if he was hallucinating or not. The quality of light didn’t seem quite right; sounds were distorted. And once he thought there was someone standing in the room on the periphery of his vision. It could have been a black smear on the wall, or a shadow, but he thought he saw it move. An enormous spider, dark and angular.

The pain churned in his gut, and as he slipped back into semi-consciousness, he had the sudden, alarming feeling that there was something he had to do. Someone he had to warn.

And then he thought of his son, Christopher, and his blood ran cold.

Gill pulled herself sluggishly into waking from dreams of snow. She was shivering. The curtains were still open and the world outside was white, crisp and unmarked by footprint or tyre track. As she rubbed her arms to warm her, the fuzziness in her head cleared enough for her to realise that it shouldn’t be cold; they had been leaving the central heating on all night since Christopher’s problems had begun.

Her immediate thought was for her son. The baby monitor was still broadcasting the sound of his breathing, although it seemed a little slower which she attributed to a deep sleep. Satisfied he was okay, she walked over and felt the radiator, her muscles aching from the uncomfortable position in which she had been slumped on the sofa. It was stone cold.

She swore under her breath and went to the kitchen to investigate. The pilot light in the boiler had gone out, the first time it had ever done so, and although she followed the instructions to the letter, she couldn’t get it to re-ignite. Finally, her tiredness turned to irritation and she gave up; she would have another attempt in the morning when she was refreshed.

Wandering into the dining room, she realised how hard John’s accident had hit her. Her head was thick like she was walking through oil, and an almost dreamlike quality pervaded everything, in the sparkling of the lights or the muffled sound her feet made as she shuffled across the floor. She slumped into a chair, her eyes wandering to the clock without registering the time - 3.30am - as a powerful feeling of regret for all the lost hours of argument swept over her.

She sat there for what could have been ten minutes or an hour wrestling with her complex emotions when her gaze randomly fell on something glistening. It was above her, on the ceiling. She stared at it blankly for a while, watching it curiously without even thinking what it was. Suddenly her mind snapped to awareness.

It was an icicle. There was another one nearby, and another, each about three inches long, the light from the standard lamp sparkling off their frozen surfaces. Icicles. Her mind jumped and stumbled. In the dining room? It was cold, but not that cold. On the ceiling. Coming down from above.

Her mind stumbled once more before the terrifying realisation dawned on her, and then she was up and running, through the house, up the stairs, along the landing. She paused for the briefest instant outside Christopher’s room before she steeled herself and swung open the door.

The blast of cold air hit her like a howling wind across the arctic wastes. Her skin went numb, her teeth chattering instantly. The room was sparkling, the walls and ceiling and floor alive with glittering pinpricks of light. It took Gill a second to realise that everywhere was covered in a sheet of ice. Every square inch of Christopher’s room had been frozen, and in some areas the ice was almost half an inch thick.

Christopher’s cot stood in the centre, its wooden bars shiny with a sheath of hoar frost. Over it, the ice-covered dummy spun slowly, glittering in the rays of the landing light.

“Christopher!” Gill shrieked as she propelled herself across the threshold. She stopped almost instantly. It was like being in a meat freezer; the cold sapped the energy from her limbs. Despite her violent shivering, her only thought was that Christopher was dead, frozen rigid in his sleep.

It was only then that she saw it - for it was certainly not a him. It was sitting against the wall staring at the cot, its long, thin arms supporting it as it leaned forward slightly. When Gill broke the silence, its huge, white eyes flicked in her direction and then, slowly, it started to laugh. The noise was high-pitched and reedy and it set her teeth on edge. Those spindly arms folded around its knees, and then it rocked backwards and forwards, the laugh slowly subsiding into a perverted giggle. She could feel the waves of black emotion radiating out from the thing hunched on the floor - the loathing, the malice, the perverse glee in suffering.

Her legs felt like lead as she stumbled across the room. Inside her there was a little voice questioning whether she could do it, but somewhere she found that little bit of strength she needed to keep going. The cold enveloped her like a dip in a winter sea.

“You can’t have my son,” she said, almost to herself.

The giggling increased a notch.

By the time she had reached the cot, Gill felt as if she had trekked across Antarctica. Her skin felt leeched of warmth, red and raw, and she could barely stand as she leaned over the edge and looked in. Christopher was still alive. Despite the cold, he looked almost normal. Gill leaned in and pulled him out, the effort almost bringing her to her knees.

She was so cold.

It giggled.

The dreamlike quality became more intense. The edges of her vision were blurring and her breathing had become laboured; she felt detached from herself like her spirit was drifting away from her body. Though her back was towards it, she could feel the heavy weight of its stare upon her. It was waiting hungrily for her to drop.

It was so cold.

As she pulled Christopher close to her to give him some of her rapidly fading warmth, Gill knew she would not get out of the nursery alive. Briefly, her son’s eyes flickered open and locked onto hers, big, dark pools of innocence, and she felt an overwhelming burst of love. With trembling hands, she hugged him tightly to her breast.

Her legs were frozen, her fingers dead wood. When she looked around, the dark, misshapen thing was no longer where it had been, but she could still sense its presence in the room. A thing that sucked the life from children and thrived in a bleak emotional wasteland.

Her eyesight was fading; flashes danced across her vision. Her body would no longer respond, but she could feel that voracious, black spirit drawing closer. It was moving across the room behind her, slow yet unstoppable like an ice floe. She waited to feel its cold touch on her neck.

“Mrs Robson?”

Gill opened her eyes. She was on the floor of the nursery. A young policeman was bending over her, rubbing life into her left hand; his palms felt fiery hot. Stiffly, she levered herself up on to her elbows and looked around.

“Christopher?”

“He’s fine, Mrs Robson. WPC Flowers has taken him downstairs. She’s called an ambulance, but he’ll be okay.”

Gill still felt cold, but it was no longer a razored arctic chill. The nursery was as it always had been; no gleaming frost covered the walls and floor. With an incredible feeling of relief, she realised that dark, wintry presence was no longer there too. It had left a vacuum in its passing that she could feel, waiting to be filled again.

“Your husband called us from the hospital,” the policeman continued. “He was convinced there was something wrong with you and your son. He was getting hysterical so we agreed to call round.” He helped her to her feet and then stepped back formally. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. Her skin was tingling where the warmth was slowly returning to her frozen limbs.

“You must have fainted when you were getting your son out of the cot.” He pointed to the window which Gill saw was open to the icy night. “With that open, your temperature dropped quickly. It’s a good job we got here when we did. You shouldn’t really have had a window open on a night like this. It’s minus seven outside.”

“I didn’t open it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it blew open.”

Gill didn’t argue.

In the lounge downstairs, she snatched Christopher from the policewoman and hugged him tightly, thinking of John, of them all, as a family. The tears in her eyes were hot.

“He seems better now,” the WPC said. “When I arrived he was blue. I thought...well, you know...”

Gill stared blankly at the wall, her mind racing. Somehow, deep in her gut, she felt the source of the evil was the house. Its reach might extend beyond the four walls, but the black heart of it was there, soaked into the bricks and the mortar where the sick bastard had inulged his awful perversions. Through the window, she saw the ambulance pull up to take Christopher in for a check. He looked fine now, pink and healthy, his eyes roving all over her face.

Gill handed him to the WPC. “Can you take him out to the ambulance? I’ll be out in a minute. There’s something I’ve got to do.”

When they had left her alone, she went into the kitchen and rifled under the sink for the candles they kept in case of power cuts. She put one on the kitchen table and lit it with trembling fingers. Then she returned to the lounge and left another one there, and another one in the dining room in the centre of the large table they had bought for all the dinner parties she had never got round to arranging.

Briefly, she stood in the hall and looked around their first home, the place which should have carried them into the future, but which had been tainted from the start. Then she turned on all the gas rings on the cooker, and the fire in the lounge, and the one in the dining room, and with the smell of the gas in her nose she left the house without looking back.

[Originally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]

WEE ROBBIE

by William Meikle

We knew it was a bad idea to isolate ourselves so much when it was so near her time but it had been years since our last holiday and besides, her doctors assured us that we were at least three weeks away from the birth.

It wasn’t planned - not at all. We’d settled for a couple of weeks rest and I’d booked a three month sabbatical from the office, hoping to get some work done on the house. Then we won the competition. One week anywhere in Britain of our choosing as long as we took the holiday in the next month. One day we were in our flat in London, surrounded by half finished building work, noise, dust and general aggravation, the next we were all alone on the west coast of Scotland, in a cottage by the shore on Jura - just us, the seals and the view over the sea to Argyll.

I wasn’t sure at first. I wanted to be near a hospital, just in case of emergencies, but she insisted. It would be our last holiday alone for a while, she was fit and healthy and she wanted to do it.

The nearest house was five miles south - the nearest doctor twice that distance. To the north and west there was only the rugged hills and the deer. We didn’t even have a boat. At least there was a road - a single track lane with passing places. But it had recently been resurfaced and we had been provided with a new Range Rover for the duration. I was confident that we could reach the doctors’ house in less than twenty minutes in event of an emergency. That was quicker than I could have managed it in London. And we had warned the doctor we were coming. I had talked myself round to the idea and I wasn’t worried. I should have been.

We arrived late - Jura is not the easiest place to get to. It involved a flight to Glasgow and a short hop over to Islay. The Range Rover was waiting at Islay airport, which is more a glorified field than an airstrip. After that it is a fifteen mile trip to the Port Askaig ferry, a small ramshackle affair which can take four cars on a calm day across the half mile of treacherous waters towards the stunning mountains of Jura.

Once on the island it was a single track road all the way. There is only one road twenty miles of it with Craighouse, the only town, half way along but we were going right to the far end.

We stopped in the one and only hotel for a meal but we were too late to pick up any other provisions - that would have to wait till the morning.

It was dark when we arrived and Sandra was too tired to do anything other than fall into bed and sleep. As for me, I was restless. I never believed that I would miss the bustle of London’s streets, but the lack of noise here had me on edge.

The only sound was the gentle lapping of the sea on the rocks only ten yards from the cottage’s front door. Occasionally there would be the forlorn cry of a gull or the croaking of a crow but apart from that it was silent and dark and strangely disquieting.

I paced the floors, studying the titles of the books on the long shelves round the walls, listening to the radio, drinking whisky and trying to pretend that I didn’t miss the television.

It was very late by the time I snuggled into bed, taking advantage of the radiating heat from my pregnant wife beside me. I believe I slept soundly I don’t remember any dreams and nothing disturbed me during the night.

She woke me the next morning with a whisper.

“Get up. Hurry. You’ve got to see this.”

I was still groggy when I raised my head to see her leaving the room. I got out of bed, wincing at the cold seeping through the floorboards, and joined her at the window in the front room.

“Look”, she said, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

It was very early morning - the sun was just coming up over the hills of Argyll, spreading a pink glow across the wispy clouds.

The sea was being slightly ruffled by a small breeze and, there in the foreground, just at the edge of the small lawn in front of the house, sat three otters obviously a mother and two smaller young. As we watched they trotted along the shore then slipped into the water.

We crept out, still naked, and watched them cavorting among the huge fronds of seaweed until I slipped on the wet grass and the sudden movement caused them to dive, resurfacing again much farther out. Sandra came over and squeezed me, her full belly pressing its heat against my flesh.

“Thanks for bringing us here John. I love it.” We kissed and I marvelled again at how hot and alive and heavy with life she had become. It was only as we turned back to the house that I noticed the mound.

It had been too dark the night before to see any details of the surrounding area but now I could see that the cottage was built on a small raised piece of land between two arms of a river. We had come across a small bridge last night but in the dark I had failed to notice it.

Behind the cottage, just where the rivers split, there was a huge stone cairn, standing eight to ten feet high and topped off with a cross which looked to be the same height again as the cairn and made of solid iron. Around the cairn there was a wrought iron fence with spiked railings jutting up towards the sky.

“Why would they put something like that out here?” she asked me “I thought that cairns were usually built on top of hills?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s for someone who died either here or at sea near here. We can ask in town if you like?” I turned towards her, noticing the goose pimples which had been raised on her arms.

“Get yourself inside and put some clothes on we don’t want you to catch a chill. Anyway, by the time we get going and get to the town the shop will be open.”

When we eventually got to the shop it was ten o’clock - there had just been too many things to see on the drive down.

The shop held only basic foods - eggs, bacon, cheese, nothing too fancy - but Sandra had got over her cravings for exotica and we would be able to stock up with most of our needs for the week.

Sandra was the focus of much of the talk and was in danger of excessive mothering from some of the women we met - we turned down several offers of a warmer room closer to town and the shop owner took our list from us, promising that she would make it up and we could collect it later.

Luckily the hotel served late breakfast. The pace of life on the island moved slowly and you could run breakfast into lunch into evening meal into supper without leaving the hotel grounds. We managed to escape at one in the afternoon, weighed down by bacon and sausages and swilling with coffee.

It was only when we stopped by the shop to pick up our supplies that I remembered the cairn.

The shop keeper tried to hide her movement but I caught it - the sign against the evil eye, two pronged fingers stabbing at me as she spoke. “You don’t have to worry about that sir. It’s only an old memorial. Some say there used to be a plaque fixed to it but no one can remember what it’s there for.”

I noticed that the rest of the customers in the shop had fallen silent. I supposed that the cairn was the focus for some old superstition - that didn’t bother me but I wasn’t about to tell Sandra. Unlike me, she held a fascination for the supernatural. Anything that went bump in the night or was out of the ordinary - she fell for it.

I could never understand the fascination with scaring yourself half to death but I knew that if she found out that there was something weird about the cairn she would not stop until she had winkled out the story. In the car on the way to the cottage I told her it was a war memorial and then let the subject drop. She didn’t ask any questions.

We finally got back in late afternoon having made numerous stops to marvel at the stunning variety of life around us. Sandra made a big show of hand-washing our travelling clothes and hanging them from a clothes line at the back of the house.

The rest of the day passed lazily as we sat on the lawn, drinking long drinks, watching the scenery and making happy plans for our future. We took our food out onto the grassy area, sitting on an old rug and throwing occasional morsels to an inquisitive squirrel. I think that evening was the closest to heaven I have ever been.

Doctor Reid arrived around six o’clock and spent ten minutes reassuring himself that Sandra was not about to go into labour in the near future . He was gracious and gentlemanly and I could see that Sandra was charmed. Something in my chest loosened as a knot of worry melted away .

I walked him back to his car while Sandra cleared up the remains of our picnic. We made small talk about the weather and our prospects for the coming week, and he had got into his car before I said what was really on my mind. I don’t know what made me do it, what made me think that he was the man to ask, but before I knew it the sentence was out.

“Do you know anything about the monument out the back?”

He gave me a little sideways look over the top of his glasses and it was several seconds before he replied.

“And why should you let that thing bother you Mr Wilson?”

Before I could reply, he continued. “If you really want to know the story, you’ll find a version in a book on your shelves. ‘A tourist’s history of Jura.’ I believe you’ll find it educational. But make sure you don’t tell your wife - it’s not a tale for the faint hearted.” At that he wound up the window and drove off, leaving me with an unexplained chill in my spine. I shook it off and went back to help my wife.

We were finally forced indoors by a chill wind which brought the clouds down the hills as the sun disappeared and a fine grey mist spread over the sea.

Sandra busied herself with some knitting - baby clothes naturally, and I managed to locate the book which the doctor had mentioned.

It didn’t take me long to find the appropriate section and I was amused to see that the chapter had been written by a certain Doctor Reid of Craighouse, Jura.

There was a block of description of the cottage and the surrounding area before it got to the interesting bit.

The mound behind the house is of some antiquity. A local legend associates it with the little people who seem to be all prevalent in this area, and one of the race in particular. In 1598 the battle of Trai-Guinard took place on Islay, the neighbouring island. The battle was going badly for Sir James MacDonald when he was approached by a dwarfish creature who proclaimed himself capable of swinging the battle in return for certain favours.

To cut a long story short (and in these parts stories can grow exceedingly long) Sir James, despite some qualms, agreed. An hour later the battle was his and his enemy, Sir Lachlan, lay dead of no apparent injury. Sir James retired to his house near Craighouse and that night, Wee Robbie was made a freeman of the estate.

And now we come to the meat of the story. The townspeople did not take kindly to the creature in their midst, but he was under the protection of the Laird and they were powerless. Until that is, the children started to disappear.

Tales are still whispered around the fires of the scene that met the eyes of the men who had the courage to enter the dwelling of the dwarf. Hideous dismembered corpses lay strewn in all corners and a cauldron was bubbling in the grate, a foul brew of body parts which could be seen rising in the stew before falling back once more into the stinking mess.

And yet none had the courage to end the creature’s life. They interred him in the tomb, a chambered cairn for long dead kings, and they fixed him there with the cross and the iron.

It is said that sometimes, in the dead of night, the tortured screams of the Dubh-sith, the black elf, can be heard ringing from his prison, and that at such times it is wise to lock the doors and huddle around the warm hearths of home.

I could see why the Doctor didn’t want me to pass the tale on to Sandra - one thing she didn’t need was lurid fantasies of a child molester in the back yard. When she asked me what I was reading I passed it off as some local colour and changed the subject.

For the rest of the evening I tried to read about the wildlife of the island, but I couldn’t get the vision out of my head the seething pot of offal and the things which floated in it.

The next time I looked up Sandra was smiling at me and it wasn’t long before we adjourned to the bedroom and made tender careful love as the darkness closed in around us.

Later, just as I fell asleep, I could hear that the wind was rising, whistling through the chimney breasts and causing the trees to rustle and crack.

I woke early and squeezed myself away from Sandra, taking care not to wake her. After boiling some water in the kettle I ventured out to see what the weather was like but the first thing I noticed was the effect of the wind. The washing was gone from the line, torn off the rope during the night. I found a shirt in the left hand stream, a pair of underpants halfway up a tree and I could see Sandra’s blouse hanging from one arm of the cross on the cairn.

I retrieved everything else I could see before moving to the mound of stones. I stepped over the railing, just missing doing myself an injury on the spikes and clambered up the rocks, dislodging a few in the process and giving myself several bruises on my knees.

The blouse was wrapped around the rusted spar and, by straining and stretching I could just about reach it. Catching hold of the blouse I pulled, just as my footing gave way. I fell, pulling the blouse with me and felt the material tear before something solid and heavy hit me on the head forcing me down onto the rocks, rolling dislodged stones until I was brought up against the railings.

I heard a loud creaking and looked up to see the cross, now with a spar missing, swaying from side to side in the breeze. When I looked down I found the missing piece, lying by my side with Sandra’s blouse still wrapped around it. I left it there as I hauled myself over the railings and hobbled back to the house.

That was it for the rest of the day. I was dazed, bleeding from a head wound and bruised over much of my body. Sandra wanted to fetch the doctor but I talked her out of it . I didn’t want anybody to know that I had defaced the cross, not yet anyway, not until I had the chance to try to repair some of the damage.

I spent the day in bed, most of the time with Sandra beside me, nursing my wounds and wondering what the islanders’ reaction would be.

As darkness filled the room Sandra fell asleep but I lay awake, listening to the creaking of the cross, the rasping of iron against stone as it swayed back and forth in the wind.

At some point I must have fallen asleep. I was awakened by a cold draft, hitting me just on the back of the neck. I rolled over, hoping to snuggle against my wife’s warm body, but I met only more empty space. It took several seconds for me to realise that she wasn’t in the bed.

Moonlight was streaming in through the window, enough for me to make out her pale figure and the cross which bobbed and swayed hypnotically in front of her. I was out of the room and through onto the grass before I realised that we were both still naked.

I went back to fetch some clothes, pulling on a long jumper for myself and picking up an overcoat for her. When I got back to the door she was gone.

In the moonlight I could just make out the footprints in the grass and I followed them up to the cairn. I called out her name, twice, but there was no response.

As I got closer I could see that the cairn had collapsed in on itself on the left hand side. A dark passage led downwards, down into the earth, and there was a dank salty smell wafting up into the night.

I looked around again but there was no sign of her anywhere. The only assumption I could make was that she was down there somewhere - down there in the earth. She had gone walkabout at night before, sometimes getting as far as the front door in our flat in London, but this was the first time that she had actually left the house.

I was worried - of course I was, but I wasn’t thinking in terms of anything other than the personal danger to her should she stumble in the dark. I wasn’t thinking in terms of monsters or dwarves. Not yet anyway.

I called her name again - louder this time, but all I heard was the echo of my voice coming back to me. I entered the passage but after only two or three yards it became as black as a pit of hell. It was no good - I needed some source of light.

Precious minutes were wasted before I located a flashlight and clouds had covered the moon when I finally went back outside. I called out, not really expecting a response, and none came. I put the overcoat on over the top of the jumper and with some trepidation I went down into the dark.

The walls were built of large blocks of sandstone. I had visited several neolithic tombs, in Carnac, in Orkney and on Salisbury Plain. This gave the same sense of age, of a time long past. What I hadn’t expected, what was completely different, was the overwhelming feeling that this place was in use. The walls ran damp and there was a salt tang in the air but there was no sign of moss or lichen on the walls - only the damp glistening stone.

I pressed on. By shining the light downwards I could see the barefoot prints which Sandra had made on her descent. I had no choice but to follow.

The path kept going down, deeper and deeper, and the air was getting colder and damper. I judged that I must be under the sea by now and the thought of all that water above added an extra worry line to my already furrowed brow. At least the passage hadn’t diverged. Not yet anyway.

I was so busy concentrating on the way ahead that I stumbled when my foot didn’t meet the expected step and the path levelled out.

I was in some sort of chamber. It was hexagonal in shape, about ten yards across and there was an entrance in every wall. My feet were wet. That was what I was thinking. It’s funny how your mind gives you something else to think about at times of stress.

The thing I was trying to ignore was lying on a slab in the centre of the room. The slab was a pale green marble of a kind I had never seen and she was lying on it with her knees raised in the air as if on an operating table.

Between her legs something moved - something grey and green and warty and hideous. It slithered and crawled and I could see that it was inside her, was copulating with her.

I think I went slightly mad then. I remember grasping the slimy body, almost dropping it as its small wizened face turned towards me, a face lined with age and infinitely deep in its evil. Even as I looked, the life went out of the eyes and the puny head bent in death, one last smile playing on its lips.

I remember dashing the body again and again against the wall but I don’t remember tearing it and mashing it. I must have done though for when I moved towards my wife I had the slimy remains of it all over my free hand and its juices coated my feet and ankles.

She was alive. I thanked God for that as I cradled her in my arms. She seemed to be in a stupor but when I stood her upright I found that she was able to walk.

I dragged her unyielding body along, grateful that she seemed to be capable of walking. I had one last look around the chamber before we headed for the stairs. The pieces of the creature I had dismembered were bubbling and frothing in a puddle of bloody ooze. I fled.

After only twenty or so steps I felt her stiffen beside me and then she began to pull me back as she tried to go down once more.

I am not proud of my next action. I hit her, hard across the chin and she fell into my arms. I carried her up the stairs. Quite how I managed it without dropping the torch I am not too sure, and how long it took us I will never know.

Finally we emerged into the cold night air. I laid her on the grass beyond the railings and tried to tumble the rocks over the passage. I had just covered the entrance when the screaming began.

“The baby. Oh God. . it’s coming. It’s coming.”

I don’t remember much of the next half hour, only fragments - driving like a maniac as she sobbed quietly behind me - the sudden light in the deer’s eyes just before the car hit it dead on, smashing the car’s headlights into a million tinkling fragments.

I remember the small twinkling lights in the black distance as I just managed to avoid the cliff edge and, finally, the iron gate on the path which I almost fell over as the doctor came towards me and I collapsed into a faint.

I have a vague memory of being put in an armchair and practically force fed whisky as my wife was carried upstairs and the doctor called for some help but my legs wouldn’t move and my arms were heavy and sleep called me back again.

I dreamed - hot lurid fantasies of violence and fire, of rape and bloodletting and of a cold black fury which carried all before it. I woke from screams into screams.

My legs pushed me out of the chair and towards the door long before my brain was fully awake and I was halfway up the stairs before I recognised the voice behind the screaming. I reached the door just as the screams stopped.

Early morning sunlight was streaming into the room, lighting a scene which will be forever etched into my memory.

The doctor is standing off to one side, his left hand covering his mouth, his right clutching his chest as if to keep his heart in.

An old women is lying across the bed in a dead faint, her grey wisps of hair mingled with the blood from my wife’s legs.

My wife is lying there, throat muscles straining, mouth open in a long soundless scream which refuses to come, her gaze fixed on the shape writhing on the carpet, ignoring the blood flowing from her, ignoring the woman across her legs, all else immaterial to her pain at the sight of our child. And there on the floor lies our future, burning golden in the first rays of the sun, being cleansed in the purifying light of the new day, my son.

The last thing I see before darkness takes me away for a long time is the face, the small wizened features and the age old eyes, the red mouth which squeals at me as I bring my foot down, hard, and all the members of my family scream in unison.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

AMYGDALA

by David A. Sutton

Dark winter streets are exuding fog. Like it was steam coming off a hot, freshly laid skin of tarmac. And the amber street lamps are hazy, glowing balloons, and the car is crawling along, with its tyres hissing at me as though they were adhering to the road surface. And...

The turnoff negotiated. the old hospital buildings huddle in groups, motionless lumps of grey concrete, or older red brick, with many yellow-lit rectangles covering their surfaces, and narrow five miles per hour minimum access roads weaving in and out and sleeping policemen lying in wait...

And...

People are parking their cars and shuffling forwards under the weight of the fog that is particularly dense hereabouts. They head in the direction of faded, unlit signs over doorways:

Accident & Emergencies; Wards 18-32; Intensive Therapy & Theatres 1-4. Many visitors are trudging, like automatons, to their destinations wrapped in thick overcoats and scarves to keep out the cold. I’m reminded of my task tonight and how enormously important it is. Persuading myself to undertake this venture has not been easy, but there came a recent period in my life, a temporary fugue state, out of which emerged a new me. One of uncompromising resolve.

Seven o’clock.

Always the best time, early evening. So many relatives visiting the sick and injured, you see. And medical staff changing shifts; caterers clearing up patients’ dinner dishes. The hospital’s particularly busy at this time of the day. So occupied are the staff with their jobs, that I shall likely go unnoticed as I proceed about my business.

The car clicks at me, complaining as its engine cools, and the shrubs in front of where I parked are backlit from a window, reflected in silhouette onto the windscreen. The spray of naked winter branches resembles white nerve fibres, denuded of the internal organ from which they have been stripped. Such an image also reminds me of my obligation.

I slip the white lab coat over my shoulders, button it up and pull a pristine plastic apron on over that. The apron’s touch against my fingers is squeaky and moist, the sound reminiscent of a scalpel dividing skin as taut as an inflated balloon. The slithering of my cold fingertips across its surface is sensuously like that of a surgeon’s, running his fingers along the slippery, white, fatty tissues that stretch between the displaced contents of an opened abdomen.

The grin in the rear-view mirror is wide and all teeth.

Fortunately, the grin can’t see the eyes. The rectangular mirror is too narrow, as if it were made for the purpose, and only the grin reflects. The mouthparts are, after all, the only reliable parts to observe. The lips and the teeth, and the tongue, sometimes plopping into view, provides the entire stimulus I need. The full gamut of emotions is expressed there, captured and controlled. They are restricted only by the limitations of the animation available to the mouth. Closed lips, for instance: devoid of feeling. Or open slightly, teeth bared: anger. Tongue peeking out teasingly. Tongue protruding shamelessly, changing its shape, slapping lasciviously. Yes! Chattering teeth: shivering brittle-hard and nervous. Hard enough sometimes to suffer chipped incisors.

The doorway to the soul. That’s the mouth. This truth was revealed to me when my dissociation of personality ended.

The grin dominates the mirror and does not allow the eyes to infiltrate. The eyes are not allowed to see themselves. Other mirrors are avoided or positioned accordingly. The eyes are insignificant blobs of jelly and fluid.

Of..

The abstract inside. The untouchable, maddeningly ungraspable parts. The streaming, screaming information bits that you want to lash out at and tear away, severing the many thousands of coiled micro-fibres, ripping their ends from the connections that can’t be seen with the naked eye, but which are there nevertheless, circuits of teasing, corrupt falsehoods.

I’m ready.

The mouth is ready, it’s grinning.

Uncle is at home, waiting very patiently.

Tonight is a first and I would be expected to be nervous. Wouldn’t you? The mouth expresses the anxiety extremely well and, had I brought a mirror from the car, I would behold my timorousness. Breath is coming out of the mouth, condensing in the frosty night, billows and billows of hot air, more than normal because of the adrenaline and the blood pressure.

Mortuary.

The mouth sees the building...

AUTHORISED STAFF ONLY
BEYOND THIS POINT

A large, open rectangular vehicle entrance looms under the instruction. Darkness fills the space now, the lights are off. But I know the way, my rehearsals have been protracted. My apron squeaks as I walk. More confidently now, I pass through the double swing doors which are really for the trolleys and the medics who push them. Beyond the doors the corridor is well lit, bright with fluorescence.

I realise the need to hide my growing confidence and zeal, thus the fixed grin has reluctantly to be suppressed. I don’t need a mirror to show me how appropriately sad and mournful my expression has instantly become. The eyes, I’m not one hundred percent sure about, but they do not really count, treacherous organs that they are.

The empty corridor is wide and cold and along the middle of the grey floor tiles, red directional strips guide the way. So no chance of my becoming lost. Ceiling lights slide past overhead and hum contentedly. Corridors branch off; corridors are like arterial passageways. A service lift with wide horizontal doors expresses itself as a closed, stern mouth. Administrative offices might he empty, except that people are probably hidden beyond the opaque glass panels and the dog-eared notices taped thereon.

The room I want is easy to find, because it smells. Antiseptic clean, but with an underwhiff. Detectable decay. Inside it is nearly as chilly as the night outside. Gleaming white enamel slabs in rows wait for occupants. Sluices and drains cry for the gurgle of blood.

There is someone in the mortuary, placing a green plastic sheet over the only other resident, who occupies one of the autopsy tables. The man’s gaze transfers its interest to me, confusion exhibiting itself in the curve of the mouth. He sees the white uniform I am wearing, however, and continues his ministrations, although I can detect his unease, because he does not recognise me.

The words he speaks I understand –who’re you? -- but I do not answer. Silence is what I require, because his mouth is not permitted to speak. Not ever. And the mouth will only speak when spoken to and then only to reply according to a prearranged script. Otherwise the eyes are likely to assume control and reveal too much of the inside, and the abstract wiring will need tearing out, and cauterising with a red-hot scalpel and clamps.

The mouth is showing its emotion now. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that the teeth are naked and ugly looking. Chattering they are, too, just slightly. The breath is coming through with a hissing sound and saliva flits through the gaps in the incisors. The mouth must look pretty threatening.

The man is wrinkling his face all over, but I am not looking at his eyes. There’s annoyance displayed in his mouth and I can tell it is about to add something to what it said before. Against all the rules. I raise an open hand in a gesture to stay the sounds before he utters them, but too late -- Who the fuck are you? -- and the effect inside me is excruciating, An abrupt migraine, can you imagine it? Infuriating. I will not have any words spoken not of my making!

I’ll have to ask you to leave, otherwise I will call security!

Ow!

He produces a portable two-way radio from the pocket of his laboratory coat, brandishing its wobbly black aerial at me, a feeble weapon.

His pathetic gestures do not matter in the slightest. Fearlessly, the grin becomes deeper and wider, almost agonising, and thundering forwards at a terrific pace dragging me with it. Next, the man is falling away from me even before I reach him. Fright overwhelms his mouth, so much so that his teeth display themselves as though he has decided to mimic my expression. His radio slithers across the floor, its aerial a stiffened rat’s tail. The man’s lower back bounces against one of the tables and he whooshes out a breath as one of his kidneys calls out its pain.

Fucking get away from me..!

His mouth, widening in fear, sees the instrument trolley, as if he beholds it for the first time, although he undoubtedly placed it there himself He watches me grab a mixed handful of the stainless gleaming utensils lying neatly in rows. He has slipped onto the floor and his hand goes to his back to tend the self-inflicted kidney punch. He groans miserably, but he’s still wildly excited. Scrambling around, he is much as a crab would be with half its legs amputated. I know more articulate sounds are going to come out of him and have to do something to make them stop before the big sound comes out. The one that will alert other members of staff.

Unexpectedly, he is curling up into a foetal position and that suits me -- Please don’t! -- because now there are no arms or legs to become entangled with, and his mouth can be observed without difficulty and maintained in the manner to which it should be accustomed. It opens obligingly and I stuff inside a large wad of cotton wool I’d brought with me, produced from my trouser pocket while he wasn’t looking. I press down firmly, the tongue underneath the wad trying desperately to reverse the manoeuvre with dry, choking coughs, but failing. With the heel of my left hand now placed firmly over his mouth and chin, holding the head against the floor, my right hand uses the instruments. Although. I have to say that I used to be left handed. The utensils are held as you might for plunging a dagger. Then before you know it they are ripping and tearing. They make an unusual multiple tracery across the neck. An aerial map, as it were, of a complex river delta, developing in a tide of living red before evolving messily into a lake on the floor.

The body jerks heavily, legs and arms twitching like a pinned insect.

The mouth grins wide and deep, and I almost wish I had a mirror to enjoy the show.

Now I am free to go about my obligation unhindered, although I must be quick, must be quick, must be quick and the one single occupant in the room will have to do although it is better to have had a wider choice for Uncle. I know there is the man on the floor, but he is still undergoing convulsions, his limbs in spasm and pink froth gushing, and I do not have the time to wait to ensure the abstract wires inside him are completely disabled before I perform.

The operation.

In my white coat, the deep pocket contains a hammer. I lift back the green plastic sheet, hoping against hope for someone young and am blessed tonight with the body of a teenage male. The very ideal requirement in fact. Especially because its eyes are firmly closed and thereby not causing me any anguish.

The mouth grins so broadly now, so joyful with its luck.

The body flips over very easily in my hands, the neck flopping limply, which suggests to the medically trained the probable cause of death. Fortunately, the head itself is undamaged. Had it been harmed, tonight would have been a complete waste of time.

Dry brown hair covers the back of the boy’s head. No time for ceremony. I bring the hammer down sharply, centre-stage. Viscous cerebrospinal fluid pours out from the cracked cavity, draining off nicely. I select one of the clean instruments from the trolley and slit through the scalp until I am able to peel it back and separate the broken sections of bone beneath the flesh and open up the interior. Working with the knife, I concentrate on disengaging all remaining obstructions: the stalk of the pituitary and the medulla oblongata from the spinal cord.

Out of my white overcoat, I flourish a clear plastic bag and a pair of rubber surgical gloves. I slip the gloves on, gently scoop out the skull’s contents, and place them in the bag, a streak of blood smearing the inside as it goes in, a telltale sign that the organ is quite fresh, Holding the bag up to the light, its contents so unblemished, so malleable and awaiting transformation, is ecstasy.

The grin cannot contain itself now. The mouth even wants to laugh, to shriek with joy, but that desire must be quelled, because it isn’t allowed yet. Not yet, not until I have successfully resurrected oblivion.

Steaming fog like it was hot, fresh tarmac and the street lamps glowing amber balloons and the car crawling with tyres hissing as though sticking to the road surface. And...

And the need to maintain a slow and regular speed so that the brain might remain safely on the passenger seat in the plastic bag I have sealed with a bag-tie. There is condensation forming on the inside of the bag with the car’s interior warming up, which conceals the brain so no busybody might otherwise see that it resembles something purchased at the butcher’s shop.

Pairs of lights cruise past annoyed with my car’s slowness, but the smile in the minor dismisses them. A light smile, a smile of mild disdain. If they had to do the job I was having to, they would also drive with more caution. A big car screeches forward, slowing as it rides next to me on the dual carriageway, keeping pace with my speed. Inside, there is a face that is all mouth, all snarl, and hands are thumping the steering wheel and the driver’s mouth is letting forth with expletives that, luckily, I cannot hear through the sound of the engines’ and the closed windows, and the heater fan.

I stop.

And he’s through the red light which he didn’t see in time and there is a minor accident when his big car clips the rear bumper of another vehicle crossing legitimately in front. Both cars slew sideways, slow down, and recover, but the big car grunts and roars off although its driver should stop so that both occupants can exchange insurance details.

The mouth in the rear view minor slaps its lips together in a self-satisfied manner, knowing that such stupidities are beyond it. The outright abandonment of emotion is unthinkable. The wild failure to observe what is going on around is a stupidity of the first order and not permissible.

Home!

The garage door is similar to a mouth opening automatically, a mouth with no tongue and teeth, but instead the car slips inside; a prosthetic metal tongue yet to be coated in flesh.

And...

Uncle is waiting as patient as the dead do wait.

On the dining table.

I’ve cleared the table of everything except for the white cloth on which he is lying. Uncle looks very small, thin, and frail. He’s quite a bit older than I am, so, along with his present status, that is to be expected.

Earlier. I prepared him and now it is a simple matter to lift off the top of his skull which I had sawn away, from the forehead to the middle, a full half-dome of skull in fact. His face is not particularly pale, but his eyes are closed. Uncle’s mouth, though, oh, the mouth! A cheeky grin curves his ruby lips, just revealing a thin crescent of white teeth beneath. The smile is frozen there, ready for use.

Soon.

My white lab coat and plastic apron lend a professional air to the proceedings. And they are needed, for this is a solemn and groundbreaking moment in medical history. The first ever brain transplant. All organ replacement surgery before tonight was merely rehearsal!

I am already aware that the brain I have brought with me will not fit inside Uncle’s skull cavity and have prepared for that. A plastic washing-up bowl and scalpel have been put out to perform the required excisions. The so-called grey matter has to be cut away, the two hemispheres of the cerebral cortex are superfluous to Uncle’s needs. There is too much information in their jelly-like convolutions, too much that is unnecessary, all that ungraspable wiring! I slice away carefully as the brain sits in the bowl, through occipital lobe, parietal and frontal lobes. The offending parts float off in a swirling mixture of fluid and blood, but there is still space in the bowl for me to work and to see that I have reached the crucial areas. I am down to the thalamus, hypothalamus, the cerebellum and reticular formation. Most importantly, undamaged, is the mass of neurones of the amygdala nestling within the temporal lobe.

It takes one of flexible attributes and forward thinking to accept the importance of the archaic amygdala. Primitive though this early brain is considered, let us not underestimate how powerfully it controls the mouth, the tongue, and the teeth. How dismissive it is of the eyes and the wiring and all extraneous thoughts. The emotion of the mouth is its sole purpose.

Lifting the precious groupings of the remaining brain, I find, delightfully, that the fit into Uncle’s skull is as near perfect as it possibly can be. His mouth almost moves as I insert the brain into the cavity, and I sense the anticipation waiting there. The teeth snap together satisfactorily: His or mine I’m not sure, perhaps both! Quickly I replace the skullcap and I use fake skin and cauterise and seal the seam with a small soldering tool. Uncle is bald, but that will not be for very long. The smell of singed plastic is pungent and choking, making the mouth display its distaste, but I am not about to allow a bit of discomfort to spoil this illustrious moment.

Gently, with the reverence he deserves, I lift Uncle from the makeshift operating table. He is so frail and light! And yet so uncomplaining -- there was, after all, no anaesthetic administered for his operation!

I am drained, almost exhausted by the evening’s work, but determined that my perseverance will bear fruit before the night is through. It cannot wait. Sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace, I allow Uncle to rest upon my lap. His legs dangle so limply. He too is exhausted.

Very gently, very kindly, I say to him, “How do you feel, Uncle Charlie?” The mouth knows how to behave in such a delicate situation. “Would you like something to drink?” I ask. I know he must be thirsty after such a lengthy wait.

The fire has gone out while I’ve been at the hospital and the room has turned chilly. Still, that can be attended to in a moment and Charlie can sit next to me in the chair and we can discuss plans for our future entertainment long into the night. Explore routines and engage in dialogue.

I wait.

The mouth is set, fixed, worried about Charlie’s continuing silence, his failure to answer my questions. Yet.., yet I know he will answer me, that he is about to reply. I must give him a little more time. It was a major operation after all. The amygdala must be allowed to recover itself. I try to change my expression while I wait, but the mouth will not let me. Sardonically, it is frozen and I know this is how it must remain -- upper row of teeth a fraction exposed, resting on a slightly withdrawn lower lip, a little half-smile -- in order to allow Uncle to respond properly.

Now it’s coming!

Now...

I can’t move for the intense anticipation that is inside me, twisting my innards. The mouth holds me motionless, staring. I wait as seconds tick audibly from the face of the mantle clock.

But...

Something’s wrong. There is something wrong!

The brain, the brain is faulty! The amygdala must be retarded. I am aware of this because of the way the words are going to be spoken. Imbecilic is the term! But how could I have foreseen that the brain became damaged before I got to it? That it was, in fact, the brain of a retard! Even as the last second ticks, I realise with bitter disappointment that Imust begin all over again. Despite the truth of this, the mouth will not end its actions and salve my agony and frustration! It insists on allowing Charlie to respond.

Which he does. Determined to answer my question, he is.

“A gottle of geer,” he says, mouth clacking dementedly as I support him from inside his back, “a gottle of geer, you gugger and ge hucking kick agout it!”

[Originally published in Kimota 9, Autumn 1998]

SIMPLE BALLET

by Nicholas Royle

Lennox walked into the hotel and went up to the reception desk that floated in a pool of shadow at the far end of the lobby. He had been feeling tired and had decided to check into the first hotel he came to. He had no luggage. All day he’d been driving and driving was all he had to look forward to tomorrow. Driving until he got to where he was going.

“I need a room,” he said to the desk clerk.

“Sir.” The clerk indicated with a weary gesture, revealing dark circles under his arms, the bank of pigeon-holes behind him. Most of them had keys in. The question was implied. “Which room?”

“Anywhere,” Lennox said. He just wanted to get his head down. On the last stretch he had fallen asleep at the wheel, though only for a split second. He shook his head vaguely at the clerk who turned and plucked a third-floor key from its resting place. Lennox woke up for a moment. “Don’t you have anything higher up?” he asked.

Frowning, the clerk replaced the key and reached up to the top row of pigeonholes. He offered the new key to Lennox who accepted it. As he moved, his shirt felt damp in the small of his back. It had been a hot day and the plastic car seat upholstery had not helped. The car was a new model, mid-range, the best they’ d had at the depot back east.

In his room on the fifth floor Lennox dropped his keys on the dresser and sat on the end of the bed to recover his breath. In his shirt pocket was a photograph of a girl, a kid about seven or eight. The edges of the photograph were furry and had started to curl over. He took it out and looked at it as the sunlight fell directly through the west-facing window. Motes danced across the golden screen. The carpet was worn through in several spots. The mirror above the dresser, in which Lennox caught his reflection and briefly shivered, was beginning to turn scaly. He placed the picture on the dresser leaning it up against the edge of a small tortoiseshell box. And sat looking at it for a few moments before lying back on the bed with his hands clasped under his head.

He came awake suddenly, sitting up on the bed, his mouth coated with some bitter residue. How long had he been asleep? Seconds or hours? He glanced at his watch and remembered it had stopped before he’d even reached the hotel. The light seemed to fall at the same angle as if he’d been asleep only a few minutes or less. Or 24 hours. His shirt and pants were damp with sweat, but then they had been already. He looked at the picture of his kid on the dresser and waited for the fug of sleep to clear from his head. The window opened with an upwards tug. He rested his hands on the ledge and leaned out. Briefly he caught a sharp, almost metallic smell. He couldn’t identify it and then it was gone.

He pulled his shoes on, collected a few things and made for the door, his joints aching. Downstairs in the lobby there was no sign of the clerk. Lennox wandered into the bar. There was a short guy with a dark moustache standing by the bar, a whisky tumbler tilted to his lips.

“No one around, huh?” said the man with the moustache, drawing his freehand across his mouth as he sat his glass on the counter. “You wanna drink? I’ll get you a drink. I’ll get a glass.”

The man had an accent but Lennox couldn’t place it. He wanted to go back up to his room, or out into the street, he suddenly wanted to be anywhere other than in the company of this man who even now was coming back round the bar with a clean glass. He poured out a measure and handed it to Lennox who felt compelled to accept the honeyed container.

“Another?” The man proffered the bottle. Lennox shook his head. “Guess not,if you’re driving.”

“What’s the time?” Lennox asked, but the man just chuckled to himself and knocked back another slug of malt.

“Why don’ t you go check on your car?” the man said, looking up from the bottom of his glass. “If you can remember where you left it”

Lennox was beginning to get a headache. The man with the moustache followed him out of the bar and stopped in the middle of the lobby while Lennox proceeded to the exit. As his hand met the cooler brass of the door handle and prepared to grip and twist, a voice emerged from the shadows at the end of the lobby. The clerk had reappeared.

“Your key,” he said tersely, holding a cigarette in front of his mouth.

Lennox’s hand fell from the door and dug into his trouser pocket for the damned key. Where the hell was it? He found it in the breast pocket of his shirt, next to the photo of his daughter. His finger brushed against the creased surface of the print. Poor kid.

The clerk accepted the key without a word and Lennox moved back to the door, his eyes sliding over the conceited figure of the man with the moustache who had lit a small fat cigar and wedged it in the corner of his mouth. The door wouldn’t open. He checked for a latch but the door was locked. He turned and looked at the clerk, shoulders sagging. The clerk spat a shred of tobacco out to the side and remained impassive so that Lennox had to walk up to the desk and demand his key. The clerk expelled two long thin stamens of smoke through his flared nostrils and then flowers bloomed like something on a speeded-up film in front of Lennox, slowly dissolving into the air. Through the shadows Lennox could make out the clerk shaking his head slowly from side to side, and all the drive and determination seemed to leach out of Lennox. His legs barely carried him back over to the elevator, which took several seconds to arrive. The doors wheezed open and within minutes Lennox was lying on his bed again, photo in his top pocket, and some undefinable sense of calm making him feel it was okay to kick back and relax. He’d not taken the trouble to lock the door previously because he’d not been intending to return to the room, but now he felt as if he could stay a week, make up for lost sleep.

He didn’t actually tumble into sleep as expected, but surfed its upper layers and after an inestimable length of time he arched his back, stretched and got up again, crossed to the door and stepped out into the gloomy corridor. He followed the distempered wall toward an open doorway where a dripping tap announced the latrines. He stood for a while holding his thing and felt only mild surprise when he realised it wasn’t going to happen. Turning to the washbasin he splashed his face with cold water and watched in the mirror as the rivulets seemed to cling to his skin before swinging free. As he left the bathroom he walked into the man with the moustache who was standing in the middle of the corridor with one hand in his trouser pocket and the other in front of his face attending to the needs of his cigar.

Lennox grunted in annoyance but the man with the moustache angled his head in the direction away from Lennox’s room, clearly intending that he should follow, which he did dumbly, at a couple of steps’ distance. Instead of turning left or right into either of the rooms at the end of the corridor, the man with the moustache opened the fire escape door and stepped out on to the iron platform. Lennox, curious now and fighting his natural antipathy to the man, joined him. The man with the moustache was rank with sweat, which Lennox attempted to block. The man with the moustache took the cigar out of his mouth with his right hand and used it to point towards a gap between the nondescript buildings on the opposite side of the street.

“See that?”

Lennox wished the man with the moustache would put his arm down. He was a short man but the moist stench from his armpit reached Lennox’s nose without difficulty.

“What? No. I don’t see anything.” He rubbed his eyes.

“As far as you can see and then further. See the brightness? The reflection of the sun.”

Lennox squinted and nodded, partly because he dearly wanted to be back in his room on his own and partly because he could just about make out something like a dusty star on the horizon. Had he walked all that way?

“Catch that?” asked the man with the moustache, his head tilted back, nostrils dilating. “Did you smell that, just a whiff?”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s go,” the man with the moustache said. “There ain’t much time. Ironically.” So saying, he turned and clattered down the fire escape, at a surprisingly nimble trot. Lennox acquiesced.

They kicked up dust as they walked across the street and turned right over a patch of waste ground to reach the highway.

“So where were you trying to get to?” asked the man with the moustache.

“Home,” replied Lennox, having given up the fight.

“Where were you coming from?”

“Place I was staying at”

“Home from home?”

“Kind of. I guess.”

“Your wife?”

“We were never close. Her folks...” Both men knew it wasn’t true and that all the love he’d ever felt for his wife had been diverted to the daughter. She got it all but it was too much and on his infrequent visits she cowered. Sure, his wife’s family had made him a pariah. A salesman, they had said. We’re all selling something, he said to his wife later. But she never repeated it to them. He left and missed the kid. He missed his wife too but wouldn’t let himself know it. So it all went to the kid. All his frustrated love. The glass ball of his emotions. Hers to play with, but it was too dangerous. He was never there. And when he was he was always going back.

“Your circumstances have changed?”

“They locked her up. My wife. Locked her up last week. For her own protection, was how they put it to her folks.”

They wanted to look after the kid themselves, but State law said the kid was his, and so she was. He fingered the picture in his pocket, felt something catch in his chest, blinked at the brightness up ahead and wrinkled his nose against the smell which was growing stronger with each step.

“Know what that is?” The man with the moustache stopped for a moment to take the cigar out the corner of his mouth, inspect the chewed end of it and put it right back. He puffed out a small blue-grey rose. How come the cigar never got any shorter?

“Guess not.”

The man with the moustache, fingering it with his left hand as if it were false and he were concerned about its unsteady perch, was walking again, his cigar trailing petals of vapour. The sun beat down like a hammer on a sheet of gold and the smell increased to a harsh, metallic stench. The air sang with blinding reverberations and seemed to become thicker the closer the two men got to the cars. The man with the moustache adapted his pace naturally. The light that struck the windshield of the car in front and slightly to one side of Lennox’s was refracted through a prism of time, scattering vague, vivid shreds of rainbows in the air about the first car. Above everything, more powerful even than the dull keening scrape of metal on metal where no solid parts had yet made contact, was the soon to be overwhelming raw reek of time. The man with the moustache failed to realise that Lennox had come to a halt, had stopped to watch this slow, simple ballet, the impossibly graceful duel between time and space.

There was a lone driver in the first car, his head and shoulders no more than a dim outline behind the dusty windshield. The second car, set on a collision course with the first which had slewed across the blacktop at an angle of 40 degrees, was empty. It was the hire car Lennox had picked up back east. He felt his throat constrict. A trickle of bitter juice entered his mouth and he swallowed. He licked his lips.

The smell, now like burnt toffee, old, tarnished chrome and scorched carpet, was almost unbearable. Over the acompanying noise of the cosmic rending Lennox heard the voice of the man with the moustache.

“You can see what’s about to happen. You’re sitting in your car, just driving, no problem. Then this guy loses it in a big way. Is he having a heart attack? Did he fall asleep? Whatever. To you it’s irrelevant. You see what’s going to happen. It’s inevitable and, for precisely that reason, you relax. You can’t do shit Just watch it happen. Everything is calm.”

“I can move the car. Push it out the way,” Lennox spluttered.

“No, sir. That car is doing 50, maybe 60 miles per hour. You couldn’t move it an inch.”

As they stood there talking over the din, Lennox could see the gap between the two cars narrowing infinitesimally slowly.

“Who the hell are you?” Lennox shouted. “Where do you get off on all this?”

The man with the moustache chewed the end of his cigar.

“You wanna think about your little girl,” he said, standing near the first car. “Time’s up, feller.”

Lennox looked at the gap. The man with the moustache was right.

He grabbed at the door handle on the hire car and swung into the driver’s seat. The grinding racket and the nauseating stench of time’s brake pads, the pounding heat of the sun and now his own naked fear mounted a joint assualt, but he gripped the wheel for the sake of his kid.

As Lennox yanked the wheel to the right, the car in front, which had drifted sufficiently into his path to make avoidance impossible, took a sudden lurch to the left, and his car flashed right past without the expected impact. He applied his brakes with a shaking foot, brought the car to a shuddering halt and slumped over the dash to sweat out his panic and his relief.

And his terror.

When he replayed the moment on the movie screen in his head he saw the same thing: the sudden appearance in the other car of a second man to wrench the wheel from the driver.

Slowly Lennox turned round to look through his rear windshield at the other car.

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

WAY BACK WHEN

by David Price

We all have our own dragons to fight. No horse, no sword... no fire-breathing dinosaur: but dragons of the psyche, the kind you have no option but to face.

I hadn’t seen Mair Monaghan in nearly five years. We’d been an item once: nothing serious, but it had been fun while it lasted.

“Jamie Teale,” she greeted me, “And a fine figure of a man you are in that kilt.”

Same sense of humour, same sparkle in the eyes. It was a fine Hogmanay night... a pig roasting on a spit, virgin-white-clad Maids handing out haggis on paper plates... fine malt whisky in plastic tumblers: Pipers playing a refrain on the bagpipes... and a bonfire (to dance around) keeping the chill at bay.

And Mair, Mair, a maid so fair.

“It’s been a long time, Mair.”

“It’s been no time at all, Jamie. And what clan would you be from?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

“And how would I be doing that?”

“Easy: stick your hand up my kilt... and if you grab hold of a quarter-pounder, you’ll know I’m a MacDonald.”

Mair laughed, throwing her head back and bellowing at the top of her voice. She liked a good laugh, did Mair.

“Walk with me, Jamie Teale, and we’ll talk about auld times.”

Snow had fallen in abundance over the Christmas period of 1975. I’m from a rare Scottish family that celebrates both periods, and on the eve of that particular yule-tide I was walking through the woods, gathering holly and listening to Greg Lake singing ‘I believe in Father Christmas’ on the radio at my side.

And that was when I saw Mair for the first time.

“You fair made me jump out of my skin, sneaking up on me like that.”

“You’d not have been so afeared of you hadn’t been poaching from yon farm.”

“I was not poaching. I was just taking a short cut when I spotted that rabbit dead in the trap.”

We walked home together. She was a pretty wee lass - eleven years old, but mature for her age. I was but a step into my teens, less mature to be certain (not so much a bump in my front but a tilt in my kilt), but of an age when I was starting to take an interest in the fairer sex. And Mair, even then, had cheekbones you could hang your sporran on.

She led me across the stream, taking my hand with a natural innocence.

“I should be away to my home,” I told her.

“It’ll no be dark for another hour,” she told me, “and there’s something I want to show you.”

Twenty-three years later we were taking that same walk, still holding hands in that child-like, innocent way.

“Do you remember that day, Jamie?”

“As if I could ever forget.”

“When you first saw that hut...”

“Mud were singing ‘Lonely this Christmas’ on the radio. It looked like a magic hut, something you’d see on a Christmas card. Mind, I was only thirteen at the time.”

The snow hid the fact that it was a rough mud-hut that was falling apart. Still, she led me inside. A fire was dying in the corner, but she soon revived it with twigs. Then, pulling out a swiss knife, she expertly gutted the rabbit, speared it with a stick and roasted it for us.

“You’ve a deft touch with that knife... for a lassie.”

“Eat, Jamie Teale,” said she, placing strips of rabbit upon an enamel plate. The room became warm, pleasantly so. I’d no mind to leave, but time was getting on.

“There’ll be other times, Mair... will there no?”

She just smiled at me.

“Away to your bed, Jamie Teale. And we’ll meet here at midday tomorrow.”

These many years later the hut had collapsed, leaving only a sad, skeletal construction.

“It’s smaller that I remember.”

“You were a wee Scot back then, of course it looks smaller now.”

“I never thought I’d come back.”

She just flashed me that all-knowing smile, but her mouth was no longer a part of her face. The eyes were dark, hollow and worried. Her mouth took on a life of its own, finding amusement in spite of the misery of its mistress.

“Oh, you knew you’d be back. You’ve known it all this time. Think back, Jamie, clear your mind: remember - then know why we had to return.”

And the fog which clouded my mind blew away like tissue on the wind, transporting me back in time. I held my ground, yet the years peeled backwards. I watched the skin on Mair’s face get smoother, the bones reduce in size, the breasts sink as though punctured... and she saw the same regression in me: the traces of grey leave my hair, the receding hairline disappear. The darkness of night faded into the brightness of day and the hut reverse-collapsed... it was 1975 and we were both youngsters again.

“Not like this,” I said,”We can’t face it as children again.”

“We have to. It has to be just the same, don’t you realize that?”

The body of a child but the voice of a woman - yet this was no illusion. “Into the hut, Jamie. We must go through it all exactly as we did before.”

A fire burned in the corner, the bones of a long-dead rabbit lay beside it; unwashed enamel plates, the remains of a simple feast - 1975... today!

“Take my hand, Jamie.”

“Mair...”

“Take it. It has to be just right. You can’t change the script at this late stage.”

She tilted her head towards me, her lips gently brushing mine.

“Softly, Jamie Teale.”

We stepped outside, soft footfalls lost to the sound of the gentlest of breezes.

Soft lights, effervescent colours, an aroma of something sweet.

I turned to Mair.

“Wee Lassie, no!”

Her mouth opened into an impossibly wide chasm, her neck sank into her shoulders as her arms and legs seemed to weld themselves together: worms and maggots wriggled within her mouth, her eyes dried out, her skin toughened and stretched into a leather-like texture: she toppled forward, face hitting the ground, shattering like a glass doll... just so many pieces of Mair. Just so many pieces.

A slap stung the side of my face.

“Clear your mind, Jamie. Deny what you are seeing. Deny it Jamie, deny it.”

A degree of normality returned... in as much as it could under these circumstances. We headed for the glen. The grass chittered like dying birds at our feet, a warning to undo the regression; an image of Mair floated before me, evilly grinning like a chipmonk with a banana jammed sideways in its mouth.

“Awa’ wi’ ye, images o’ the minds eye,” cried I, and Mair’s mouth shrivelled to the most worried of frowns.

The Glen spread before us, white as the Christmas that Bing Crosby had always dreamed of, spacious and unfettered as the surface of the moon. Just as it had been... is!

And again it came... black, cloudlike, dense as a nebula. In panic I reached for her shoulder.

“Stand your ground, Jamie. We’ll no run for it this time.

And it span, twisted and snaked towards us like a stubby tornado. In a moment of defiance, Mair shook her fist at it... and in the next we were engulfed, tumbling end over end as though entrapped in a spin-drier. Our hands were wrenched, we parted, span away from each other as the tumbling Nemesis took us from our world.

I looked down upon my ten-year-old self; sitting atop the stairs, a plate of haggis before me. The meat was moving, pulsating, expanding. Then it burst, spewing forth a teeming colony of maggots.

Then I was eighteen, a glass of Glenfarclas in my fist; my first drink as a man. The liquid bubbles, a sharks head breaks the surface.

Back a year:

Seventeen-year-old Jamie Teale is about to have sex with a thirty-two-year old widow. She is naked upon the bed, legs spread, head tilted demurely to one side. I have a huge erection and fear that I will come too soon. I slide over her naked flesh, her hand reaches for my cock, I begin to lower myself...

And her cunt bursts open, fangs protruding, lethal and sharp. A daemon’s head grins at me from within.

“Talk about a horny cunt, hey Jamie!”

Then the nightmare ends and I am face-down in the snow.

“Jamieee!!”

A tall man has her by the hand, he is pulling her away.

The car!

I must stop them getting into the car.

I run but they seem to get further and further away: climbing into the car, the engine starts. It pulls away but I do not stop running after it, for I know that it will not go far.

With a sense of destiny I watch it turn the corner, hit a patch of black-ice and spin out of control... spinning, spinning - into the path of the bus.

Sickening crash, tearing metal... the car is thrown across the road like a kicked football. The man - Mair’s Father - is dead, but Mair, trapped within, is in a state almost worse than death. But if she can just reach out to me... if she can just...

I crawl to the wreck on hands and knees, peer inside. Mair’s head is tilted back, blood trickles down from an ear. I reach out... “Take my hand, Mair. For God’s sake, take it!”

This time she must reach out to me; I can never come this far again.

“MAIR!!!”

The eyes flicker, a rush of warm air enters the cab, breath steams from her mouth.

“Take my hand, Mair. This is your last chance; I’ll never be able to get this far into your head again!”

She groans, her eyes flicker open.

“Cold.”

Her arm moves, fingers uncurl.

“That’s it, Mair, reach for me.”

Her arm moves, snaking towards me. I am being pulled backwards.

“Mair...”

Fingers connect, palms. We hold hands and are drawn from the vortex together, spinning backwards... but this time I have brought her out of the void with me.

Now she can wake up.

Mair is learning to walk again on limbs that have not been used for more than twenty years. The Doctor’s are amazed at this miracle: a woman who has been in a coma since childhood, now awakes. She is alert, and she knows ME: for over twenty years I have been her only friend. Now that friendship has given her her life back.

There IS a way out of the cold, dark void.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

ALTERNATIVE HOSPITAL

by Neal Asher

Drunk as a skunk Gary may have been, but he was walking in a straight line down the centre of the pavement, no deviation, hands thrust into his jacket pockets and a rollie stuck to his bottom lip. By the time he had covered the four miles to home he reckoned to be sober enough to get his key in the door on the first or second stab, then it would be a stack of bacon sandwiches and a cup of coffee, and either Terminator or Aliens on the video. No going to bed. He preferred the sofa now. What he did not reckon on was the Jim’s Cosworth mounting the pavement twenty feet behind him. Jim had offered him a lift but Gary had told him to forget it since the guy had already fallen off his bar stool once that evening. In retrospect he would have liked to have been inside the car. The impact that snapped his right leg was subsequently followed by the impact of the back of his head on the windscreen. Consciousness had fled by the time he landed in the ditch.

“You’re okay now. You’re going to be alright.”

Gary had his doubts. The roof of the ambulance showed a tendency to travel in a different direction from the ambulance itself.

Blackout.

“Everything’s fine.”

Bright lights and aseptic walls. The taste of vomit in his mouth. The back of his head felt as if his skull had been stripped away and his bare brain dipped in salt. His leg broadcast severe injury but did not seem to hurt as much. It felt about the size of a telegraph pole.

“We’re going to put you out now.”

Gary had a ridiculous image of them carrying him outside the hospital and putting down a saucer of milk for him. Surgical spirit and a rubbing at his right arm. He did not feel the needle go in. Fine. He waited for oblivion, and as is always the case, he missed it when it came.

“Gary? Gary, are you alright?”

Gary smiled weakly up at Jill and repressed the urge to give the obvious answer. She had a habit of asking stupid questions and making unreasonable demands. Not much longer now until the final settlement. It had only taken five years.

“Is there anything you want?”

How about a lack of pain, an unbroken leg, and a wife who did not have a coin-operated vagina? They spoke for about ten minutes, not to each other, but to some no-space that hung between them. When she was gone there were drugs, there was food he could not stomach, hazy boredom, and a terrible fear of the bedpan. The eight pints he’d had the night before had their usual effect on his bowel and there was no escape. He swore thereafter to eat as little as possible while he was in hospital as it had been just as bad as he had expected. Then he slept, hoping it would all go away. A week passed and he learnt to use crutches. Then one morning he woke with the same mumbler in the bed opposite him, but something had changed.

Something was horribly wrong.

Anne was on the home run when her mobile started its high-pitched bleeping for her attention. She stopped and leant against an oak tree to catch her breath for a moment. It was just like those bastards to catch her now. They knew she always went for a five miler at this time in the morning.

“Anne Grey here,” she said into the phone.

“We have an event – report to East Essex Unit immediately.”

“Is that you Mike?”

“Yes, it is, Anne, and this is a Code One. We do have an event and this is not a drill. I repeat: This is not a drill.”

Anne felt her stomach turn over and the surge of adrenaline made her light-headed. She pocketed the phone and sprinted the last mile to home. On reaching the gravel drive before her cottage she checked her watch. Five minutes. Not bad considering the amount of muscle she carried. In a few minutes more she was behind the wheel of her Jaguar XJS and heading at top speed towards the A12. A screen on the dash traced out her route for her. It was continually updated by the latest traffic information.

Anne turned on her car set and spoke: “Anne here – do you have any details yet?”

“We’ve got a few bits and pieces coming in,” said Mike. “I’ll fill you in as I receive them. How long before you get here?”

Anne checked the figure at the side of the screen. “Twenty-six minutes barring mishaps.”

Coming off the roundabout Anne did not bother changing up. She floored the accelerator, flew past a truck on the slip road, and was doing ninety down the A12 before the driver blew his horn. The figure at the side of the screen dropped to twenty-four minutes. She always tried to beat the computer and arrive with a minute to spare. There was a whole page about it in her psyche report.

“It’s in a hospital,” said Mike. “They are clearing the area now. Bomb scenario. I have no details yet, but it looks like a snatch.”

“Outsider?”

“Likely.”

“Damn!”

Anne checked her rear-view mirror and saw a police car tailing her. She was now doing a hundred and twenty.

“Mike, I’ve picked up a bogey. See to it.”

Mike swore. The blue light started and the police car’s headlights began flashing. Anne kept her foot down and as soon as she hit an open stretch she pulled to the middle of the road so they could not pass. A minute passed. Two minutes. Abruptly the blue light went out and the police car dropped back.

“They didn’t like that,” said Mike.

Anne nodded to herself. They had considered using police cars for this stage of an operation. The trouble was that in trials they found the abrupt slowing of other drivers slowed them down too. Anne took the slip road at a hundred and decelerated just enough to take the mini roundabout without losing it. The police car stayed on the carriageway. Quarter of an hour.

“More information in: two bodies have gone missing, right off the world-line.”

Anne saved any reply until she was past a trundling JCB. She dropped down to fifty for the back roads. Lanes strewn with leaves and spattered sweet chestnuts. Traction not so good. She slowed to forty and observed red toadstools growing on the verges. They looked unreal. She shuddered.

“They have the area clear now. Davidson and Smith are in. McDonald and Jason are twenty minutes away.”

Anne drew to a halt in front of steel gates that were already opening. Stone eagles glared down at her. She accelerated onto the asphalt drive, observed by a soldier with a Rottweiler on a lead and an assault rifle cradled before him. An automatic gun on a balcony traced her progress up the drive to the house. She leapt out of her car with the reading on her screen at one minute forty seconds. Mike met her at the door and followed her in with the motor of his wheelchair humming to keep up with her. He looked young and vulnerable, his blond hair tied back in a pony-tail out of the way of the comunit on his head.

“Davidson and Smith are getting the van out,” he said.

Anne nodded as she ducked into a room off the corridor and began stripping off her track suit.

Mike looked into intense blue eyes below cropped black hair. She stripped naked, unselfconsciously. She had the musculature of a body-builder and had not lost a trace of femininity. He cursed the lack of reaction below his waist.

“Do you think we’ll have to go in?” she asked as she pulled on the tight cotton undersuit.

“Almost certainly. We’ve no proof it’s an Outsider, but that the blister formed from a hospital is indicative. It will probably try and use one of the bodies to lead it back through. You know what that means.”

Anne nodded. Of course she knew. It meant extreme prejudice. The area would be nuked if the Outsider got through, for there was no other solution. Mike observed the practiced ease with which she pulled on an overall bulky with Kevlar, then boots, and a helmet with comunit and drop-down dark-visor. To finish she strapped on her own hand gun, and Mike noted that the standard-issue Browning remained in her locker. She preferred her .44 Desert Eagle automatic, loaded with blue tips. Davidson had once jokingly called it her elephant gun, and had not been far from the truth.

“Right, let’s go.”

Mike headed back to the op’s room. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Nurse! Nurse!”

The prat had been whinging for the last half an hour and Gary was getting tired of it. His leg hurt and they had not given him anything to ease the pain. His head ached and he felt sick. Where the hell were the nurses? He gazed across at the prat and wondered what his problem was, then he saw the supported arm and the glint of metal along it. There were pins entering the arm down its length. Gary supposed it hurt a fair bit. He turned his attention to the only other patient he could see: a big guy, lying back staring at the ceiling. It looked as if, under the sheets, his legs were shorter than they ought to be. Gary lay back and closed his eyes. He drifted for a moment, then opened his eyes when he heard movement.

The nurse was standing over the prat’s bed. He held some pills in his good hand and she was holding out a plastic cup for him. He was staring at her face with a look of horror as he took the pills and washed them down. The nurse turned to Gary.

“I’ll be getting yours in a moment,” she said.

Perhaps she had been injured and this was the result of plastic surgery. Perhaps she had been burnt or something... Her face appeared to be made of soft plastic, and her eyes were flat and dry. Gary could see no nostrils and no ears and her hair looked false. When she opened her mouth the inside of it was bright pink and it glistened. There were no teeth.

Gary nodded mutely. “Fine... Fine...”

She walked away with short quick steps, her hands out before her as if she could not see so well. With gritted teeth Gary hoisted himself upright and pushed pillows up behind him. He glanced from the cubicle, across the corridor to the plate glass windows. Everything appeared quite normal, other than the nurse. He turned to speak to the prat and saw he was lying back, convulsed, his eyes rolled up into his head.

“Nurse! Nurse!”

Gary searched for and found the call button next to his bed. He reached out to press it, but it crawled higher up the wall, out of his reach. The nurse did not come. The guy opposite seemed to deflate after a moment and close his eyes. Gary wondered if he had died or was just asleep. He broke out into a cold sweat and scanned about himself. What was next? Someone had slipped him a tab or something worse. He couldn’t remember eating any mushrooms, but then he’d had a bash on the head. He glared suspiciously at the bottle of Lucozade his ex had left him. The bitch!

“Breakfast!”

The trolley pusher appeared fairly normal until you inspected her hands. They seemed to be coated with polythene and there were no fingernails, just slots in the top of her fingers from which the tips of claws occasionally peeked. Gary tried to ignore this as she gazed across to the big feller with the short legs.

“Pork for dinner,” she said.

The big feller was terrified, and watched her carefully as she pushed her trolley away. Gary spooned grey glutinous porridge into his mouth. Only he had been served any food. The stuff filled his empty stomach but seemed to taste of cardboard. The pterodactyl flew past outside when he was scraping the bowl clean. He watched it for a moment then shook his head. He remembered drinking magic mushroom tea once and seeing helicopters flying out of the television. However, this did not feel quite the same as he felt completely awake. Had Jill slipped him a designer drug? He decided that if it was a drug he would walk it off. Anyway, he also wanted to use the toilet. It took him a few minutes to don his dressing gown and precariously position himself on his crutches, then he lurched out of the cubicle and into the corridor.

“Alf?”

It was not Alf in the bed in the next cubicle along. Gary was confused. Alf was supposed to be in for the next week. Had they moved him? Had he snuffed it? The man that looked up at him grinned engagingly through obvious pain.

“Name’s Derek...”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Gary, balancing himself and reaching out to shake a sweat-damp hand. “What you in for?”

“Stomach... Guts... I think it might be cancer...”

“Oh... well, I’ll see you in a minute, I’ve got to get to the toilet.”

Gary set off for the toilet, feeling Derek’s eyes boring into his back. He had not meant to be rude, but all of a sudden he was desperate for a crap. He pushed through the door into the toilets with all speed, then sat himself with relief on a porcelain throne. As he crapped something swirled underneath him so he finished quickly and stood up. When he peered into the toilet pan there was nothing there. After dropping in a wad of shitty toilet-paper he backed away. There was something threatening, something... not right. Abruptly a tentacle draped in wet toilet paper rose out of the toilet. Gary got out of there as quickly as he could.

“There’s something not right here,” said Derek.

Gary leant against the wall breathing deeply, evenly. “What? What did you say?”

“There’s something not right here.”

Gary let out a hysterical laugh.

“Not right,” he giggled. “Not right... Excuse me nurse but why are you made of plastic? Gosh, isn’t that a big seagull.” He giggled again and headed for his bed. He suddenly felt very tired. He slept.

“Dinner!”

It was the same woman with the same hands, and Gary now knew he was not hallucinating; he had just gone completely mad. She gave him a plate of pork and gravy then pushed her trolley away. Gary noticed objects on the lower shelf covered with a white cloth. Blood was soaking through the cloth. He ate his meat and found it very rich. There were no potatoes or vegetables. When he finished he looked around. The big feller’s legs seemed to be even shorter. The guy in the bed opposite was writhing about and moaning with his eyes rolled up into his head again.

“Hey! Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

“He’ll be next,” said the big feller.

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t like it if you complain, if you cause trouble. I did, and look what’s happening.”

He folded back his sheet and showed legs amputated at the knee. There were no dressings, just blunt pink unbleeding flesh with neatly sawn leg-bones protruding. Gary swallowed bile and turned back to the complainer.

“Hey!”

The guy stopped moaning and abruptly sat upright.

“The unsharks!” he yelled and leapt out of his bed. He ran screaming down the corridor.

“Jesus!”

Gary got out of his bed and onto his crutches as quickly as he could. Out in the corridor he saw the guy leaning against a window clutching at his pieced-together arm. He was panting. He stared past Gary and let out another scream. Gary glanced round and saw the nurse quick-stepping towards them. The man ran to where the corridor turned, leapt straight at a plate glass window and ... hung there, caught in the glass mid-leap, webs and strands of glass holding him in place. Gary felt his crutch slip from under him. He hit the floor with agony stabbing up from his leg.

“Here, let me help you.”

A plastic hand closed around his biceps and lifted him easily to his feet. He was hoisted one-handed to his bed with time only to glance back and see the man fading out of existence. The nurse shoved him into his bed as if he weighed nothing. She paused and stood over him. “Now you should know better than to overdo it. I’ll get you some pills.”

He really did not want any of her pills.

Once beyond the cordon, Anne climbed out of the van checking the action on her Uzi. Her team followed, checking their equipment also. Armed troops watched with bewilderment, aware that the new arrivals certainly did not appear to be the usual bomb disposal team. The troops stayed back though, for they had their orders.

“Davidson?”

Davidson ran his finger along a set of blueprints and studied the building before them. He pointed to a row of plate glass windows. “Up there on the second floor.”

“Right, let’s move.”

Just as they set out for the entrance they heard a scream followed by a soggy thump. They gaped across at a figure lying twitching on the pavement.

“Tina.”

Tina Jason, a diminutive woman carrying an Uzi in one hand and a stainless steel case in the other, trotted towards the figure.

“Anne, what have you got? What have you got?” Mike asked urgently over the com. Anne glanced up at the sky with sweat breaking out all over her body. Up there, somewhere, a Vulcan bomber circled.

“I’m checking now,’ she replied. “A figure appeared in mid-air then fell to the pavement. Could be one of the bodies.”

“Is there anything with it? Are you sure?”

Anne and the rest of her team followed Tina to the corpse. It lay flat, head turned to one side, spatters of blood and broken teeth round it.

“What have we got?”

Tina finished running a device like a Geiger counter over the corpse, then hooked it on her belt. “Male, human – one of the bodies.”

“You hear that, Mike?”

“Gotcha.”

Tina had no reason to lie. Only Anne knew about the strike.

They entered the building at a run, climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered a long hospital corridor that had been hastily abandoned.

“Anomaly ahead,” said Smith. “About five metres.” He held something like a pair of binoculars up against his eyes. “It’s twelve point three on the D Heisenberg scale – instability readings to point six.”

Tina placed her case on the ground and opened it. It was filled with small cylinders of Semtex, each marked with a number. She took out enough of the charges to add up to twelve point nine – reading plus variation. With practised ease she put the explosive together, then advanced along the corridor using her hand-scanner to find where to position it.

“Twenty seconds!”

She ran back. They took cover in the stairwell.

The soldiers looked up as the glass windows on the second floor blew out. A sergeant grabbed a medical bag and started heading for the hospital. A cold barrel pressed against the back of his head and he halted.

“We have our orders, Sergeant,” said the Colonel.

The sergeant turned slowly.

“Get back into line,” the Colonel told him.

The Colonel was frightened. He kept glancing up at the sky.

Gary felt a horrible panic as he struggled from his bed. As he was getting his crutches under him, Derek came round the corner. “Look, I’ve got an artificial stomach.”

Gary gaped at him. He stood there in blue and white striped pyjama trousers and snoopy slippers. His bare torso had been opened from below his chest to his groin, and emptied of intestines, liver, kidneys. The fleshy split was packed with cotton wool and from the top of it a thick bundle of pipes led to a wheeled box he towed behind him. Blood, lymph, and half digested food could be seen travelling through the pipes. Derek looked slightly crazy.

“I’m getting out of here,” said Gary, staring at the horror before him. How long until something like this happened to him?

Derek stared back at him and began shivering.

“It’s not right is it,” he said, and turned and peered at lights and dials flickering and quivering on his portable artificial stomach.

“No, no I don’t think it is.”

Gary hopped past him into the corridor. He glanced back to where the nurse had gone and headed in the opposite direction.

“Please, let me come with you!”

The tone of Derek’s voice was one of barely suppressed terror. Gary glanced back at him and read the pleading in his expression.

“Come on then,” he said, not knowing what they would do when they reached the stairs.

The corridor seemed to grow as they walked along it – the rubber ends of Gary’s crutches squeaking against the floor, the wheels of the artificial stomach rumbling. The turning Gary had earlier seen seemed to have disappeared. Gary was beginning to despair of getting anywhere when Derek shoved his trolley through a side door and pulled him after. The sign on the door said ‘Skin Grafts’.

“What?”

“A nurse.”

They crouched in the room as the machinelike rattle of feet could be heard approaching. Gary spotted a key and turned it, just before the nurse tried the handle. He held his breath until it stopped moving, breathed out slowly as he heard the feet move away, then he turned and inspected his surroundings. All around the room were glass tanks filled with fluid in which sheets of something ridged and lumpy floated. On a table in the middle of the room lay a man who had been skinned from head to foot. There was skin on his lower legs but it was not human skin. The man sat upright and grinned at them with bright white teeth in his raw red face.

“It’s a new technique,” he explained. “Crocodile skin is the best.” He wiped a raw hand over the knobbly green skin on his legs.

Gary managed to get the door open just as the skinless man began to get off the table. He and Derek stepped out into the corridor and kept going. When Gary glanced back, the nurse was there, then the man without legs, propelling himself down the corridor like an ape, pursued by the woman who served meals. She had a saw in one hand.

“It can’t be much farther now!” said Derek, panicked.

“I don’t know where I am!” yelled Gary.

Just then an explosion flung him to the ground. As he pulled himself upright with his ears ringing a rip in the air opened out, exposing a damaged hospital corridor beyond. Figures in bulky grey overalls ran towards him brandishing guns and other devices that baffled him. Mirrored visors were down over their faces. Glancing back, Gary saw the corridor closed up and deformed into a sphere with hospital beds imbedded in the walls. The skinless man was close. A magnificent woman raised a mirrored visor and studied the instrument she held.

“Pseudo, left! Take it down!”

Four Uzis opened up like a motor starting. The skinless man flew apart. His grinning head thudded to the ground.

“Right! The nurse.”

Gunfire hit her, but it took a while to stop her. When she finally did fall she was smoking and sparks were crackling inside her. She hit the floor like a sack of tools and geared wheels rolled out of splits in her skin.

“You, move over here!”

The woman was addressing him, Gary realised. He stared at her in shock.

“Move it! You’re off the line! An Outsider is trying to use you to get in!”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he moved forward anyway. A hand caught hold of his arm.

“Take me with you, please!” begged Derek.

Gary stared at the artificial stomach and had sudden misgivings. Gunfire took down the man without legs. He seemed quite happy about it all.

“Look, it comes off.”

Derek reached inside himself and pulled out wads of fouled cotton wool, then tracked up the pipes to the stainless steel disk they all fed into. Half a turn unplugged from a socket in his upper body. Putrid fluids ran out, and Gary retched at the smell. Just then something glittery flew past and hit one of the soldiers. The man dropped, yelling, a dinner fork imbedded in the Kevlar over his upper arm. The skinless man seemed to be oozing back together on the floor. He winked up at Gary. Suddenly the woman was beside him, pointing a gun at Derek.

“You’re it,” she said, and fired.

Derek slammed back against the wall with the top half of his head spread all over the paintwork. He reached up and stuck a finger through an empty eye-socket until it came up through what was left of his brain. He advanced.

“How unfriendly,” he said.

Taking hold of Gary’s arm and dragging him back towards the real hospital she fired again. Derek hit the wall again. Advanced again. The third shot did not knock him back at all. The bullet just knocked part of his shoulder off.

“Thirty seconds!” another woman yelled. They were hitting the dinner lady continuously as she tried to turn herself into a sabre tooth tiger. The big woman emptied her gun into Derek as she pulled Gary back. All the team stepped back through, firing as they went.

“Gary!” Derek called, holding his arms open.

They emptied clip after clip into him, depleted clips hitting the ground one after another. Gary sat on a tiled floor covered with broken glass as Derek was turned into mincemeat then an advancing bloody fog.

“Gary!”

The rip zipped itself shut.

Gary continued to shiver. Line? Outsider? His leg hurt, his head ached, and he felt it likely he would soon puke up. The big woman squatted down next to him and inspected him with her gorgeous blue eyes. She patted him clumsily on the shoulder. “You’re okay now. You’re going to be all right.”

Gary peered at her with infinite suspicion.

Deciding she had not said enough, Anne added, “Everything’s fine.”

Gary giggled. He’d heard that one before.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

THE CLOSING HAND

by Christopher Kenworthy

Stuart wished there was some traffic on the A82, to distract him from the landscape. Most of the trees had been torn down by weather, their trunks split and shattered amongst those left standing. The leaves were curiously drained, as though autumn had come a month early. They hadn’t crisped, so much as withered.

Storms were forecast, but the sky was featureless white. That was a relief, because he didn’t want to put his Face-tank on. It only held an hour’s worth of air, and the last inhabited village was more than an hour behind. The next one might be as far again. If it came to that, the tank would only put off the suffocation, no matter how fast he drove. There were other cottages in the surrounding hills, but he doubted they would welcome him in an emergency.

Approaching Loch Gar he saw the tip of an acceleration tower, shining like glass between the Ceann Mountains. The rest of the structure came into view, rising from the loch bed where the water had steamed off. It looked like a studded tube of granite, the anchoring buttresses chalked with mud. The parched ground around it was limy, darkened by cracks like black lightning.

The clouds were moving, becoming thicker. It could be the time of day, he thought, or it could be a storm. His hands were sweating, gripping the steering wheel too tightly, and he glanced at the tower, wondering if it was still active. He was close enough for the magnetics to churn his emotions. That probably wasn’t the case though, or the valley would be camped out with travellers. Jenny would be with them, up to her knees in blissful filth, dancing in its vibes.

Jenny had a four day advantage on him, which meant she could be anywhere in Scotland. The main towers were being ignited in the Torridon range, so she would head there. Since leaving Bath eight hours earlier, Stuart’s only thought had been finding her. Now that time was approaching, he wondered what he could say to convince her to come home.

Something flashed in the dark area of sky, then sparked again. The engine misfired twice, steadied itself. He couldn’t hear thunder, but knew the storm would soon be underway, and he would have to drive beneath it. If he kept his speed up, the engine should keep firing no matter how much EM fouling the weather caused. The real worry was how much oxygen the storm would steal. It might only last twenty minutes, half an hour at the most, but the winds that came after it would make driving impossible.

The road turned sharply left, going uphill, and if he remembered rightly, the next few miles would be spent heaving the car around slow bends, at awkward angles. There were barriers up, where the drops were severe, but it was still too dangerous to go fast. It would be a struggle to keep the engine revving on the tight corners. More flashes passed through the clouds, and the engine stuttered out for more than a second.

Holding the steering with his knees on the last straight length of road, he strained for the map book and found page 93. It was an old atlas, lots of areas hand-shaded out with pencil to show lost ground, but the road markings were accurate. The map confirmed his suspicion, so he threw it back down, and turned into the first corner, the camber slewing him towards the barrier. The valley was darker than the last, the road arcing in and out of blind corners. It brightened in a steady flicker, as the storm built, the engine responding with grumbles.

He could smell magnesium and something like cinnamon, before the rain hit. The first drops on the screen looked like sand, until they spread. Fatter drops followed, milky and thick, slowing the movement of the wipers.

Stuart pulled the Face-tank onto his knee and primed the valve. He slowed for the next corner, but revved hard again to get through it. The headlights were coating with white, the beam from them now short and yellow; it didn’t reach the tarmac or the barrier, and only showed up the rain, making it more difficult to see. He refused to slow down, knowing he had to keep the engine active.

The stone banking to his right overflowed with snow coloured water, which smacked against the side window. The steering went slack and useless.

When the back wing of the car hit the barrier it made more of a thud than a bang, and he braked. The engine chuddered and stopped. The car was still rolling, so he dropped the clutch, but it didn’t respond.

The windscreen wipers froze, the screen matting with rain. He didn’t feel an impact, but knew he must have hit the barrier, because his chest creased in pain, and the windscreen flew out like powder. The salty rain covered his hands, stinging.

With the mask on and the valve released he could breathe again, but his ribs felt torn, every breath sharp. He got straight out, and set off downhill, his right hand constantly wiping mucky water from the visor.

For the first time he heard thunder, a sucking roar of sound, followed by booming. There was so much electrical activity, it was impossible to tell which flash matched which sound. There was still some delay, which meant it still wasn’t overhead.

Walking downhill was easier than expected, so he jogged, eventually finding a rhythm that let him run. The road was clear of rocks, the only problem being puddles, which were sometimes deep enough to make him trip. Even though the visor was drizzled and sticky, it was easier to see than it had been from the car.

The map had shown a property area no more than two miles forward, but there was no way of knowing whether it was inhabited. If the storm passed, it wouldn’t matter. Any building still standing in the Highlands could protect him from the coming winds.

It didn’t take long for the buildings to come into view; a two storey cottage, and several stone barns, none with lights on. There were no cars or wagons that he could see. The rain had stopped, and the clicking on the valve in his mask meant the oxygen was balancing. He ripped it off, his attention now moving to the burning in his skin, itching from his scalp, down his neck, around his ankles, but mostly on his hands. The trickling of the water around him was soon replaced by the first shrieks of the wind.

The road levelled out, but he kept up his speed with the aid of the wind. The windows in the ends of the cottage were boarded up, but those in the side were intact. It was a good sign, but then somebody moved inside, rushing towards the main door. It was flung open, and a figure backed away. She was holding her hands up against him, as though afraid. He didn’t understand why she had opened the door. The wind was too loud to hear anything she said, but it looked as though she was screaming. As she backed off, she stumbled down to her knees.

The wind made it difficult to breathe, so he stepped inside and leaned against the door to close it, snapping two bolts across to hold it. He could hear her voice now, not frightened, but pleading.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chanted.

He didn’t know what to say, so looked in to the next room, to see what she might have done. There was nothing there, except two wooden chairs, a small rucksack.

“I didn’t know you were coming back,” she said, her hands open in a rigid claw-like gesture. Her chin was dribbled with spit, and her eyes blurred by tears.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said.

She sat back, slumping against the wall.

“I don’t know who you are.”

“Do you live here?”

For the first time she looked as though she understood. “No. Don’t you?”

“No. I was trying to get out of the storm.”

He expected her to smile, realising her mistake, but she put her hands together as though praying, and pressed them against her mouth in jerking movements.

“Do you mind if I shelter here?” he asked.

“There are two rooms upstairs,” she said, eyes still closed. Her expression changed then, squinting as though she was struggling to picture something. “Do you want food?” she asked.

“I haven’t brought any.”

“I’ll cook.”

She went past him, through the first room, and he heard he swilling tap water, arranging pans. He went upstairs briefly, to wash the worst of the filth from his hands and face, then ached his way back down. Too tired to help or question her, he sat in one of the chairs, moving his attention between her actions and the humming windows. Outside, the wind was fierce enough to lift dirt into the air, scouring the glass.

The soup only took a few minutes to warm from the can. She handed him his bowl, then sat on the floor by the window.

Once she had a mouthful of the food, she asked, “What’s your name then?”

“Stuart. I’m heading up to the Torridons. Looking for somebody.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She told him that she was called Rachel, and that she was trying to catch up with her friends.

“I thought I’d be able to hitch up here, but there’s hardly any cars in the afternoons. It’s taken me days to get this far. The last driver was an oxygen stinge. He was going to kick me out at the first sign of a storm, but he dropped me here for shelter. I had to jump out while his car was moving - he wouldn’t even stop. There was hardly any air down here. I nearly died.”

She finished her soup, despite talking so much.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced, unwilling to go into more detail, too tired to risk a long conversation.

He chose the quietest room. There were no beds, but woolly blankets were piled in the wardrobes, and the floor was carpeted. At first he was comfortable, nested in a corner, and resisted sleep because he enjoyed the lingering tiredness. The floor was too hard though, and the sound of wind soon annoyed him.

The night was a process of turning, waking, moving in and out of exhaustion, too tired to wake up properly but too riddled with energy to sleep. His dreams were never clear enough to be anything other than anxious. Then he saw the colour orange.

He dreamed of standing in front of a wide window at sunset, the light dyeing the grass and rocks, shredded on the wet tarmac. It was a windless evening, one star showing above the mountains. The star went out as he watched, and he heard knocking, a door opening. Rachel was in the room with him.

Looking back at the sky he worried about the star.

“Morning,” she said, then frowned, seeing his confusion. “Are you all right?”

He licked his lips, tasting sugary traces of the rain.

“I thought I was asleep,” he said, touching his ribs. “I don’t know how long I’ve been awake. I thought it was night again.”

“You must be tired,” she said, and he thought she had missed the point.

It was still early, but he didn’t want to lose time, so explained about his car, and asked if she wanted to come with him. Her rucksack was already packed, leaning against the door. He drank directly from the tap, gulping down more than was comfortable in case he wasn’t able to find water again today.

Outside the light was bright, giving everything outlines and shadows. The wind had catalysed the rain, so the grass and heather looked glazed rather than flaky. There was more blue sky than he had seen in a week, but it was unlikely to be stable. Even as they walked, he saw trails of white condensing.

When he saw the car, a black hole where the windscreen should be, he looked around for the glass, but it had all been taken by the weather. The car itself hadn’t moved, and was lodged against the barrier. The key was in the ignition, and it started first time. He drove tentatively down the hill, but was soon confident that nothing had been damaged. His eyes watered, because of air blasting through the gap, but it was relatively quiet. Once they were past the cottages, Rachel asked who he was looking for.

“Somebody called Jenny. She was my girlfriend. We were living together.”

“She left you?”

“I thought so. She left a note in our flat, said she’d gone. I thought that meant she had left me. It took me a while to find out that she’d come up here, with most of her friends.”

“She came for the towers?”

“I think so.”

“So you’re getting back together then?” He shrugged, so she added: “You think the vibes will bring you together?”

“No, no,” he said, about to explain, but Rachel held up her hand.

“Don’t worry, it’ll work. She’ll love you.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, trying to talk, at the same time concentrating on keeping a safe line up the road, which climbed again, the slope to the left now more like a cliff. “I want Rachel to come home. I don’t want those things to affect her, or me.”

“Your funeral,” Rachel said, her hands now moving in sloppy gestures, which reminded him of the way extremely dull dope smokers over-express their movements, because they have nothing to say. “But I doubt your friend will want to leave.”

“Because the towers are so addictive?” Stuart asked, unable to conceal his anger.

“It’s not addiction. The towers are an opportunity. Everybody who goes there finds, something, something so good. It’s peace, a togetherness. A something...”

“A something what? You’re not making sense. What do they find?” Rachel’s face dropped. “It’s a togetherness.”

“No, it’s a lot of people getting their brains fried. The towers weren’t set up for this. You’re being damaged by a side effect.”

“It’s not dangerous, Stuart,” she said, and he was annoyed at the way she used his name all the time. “Even the government admits it’s not dangerous. Otherwise they’d move us on.”

“The government can’t admit to the risk.”

She shook her head slowly, her mouth in a cross between a frown and a smile, as though he was too ignorant to understand. “What can be wrong with everybody coming together, and loving each other? Everybody feeling warmth and joy for each other.”

“The towers are put there for one purpose - to accelerate atmospheric stability. That’s all. To bring back an even temperature.”

“That’s not what I’m on about.” Her hands were slopping again. “I don’t care what the towers are meant to be for. The thing is, they make us good. They give us love. What can be wrong with that?”

“It’s empty. It means nothing. You might feel emotions for people on the surface, but it can’t be real love. Why should everybody love everybody else? I don’t like everybody, and I don’t want to. I want to love somebody because they appeal to me, because we can get on, share things, co-operate.”

“That’s so conditional,” Rachel muttered.

“It makes sense. It would be wrong for me to forget about Jenny. She needs another chance.”

“Typical male thinking. Save the poor woman from herself.”

“It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Then let her make her own mind up.”

“That’s my point. She doesn’t know her own mind, not while she’s being poisoned.”

Rachel paused. “You really think logic will bring your Jenny back?”

He didn’t answer, deciding it best to leave her to it. If she was so converted, without even having experienced the buzz, she would never be dissuaded. At least she might help him to find the travellers.

The road meandered through meadow flats, between the tallest mountains so far. He could smell flowers, perhaps the late gorse. Everything was flowering at the wrong time of year. He looked at the fields, seeing only poppies and daisies, and wondered if fatigue was affecting him.

“Can you smell something?”

Rachel looked ahead, refusing to face him when she talked. “What sort of smell?”

“Something sweet.”

“It’s my perfume. It heats up in the day.” She wiped her neck, as though rubbing sun tan lotion in.

They passed four inactive towers, which crusted out of vanished lakes. Each time, Rachel moaned disappointment.

The fuel tank was emptying at an alarming rate. The only habitation they came across was at the Kyle of Lochalsh, a village of tiny houses, surrounded by rusting cranes, derelict boats and trains. There were no people, and although there was a filling station, the pumps were dry and unresponsive.

Rachel urged him to drive on. “Before long you won’t care about your precious car. You’ll walk everywhere.” Stuart wanted to be more practical than that. Finding Jenny wouldn’t be enough; he would have to make escape easy, tempting, or it would never become an option. They would need the car and a tank of petrol, but he pressed on, hoping fuel would turn up on the way.

Rachel’s words were prophetic, because the road was soon lined with abandoned vehicles, from motorbikes to cars, wagons and camper vans. Every mile or so there was a new gathering. They were arranged at different angles, as though they had been left hastily rather than parked.

“We’re close. This is the letting go.”

Stuart tried to keep his speed up, despite the cluttering. It was possible the travellers had walked to a minor tower in the Glen Carron lochs, he thought. After that, they could have trekked north again, towards Loch Maree. It was due to go active at any time.

It took twenty minutes for their destination to come into sight, and neither of them spoke. The unusually flat stretch of ground between the mountains brought Loch Maree into view when it was eight miles away, a tantalising strip of light with the huge spiked tower rising at other end. The southern coast was lined with trees, largely undamaged by storms, their leaves still green. There were other colours in the trees, and movement.

“We’ve found them” Rachel said, her voice croaky.

Stuart maintained his speed, even though the fuel needle was touching red, and the air was hurting his eyes. The travellers would be weary, bored. If he could get there before the activation, he would stand a chance.

Rachel giggled when she saw the size of the crowd. There were tens of thousands of people, most wearing only one item of clothing around their waists. All looked thin, and strangely, their skin was pale. They moved in a silly dancing rhythm, turning in circles, wafting their arms. He stopped when the volume of people made it impossible to go further, a few of them started laying hands on the car, their faces wide and glossy, murmuring unintelligible words.

Rachel didn’t speak to him again, but got out.

“When, when?” she demanded.

The only reply he heard was “soon”.

Rachel danced away so quickly, stripping as she went, that he thought something was affecting his mind. The movement had been rapid, almost instantaneous, but at the same time it was slurred like slow motion.

The first promise he made to himself was to remain fully clothed. If he could do that, there would be some strand of sense to hold him together. It was a small thought, but it gave him enough reassurance to go on.

A woman approached him when he left the car, and put on hand on his arm. She was dressed in flowery panties, nothing else. Her body was young, with small, stiff breasts, but her face was that of a forty year old.

“First time?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m looking for a friend,” he said, trying not to stare, either at her face or chest.

“We’re all friends here my love,” she said, with a puzzled, uncertain look.

“How does everybody survive? What do you eat?” Stuart asked, struggling on the uneven ground.

She let go of his arm. “It doesn’t come to that,” she said, jogging ahead.

There was no path to follow, and people were going through the trees in all places, apparently enjoying the zigzagging walk it forced them to adopt. He could see the lake through the trees. There was a deep, repeating thud in the distance, and a simultaneous sigh from the people around him. Many ran faster, arms outstretched, every hand curled as though grasping for something, gradually closing.

He saw enormous white flashes beyond the trees, followed by popping sounds. A blast of icy air came sucked through the woods. The leaves of the trees bleached and were pulled from the branches, torn into violent confetti. More flashes followed, chasing the cold with waves of heat.

When he cleared the trees he saw a fat, creamy fog, rolling low over the water. The sound from the tower changed to a rumble so huge it felt as though it was coming from inside his lungs. Water lifted from the loch like metal fragments and rushed upwards, clouding and spreading into the upper atmosphere. The loch bed was revealed and it grew lighter, making a sound like paper tearing. The travellers ran towards the tower. Only about a thousand got close enough for the main hit. When they fell to their knees he thought they were praying, but they keeled over and went flat.

The bifurcation shock had a clear, circular perimeter, and the living ran into it. He followed, expecting panic from those left alive, but was appalled to see them dancing, gaily striking rags from the corpses as they came apart. The white meat inside the dead was turning to sappy liquid, which rose up in sparks, chasing the water of the lake.

Stuart was reluctant to go any closer. Even though the ignition was over, the tower would continue to buzz. He was about to back off, but found himself smiling, having seen a familiar face. It was Rachel, now completely naked. Her left side was withered, one breast shrivelled to a brown scab, like a walnut. Her arm was thin and bluish. The energy had missed her legs, and only part of her face was gone, the white of one eye spread across her cheek.

“I was on the edge,” she said. “My first time and I just missed.”

“I know you,” he said, trying to remember what she looked like before. “Is it you?” he asked, his jaw made cumbersome by the joy he felt at finding her again.

She held him. Her poor arm felt like stone on his back, the muscle gone, skin drawn tight onto bone. She eased away, touched his face, stared into his eyes; her own were drunk-looking, happy. Her fingers could barely move, but her hand closed on his, the tiny fingers brittle. When he kissed her neck he smelt perfume, something like elderflower, and he remembered; she wore that perfume the first time they met. She wore it now because she loved him.

“Jenny?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, not looking sure. “Does it matter?”

Although her left arm was virtually hanging off, she started dancing. He watched her, glad to see that she was enjoying herself.

Another woman bumped into her, this one much older, but there was no anger. They both laughed. Then they stared at each other, tilting their heads. “Mummy?” the older woman asked. The one with the withered arm said, “I love you,” and they embraced.

He closed his eyes, because there was a strong smell of ammonia and cooked fish. When he opened them again, his mummy had gone. It didn’t matter, because a naked man was dancing in front of him, waving his fingers at Stuart’s face. The man had a thick beard which went up around his ears. His eyes were small, but watery. “I love you,” he said

“Are you my friend?”

The man stopped dancing, his face serious. “I love you.”

“Jenny?”

“Yeah,” the man with the beard said.

Stuart kissed his shoulder, glad that she was home.

[Originally published in Kimota 4, Summer 1996]

VIDEO NASTY - ELLEN'S STORY

by Caroline Dunford

My story starts with the breaking of old Mr Wentright’s heart. His shop, the hardware store, closed in April; a lifetime of work, dreams and love finally extinguished by the unremitting tide of time. His sons had moved to the city and his wife had long since made her final journey to the churchyard.

I was on my way to meet the gang down by the river, when I saw him. He stood in the middle of the street just looking at the shop and shaking his head, while his suited son tried to gently push him into the waiting car, ready to take him to a home, a life ending right there in front of me. I lost part of my childhood that day.

I remembered his shop as a place of dark, shady, corners; harsh smelling bristles and freshly carved wooden handles; a glorious shed masquerading as a store and a place where all visitors under four foot six always got a stick of liquorice, the old fashioned kind with the bark still on. But time passes; innocence fades.

It was startling, even shocking, to see the gaudy red and yellow paint splashed over the old store. It was terrible and it was wonderful. We took joy in watching the destruction of the old. We were all so supremely innocent.

The American farming zone, the bible belt, keeps its youth pure. We were trapped in that fragile, hazy bubble of childhood. We had innocence, ripe and ready to be picked, a thousand feelings of youth unacknowledged, brewing quietly in the summer heat. Disaster could only be moments away, but like a man with only minutes to live we were all utterly unaware and damned beyond redemption. And the shop continued to change.

The new owner ripped its guts out and threw them into the street, awaiting the rubbish collection. Old paper bags and forgotten spices skittered across the road in the afternoon breeze. We started hanging around outside, watching the work, seeing if there was anything we could do, anything for a quick buck or a good scavenge.

When the words ‘Video Store’ appeared we were bitterly disappointed. We were fairly sure no-one we knew owned a machine. And then one day, Jon came running down to the river to tell us about the box.

He brought us an offer. It seemed that the new shop-keeper, Eric Manners, was finding he had far too much clearing out to do, so he offered us the chance to borrow a ‘box’, in return for helping him out. The box was a mini video. The business would lend out both films and boxes; movies for all.

So came dusty, coughing days sweeping out, hammering and painting the new shop. Manners was better than his word, letting us watch movies on Wednesday and Friday nights, but we would only get to take a box away from the shop when it was all finished. It soon became clear that for once the pack didn’t think alike. Jemmy and I wanted to see romances. The boys were into action and horror.

Manners came in unexpectedly late one night and caught us arguing. He thought it was very funny. He was a fat, grease ball of man, who wore slimy corduroys. He suggested we split the time according to the amount of work we did. This meant Jemmy and I chose one in five movies, which although not many, was better than the none at all we’d been getting. With Manner’s help we worked out a schedule so that Jemmy and I didn’t even bother turning up on the fright nights.

The real reason the boys agreed, was not to be fair, but because Manners made them a deal. He was a crafty one, right son of a devil. He pointed out what we could and what we couldn’t touch. He said, loudly and often, he would just have to trust us to pick tapes our parents wouldn’t object to. Then he’d laugh with the boys. As I said he was a greasy, fat, little man- pork-chop faced.

By the time the shop was finished there was precisely one night of vacation left. Sure we’d seen a few movies at the shop, but our first movie night, our first all night party, was going to be our last.

We’d settled on Dave’s parents’ barn. At one time it had been used for milking so it at least had power. It lay a good seven minutes drive from the farm down a tortuous track. We wanted to be on our own. The boys to drink; Jemmy and I because we wanted Jon and Dave. We’d been after them a long time, but in a weak-willed, wishy-washy sort of a way. But now we’d seen movies where beautiful, single women not only got into bed with men they fancied, but became more desirable for being experienced. I suppose we were both beginning to realize how small-minded our community was. The mistake was we thought the movies were true and we wanted to emulate them. We crossed that middle ground between reality and fantasy. Or at least I did.

We all crept out of our houses that night. We’d decided on watching movies till dawn and there was no way any of our parents were going to let us spent a night in a lonely barn, especially Jemmy’s and mine. We met just outside Dave’s place. He’d moved a tractor and an old pick-up into a nearby field so he and Jon could drive us down. It was all illicitly exciting- and very childish.

The barn was on a small hill, around which swirled a green spring mist. There was a sharp smell of grass and wood splintering under old resin. The old barn had only one great door; it yawned into darkness, into another world. It was so beautiful in the headlights it simply couldn’t be real. I caught myself straining for music, music from fairyland, music from the movies.

Inside, the barn was lit by a series of dust-covered bulbs that bulged from a mass of white cables and sockets. The place smelled strongly of burning dust when we hit the lights. The floor was thick with grime.

It was a wild night. We shut the door against the world. It took four of the boys to lift the bar. They had begun to work out why Jemmy and I had agreed to a night of horror movies, the first time ever. Now it was just a case of who was going to be the lucky ones. The movies we’d been watching had given us all a new outlook on life, on what might happen, on possibilities we’d never have entertained before.

After the first video Jemmy and I singled Dave and Jon out. The last thing I remember seeing of that party, was Paul’s face, a mask of shock, his eyes blazing hatred. The others were no better. They had that look that said simultaneously “whore”, and “why not me?”. But it didn’t register, then.

Dave and I found a small room at the back of the barn. I suppose it might have been some kind of office once. The barn was filled with old stalls, half crumbled partitions; there was even an old hayloft at one end and a kind of balcony affair that ran around the entire barn.

Everything was as I had planned when we were suddenly sobered by the waves of loud music coming from the video. Dave was furious. He thought they were laughing at us. He promised me he’d sort them out. I lay on my back, dreaming. Then the lights went out.

An aeon later it occurred to me that the lights might still be on elsewhere. And worse, if this was deliberate, the chances were whoever had done this knew exactly where I was. I felt as if I was in a movie, a horror movie. Gingerly I crept my way to where I thought the door was. I got it wrong by a couple of feet. I dug my fingers into the cracks and pulled it slowly open.

Darkness. A flickering light. It came from where we’d put the box; pictures moving without sound. I heard a quick crack of muffled masculine laughter, Dave’s voice and my blood slowed to a dull, slow pushing pulse around my stiffening limbs. What kind of a game were they playing? In my mind’s eye I saw them before me all crying “whore” and I was terrified.

I hadn’t stopped for my shoes and splinters were digging into my feet. I thought these were boys I’d grown up with, who I know as well as myself. They’d never hurt me. Maybe this was just a silly, adolescent joke. I heard Jemmy’s tap-tapping high heels somewhere to my left in the dark, that little crack of laughter again, someone else’s voice. Then a woman screamed, loudly and painfully.

The wall rocked violently as I half fainted, sinking down against grimy wood. Someone was whimpering softly. It was me. Then the music cut in and I realized they’d turned the video up again. Jemmy ran down towards them and there was another scream. Someone switched off the video and I fled into the darkness. I had to get away. Jemmy screamed again. It never occurred to me to help her.

My hand found a ladder and I began to climb. The boys and Jemmy were between me and the only door. I tried not to think about what they were doing to her.

I sat in the hayloft and panicked for a while. I couldn’t think of any way of summoning help. All I kept thinking was this wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to me, to us, to anyone. It couldn’t be real. And then I understood. It was the videos, - and the only way out was to get them before they got me.

As my eyes grew used to the dark the solid black outline of a fuse box came into shape. Beside it was a large handle, down. This was where they had turned the power off. My hand hovered over the switch. For a moment I thought about pulling it, flooding the place with light, bringing back normality and then there were more screams and laughter from below.

I backed away from the ladder. In the far wall I could make out cracks of moonlight. The catch on the hayloft doors was stiff, unused for years, but with prayer and bloody fingers I got it open. I only opened it an inch, but silver light flooded across the loft. In one sharp second it illuminated a roll of steel wool and an old pulley, that would swing out into the night. The props.

Ridiculously I found a pair of pliers in the corner under the dried out remnants of a bushel of hay. I had no more doubts. You need to understand the script was written: I only played my part.

I put the wool and the hay into place and pulled the handle. A thousand bright blue stars showered across the wool, onto the hay and all around. The loft began to burn. When I was sure it had really taken a good hold I began to scream for the boys.

By now there was a wall of fire between me and the ladder. I was sure no-one could get through it, no-one could reach me. The air was thick with smoke. I stood on the loft-hatch ledge, pulley-rope in hand. I could just see across the loft. It was too late to stop the fire now, but I wanted to know who would come up. I wanted them to know it was me. I hoped it would be Dave. But to my surprise and horror the voice that called out to me in fear, promising ME help, was Jem’s; Jemmy alive and well.

I jumped. Hurtling towards the ground reality flashed before me, but what I was doing was too terrible for me to believe. Some of them could already be dead. I had to think of myself; I had to believe in the story.

The pick-up started at once. I’d driven a tractor on my father’s farm. I managed in fits and starts to back it up to the barn door. They were yelling inside, but with the tractor and the bar there was no way out.

I sat there in the truck waiting for the cries to stop. I suppose a stray spark could have sent the petrol tank up, but I just sat there with my eyes closed, waiting. Perhaps I wanted oblivion. I rested my forehead against the cold and grimy wheel. I could feel the truth flooding in towards me again and then there was a thump on the bonnet.

I looked up to see Jemmy, arms wide, a burning cross, staring at me through the windscreen. My first impulse was to get rid of her, run her down, but I didn’t.

I leapt out of the cab and pulled Jem from the bonnet. Not all of her was on fire so I didn’t even burn my hands. She didn’t live very long and all she would say over and over again was “It was only a joke. It was only a joke.”

Afterwards I moved the pick-up a little way from the barn, so that it looked as if it had been moved up to unload our gear, and made my way home across the fields, gazing at the moon. It was a beautiful walk, my feet seemed to glide across the grass and the silver light changed the world into a new, delightful place. I never looked back. As my home came into view I could no longer believe anything was wrong. I climbed up on the porch and into my window as I had done a thousand times before. My parents never knew I was gone.

I told the police that yes, I had known about the party, but that Jem and I had a row so I didn’t want to go. No-one doubted me because I believed it myself. There were plenty of theories as to what had happened, created by both the public and the experts. And all propagated by the press. I don’t know if I ever came under suspicion. The national press made a big story out of me, the little girl who hadn’t been bad and gone to the party and who’d lost all her friends in one night. They quoted some child expert at length, who said that it had made an indelible impression on my psyche. And suddenly the money started pouring in, not for my dead friends’ family, but for me.

The newspaper got a lawyer to set up a trust fund. The first thing he did was send me to Disneyland on a holiday to forget it all and get over the nightmares I’d been having for months. The rest of the cash should send me through college.

Looking back, it’s all very confused, like a dream or a nightmare. I told my psychiatrist what really happened and he told me to write it down as a story, to exorcise the memory. He didn’t believe me. He said something about feeling guilty I hadn’t died, but the only guilt I feel is over Jemmy. I didn’t mean her die, but I couldn’t think of another ending.

[Originally published in Kimota 2, Summer 1995]

THE FUNGUS COMMUNION

by Alexander Glass

The gods were coming back.

Carter had seen them everywhere: clinging to the gnarled knuckles of trees, nestling between the cracks in old stone walls, lying naked on the brown earth with their pale faces staring at the sky. When he stopped to rest that morning, by the edge of a dark, stagnant pool, he had caught a glimpse of one of them down in the water. This one was huge, a pale grey disc in the depths, bigger than a man. He drew near to the water’s edge, so that a ripple licked at the toes of his boots, darkening the old leather. The god stayed still, far below, giving no sign that it had seen him, or heard his prayers. Carter sat there, watching, the heels of his hands pressed hard against the rough, stony ground. This had been a roadway, once, before the war. Now it was overgrown, parts of it collapsed, parts of it flooded. A good home for a god. He kept on watching until he saw the god move. One edge of the fleshy disc lifted up, as if it were waving to him, or saluting him. As if it were granting him a benediction. He caught a glimpse of the smooth dark gills beneath, and all at once he felt at peace.

When he reached the place where Sister Constance was waiting, it was late afternoon, and a smoky dusk was settling over the trees. Constance was sitting with her back to a broken wall, at the edge of the clearing. Her arms hung down beside her, lifeless. It was as if someone had picked her up like a doll, and propped her carelessly against the wall. That morning, when he had left the clearing, he had stopped for a moment, and looked back. Sister Constance had been lying in the same spot, her back to the wall – the spot where he had left her. She had glanced up at him and sighed, a tiny, weak breath, and a dust-cloud of spores had poured from between her lips.

She was still breathing, but her eyes were closed. Though Carter made no effort to hide the sound of his footsteps through the undergrowth, she didn’t seem to be aware of him until he was right beside her, until his shadow, wavering in the fading light, fell across her body. Then her lips parted, as if to taste the shadow; and she opened her eyes, and saw him. She smiled; even this now seemed to be an effort.

Carter wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. He hadn’t brought the news he wanted to bring. There was no encampment within easy reach, no-one to help. That was the only news that mattered, the only thing he could have said, and he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead he waited, kneeling down beside his teacher, his arms crossed before him, his hands clasped upon his shoulders. After a while Sister Constance understood, and looked away, and Carter looked away also. Constance didn’t seem distressed. There was no expression on her face at all. She closed her eyes again, her head rolling back into place against the stone.

Carter thought she was asleep once more, and was about to move away, to leave her in peace. But her lips were moving; she was trying to give shape to the breaths that passed between them. She was trying to speak. Carter leaned closer, placing his ear by her mouth, straining to catch the words. He caught the smell of divinity as he leaned across her, a dry, musty odour.

“I was wrong,” she whispered, and for a moment Carter heard the sound of his own heart drowning out her words. He thought she was going to renounce the gods, just as they were about to welcome her to their ranks. But she continued: “I was wrong to ask for a doctor. There was no need. Why should we be saved from godhood?”

Carter nodded, relieved. He had too many doubts of his own; he didn’t think his faith would stand the pressure of Constance turning apostate. He had wondered, that morning, whether the motion of the god in the pool had been nothing more than a ripple, a movement of some invisible current. Angrily, he had tried to brush the thought away, but it had stayed with him all day.

“I hope you can join me,” Constance murmured. “This is the greatest state of all, even greater than the holy state of symbiosis. The one leads to the other, Carter. I hope you are stronger than I have been, when you’re given that gift.”

A few hours afterwards her body grew cold, and Carter buried her, as best he could. The gods had left her skin mostly untouched, and so he covered her over with a makeshift cairn, and tossed a handful of pungent earth over that. Her hand protruded through the stones, the fingers curled into a loose fist, like a white flower growing on barren ground. Carter smiled sadly at that thought. He knelt down beside the cairn and gently prised open the five white petals of her fingers. In the centre, sprouting from the palm, was the only sign of godhood that Sister Constance had ever carried. A smooth tendril, with a tiny, soft white cap.

Three days later, Carter found a small village on the edge of the wastelands: an open square with a heavy stone well, and a couple of rings of houses. There seemed to be few people there, and of those, most were passed into apostasy: he had passed a young woman on the road, and seen that she was gathering the gods, presumably to eat. She had selected her gods with care. Perhaps, Carter thought obscurely, some exacted a more bitter vengeance than others.

A small crowd had gathered by the well, and Carter approached them, and murmured a greeting. The old man who seemed to be their leader stared at him for a moment, then turned and spat down into the water. Moments later, a small wet sound echoed up from the well.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything,” Carter assured him. “I was just passing by your village. I’m travelling west. To the desert.”

The old man nodded shortly, as if he had been expecting as much. But then he demanded: “Why? What’s out there for you?”

Carter hesitated. Then he said: “I’m trying to find the place where I can speak to the gods.”

“Which gods would those be?”

Carter found he couldn’t explain. He didn’t have the right words. So he tipped his head to one side, and pulled down the collar of his shirt. The old man peered inside, and then stepped back hurriedly, with a curse. There was a clang as his bucket hit the ground, and rolled a little way across the square. The crowd leaned forward, straining to see, but Carter had closed his shirt on seeing the old man’s reaction.

“Keep away. Damn it. Keep away.” The old man recovered himself a little and stood there, staring, panting. His face hardened into a scowl. “Why don’t you ever learn? Don’t we make ourselves clear? We don’t want the fungus in our village. We don’t want it anywhere near our village. Do you know how far the spores can carry?” He shook his head. “I promise you, if I catch the fungus, I’ll come after you. I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

“If you catch the fungus,” Carter said mildly, “you’ll be one step closer to godhood.”

The old man nodded, and glanced around at his companions. “I’m sure. Well, for the moment I’m quite happy with my mortality, thank you. Imperfect as I may be. Imperfect as I am. The war’s over, long over. There’s nothing to be gained by worshipping the bomb, or the fungus, or the virus.” He spoke more loudly now, more to the assembled crowd than to the stranger. “There never was. Those were cruel gods, the gods of war. They wouldn’t have spared you then, no matter how you prayed, and they certainly won’t spare you now.”

Carter tried to explain, knowing it was useless. “We don’t want to be spared. We want to unite our souls with the gods.”

“And exposing yourself to the fungus is supposed to help?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. It’s the only way.” Carter shrugged. “In your village you eat lichens, don’t you? I saw someone from the village gathering lichens and fungi. A lichen is a plant in symbiosis with a fungus – with one of the gods. That plant is closer to the gods than you are, my friend.”

The old man shook his head, exasperated. The others seemed either openly hostile, or simply bemused.

“The greatest prophets of the past were symbiotes,” Carter continued, forcing himself to go on although it was obviously no use. “Jesus Christ was a man in holy symbiosis with God.”

“You’d better be careful what you say,” the old man said, in a low voice. “There are people here who might take that amiss.”

“We can attain that symbiosis, if we only take communion from the gods. The fungus communion.” Carter hooked a finger into his collar again, tugging the cloth aside, exposing the crescent fungi that were clustered on his breast. They were thin, almost wafer-thin, each one as white as a cobweb. He had taken communion himself only a few months before, and already he was closer to the gods. So much closer. “Take the god into your body,” he urged. “Let it transform you.”

Carter had become so carried away by his own speech that it took him a moment to realise the man was laughing at him. “I don’t want to be transformed,” the old man snorted. “I don’t want to die any earlier than I have to, no matter how close to your gods I get. I’ll take my chances with whatever’s waiting for me.”

Carter sighed, and turned away.

The old man called after him: “I’d drag you out into the desert myself, if that’s where you want to go. Best place for you. But I can’t. I don’t want to touch you with my hands. Do you understand? Your holy symbiosis has made you an untouchable.” He raised his voice, straining to carry his words to the stranger, as Carter left the square behind. “I might catch your disease. But I’ll never catch your religion.”

There was more, but Carter didn’t stay to listen. He took the broken road out of the village, following the setting sun, until he came to the desert’s edge. As the last light drained from the world, he knelt and prayed. He prayed that the gods would be waiting for him out here, in this friendless place. He prayed for his deliverance into godhood. And he prayed that his doubts might be eased.

That night, he slept on the hard ground.

When he awoke, he knew that something had changed. Divinity always took a greater hold during the night, during the hours of darkness. That was why the gods had begun to return at the ragged end of the war, or so Sister Constance had taught him. Their spores had crossed the darkened land, carried on the wind, sowing divinity wherever they went.

The night after his first communion, he had been unable to sleep. He thought he could feel the spores in his body, in his blood. They raced around his bloodstream like tiny sparks. The next night, the gods themselves began to appear. Under his arms, first. On his groin. On his feet. Then, night by night, they had spread, over his upper arms, over his chest and back – one of his nipples was hidden by a soft, pale god – over his stomach and thighs. Sister Constance had had nothing like this. Her divinity was within her, holy tendrils spreading through her body. Carter had fallen to his knees when the first of the gods appeared, and thanked them. He had attained the holy symbiosis. He was no longer human: he was a new creature, part god, part man.

He stretched, feeling the gods that clung to his body stretch with him. A few of them would have been bruised or broken by his movements, and some were torn open, revealing the clammy flesh inside. But there was no serious harm done. At first, he wasn’t sure what had changed. His divinity had spread a little further, certainly, but he was used to that; he had almost grown to expect it. The wonder of being a vessel for the gods never went away, of course, but his rapture was no longer as intense as it had been on those first few days. He was a day older, and a little more divine. Each day, as Constance had said, each day a little more divine.

Then he realised. This was the day. This was the day he would ascend, to join the gods, to become one of them. He would leave his mortal body behind, and become something purely divine.

He hauled himself up, muttering a prayer, and staggered away into the desert.

He ate nothing that day. He could find nothing to eat in the waste lands. Nothing but the gods, and they were not to be touched. If he had wanted to eat them, he had his own supply. But he found, in any case, that he had no appetite. If there was a temptation, it was to take a second communion, to break one of the gods from his breast, the one that grew just over his heart, perhaps, and eat it. Perhaps that would bring him directly to godhood. Or perhaps it would damn him.

He wandered on until the sun began to sink, painting the desert sky with colour: deep blood-red, bright yellow, purple, green. He felt the gods stirring on his skin, as if they sensed the approach of night.

At last, just as the last drop of red was melting over the horizon, he gave in to temptation. He could hardly help himself. He longed for that sensation, that feeling of perfect understanding, perfect clarity, that he had had when he had taken the fungus communion. He couldn’t believe the gods would punish him for that. So he broke off a thin god from his breast – the one that grew over his heart – and placed it on his tongue.

The god tasted bitter, more so than he remembered. His mouth was watering, his jaws working hard. At last he swallowed the bitter god, and sat waiting for that sense of clarity.

When it came, it froze him still. The clarity was terrible. He understood it all. He knew that the fungi were not gods. He knew that he was no divine creature, but an ordinary man, infested with genetically-enhanced parasites, inside and out. His body was crawling with them. All his doubts settled on him at once; all his doubts were confirmed.

Trembling, he began to tear the fungi from him, casting them away. There were so many. He knew it would do no good. They were deep within him, coursing through his blood. He wouldn’t ascend to godhood that night. He would die, out in the desert, alone, with no-one beside him and no gods to comfort him.

All at once he realised that Sister Constance, too, must have betrayed her vows and taken a second communion. She too had understood. That was why she had asked for a doctor, at the end, when it was already too late.

Carter lay back on the ground, his arms spread wide. He closed his eyes.

Later, his last breath flew past his lips and out into the desert, carrying with it a handful of spores.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

IDLE HANDS

by John Travis

The sullen youth slumped into his chair, legs wide apart, careless of how late he was for the lesson. The teacher glared at him, drumming his fingers on the cluttered desk, the sound thudding through the air of concentration.

“You’re already ten minutes behind,” the teacher told him, moustache bristling. “Get on with it.”

The youth scowled, sighed, and then started to write:

YOUTH CULTURE IS SHITTY - DISCUSS

Before you start tutting to yourself Mr.Dorsey, I know this is the wrong title. But ‘The decline of standards in modern society’ was your choice, but not mine. I think mine’s much more to the point, don’t you? more eye catching certainly. But as you just pointed out I haven’t long to finish this and I have got some work to do soon. And no, I don’t mean ‘watching the junk that passes for entertainment these days’ as you so beautifully expressed it last week. No Mr. Dorsey, I mean something worthwhile, something for the community in which you live. Then my time will be up, and I’ll be on my way.

But! you must be wondering what has happened to delightful Shaun Potson and his usual Neanderthal scribblings. Shaun couldn’t possibly be writing this, could he? Well, let’s just say that for the time being at least, he’s absent. He doesn’t look any different though, does he? still the same narrow eyed, slack-jawed, slick-haired bother-causer that he always has been. But you know what people are, Francis. Changeable as the weather. But, I think I can interest you for the time being. Go on, admit it, you’re already curious!

So...what’s going on? Well, I’ll explain. First let me say that of all the people I’ve spied upon in my duties, you have to be one of the most uninteresting. Your homelife really is pitiful. Don’t believe I’m up to it? Okay...last night you weighed yourself as you thought you overheard some pupils in the schoolyard calling you fat. The scales registered fourteen stone six, and you considered yourself two stones overweight. You’re not a pretty sight in slippers and underpants either are you Frankie? Maybe (you think) that’s part of the reason Dora left you six months ago. Ah, nobody’s supposed to know about that are they? You haven’t breathed it to a soul. But you have no friends to tell even if you wanted to - and you wouldn’t tell your fellow teachers, as you hate them nearly as much as they hate you. You spend each weekday in this school until four thirty, then go home, eat from a can and drink yourself into insensibility in front of an out-of-focus TV set, occasionally hurling insults at the blurry figures on the screen.

Anyway, to the essay at hand.

Is youth culture dreadful? Why, yes! I hate the damn stuff. I’m no spring chicken myself you understand. It’s all violence and flesh, noise and fit-inducing colours. If you’re under thirty you might as well be dead. Youth culture breeds nothing but laziness and stupidity. No, I don’t like it. I wouldn’t be here without the climate that spawned it though. All grist to the mill as they say. Times change, Mr.Dorsey. For all of us.

Now to the crux of the matter. This essay was inspired by the recent events in the town, is that not so? The theft, the muggings, burglary, arson, the increase of the town’s youth under the influence - of something. And then there’s the vandalism. That ‘damned graffiti’ everywhere, walls full of it, train tunnels filled with incomprehensible rubbish, scrawl that even manages to avoid proper interpretation. ‘Foreign rubbish’ you think. How right you are. Who on earth would do such a thing?

Well...

I can’t take credit for it all, of course. We all do our bit. I can safely say that the stuff annoying you so much is my creation. At least in this neck of the woods.

But what does it mean?

Anything the beholder wants it to mean; steal a car, rob a chemist’s, smash a few windows. We don’t put a limit on creativity. Subliminal advertising I believe it’s called these days. Everybody’s influenced in some way. I saw you yesterday watching me - that is, watching Shaun - staring at that fly posted wall full of fluorescent aerosol paint. What did you think he was admiring - the view?

That graffiti does have meaning, but only if you are susceptible to it. That’s why it’s always the young ones causing the trouble. They’ve no belief, no defences, not like us oldies, eh? They just don’t try nowadays.

And you know what happens to idle hands.

So there you have it. Well, the clock tells me time is almost up. Me and Shaun will go out from here and- but that would be telling! Keep watching the TV, Frankie. See you around...

The bell rang.

“Okay, you lot. Onto your next lesson.”

The boy stood up, placed his essay on the front desk where it was covered by another one, and another one. He smiled at the teacher, who gave him a puzzled look, his eyes following him out of the door.

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

BOXES

by Hugh Cook

“In adversity, opportunity.”

It was the Fleet motto, and Howie Garnish was trying to live up to it. Hold yourself together. Use your initiative. Strive. Never give up! But it was getting increasingly difficult.

“Captain Riff! Captain Riff?”

No use. The lines of communication were down. Captain Riff — like the other surviving members of the crew — had lost the power of human speech. His mind, subtly modified by nanotechnological intruders, had been converted to use the same incomprehensible gibble-gabble as the aliens. Only Howie himself, the sole human so far free from nanotechnological infection, still spoke human language. He was trapped in a solipsistic bubble, unable to communicate with anyone.

“In adversity, opportunity.”

What opportunity? Why, linguistics, of course! Here was Howie, marooned in the middle of an alien civilization. The alien tongue was a code to crack. Crack the code, and maybe you would understand the mysterious ways of the alien mind itself.

Most incomprehensible of all was the sheer indifference of the aliens. The humans who scavenged a meagre living in the alien city were simply disregarded. As if they were invisible. Not one of the aliens seemed to recognise that there were actually intelligent beings living in their midst.

It was now six months since the ship had crashed, disintegrating on the outskirts of the alien city. Since then, the survivors had huddled together in this huge, echoing building, through which the aliens moved in periodic tides, bent on their own mysterious alien purposes.

Obedient to the well—remembered survival manual, Lieutenant Howie had meticulously salvaged anything and everything which might possibly be useful: wire, paper, bottles, cans. He kept it all in his survival shelter: the box, made of laminated layers of a flexible brown material, which served him as his home.

“Analysis,” said Howie, seizing his opportunity. “Translation. Interpretation.”

The idea that he could actually alter reality through his own efforts was empowering. With amazing rapidity, he began to accumulate materials. On scavenged scraps of paper, he wrote down his linguistic data. The nanotechnological devices must have completed a partial brainwipe, for he found he could no longer read or write. No matter: he invented his own phonetic alphabet to record the semantic world around them.

Five days, ten. Ten days, twenty. Howie was flying. Genius burnt within him. Problems collapsed under the impact of his genius. He realised - this was the crucial breakthrough - that the sounds emitted by the aliens achieved meaning through a complex interrelationship with the aliens’ hand gestures and the movements of their eyelashes.

Finally, Howie felt he had reached the point where he almost had the problem licked. By the time Earth came to rescue him, he would be chatting away as an equal with the aliens. He would be a guest on alien tv talkshows, a visiting lecturer at their universities. Why, he might not even want to be rescued at all! Confidence pumped through him. Another 72 hours and he would know - he would have cracked the problem. He would have won the key to the alien tongue.

And then, unexpectedly, the aliens attacked.

The alien shocktroops came at dawn. They came in force, insectile entities dressed in fluorescent orange uniforms with faceless bubble helmets. Water was their weapon. With water, they destroyed the encampment of boxes, sending the surviving crew members scrambling in all directions.

The notes! Howie’s precious researches! His self—devised alphabet! They would be swept away, destroyed! But there was no way to save them. The sheer bulk of his research material was too great to be rescued from this swift, brutal, unpredicted attack.

Well.

Try to reason with them.

Try to show them that he, too, was a rational being!

In desperation, Howie grabbed a chunk of charcoal left over from the fire on which he had roasted the dead cat. He attacked

the nearest concrete wall, imprinting it with unmistakable symbols of his status as a creature of the intellect.

Mathematics: the common language of all intelligent beings. A language which must transcend any gulf, no matter how great. His salvation! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Deftly, he sketched out a half-circle, then marked the right angle which a triangle makes any time it attempts to fill that half circle to capacity.

“There!” said Howie. “I too have a mind!”

Then the water knocked him off his feet, and the shock troopers manhandled him outside and dumped him in the sunlight.

When he tried to return, uniformed aliens barred the way. They meant to exclude him. But what was he supposed to do? Plainly, they regarded him as a problem. Yet their manner of dealing with the problem was irrational. What was he going to do: abolish himself? If they were not going to kill him, imprison him or build him a cage, what could they expect? Inevitably - he had no choice — he would build himself another box somewhere else.

Howie rummaged in one of the voluntary taxation bins in which the aliens dumped their surplus wealth. From it, he extracted a discarded container which still contained a little of the familiar brown sugar—water, laden (as was often the case) with the remnants of melting ice cubes. He also found one of the mass—produced alien

ration sacks containing (they often did) the bones of a small, unknown animal, some meat still clinging to the bones.

Nearby: a seat.

His plan: sit. And eat. And drink. And then, while his researches were still fresh in memory, attempt the memorial reconstruction of his ruined scholarship.

But there was a problem: his brain was shrinking.

Yes, it was indisputable. Even as he stood there, his brain was shrivelling and shrinking, contracting violently as it dehydrated. The alien nanotechnological devices had got inside his skull and were compressing the miraculous machinery’s of his mind. Already, his brain was no larger than a walnut. Within the chamber of his skull, his brain sat loose on a metal stand uneasily supported (through a mechanism he could not clearly envisage) by his neck bones.

Careful now, Howie. Your brain is sitting there loose. One wrong step and you’ll lose it.

He could see it. If once his brain spilt from that polished metal stand, then it would go rattling down to the draughty spaces where the waters of his kidney echoed past the calcified architecture of his liver. It was terror, sheer terror, to know his vulnerability. Make it to the seat, Howie. If you can make it to the seat without spilling your brain, you might have a chance.

Then: collision.

One of the aliens ran slap-bang into him.

And, as his brain spilt, Howie had the hallucinatory impression that one of the aliens actually spoke to him in an Earthling tongue.

“Get away from me, you filthy old bum.”

So ran Howie’s hallucination.

Then the momentary hallucination passed, and the speech of the aliens was the same old meaningless gibble-gabble. And Howie sat on the seat, listening to the minute scratching — it sounded like rats chewing away at something inside the walls of a very old house — as the alien technological devices began to build something inside his skull.

He had lost his brain. He could feel his brain very distictly: it was lodged beside the herniated mass in his abdomen. No way to get it back. Never mind. In adversity, opportunity. He would figure out how to think without a brain. And he would translate the alien tongue, and make himself a master of the alien ways, and learn their secrets. And so, when the Fleet finally arrived, he would be ready for them.

“I may not think,” said Howie, “but I am.”

It was a position to fight from: a place to stand. And, given that, in time he could bend all of reality to his will.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

EUGENE

by Paul Finch

St. Bede’s Juniors hadn’t been used as a school, or anything at all for that matter, for close on ten years. It stood alone in an area of post-industrial wasteland, the terraced houses which had once crowded up to it long demolished and bulldozed away, leaving a litter of bricks, girders and shattered concrete in their wake.

It was the only building left standing in a square mile of such desolation, so rumour had it they might some day open the old place up again - but none of the locals believed that. It had been too long gone, had St. Bede’s... too long empty and boarded up from the outside world.

Certainly, the three youths, who on the night in question had arranged to meet by the single streetlight on the edge of the rubble, were convinced the old school was finished. Otherwise, they might never have considered the scheme they had in mind. Even then though, thanks to an awful event in all their recent histories, it was still a perilous mission.

“I’m telling you... skinny mags, cigs, the lot,” Shane enthused. “All there... just waiting to be stripped out. Just waiting for us.”

The two other members of the trio gazed uncertainly across the wasteland to the huge structure, which loomed stark and black in the October night.

“Where?” asked Neil, after a moment. Of the three, he - with his father a doctor and his mother a JP - had perhaps most to lose if things went wrong.

“Eugene’s old pad, on the top floor,” said Shane. “In a locker.”

“Oh Christ!” Neil closed his eyes in horror.

“Oh bloody hell, Neil!” spat Shane. “Come on. It’ll be a piece of piss.”

Shane was a wiry fourteen-year-old, who’d already been on the wrong side of the law several times but whose family scarcely cared - ‘family’ consisting of a habitually drunken mum and her heavily tattooed boyfriend. Of the three of the lads, Shane was the toughest, the leanest and the meanest, and though he respected Neil for his honesty and his ready wit, saw himself and himself alone as the leader.

Daz, who hailed from a kind of social middle-ground between the two of them, was a gawping, listless youth, and had a tendency to ape the strongest personality present. In this group, it was invariably Shane.

“Yeah, come on Neil,” Daz agreed. “It’ll be a piece of piss.”

They followed an old cobbled road, once a key artery of the neighbourhood, now a sad remnant of an age past, winding uphill through the waste of flattened buildings. There were no streetlights here and total darkness quickly descended. Neil shivered dramatically.

“What you so scared of, anyway?” wondered Shane, as always at the front.

“Who’s scared?” asked Neil sharply.

“You’re scared!” laughed Daz, though his own voice was several octaves higher than normal.

“Alright!” Neil finally admitted. “What do you think I’m scared of? It’s Eugene, isn’t it.”

Shane snorted. “Eugene! Big deal!”

“You weren’t saying that when he was hanging round here,” Neil retorted.

Shane stared at him. “Who wasn’t?”

“You were scared shitless that night he chased us!”

Shane chuckled. “You may have been scared shitless, but I wasn’t. I’m not scared of some nowty old bloke.”

Neil shook his head darkly. “He wasn’t a bloke. He was a devil.”

Daz scoffed. “Oh yeah, course!”

“Our kid reckons there was never any caretaker called Eugene at St. Bede’s,” Neil went on. “And he ought to know... he was still there when it closed. He reckoned that Eugene was just some weird bloke who hung around the place after it shut down.”

“And you reckon he’s still going to be here now, do you?” Shane didn’t even bother to look round as he picked his way up through the debris. “A year and a half later!”

“No... if you must know!” Neil hissed. “I reckon he’s dead at the bottom of that hole he fell down!”

Again Shane snorted.

“He’s not dead!” Daz assured them, in a brittle voice which indicated that this was something he hoped rather than knew.

“We never went back to check, did we!” Neil said.

Daz looked sharply away, but Shane had had enough. He rounded on them. “So what if he is dead?” he snapped. “There’s nothing to be scared of at all then, is there!”

Neil didn’t even dare think an answer to that one.

Up close, St. Bede’s was a red-brick Victorian Gothic - all towers and steep gable roofs of grey slate. The main doors were closed and padlocked and the long-broken windows covered over with rusted sheets of corrugated iron, but access was easy enough for Salford’s young skirmishers... if they really wanted it.

The three youths scrambled over a wall to the rear of the school, crossed a narrow yard where bins and bike sheds had once been kept, and passed through an open gateway to the old playground. This too was narrow and hemmed in by high brick walls, its concrete floor strewn with slate and pieces of pipe which over the years had dropped down from the towering structure.

Against the main building, in one corner, stood a small outhouse with a sagging tar-paper roof. It was the old coal shed, and it was over this where Shane’s planned route to the interior lay... for three feet above it, a metal shutter had fallen away, exposing a single window in the wall, its timber frame and panes of glass long gone. As far as anyone knew, this was now the only way in to St. Bede’s.

Initially the three lads held back however. The door to the coal shed hung open, a foul, chilling blackness flowing out.

None of them needed to go in there to know that a huge hole still yawned in the middle of the flimsy wooden floorboards - a huge hole where Eugene had crashed through into the underworld that dreadful night a year and a half ago, when the game of bait-the-caretaker had finally gone one stage too far.

“Do you think he realised we only meant to lock him in?” Daz whispered. “That we didn’t know the floor was so weak?”

“The floor wasn’t weak,” Shane replied, out of the corner of his mouth as though someone in the coal shed might be eavesdropping. “He was just a fat bastard, wasn’t he.”

“We still should’ve told someone,” said Neil, hanging further back than the others. At any moment he expected a vast shape to explode out at them. “We shouldn’t have left him down there without telling anyone. What if there was no way out for him and he died? What if he was lying there injured? Our kid reckons they’re thirty feet deep, those cellars.”

Shane scoffed. “So? We got away with it, didn’t we? Come on!”

He moved quickly to the wall adjoining the shed and swung up it, apelike. The brickwork was old and pitted and made good scaling, and a moment later he was standing upright on the coal shed roof, beating the dust from his hands. “I wouldn’t worry, Neil,” he said, looking down at them. “Even if he did die... rats would’ve scoffed the evidence by now.”

“Knowing Eugene, he’d have scoffed the rats,” Neil replied.

Shane gave a recklessly loud burst of laughter. This kid from the suburbs was always good for a funny. That was what they kept him around for.

Neil and Daz followed Shane up, then edged carefully along towards the window, backs pressed firmly to the school wall. The coal shed roof felt frail and rickety beneath them. Its tar paper cover hung in alarmingly between the old joists, which showed every two or three feet like ribs. It was a massive relief to reach the aperture, though the unlit space beyond it was far from welcoming. The window-sill was wide however and made from concrete, affording them a proper foothold, as one by one they clambered through.

Once inside, they could feel the immense building shifting slowly around them, its weight creaking from hinge to hinge. A darkness filled it like black powder, and the air was damp and reeked of mildew.

Shane climbed down from the sill first and immediately splashed ankle-deep into cold water. “Shite!” he hissed.

“What’s up?” asked Neil, following him straight into it. “Ugh!”

Neither of them bothered to warn Daz, but groped their way sideways along a wall of what felt like cold, greasy tiles. Gradually, as their eyes became used to the half-light, they worked out the room’s dimensions. It was long with a very low-ceiling, and placed at regular intervals along the opposite wall were the pale, curved shapes of urinals. Down at the far end, almost invisible, the lads could just see the tall, skeletal frames of old toilet cubicles.

“What on earth are we walking in?” Neil wondered.

“Stop moaning, eh!” said Shane. “These are the lads’ bogs. Steps lead up from here to the first floor cloak-room. Then it’s all easy.”

Daz joined them, and they pushed on, shuddering at the rank slops swimming around their trainers. Above their heads hung the dust-thick rags of old cobwebs. The tiled walls were cracked and filthy, but still bore faint scrawlings of graffiti - odd faces, semi-obliterated swear-words. A minute later they located the door and Shane grated it open on its badly-corroded hinges. A blackness lay beyond which could only be described as impenetrable.

“Come on,” Shane said, pressing into it.

Dutifully, Neil and Daz followed, neither giving voice to their misgivings.

A narrow flight of slippery stone steps ran up to another door, this one hanging open. They reached it, then stopped to listen. They could sense a cavernous space in front of them. The silence seemed to whisper back from the farthest reaches of the building. They huddled together in the doorway, even Shane.

“Can you believe little kids used to come to school here?” said Daz in his smallest voice.

“Wonder what happened to them all?” Neil replied.

“Well they’re all out there in the dark, holding their breaths and waiting for us, aren’t they!” said Shane scornfully. “You know... having a giggle-like! I mean, Jesus! Come on!”

Boldly, he moved on, and they followed, hands outstretched in front of them, passing slowly through the pitch-black jungle of benches and cast-iron pillars that was the old cloakroom. Neil imagined them surrounded by the flirting shades of children - swarming hordes of long-dead juniors, charging silently in and out for coats and pump-bags, as they had done for generations past; scurrying through the endless dark perhaps, in mortal terror of that infinitely more ghastly shade - Eugene!

Eugene! It was some prissy name for that guy.

Neil cringed as he remembered that night - the last time, until now, they’d ever dared come near this place. He remembered Eugene, that monstrous misshapen slab of a man - the size of the Incredible Hulk - chasing madly after them through the school’s corridors, his arms outstretched, his great booted feet clomping on the floorboards and flagstones, his throat full of those twisted, distorted sounds... that screaming yodel he came out with instead of speaking normally.

Neil felt goose-pimples breaking out all over him. A cold sweat beaded his brow. What the hell would a psychopath like that have done to them if he’d caught them? They’d only realised how much of a game it wasn’t when it had been too late to stop it.

Then Daz bundled into the back of him.

“Will you watch where you’re bloody going!” Neil spat. “Just because you’re shit-scared!”

“I am not shit-scared!” Daz replied fiercely.

“You two stop arsing around!” Shane suddenly ordered from several yards in front. “We’re almost there. See.”

There was faint light ahead, and they groped stealthily towards it, finding themselves in a wide central corridor, with multiple open doorways on either side. The light was at the far end and came from moonbeams pouring in through a circular skylight high up on a sloping portion of the ceiling. The trio stopped when they reached it. Directly before them, a flight of stairs led down into blackness. To their left, another flight rose up to the higher levels.

“It’s up there somewhere,’ Shane finally said in a hoarse whisper. “Eugene had a den at the back of the thickies’ class, they reckon.”

A dull thump suddenly resounded from somewhere below. They froze. Then Daz clutched Neil by the arm. “What was that?” he hissed. “Christ... it’s Eugene!”

For a moment all three were fixated by the image of that fearsome, faceless giant, charging through the corridors below them, reaching the foot of the stairs, tearing up them like a mad thing, his hair a frenzy of rat-tails, his massive arms outspread from wall to wall.

It was too much for Daz.

“Oh Christ...” His voice steadily rose in a wail of terror, and he made to dash away, back towards the toilets, but Shane grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the wall. “Just shut up and listen!” he spat.

They held their breaths, straining their ears. Neil felt faint, the blood literally pounding in his temples. His heart sounded as loud as a drum. No other sound came back to them however. Slowly they relaxed again.

“Couldn’t have heard us even if it is Eugene,” said Neil after a second, his voice tight. “We haven’t made any noise.”

“It isn’t Eugene!” snapped Shane, pushing them both to the foot of the upward staircase. “There’s nobody here but us. Now come on... we’re almost there.”

There was no actual need for him to push... certainly not as far as Neil was concerned. He had no intention whatever of traipsing back to the toilets by himself, passing all those gaping doorways. He complied meekly, and they clumped tightly together as they ascended, the pale smudge of moonlight falling quickly behind them. The steps rose up to a narrow landing, its tall window boarded over, then turned a sharp corner and rose up yet again. The handrail had long perished and was marked only by the odd prong of iron sticking out from the cracked and rotting plaster. Driblets of cold water were now coming down from above.

“We must be near the top,” Neil whispered.

“We are,” Shane confirmed. “Right at the top. There’s an old music room and the thickies’ class. That’s what Badger reckoned, anyway.”

“He’d better be bloody right,” said Neil. He’d always had time for Badger - the grinning, mischievous imp who’d first alerted Shane to this reputed treasure-chest - but he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions if this turned out to be a wind-up, and Badger was entirely capable of that.

The stairs finally gave up to a windowless corridor. As they felt their way blindly along, tripping over loose planks, constantly bumping against each other, they passed another doorway. Again only dank, black emptiness lay inside it.

“This it?” Neil wondered.

“Naw!” Shane blundered past. “The music room, that. Badger reckoned the room at the end’s the one we’re after.”

The corridor was narrower than most they had come through - wide enough only for two people to walk along it side-by-side, and its walls seemed to close quickly in. “Any other way out along here?” Neil asked.

“No,” said Shane.

Neil looked over his shoulder nervously, but saw nothing - only the vague outline of the door to the music room. He wondered what they’d do if they suddenly heard the sound of someone playing a piano in there. It was a chilling thought.

When they reached the door at the end of the passage, it creaked open at Shane’s touch. Infinite darkness filled the chamber beyond, without so much as a crack of starlight from the outer world. A cold draught crept out to embrace them.

“Perhaps we should’ve brought a torch?” said Neil.

A tiny jet of blue fire spurted up beside him. Shane’s weaselly face and short, spiky hair swam into view. “It’s why I brought these,” he said. He held up a matchbox and rattled it.

“Why didn’t you strike one before?” Daz demanded, now too frightened to show the correct level of respect.

Shane pushed him roughly into the room. “Cos I’ve only got a few, now get in!”

Neil followed. Another match flared up and in the wavering light they saw a damp, surprisingly small chamber, strewn with smashed crockery and broken classroom furniture. More corrugated metal covered the windows - nailed up from the outside, while water was dripping from the exposed lathes above. The walls were of soaked, crumbling plaster but some places still bore school-drawings. Neil looked closely at one or two of them, and drew back, repulsed. It was the usual thing - stick people and animals, standing in two-dimensional gardens, with the sun a glowing ball above them, the grass green, knee-deep and uniformally straight around their clodhopper feet. But it was their faces - their crude, unfinished faces - great splodges for eyes, long bloody slashes for mouths. The faces of maniac clowns, grinning for murder!

“Do you think the remedials drew these... or Eugene?” Neil wondered aloud.

The light slowly faded. Shane quickly struck another match. “Who gives a shit?” he said, walking over the wreckage towards an old locker in the corner.

Neil stood watching. Absurdly, he felt safest close to the door, though that was undoubtedly where danger would come from if it occurred.

“No sign that anyone ever dossed here, is there?” said Daz. “No bed... or plates or anything.”

Shane began to drag items out from the locker and cast them angrily aside. One - an empty biscuit tin - crashed loudly against the wall. Both Neil and Daz jumped. They jumped again when something like an old canteen went clattering after it.

Neil imagined that he heard yet another thump from the farthest regions of the school.

“I’m going to bury that fuckin’ Badger!” Shane was ranting. “I’m going to bury him!”

He struck another match, this one with savage force. It was quite clear however that there was nothing of any value in the old locker - pieces of junk, old rags, screwed-up newspaper. No cigs. No skinny-mags. Nothing.

“Right... fine, we’ll bury him,” said Neil, relieved. “Let’s just go.”

Shane gave him a vicious look. “We’re not going yet! We’re having a good search round first.”

Daz began to whimper, but Shane ignored him, kicking the broken furniture around, hurling rubbish from wall to wall. Neil closed his eyes as the commotion echoed down through the school. This was sheer folly - violent noise-making for it’s own sake. Shane was tearing the room apart because he’d been fooled, not because he expected to uncover Eugene’s mythical trove.

“Shane... there’s nothing here!” Neil blurted out. “There probably never has been. Badger’s a lying little toe-rag. He’s set us up.”

Shane made no reply but continued to throw stuff around.

“Suit yourself, but we’re going!” Neil made for the door. “Daz, come on...”

But the words died in his throat and he looked out into the corridor. At the same instant Shane ceased trashing and froze. They all listened intently. From somewhere far below came the distinct thunder of running feet - huge feet galloping through the school.

Shane suddenly yelped as the flame touched his finger-tips. The others didn’t wait for him to strike another.

They ran like men possessed. Logic shrieked at Neil to hide, to find some recess in the terrifying place, to bury himself there until the danger had passed. But it was all instinct now - blind animal instinct, and that told him to get out of there, to put the nightmarish ruin as far behind him as he could and never go back.

Always assuming that was possible!

Because they had to cross the junction on the stairs first, and it seemed highly likely that whatever demented thing was racing up to meet them, would get to that vital crossroads before they did.

Neil ran all the harder, a scream filling his chest. He literally bounded down the steps in the dark, two or three at a time, regardless of the danger. He could sense Daz at his shoulder, could hear the boy’s rasping breath. Somewhere close behind them, he heard a third pair of feet, indicating that Shane’s much vaunted courage had also given out at the first sign of the enemy.

A second later, the skylight swam into Neil’s view, seen only through a stinging haze of sweat. His heart hammered as he scrambled recklessly down. He could still hear the trundling feet below, now on the ascent, hurtling upwards, flight after flight. In his terror, he imagined that yodelling scream.

The downward stairs, now approaching on the left, were a black mouth - at any second to emit a colossal shape with hands the size of shovels. All three cried out involuntarily as they raced past... for deep in that stair-well a shadow was indeed barrelling up towards them.

By the time they reached the toilets, they were shrieking wildly, and hurled themselves down the steps, stumbling and falling. Neil tripped over Daz’s flailing body and went face-first into the scummy water; but he didn’t even wince, leaping back to his feet, and skidding across to the hard square of midnight sky that was the window. Shane was now in front however, and with a quite remarkable feat of gymnastics, vaulted over the sill, vanishing from sight.

Neil followed, throwing himself out head-first... and only at the last second realising his terrible mistake.

The tar-paper roof had gone clean through, smashed by the force of Shane’s descent, sucking the first boy down into the coal-shed. Neil, helplessly, arms grabbing at nothing, plummeted after him. He fell straight through the outhouse, twisting in mid-air, the open doorway to the playground spinning upwards past him... then down and down, into an even more complete darkness. The subterranean chill assailed him even before he hit the ground, and when he did, the breath went out of his body in a single whoosh!

For a moment he lay stunned, vaguely aware of what felt like sacks of broken pottery beneath him. He reached out with his hand. Touched skin. Human skin. But cold. Shane... he was lying on top of Shane!

But what about Daz?

Jesus!

Vainly, he tried to scramble away, but the heavy body crashed onto him with sickening force. There was a hollow explosion in Neil’s head...

When he came round again, his breath burned in his chest - he knew his ribs were broken. An ear-numbing silence surrounded him; dust trickled onto his head. He looked weakly up. It hurt to twist his neck, but far above, framed in two concentric holes, he saw the night sky. It looked beautiful, but a long way away.

Not down there, he thought weakly. Please... not down there!

Underneath him, Shane began to stir. Neil tried to heave his battered body off his friend. He was conscious of Daz sitting up beside him, feeling tenderly along his left arm, weeping silently at his own misfortune.

Then, all three of them heard the sound... the sound of feet shuffling somewhere out there in the darkness. Shuffling steadily nearer. A noisome reek washed over them. Daz began to cry all the louder, openly blubbering, pleading for help in a little girl voice. Neil felt Shane go limp beside him. He had fainted.

Up in the school, Council watchman Stan Eastland had turned on his powerful torch and walked through all the classrooms on the first floor, even looking down in the boys’ toilets. He went upstairs and glanced in every room there, then down to the ground floor and across the old assembly hall to examine the offices at the front.

There was no sign of the little bastards now.

Kids today, he thought with disgust, as he stumped back out to his van, making sure to lock the building up behind him. He was damned if he knew what was eating them.

[Originally published in Kimota 6, Summer 1997]

EATING OUT WITH MR. BENN

by Caroline Dunford

Everyone in the restaurant was hand-jiving. Strange, but it was after two in the morning, I was hungry and they looked harmless enough. Actually, they looked as if they were having rather a good time. I had already trudged past the deserted grimy eyes of half a dozen eateries; menus with today’s special hanging at half mast in memory of yesterday’s goat curry, carrot pie and duck in piquant melon sauce. Of those few that still haunted my memory I was frankly suspicious and I doubt I would have gone in even if the doors had been unlocked. I wondered if goat was either a spelling mistake or my own bad eyesight, but hell you only have one life, why risk it? The second had been one of those health food places, which invariably give me dire indigestion for three days afterwards and the last far too pretentious (and probably too expensive) for my tastes. So all in all the hand-jiving joint seemed like a good and seemingly safe bet.

I sat down at a nice round polished brown wood table, fairly near the kitchen and prominent enough to attract the waitress’ eye, but not central to the room, so it was still easy to serve. I don’t know about you, but if I was waiting tables late at night, the guy in the centre of the crazy maze of chairs, tables and sleepy, grouchy customers would be the last one to be served. I try to be thoughtful like that.

Not surprisingly the music was jazz. A woman at the next table expertly twisted her wrist in time to the music and flashed me an improbably wide and obscene smile. I guessed she was one of the ones going in for the big mouth trend, a pointless, extremely painful, but basically cosmetic operation. A gold bracelet, strung with charms, danced on her arm. Her blonde hair was perfectly in place, a high conical tower studded with small to medium sized gems. She had a large sapphire nose pin and a couple of pebble sized diamonds hanging from each ear. I considered, seriously, for a few moments, making a pass at her, taking her home and running off with her jewelry in the middle of the night. I certainly wouldn’t have got anything for her clothes. Yet, another city had invoked the anti-prudity clause. I sighed and began to worry about the prices in here.

The menu was carved into the middle of the table, which is quite a good idea as it saves faffing around with soup-stained bits of paper. The down side is when you change the list and have to buy all new furniture. This certainly wasn’t the kind of place where you had specials of the day. I was relieved to see the prices were well within my financial capabilities, which meant they were pretty low. Big Mouth seemed to be trying to signal me with her eyebrows, I bent my head further and studied the menu as if my life depended on it.

I had decided courageously on the chilli dog, on the grounds it might have good meat in it and if it didn’t I wouldn’t be able to taste it anyway, when just like good old Mr Benn’s shop keeper, the waitress appeared.

Do you remember Mr. Benn? He was the star of a lunchtime children’s cartoon. He used to visit this magic shop to try on different costumes and whatever he tried on be it spaceman suit or cowboy outfit, he would open a door and wander into the appropriate environment for an adventure. Virtual reality for children, when most of us couldn’t even spell computer. Oh yes, whenever he walked into the shop, the shopkeeper would appear ‘as if by magic’ and this was the cue for the real adventure to start.

I admired Mr Benn for three reasons. He had found a magic shop, which no-one else seemed to know about. he never paid for any of the costumes he tried on. He could undress by merely removing his hat. (His other clothes would then go through a bad animation metamorphosis; it was too unsightly for children to see Mr. Benn in his knickers.)

The waitress who had appeared like Mr. Benn’s shopkeeper did not look anything like the original. She wasn’t comfortably fat and she wasn’t wearing a fez.

“Chilli dog and Purplerona Cream Soda.”

I get the weirdest food fetish late at night, which is probably the reason my last girlfriend left me.

Instead of nodding eagerly or even nodding in the sort of neck folding way late night staff do, the girl agitated on the spot. I mean she fiddled with her lustring apron, checked the corners of her vari-mode mouth to see it wasn’t going to split round to the back of her head and shifted from one stiletto-crippled foot to the other. Her arms wriggled, her waist crinkled and her chest undulated. I watched her with a bleary 3am wariness that comes from that in-built human caution, that we all know monsters appear at night. Away from the sun is the realm of the impossible. Wrapped behind the black night windows, immersed in this alternative world created jointly by the minds of the customers and staff, anything is possible. So being a typical human I did the only thing possible.

“A chilli dog and a Purplerola cream soda, ppleease.”

Her voice was less than a whisper, a scraping of knife on bone, “I can’t.”

I looked down at the menu briefly.

“Ok,” I said, willing to make concessions, “a multiburger with fries and a diet Milky.”

The problems of having a menu set in wood.

The girl turned and bolted to the kitchen, while I sat there getting hungrier and hungrier. Time slipped by, but not having a watch I couldn’t verify it was the ten years it felt like. My eyelids turned to stone and my body acquired the lassitude of the freshly dead. I considered putting my head on the table and having a quick snooze, but the thought of waking up with Death by Chocolate embossed on my face put me off. I’d only had my pretty visage ironed three months ago and it was going to be at least five years before I could afford to have it done again.

My automatic reflexes gave my tumbling mind a belt and I noticed that the hand jiving in the room had become even more intense. Wrists gyrated with such a frenzy you’d think they were trying to whip up a hurricane - a left handed one by the look of it. People moved to tables closer to me. Now that was really odd if I was, by their terms, a freak for not hand jiving surely they would want to move away from me, not towards me. If the whole bloody thing hadn’t been so funny it would have been sinister. The dream-like atmosphere was sucking my soul. Perhaps, I thought searching for a meeting of hand jivers anonymous and were trying to catch abstention, like flu, from me. I smiled with what I hoped was a suitable mixture of patronage and genuine friendliness. My instinct for self preservation was just beginning to suggest that the best thing to do was just get the hell out of here when the waitress did her Mr. Benn trick again and appeared as if by magic; it was almost a pity she wasn’t wearing a hat.

“If you could come with me, sir.”

Her voice was deep and strawberry coloured. Normally I would have followed her anywhere without question.

“Why...,” I started only to realise the rest of the restaurant were on their feet.

“Sure, “ I said, “fine.” They had steak on the menu here and the cutlery to go with it.

Headed by the waitress, with me closely behind, the whole posse proceeded crocodile fashion towards the mirrored doors of the kitchen.

“Ossh, whisy, washy, ossh,” intoned the crowd. The best I could hope for was a costume shop and a fez headed shop keeper behind the door. Otherwise it seemed as if there might be a new pie carved into the menu shortly. I hung onto the thought that the kitchen had to have a back door. The crowd remained beyond the mirrors; the waitress and I passed through into another world without even waiting to change our costumes.

The kitchen was large, white, steamy, filled full of glistening metal pans and shouting. A large man in a chef’s apron and cap lumbered towards me.

“You,” he cried, thrusting an elephant gutting knife in my face, “didn’t hand jive! Is this true? Why not? Why are you here, did Huilo send you?”

“Now look friend, I don’t know any Huilo. I’m sorry if hand jiving is part of your scene. I’m just really tired and I was really hungry. I passed your door, smelled the food, saw the prices and wandered in like any ordinary punter.”

The chef went purple in the face.

“We do not have ordinary punters here,” he blustered making spaghetti in the air.

I backed off as much as the waitress would allow.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving friend. I won’t come back.”

From behind a counter a woman in a white coat appeared. Second chef was my guess, but her hair was piled up in a style worthy of the Nile in its cat fearing hay-day. She opened a dishwasher and started taking out the empty racks. Strawberry voice took the knife off the chef.

“I’m sorry Stu,” she syllibubed, “but you knew the risks when you took the job. This guy is an ordinary punter. There was always a risk one of them would turn up even with the restricted hours. Look at it this way, you have cooked many wonderful meals and brought a great deal of happiness into many lives, but now it’s over. The man didn’t pay homage and you have to pay the price. That was the deal.”

At this point I was looking for the back door, so it was with a slight surreal shock I realised the chef was now in the dishwasher. All I could string together by way of coherent thought was that he was very large for such a small space. The waitress placed his hat carefully on the top. The chef turned his face away and the door shut. The waitress pushed the ‘on’ button and I backed towards the door. A steely little hand grasped my arm.

“You have to wait until it is over,” said the Nile woman.

So I stood in the kitchen and waited, while the thing ran a full cycle. At one point the waitress commented that this was a good thing for Huilo’s (a rival restaurant I guess) and that it was always a shame when such things happened by chance. I was beginning to get worried about the chef. He certainly couldn’t drown in there, but what about air? Do dishwashers have an air intake? No-one was going to let me do anything and death by kitchen implement sounded embarrassing as well as final, so I indulged in some heavy hoping.

When they opened the door there was a blast of lemon scented steam. Then a clean, polished, streakless skeleton pitched forward onto the open door and shattered into a pile of bones.

They kept their word and let me go. The last thing I saw was the Nile woman being crowned with the chef’s hat, while the rest of the staff knelt in homage before her and the dishwasher.

On the way home I bought a burger from MacDonalds.

[Originally published in Kimota 3, Winter 1995]

GOOD VIBRATIONS

by Simon Kewin

Mark E Moon put his empty pint glass down onto the bar, looked up at the barman and said, “So, what year have we reached?”

Around him, the bar definitely seemed to be taking on the right sort of appearance. By his expert judgement they were now some time in early 1981, perhaps even late 1980. The clothes of the other people in the bar were definitely turning towards the post-punk: some chains and spiky hair visible amongst the New Romantic frippery. The music playing on the jukebox had taken on a rawer edge, more energetic and simplistic where, just earlier, it had been slower, more melodic and varied. To most people, he knew, the difference was negligible; it was all just some rhythmic-era music. The Beatles or Beethoven, something like that.

But nearly two thousand years of collecting had given him a good ear for the form, and the distinctions were clear to him. He didn’t really need to ask the barman, but this highly-muscled, long-haired, gruff, tattooed figure happened to be an avatar of the ship’s consciousness, as well as pulling the pints.

“December 1980. John Lennon has just been shot. Wanna start collecting?”

Moon wandered over to the jukebox. He had created a classic, glitzy Wurlitzer model, one of the few fixed items in the room that was otherwise rigged to shift to reflect the particular era that the Motorcycle Emptiness was moving through. Other collectors he knew just used a little clock displaying the year on some screen or something. Or they actually fabricated a retro “flight-deck” with all the buttons and flashing lights and manually controlled where the ship flew to. At least, they had the last time he had spoken to any of them. That was, admittedly, a long time ago.

He looked at the records now available on the jukebox - plenty of post-punk and ska classics - The Teardrop Explodes, XTC, The Specials - just the sort of thing he was currently looking for. As he watched, several familiar singles by The Clash appeared in the selection, replacing those of The Human League.

To his left, The Jam were shambling onto the tiny, corner stage, Weller’s battered electric guitar slung across his back, Butler holding his drumsticks up like a weapon. All three of them - Foxton, Weller and Butler - eyeing Wham!, who were making way for them, with an undisguised distaste.

“OK,” said Moon to the room in general, “this is far enough. Turn us around and put the needle to the record.”

Instantly, he felt the slight shifting that told him the Motorcycle Emptiness was manoeuvring, no longer just flying in a straight line away from Earth. No-one else in the bar appeared to notice, each carried on talking, laughing, drinking and singing. Just as they had been created to. Two leather-and-denim clad Heavy Metal fans whooped and shouted as they huddled around a game of Space Invaders near the bar.

The ship dropped out of subluminal and executed a gentle Immelmann so that it was pointing back Earthwards, allowing itself to drift away at 99.99999999999% of the speed of light. Slow enough for all of the precious space-time vibrations to ebb slowly by it. The Motorcycle Emptiness began to listen, to feed. Moving along a precise, delicately controlled path, spiralling slowly outwards, it danced around the circumference of this particular stratum of Earth’s electromagnetic bubble, its ghostly quantum corona. It started to sample space, to taste the faint, faint fuzz of background noise, the slightest of vibrations on the atomic and subatomic level within which, painfully slowly, patterns could be discerned. Sound, pictures, music. Like recreating a painting by spraying one brushful of dots onto canvas, then another, then another. The Motorcycle Emptiness did move through normal space, but only coincidentally. Really, it swam in an ocean of sound and vision - archaeological layers of musical space discernible only to its amazing powers of perception.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the music began to form. Not that he was impatient. Virtual immortality gave you a wonderful sense of patience. And this was what he loved to do. There were many, he knew, that couldn’t take the aimlessness and meaninglessness of their near-infinite lives, and turned destructive, or self-destructive. He had spent a week on Earth a little over three centuries earlier and felt absolutely no desire to return.

Poor, shattered, scattered Earth. Perhaps it would have been better if alien life of some sort had been encountered after all, if humanity hadn’t found itself to be so alone, if it hadn’t become so crushed by introspection. Only about half the people lived down on the surface now - here and there, where it was habitable. The rest lived on a rag-tag assortment of satellites and moons, both natural and human-made, or out on Ganymede, Titan or Charon. Or even wandering nomadically and alone in one sort of ship or another. Back home, they listened mainly to chaotic music now. As was ever the case, it was music that suited, reflected, sprang from, the times. Most people didn’t bother much with music from the rhythmic age, the classical golden age, except perhaps for the occasional retro concert, an occasional foray for them into high culture. Most of the music broadcast to the universe now was arhythmic, deliberately confused. He listened to it himself sometimes. He could see the attraction.

But there were plenty, like him, that really cared about the golden age - enough to want to archive and capture it all, to make sure that all, or as close to all as possible, was recovered. It was reckoned that the archive now approached 96% completion for music produced during the electromagnetic age, when broadcasts were being made and thus cast out into the aether. For his particular period, say 1955-2015, the figure was reckoned to be 97%. This was a guess, of course - no-one really knew how much music was made at that time, and occasionally, previously unknown - obscure or transient - artists still turned up, to the great excitement of everyone working in the field. Perhaps a raw but enthusiastic punk band who only ever jammed together for a few sessions in someone’s garage. Or someone producing some stuff in a home studio or using an early computer. Or maybe even, treasure of treasures, played a previously uncaptured live concert.

It still happened. 200 years earlier, over a period of just 12 years, on the opposite side of Earth’s expanding radio-wave bubble, he, Mark E Moon, had hit a golden seam of previously lost Public Enemy, crisp and unfuzzed once enough of the signal had been collected and merged, a beautiful, perfect seam of raw 1980s music encoded into the ghostly particle vibrations of deep space. The recording had turned out to be 99.99% pure - a previously lost golden age transmission from an unknown New York night club, broadcast on a small, local radio station. It had made his name. In the academic discourse, it was still referred to as the Mark E Moon session. It was generally considered, he believed, to be embryonic.

But as 100% capture was approached, the chances of finding a gap inevitably went down. Maybe they would never get there. But perhaps it didn’t matter, perhaps the search, this thing that filled his infinite life, was what mattered. Or perhaps they would eventually move onto the music made prior to the electromagnetic age, from before the time when the slight vibrations in spacetime were produced. Maverick research philosophers postulated that it would be possible to do just that - to capture music even though it had never been electromagnetically broadcast in any way. Mozart playing his own opera scores. Mozart writing those scores. The music was all there, they said, encoded into the deterministic structure of the universe, the eternal, inevitable by-product of the way creation, the universe, was, is, will be - discernible if you simply knew enough about it. Humanity simply didn’t, that was all.

Maybe. Who knew? For now, he would settle for another strike like the Public Enemy one. He wasn’t impatient, truly, but still, it seemed about time.

Thirty-four years later, the barman said suddenly, “Moon ... there’s something out there.” He was sitting at the bar, drinking beer and looking on appreciatively at Kraftwerk, who were playing a mesmeric performance on the small stage, the subsonics making the room and his ribcage boom in synchronicity. The barman’s eyes seemed to be focused on infinity, even though the room was the same size as usual. “It ... moving, moving, moving on up,” he continued, “I can ... swimming in the water ... there is water at the bottom of the ocean.”

“What is it?” asked Moon, a little surprised at the barman’s incomprehensibility. It was unheard of for ship personalities - ships - to go wrong. “What is happening?”

A new band were on the cramped, poorly-lit stage now, a physical representation of whatever musical energies the Motorcycle Emptiness was experiencing. He knew them all, knew every genre, style, form and type of rhythmic-age music. Unlike 99% of humanity, he could identify and differentiate between Motown, baroque, thrash, blues, bhangra, soul, northern soul, plainsong, surfpunk - whatever. But this new band wasn’t any of those, didn’t fit into any of the known categories. It wasn’t even close.

It was like ...

He turned from the bar and slowly picked his way between scattered, beer-stained tables towards the corner of the room where the stage was. Behind him, the barman was muttering to himself, over and over, like endless rain, like endless rain ...

The new band were at once familiar and strange. Much about them he could recognise - the black clothes, the sunglasses, the long hair - but at the same time he had absolutely no idea who they were. He recognised none of them. A new band? But there was more to it than that. It was immediately clear that the four figures standing on the cramped stage were not human. At least, not completely, not only human. They moved in new ways; the way their eyes were concealed suggests something insectoid; the drummer had six arms, a drumstick in each hand; the guitarists’ hands each had 10 fingers, each digit long and delicate, with a definite claw, a talon even, at its end, like a natural plectrum. Their instruments seemed somehow to be connected to them, even a part of them, as if instrument and performer were merely parts of an old-style cyborganic entity.

They set up, not looking at each other, saying nothing.

Moon walked up to the foot of the stage. He had to know. “Who are you? What are you doing here? What ... what are you called?”

The lead singer smiled back, a reptilian kind of smile, saying simply, “Dig the new breed!” before launching the band into their first number.

Like the band, the music was at once familiar and alien. Chord progressions and keys, riffs and vocal inflections he had heard a million times before. But the structure was fundamentally different, there was an extra dimension as if many tracks were being played simultaneously, although distinct melodies weren’t discernible. They played with an inhuman intensity, Shiva on the drums maintaining a beat more complicated and intricate than any a human had ever produced. The guitarists’ fingers were a blur. The total sound was bewildering, hard to grasp somehow, as if some significant part of it was inaudible to the human ear.

Then it clicked, like moving from black-and-white to colour, mono to stereo. He could suddenly hear the music. And it was wonderful - rapturous, intense, frightening, beautiful, captivating. It filled him, transported him. It was at once familiar and like nothing he had ever heard before. Everything else, the room, the Motorcycle Emptiness, the universe, his thoughts, his identity, all started to slip away, seeming less important. This is it he thought to himself. This is the root, the essence of it all. The golden age music. This is great … this is … this …

And for Mark E Moon, then, there was only the music.

The band played a short set - eight songs and no encore. Throughout, the barman, and all the other non-existent people in the room looked on as mesmerised as Moon -captivated, staring rapt and vacant at the stage. No-one moved. The Motorcycle Emptiness itself began to drift directionless in space. Eventually the singer, with a final, sly “Thank you!” strode off stage, followed by the other band members walking in close formation as if they, too, were intrinsically interconnected. Everyone else in the room remained where they were - transfixed, lost. For each of them - human, ship or mannequin - there was the music, gliding and thrilling through them, and nothing else.

One hundred and twenty-three years passed by. During this time, the new musical pattern passed like a life-form, a virus, from the Motorcycle Emptiness, to the other nomadic ships, to Charon, to Luna, to Earth, reproducing itself electromagnetically each time it was replayed, mutating and evolving to suit each new host. And each became just as enraptured. Each forgot about everything else, became lost in music, gave their conscious and subconscious minds over to the music, the glorious, new music. Soon, humanity in its entirety stood enthralled, invaded, defeated. Civilisation stood still, apart from the occasional, indistinct tapping of a foot.

A life-form feeding on musical vibrations, evolving in an infinite environment of organised, coherent electromagnetic waves, its DNA-analogue structures mutating in time to the harmonies it absorbed. It was what it ate; it became the music, and the music, evolving, changing, became it. Raw music, the product of human minds, transformed, sublimated, transcended like the basic chemical elements becoming complex molecules, becoming the amino-acids of life.

Like a virus, but not a virus. After another seventy-seven years, Moon emerged suddenly from his introspective fugue. The music was still there, in his mind, but so was he, his own self. Moving, he found his arms, his legs, his body flowed with the rhythm of it. The melodies twined around his thought-patterns. Its beauty was in his eyes. He could see patterns in the air, in the universe, that had never been there before.

The former human known as Mark E Moon took a deep, luxurious breath. Getting up from where he had been lying, he looked around at the scene. The barman and the others were also beginning to emerge from where they had been. Everything looked the same and yet totally different. He paused for a moment, his mind clearing, then said simply, Oh yeah!

Like a virus, but not a parasite - it was more organic than that, more of a symbiosis, a synergy. As if the A, C, G and T of human DNA had become interwoven with the A, B, C, D, E, F and G of the musical scale to spell out new words, to produce something else, something more.

Back on Earth, he knew, the music would be starting at last. The long wait was over.

The Motorcycle Emptiness turned, the new music blasting out to the universe at maximum volume, and headed for home.

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

THE GREEN BELT

by Steve Dean

“There! What was that? No, back a bit, bit more, there!”

Two tall figures peered into a small stone bowl half filled with amber liquid. The man was pointing at an image which seemed to float just above the surface.

“No, no good, sorry! Thought we had something then, snake skin armour and a bent stick are no good for what we need.”

The woman sighed “This could take weeks at the rate we’re going.”

She rubbed her fingers across a line of polished stones set into the side of the bowl and the image moved on.

“Let’s take a bit of a breather shall we,” said the man hopefully, “We’ve been at this for hours.”

“No, not just yet, we’ll try a bit longer, his majesty wouldn’t like it if we failed him.”

“We haven’t let him down yet, have we? Anyway what gratitude does he give us, ay? None that’s what! Not even a thank you note or a bunch of chrysanthanumanums.”

“Yes dear, but it’s not just for him this time is it? The whole town has been challenged and it’s up to us to provide a champion.”

“And that’s another thing.” The tall figure stood up straight, pushed his long wavy hair out of his face and began pacing the darkened room. “Where is the mighty Thaw Axe, defender of the Gods, right hand man to kings, etc. Off gallivanting I’ll be bound. When did you and me get to vant our gallis ay? A long time ago, that’s when.”

“Wedgil do stop pacing dear, you’ll ruin the glyphs, let’s just get this out of the way shall we.” She gave the man a sweet smile.

“Yes my little kumquat, you’re right as usual.” Wedgil assumed a martyred expression. “Let’s get on with it.”

“He’s at it again dear, making those funny noises in the conservatory, I can hear him from here with the window open, I wish that woman at number twenty seven would cut that tree down a bit, I could see him properly then.” From the back of the room the sound of knitting needles stopped.

“I wish you would come away from that window Kenneth, I dread to think what the neighbours are making of it. They can see you, you know.”

“I’m not doing any harm dear, I am just a naturally curious individual,” Kenneth pushed his glasses further up his nose, looked wistfully towards the ceiling and declared, “I care for my fellow man.”

“Yes dear, that’s all very well, but do you have to use those step ladders in the house?”

Kenneth ignored the last comment and carried on, “He seems to be wearing some kind of white suit, and he keeps throwing his hands in the air and shouting, you don’t think it could be that American bunch, the Du Lux Clan, or whatever they are called?”

The sound of knitting needles started up again, “Aren’t they the ones who paint themselves white and wear silly hats?”

“No dear, you’re thinking of the Masons.”

“What, Audrey and Cyril Mason from the corner shop? Well I never did!”

“No dear.”

“Perhaps if we adjust the seaweed a bit we can get a narrower search pattern, what do think, Pol?”

“It’s worth a try, but we’re straining the goat’s bladder as it is, if that goes we’ll be out of action for hours.”

“We’ll just have to risk it, that’s seven of those funny green men in half an hour, did you see those little metal tubes they had? What use would they be against a sodding great man-mountain?”

“Well Wedg, if we don’t summon a warrior soon it’s the end of the road for us and everybody in town, we just lose by default if we don’t even field a champion.”

Wedgil scowled, then forcefully grabbed the seaweed and began squeezing. The image in the bowl started to whirl, the water began to steam slightly under the increased magical field.

“Careful Wedg, not too fast, things are hotting up. There what was that?” Poleyela pointed into the image suddenly, catching Wedgil off balance, he stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady himself his fingernails brushed against the internal organ of a sheep-like animal, which immediately began to leak a blue liquid.

“Oh no! Quick activate the catcher,” Pol yelled in a rather shrill voice. Wedgil hesitated for a moment then stamped down on a wooden peddle beneath the plinth, which, via a thin piece of catgut, released a mauve powder into the air above the liquid.

A moment’s silence was followed by a thunderous crash. About 8 cubits away on a raised platform a ring of red fire had leapt up then dropped back to a steady blue flame.

“Right. That’s that then, let’s wait and see what we get.”

“Got, see what we have GOT,” corrected Pol.

“Yes, sorry this instantaneous calling always gets me confused.” Wedgil looked at Poleyela and slapped his hands against his stout belly. “Shall we go out for lunch or eat here? I’ve heard there’s a pretty good Greek restaurant near the market.”

“Yes, that sounds good, a nice skin of wine as well, we need to relax.” Wedgil grinned, “I should marry you one day you know, you think just like me.”

Poleyela smiled wisely, took his arm and together they walked out of the Lab.

“Look left, one two, turn head right one two, forward... damn! Always forget the Tettsui Uchi, start again...”. Stuart Bramley was practising the ancient art of Shotokan Karate.

Sometimes he would practise the art on the lawn, turning his body into a steel killing machine, but today it was raining so he was in the conservatory. There wasn’t a lot of room, what with the wicker effect plastic furniture and the banana plant, but it was better than getting his pure white, immaculately ironed Karate suit, or ‘Gi’, dirty. Sometimes he would pretend to be Bruce Lee (who actually did Kung Fu, but hell, it was his fantasy) kicking and chopping in a way that would have sent his wife into hysterics.

He was a slightly built man, with thining hair, a rather weak moustache his wife made him grow, large feet and no dress sense. Today he was serious, Saturday was gradings day, the day he went from green belt to purple, if he practised enough. He was just about to execute a rather tricky Hiza Geri Uchi with Kiai when he suddenly smelt burning. Looking down he saw a thin flame run in a circle around him, the tiled floor of the conservatory turned into a stone one covered in strange symbols. As the sound and everything around him faded away, he thought he heard a rather piercing voice shout “Kenneth! Put that camera down!”

It wasn’t as if it was particularly horrible being mentally ill, it was just, well, disappointing. Melanie will be so upset when she finds out, he thought. He knew he wasn’t dreaming because he hadn’t been asleep. He had come to the conclusion that the last Kiai or shout he did had ruptured a blood vessel in his brain causing a temporary, he hoped, mental episode. How else could you account for suddenly being ripped from the safety of one’s own conservatory and being sent hurtling through a dark void?

Stuart practised a few Mawashi Geris then sat down on the surprisingly warm floor. Perhaps I ought to make the most of it he thought, Melanie always said that he needed to broaden his horizons, Wargaming and Karate are not the only things in life she would say, frequently. “Well, new experiences broaden the mind, so here I go, if only in a metaphysical sense.” He said out loud.

What felt like several hours later he was woken by the sound of strange voices, he didn’t know the language but he knew they were drunk, that translates every time.

“Hey! Poly-dolly, lookss liyk we got sumba’dee.” Wedgil slurred loudly.

“Well it is about time too, don’t you know.” Poleyela was the kind of woman who got airs and graces whilst drunk. None of this common slurring for her.

“D’ya thing heel waytillmorning? OnlyI don’ fe feel ve’y well.” Having said this Wedgil proceeded to not feel very well out of a passing window then collapsed into a chair, although not by design.

“One is going to put the kettle on to boil, then make a nice cup of herb tea. Waiter! two cups if you please.” She made it as far as the pile of cushions half way to the kitchen area, stumbled and very unlady-like toppled face first into it.

The visitor on the platform watched all this with mild interest, then, recognising snoring when he heard it, settled down to sleep as best he could on the stone floor.

“Wakey wakey! Rise and shine sleepy head! I don’t know where you come from, but we’ve been up hours.”

Stuart looked up into a man’s cheery face framed with masses of dark hair. The man was of indeterminate age, over 30 but under 60. He had the kind of cheery face people want to slap; a grin from ear to ear set into fat cheeks, bright blue eyes and a button nose. He was dressed in some sort of leather coat over a cotton dress which reached to his sandled feet. A rather disgusting bundle of various animal body parts swung on a thin rope around his neck. He realised with a start that he had understood what the man had said. But of course this was his hallucination so it made sense really.

“Hello I’m Stuart, how are you,” he said, standing up and offering his hand over the dancing blue flames.

Wedgil stepped back cautiously, looking into Stuart’s hand for some kind of weapon. “I’m Wedgil, and this is my companion Poleyela.”

A tall, thin woman with shoulder length copper hair stepped around Wedgil and smiled, a warm caring smile, set in a not unattractive, but showing signs of wear, face. Stuart would have guessed her age at about 35. He would have been miles out. She was dressed almost exactly like the man but wore a wide leather belt decorated with squiggly symbols.

“We’re sorry about bringing you here, we needed a warrior you see, we also had to cast a language spell on you, hope you don’t mind.”

Stuart nodded wisely to himself. It’s one of those fantasies is it? Warriors and stuff. Great!

“Pol-eye-ella and wedge-ill is it?” Stuart repeated slowly, “Shall we get on with it? The quicker it’s over the quicker I can get back to normal. If we hurry no one will even notice, Melanie goes to her personal awareness class tonight, so she won’t be home until eight.” He looked from face to face with what he hoped was a positive grin on his face.

Wedgil and Poleyela looked at each other then back at Stuart.

“Well he is keen, but what is he like in combat?”

“Where are his weapons? Where are his muscles come to that?”

“Perhaps he’s a mage-warrior, with magic weapons concealed about his person.”

They both looked at Stuart inquiringly. Sensing it was his turn he dropped the plastered on smile and tried to explain.

“My hands and feet are my weapons, I practice the deadly martial art of Karate!” he swished around making silly noises and chopping with his hands and kicking with his feet. About as related to the real thing as a salesman’s expenses form to his actual expenditure, but the two mages seemed impressed.

“Well we’d better let you out then, there isn’t much time, but there’s a lot to do.”

As one, the strange pair turned and walked over to the bowl.

“Are you sure we can’t have another go?” whispered Wedgil, “This guy isn’t exactly all there. This thing isn’t too badly damaged, we could have it up and working again in a week or two.”

Pol seemed to consider for a moment then said quietly “The challenger will arrive in three days, if we keep him waiting it will be bad form, it’s better to field some guy who will be ripped apart than none at all. Besides if we mess with the loop we won’t be able to send him back, you know what happened last time we messed with the time-space thingy.”

Wedg grimaced, “Don’t remind me. O.K. what if we give him a bit of a boost?” He illustrated the idea with a gesture of a raised fist. “You know, a bit of the old dragon’s water in his wine.”

“You know we can’t, any attempt at cheating...” Pol gestured this time, drawing an imaginary line across Wedgil’s crotch.

Wedgil grimaced again, only this time louder.

“Listen, I’ll wear this thing if you really insist, but it will only get in the way, I need to be able to move freely, to dodge and weave.” Stuart illustrated the point by trying to dodge in a knee length, metal plated leather tunic, which seemed to weigh several hundred pounds. To illustrate the point further he then tried to weave, neither action was very successful; The dodging looked almost exactly like the weaving, and the weaving looked like swaying. “You see, no mobility at all!”

Wedg and Pol looked on with increasing anxiety. Over the past couple of days they had tried to bring out some kind of warrior skill in this stranger; There were the swords, the daggers, even the mace, but Stuart had rejected every one. All he seemed to do was dance around in some set pattern going “hooot-ssa!” a lot. So they had tried the armour. The King had given them the run of his armoury, what with the army all gone; no money to pay them with, there was plenty of choice.

He had rejected point blank most of the metal stuff, but had reluctantly agreed to try some of the leather suits. These were now cast into a pile in the middle of the outer courtyard. He had tried them, then one by one, rejected them.

So, having decided that magic had let them down, a warrior summons spell was supposed to summon a warrior, not some short, thin bloke who was about as much use as a eunuch at an orgy, they trudged wearily home.

“Is that the best you can do? I’ve shat bigger than that!”

The gathered masses of the away team howled with laughter, not just because it was funny, but because the man who said it was twice the size of anyone else. “Why has he got his jimmies on? I don’t want to sleep with him!” Again massed hysteric laughter.

Stuart looked up at the sun eclipsing bulk of flesh before him. He was everything a warrior should be; huge, big-muscled, bald-headed, not too bright, a brute of a man, clad mostly in leather and smelling strongly of sweat. His face was lightly scarred, his brown eyes had that look of I-won’t-hurt-you-too-much.

Boy am I in need of a holiday, Stuart thought, I wonder which part of my mind he lives in?

“Size isn’t everything you know, have you come here to fight or to do a stand-up routine?” Stuart stood defiantly before the man, hands on hips, “You’re only using humour to cover your nerves, Melanie says that’s a bad thing to do.”

Behind him the home team remained silent. Not that 14 people and a donkey can make that much noise in an open space. The rest of the towns folk were hiding in embarrassment. Those that had turned out were friends of the mage’s, and even then they had been promised various potions and balms.

The two sides had gathered at dawn in a field below the town, the straggly crops had withered long ago, leaving a few threadbare palm trees as the only shade.

“Right then, boy!” the giant bellowed in his best mean voice, “I’m going to rip you apart bit by bit.”

The giant walked towards Stuart, his big feet stomping on the dry ground, stirring up dust and scattering donkey droppings. Stuart let him approach very closely then dodged aside, running behind and away from the man. He was very big but slow with it, disadvantaged by having to reach down at Stuart.

“Hold still and let me hit you,” roared the man.

Stuart didn’t reply, he was concentrating very hard. He wasn’t sure what this man represented but he was sure he would have to beat him somehow before he could emerge from whatever mental episode he had fallen into.

For several minutes pretty much the same thing happened. The giant stomping and roaring towards him, Stuart dodging and weaving out of the way.

The crowd were getting a little restless, he was sure they would soon tire of this and join in. He had to admit, the pressure was on. Then suddenly it came to him; pressure points!

Looking at the giant he realised he could only reach the lower parts of his body, what pressure points did he know down there. Besides the obvious, which he rejected as un-sportsman like, there seemed to be only legs.

The giant lunged forward again, this time missing Stuart by a fraction of an inch. But Stuart had already decided his next move. Letting the giant rush by him, Stuart suddenly stepped backwards and with a mighty yell kicked the giant in the side of the leg between the gnarled knee and the tree like thigh.

To Stuart this was around chest high, but he managed it without too much splitting.

The giant looked down at the spot with a look of complete pain on his face, then sobbed, “My leg, what’s he done to my leg? I can’t move it!”

Quickly, Stuart said in a loud voice, “Do you surrender, or shall I wither other parts of your body?” He had to be quick before the dead-leg, a trick he learned at school, wore off.

The giant, not a man used to being beaten, stood stunned for a few seconds then wailed, “Don’t do any more I give up!”

The home crowd, who minutes before had been trying to join the other lot, rallied magnificently. They clapped and shouted as loud as they could, stamped their feet and threw loose items of clothing into the air. Wedgil and Poleyela ran forwards and hugged him tightly, trying not to show the disbelief on their faces. Poleyela smiled at him, “Well done, I knew you wouldn’t let us down. The magic works in mysterious ways sometimes, but it usually works.”

Stuart looked hopefully at the pair, “Does this mean I can go now?” Mentally he had defeated whatever was causing this dream-like state so logically he should now return to consciousness back in his conservatory. Probably with his face in the pot-pourri basket.

Wedgil looked meaningfully at Pol, who looked meaningfully back, they both turned to him and simultaneously said “Yes, whenever you’re ready.”

“The only problem I see now,” said Wedg chewing on the end of his quill, “Is his name, I mean ‘Stuart’, it sounds like you’ve burnt yourself on your dinner, not a proper name really.

‘The story of how Stuart slew Goliath with a pebble’ doesn’t really scan does it?”

Poleyela looked up from the lizard she was skinning with a knowing look on her face, “You’ve made one or two other changes as well haven’t you!”

Wedg smirked, “Just one or two minor amendments to perk it up a bit. Nobody will know, specially Stuart, how’s he going to find out?”

Poleyela stopped work for a moment, looked out of the window, and said, “ ‘David’, that’s a nice name.”

“Hello dear, have a nice class?” Stuart said from the recliner, trying to sound casual.

“I don’t go because it’s nice, Stuart,” Melanie snapped. “I go to improve myself, you should know that by now.”

Stuart smiled sheepishly as she swished past him towards the conservatory.

“Lizzie! Where are you? Mummy’s home, got some nice foodies for you.” Melanie emerged a few moments later cradling a fat white cat in her well muscled arms. “Stuart,” she said rather worriedly, “Can you smell donkey manure in the conservatory?”

“No dear,” he replied firmly, and he meant it.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

VINCENT’S LAST PICTURE

By Martin Owton

He was shorter than I’d expected and there were flecks of grey in the short red hair. His eyes were bloodshot and to be honest he did not smell too good, but then I’m used to much better plumbing than he ever saw.

“A talentless dauber,” he ranted, his thick accent straining my understanding of the language. “That’s what those bastards in Paris call me. A bloody dauber.” He took a large mouthful of the wine I’d brought.

What would they make of Jackson Pollock? I thought as he glared glassy-eyed at me.

“Does that look like a daub to you?” He waved toward the field easel that stood beside the window. The canvas seemed to depict a wheat field beneath threatening dark skies but then I was used to his style.

‘“Wheatfield beneath storm clouds,” I said quietly. That surprised him and his expression changed as he addressed me.

“Hah! You can see it. Then why can’t those idiots in Paris.”

“It will not always be so. One day you will be appreciated as a great artist,” I said blandly but this served only to stoke the fires.

“Hah! When? When I am dead, yes,” he raged, bloodshot eyes glaring. “I might as well be dead. Now Theo tells me not to send him any more pictures. That no-one wants to buy them.”

“One day they will. One day they will pay unimaginable amounts of money for your pictures.”

“Now you are laughing at me. You are no better than them.”

“No, I assure you monsieur. I am not laughing at you. You are a great artist. Will you sell me that picture?”

He eyed me suspiciously apparently still convinced I was making fun of him. I pulled out the leather purse and showed him the coins. I’d been unable to locate sufficient French currency from the period so I’d had to bring sovereigns. He turned one of them over in his hand.

“English,” he said examining Victoria’s profile. “I thought so from the way you speak.”

I doubted that my accent was at fault, it is simply that after a hundred and fifty years the language itself has shifted. He stared silently at the coins frowning somewhat.

“So, you will sell me this picture?” I asked breaking his reverie.

“Pardon monsieur. I have not sold a picture for a while. I was deciding on the price.” He went back to his study of the coins, one in particular held his attention as he turned it over and over in his hand. I felt sad for this staring-eyed Dutchman then, knowing as I did that his life was very close to its end. But there was nothing I could do, no words I could say that would preserve the genius. History records that he died of a self-inflicted wound on July 29, 1890 and I would be more than a fool to try to change that.

“Very well,” he said, still looking at the coins. “I will sell it for what I hold in my hand. Ten sovereigns yes?”

“We have an agreement, monsieur.” I smiled in relief. I had imagined all kinds of difficulties over this bargaining process. “Have you signed it? And the date. That is most important,.”

He drew a brush from a jar and signed and dated it with a flourish. “I shall wrap it for you? I have only newspaper but you will need something.”

Even better, I thought, for authentication.

A carriage took me from the house on the Place de la Mairie to the station where I caught a train back to Paris. He had tied the picture in its paper wrapping with twine and I clung to it like a child with its favourite doll throughout my journey back to the transit point. This was my payback for all the hard graft I’d been through.

It had cost a lot to set up. The distinguished professors who oversee the system are beyond my purse but fortunately their research students aren’t so well paid and are young enough to be persuadable. This was the big one, this picture will make it all worthwhile. I know tampering with timelines is illegal, UN convention and all that, but don’t tell me the governments and big multinationals don’t do it. Three UN time observers overseeing every expedition; I don’t think so.

I checked my watch to see how long I had left, not that it mattered greatly now I had the picture but it would create a scene if I dematerialised in the middle of a crowded second class railway carriage. A scene that someone might record for posterity. I had heard rumours of the existence of a small team who trawled through the anecdotes of centuries looking for just such a happening as a clue to a time-crime and I certainly did not want that kind of trouble.

The elegantly dressed and well spoken girl from the front desk showed me up to Gervase’s office. A nice touch I thought even though I knew the way. Gervase and I had done business before. Fine paintings hung in elegantly lit alcoves along the corridor, here a Manet, there a Gaugin. Our feet made not a sound on the Axminster as I followed the girl towards the highly polished oak door of Gervase’s office.

Gervase DeVere-Brown, art dealer to the rich and cultured, specialist in the late nineteenth century, liked his customers to believe that he was one of them, even though I knew his name was really Gerald and he had been born in Basildon.

“Tony, so good to see you again. Would you like a drink?” Gervase waved me to a leather armchair with an elegantly manicured hand. He opened the drinks cabinet whose walnut panelling matched the rest of the room. I accepted a Bombay Sapphire and tonic and we gossiped for a few minutes before we got down to business.

“So what have you brought me Tony?”

“Something that I think you’ll like,’ I smiled at him. “Just up your street actually.” I undid the string holding the newspaper wrapping and drew out the picture. He took the picture from me and walked over to the window to look at it in the light.

“Van Gogh. Sometime pal of Gaugin’s. Bit of a dauber really. Died in 1899 in a nuthouse, penniless except for an 1892 sovereign that he wore on a chain around his neck. Spent the last nine years of his life painting nothing but sunflowers. This one’s OK though, I’ll give you fifteen thousand for it.”

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

AGAINST THE SKIN

by Mark Morris

The rabbit jerked once more, but Lee knew there was no way it could escape, not with its leg almost chopped through. He wrestled the great iron jaws of the trap apart, then picked up the rabbit and deftly broke its neck. Hooking the carcass to his belt, he continued on his way.

Of  course, fox was what he was really after. He could get a lot more for fox fur than he could for rabbit meat, but he was lucky if he caught more than one or two foxes a week. Sometimes it was hard enough just catching the rabbits. Quite often he would come around and find his traps clogged with weasels, stoats, birds, stuff like that. Once he had caught a rat as big as an alley cat, and which had hissed and snarled and bared its teeth like one too. That had shaken Lee so much that he hadn’t dared to get too close, had had to go fetch his air rifle to shoot the damn thing.

Today, though, had been a good day. He had got three rabbits in his traps and a pigeon in one of his snares - they were always good for a few bob. Now he was tramping through the woods to check on his final trap, the corpses swinging at his waist like war trophies.

It was a warm September morning, fresh dew on the grass, the leaves just about on the turn. Flies congregated in clouds, buzzing lazily; birds twittered in the trees. The stream, due to the heavy rainfall over the last few weeks, was rushing along as though late for an appointment.

Lee’s final trap had been sprung, but whatever had been in there had got away. From the tuft of bloodied fur the creature had left behind, it had obviously been something of a struggle. Lee wondered whether he ought to cast about a bit, see if the animal was still around. The fur suggested another rabbit, and from the looks of things it was badly wounded. It had probably crawled off to die in a bush somewhere.

He picked up a stick and thrashed half-heartedly at the surrounding undergrowth, but after a few minutes he gave up. Flies droning round his head and he was desperate for a pint. Besides, today’s was a good haul as it stood. Might as well let the poor little bugger die in peace.

He took a sack from his jacket and stuffed his catch inside, then carefully reset the trap. That done, he heaved the sack onto his shoulder. Next stop the market to earn himself a little money, and then it was off to the pub for his lunch.

As he entered the main bar of The Vine he was met by a chorus of greetings. He raised a hand, then went to the bar and ordered sausage, beans, chips and a pint of bitter. At this hour the pub was a sociable place: sunshine slanted in through the windows, gleaming on the horse brasses that adorned the walls; the greasy smell of food and the scraping of cutlery on plates made him hungry; the click of pool balls and the bleeps from the fruit machine provided a soothing backdrop to the buzz of conversation. Lee moved from the bar to where his mates were seated, already sucking at the froth in his glass. When he got to the table, the beer was half-gone.

“Thirsty work, killing things,” Reg Trenshaw said. His words were greeted with laughter.

“Aye, it is that,” Lee replied. He sat down. “Better than sitting on your arse all day, though.”

Reg stuck his nose in the air. “I’ll have you know, I’m what is known as a casual labourer.”

“Aye, very casual,” said Lee. Laughter exploded around him once more. Reg grinned too, and companionably punched his arm.

“How many d’ you get today, then?” Peter Raven asked. He was the youngest of the group, only twenty-two. The others were in their late twenties or early thirties; Lee himself was twenty-eight.

“Three rabbits and a pigeon,” Lee replied. “I’ve already flogged ‘em down the market.”

Darren Buckle, hunched over his pint, said solemnly, “Not much meat on a pigeon.”

Lee looked at him, unsure whether he was joking or not. You could never tell with Darren. In the end he shook his head. “No, not much,” he agreed.

“Sausage, beans and chips,” a voice said shyly beside him. Lee turned to see a dark-haired girl in her late teens holding a plate of steaming food.

“Aye, that’s me, love. Just put it down there.” She did so and Lee tucked in.

As he ate, the conversation ebbed and flowed around him. Football, pigeon racing, women, cars and work were discussed. Occasionally, when he felt the tide of conversation flowing his way, Lee would toss in the odd comment, but on the whole he was content just to sit and eat and listen.

Around twenty past one the gathering began to break up. Darren Buckle and Peter Raven, who both worked at a nearby garage, got up to go. Peter drained the last of his pint.

“Well, I’ll see you all tonight then,” he said.

“Tonight?” Lee asked, confused.

“Aye. Bloody hell, Lee, you’ve got a mind like a sieve. It’s Michelle Patterson’s party at the Bar Bados. Don’t tell us you’ve forgotten already.”

Lee had forgotten, but he shook his head. “Course not,” he said, “I’ll be there.”

The Bar Bados was sleazy and run down. Somehow it looked even more depressing now than it had done as a carpet showroom. Lee knew it was a favourite haunt of drug pushers, prostitutes and pickpockets, but that didn’t bother him. If  the price was right, he was not averse to anything that the first two had to offer, and as for the latter, well, his trousers were so tight that even he had trouble getting his hands into the pockets.

Outside the door were two gorillas in dinner suits. As Lee walked up, one of them stepped forward and planted a large hairy hand in the middle of his chest.

“I’ve come for the party,” Lee said, showing his invitation, “Michelle Patterson’s”

Grudgingly the bouncers let him through, and he made his way to the bar through an almost tangible cloud of sweat and marijuana smoke. The barmaid was a large-breasted bottle-blond with an expression that hovered somewhere between stupid hostility and boredom. Lee asked her for a pint of bitter. She gave him a lager in a glass with lipstick smears on the rim, then moved on before he could complain.

He sighed and looked around for his mates. The dance floor was a smoke-wreathed arena of writhing, sweaty bodies trapped by coloured light. The music that throbbed from the speakers was muffled and distorted. Lee spotted his mates sitting at a table to the right of the stage and skirted towards them round the edge of the dance floor. He held his beer above his head to avoid being jogged. his feet slid on crushed cigarette buts and patches of wet. As he got near the table, Peter Raven spotted him and raised a hand in greeting.

“Lee, over here,” he shouted unnecessarily. Lee acknowledged the gesture and struggled his way through.

“We were beginning to think you weren’t gonna come,” Peter said, pulling out a chair with a slashed seat for him.

“I never like to get to these dos too early,” Lee replied, sitting down, “otherwise I’m always blind drunk by the time the birds start to arrive.”

“Aye, and there’s some nice ones here tonight,” Peter said. “Look at that lot.” He pointed at a group of four girls who were dancing around a pile of shoes and handbags. One of them was Michelle Patterson. Their intent expressions and heavy make-up made the scene appear somehow primitive, like a rain dance or a mating ritual.

“Yeah, they’re all right,” Lee said, nodding, though the prospect of breaking into the hallowed circle was a daunting one. He looked around, trying to pick out a girl who looked as though she might be on her own. “Mind you, she’s more my type,” he said, pointing across at a petite, darkly attractive girl with short black hair, who was sitting alone on the other side of the room.

“Why don’t you go and chat her up then?” Peter said. “Quick, before someone else does.”

Lee nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I will. See you in a bit.” He stood up, still clutching his pint, and manoeuvred his way through the forest of flailing limbs on the dance floor. As he approached her table, Lee saw the girl look up and smile as though she’d been expecting him.

“Hello,” she said. She hadn’t raised her voice, but Lee could hear her clearly over the music. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Lee, Lee Mitchell. I saw you sitting on your own and thought you might like some company.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said, and smiled at him again. She was wan and frail looking, she wore no make-up, and her clothes were drab, but in that instant Lee decided she was beautiful. He leaned forward, staring into her eyes, which were large and, in this light, seemed black as ebony. “W-Would you like to dance?” he asked.

The girl glanced at the dance floor, then gave the tiniest shake of her head. “No, thank you. I’d rather just sit here and talk.”

Lee nodded, trying to look enthusiastic, though conversation was not one of his strong points. Most of the girls he had known had shared his bed in exchange for a few drinks and a dancing partner for the evening. Looking down at his empty glass, he said, “Can I buy a drink then?”

The girl gave a little half-smile as though she had a secret joke she was unwilling to share. “That would be nice,” she said. “I’ll just have a Perrier water please.”

“A what?” Lee said. The girl repeated her order. “Do they do that here?” Lee wanted to know. The girl assured him they did, and Lee went to the bar, clutching his empty pint glass in one hand and a crumpled five pound note in the other.

The area in front of the bar was crammed with people and hot as an oven. As Lee queued, he glanced back at the gill to make sure she was still there. She was - a tiny dark-haired figure who from this distance looked no more than twelve or thirteen years old. Looking at her, Lee felt nervous. He had never actually sat down and talked to a girl before, not properly anyway. What could they talk about? She was obviously much brainier than most of the slags he went off with. Did that mean she would be harder to coax into bed? Lee hoped not, because he wanted her badly; his hard-on was almost embarrassing.

As he watched the girl, his heart suddenly jumped. A blond-haired, bearded man had approached her and was asking her something. Lee held his breath, and was relieved when he saw the girl shake her head. The bearded man walked away, looking disappointed.

“Yes?” The barmaid’s harsh voice jolted him out of his reverie. Without realising it he had shuffled to the front of the queue.

“Er... a pint of bitter and a... a Perry water, please.” Had he got that right? Obviously he had, for the barmaid went straight to a bottle with a green label and poured the contents into a glass. Drinks in hand, Lee swayed back to the table.

“Here we are,” he said, setting the glasses down. “Sorry I was so long. It’s packed up there.”

The girl flashed her little half-smile again. “Thank you.”

Lee took a long swig of beer, then hastily wiped away the moustache it made. “Do you know,” he said suddenly, “you haven’t told me your name.”

The girl hesitated, and Lee frowned. Why was she so nervous about giving her name? Then she said decisively, “Joanna. My name’s Joanna.”

Lee nodded. “That’s a nice name. Tell me, Joanna, what do you do?”

This time the reply was more confident. “I’m a secretary at Smith’s in town. Why, what do you do?”

Surely it was Lee’s imagination that the question had sounded like a challenge? “I’m the one in eight,” he said. When the girl looked puzzled, he added, “Unemployed.”

“Oh, I see.” Joanna sipped her Perrier water, then abruptly leaned forward and gazed at him intently. “But what would you really like to do?” she asked.

Lee thought this over. In truth he had been on the dole so long that any job would seem a godsend. With his poaching and his supplementary and his rent money from the council, he reckoned he earned about the same as many of his mates, but that wasn’t the point. A proper job was much more than just a wage packet - it was self-respect; it was an end to breaking the law in order to survive; it was a chance to do something with his life. Poaching kept him above the breadline, but all the same Lee didn’t particularly enjoy killing animals, and he enjoyed the human reactions to it even less: the way people looked at him as though he was a child-murderer, the way they assumed he was a sicko who liked inflicting pain on innocent creatures. After his trial, when his picture had appeared in the paper, the animal rights lot had broken his windows and daubed his walls. They didn’t seem to care that he had bills to pay, food to buy. And they even seemed to have overlooked the fact that he had a dog - Sabre - who he could ill afford, but who was always sleek and well cared for. Lee was certainly no saint, and had never claimed to be, but by the same token he was no ogre either.

All these thoughts passed through his head in just a few seconds. When he looked up, Joanna was still staring at him.

“What would I really like to do? Oh, I dunno - brain surgery or something. Only I don’t think they’d accept me. I couldn’t even get biology CSE at school.”

Joanna smiled stiffly, though Lee could see that his joke hadn’t gone down too well. Maybe she thought he was a layabout, maybe she thought if he was on the dole he wouldn’t be able to afford to keep buying her drinks. He couldn’t give her that impression, could he? Draining his glass for the second time, and trying to hold down a burp, he said, “Another drink?”

“I’ve hardly started this one,” Joanna replied, “Though you go ahead. Would you like me to...?” She reached for a small black handbag at her side. Lee, recognising her intention, stood up hastily, holding up his hand like a traffic policeman halting a line of cars.

“No, no, that’s all right, love, you put your money away. I’ve got plenty, don’t you worry about that.” Hell, that sounded awful, as though he were trying to buy her. Lee knew you had to be careful what you said to birds; they took offence so easily. He turned and stumbled towards the bar, the flashing lights and the speed with which he had consumed his two pints making him feel a little unsteady on his feet.

Ah hour and four pints later Lee was confident he had won Joanna over. The beer had given him the confidence to maintain a steady and, in his opinion, interesting flood of chatter. Joanna had smiled a great deal, but she had not said too much herself. Well, that was okay by Lee; most women talked too much anyway. On his seventh trip to the bar he encountered Peter Raven.

“How y’ gettin’ on with that bird?” Raven asked, his face slack and stupid with drink.

Lee, who was in much the same condition, winked and gave the thumbs-up. “Great. Got her eatin’ out o’ my hand.”

For some reason this struck Raven as excruciatingly funny, and he went off into a fit of drunken giggles. “Reckon you’ll get her into bed?” he snorted.

Lee nodded confidently. “No problem.”

By the end of the evening Lee was so drunk he could barely stand up. For the last couple of hours he had been sprouting bullshit, too pissed to do anything else, but frightened of the silences between himself and Joanna. She, however, had sat through his slurred spiel, smiling and nodding as though it were the most enthralling thing she had heard. Lee reckoned he could have told her his shoe size or counted up to a thousand and she would have found it interesting. This discovery cheered him, gave him confidence. This bird was just like all the rest, he thought; she wasn’t at all brainy. He patted his hip pocket, happily convinced that the condoms in there had not been bought in vain after all.

The lights came on, and Lee looked around in surprise. The club was only about a quarter full now. People were standing by the exits, waiting for taxis or struggling into coats. The bouncers were looking for drunks they could take round the back and beat up. The deejay, a tired, pasty, balding man in his late thirties, was glumly winding up a length of cable. “C’mon,” Lee said with what he hoped was an enticing grin, “time t’ go home.” He stood up, but somehow the chair got tangled in his legs. He fell backwards into a pool of beer, hearing wood splinter.

For a moment the room whirled sickeningly, then shadows fell over him and giant hairy paws groped for his throat. “It’s all right,” he heard the girl say, “he’s with me. I’ll see he gets home.”

Hands reached under his armpits and dragged him up. Lee came face to face with Joanna. Good, she’s strong, his befuddled mind thought. “Shtupid chair,” he told her, sniggering.

“Come on,” Joanna said, and hauled him out into the night.

It was cold. Lee shivered and wished he’d brought a jacket. It took him a moment to realise it was fog, and not his drunkenness, that blurred the street. “Taxi,” he shouted, and went staggering off, searching for transport. Joanna ran after him and caught hold of his arm.

“No, come on,” she said, “this way. If we’re quick, we can catch the night bus.”

Lee allowed himself to be led, gaping blearily about. Fog sat on the world like a hangover. Lee was sure it was this, and not the beer in his stomach, that was making him feel sick. He shivered again and put his arm around Joanna as the fog closed about them like a cold womb.

Suddenly he jumped back; a long serpentine neck supporting a flat glowing head loomed from the greyness. “Silly,” Joanna hissed in his ear, “it’s only a lamp post.”

Lee smiled nervously. “Can we stop a minute? I’m not feeling too good.”

“We’re there now,” Joanna said, pointing. “Just a few more steps.”

Lee looked up. The bus stop seemed incongruous, something solid and ordinary jutting from the grey void. He shook his arm free from Joanna’s grip and staggered to it gratefully. Then he sank to his knees and closed his eyes, his head resting against the cool concrete.

He was woken by the hiss of pneumatic doors opening. He scrambled to his feet, dazed, trying to make sense of the green metal wall studded with squares of light from within which faces were staring at him. A man in a green uniform leaned towards him from behind a steering wheel.

“You gettin’ on or what?”

Lee gazed blearily about him. “Where’s Joanna?”

The bus driver was obviously in no mood for games. “Who?” he asked dangerously.

“Joanna... the girl... there was a girl with me.”

The bus driver shook his head. “No girl, mate, only you.”

Lee looked around, confused, then shrugged. “Shtupid cow,” he muttered, and boarded the bus.

He paid his fare and swayed towards the back seats. The sickness had sank into a corner, immediately feeling warm and snug despite the pain. He was only dimly aware of the hiss of the doors closing before the chugging of the engine lulled him to sleep.

He woke later. How much later he wasn’t sure. Blearily he looked around him. He had a feeling he had been asleep for hours, but the bus was still as full now as when he got on. He sat for a moment, trying to draw his muddled thoughts together. His head still throbbed thickly, but he must have slept through the worst of it. Around him conversation droned, merging with the engine. Lee could not make out any of the words. He stretched himself from his cramped position and looked out of the window. It gave him no clue. The bus was cocooned in fog; Lee couldn’t even see any street lights now.

He leaned forward at him and tapped an old man on the shoulder. “‘Scuse me.”

The man turned to look at him. He wore a brown overcoat and a cloth cap. Hair jabbed from beneath the cap like grey straw.

“‘Scuse me,” Lee repeated, “but are we anywhere near Headingley?”

The man smiled widely without opening his mouth. “Soon,” he said. His voice sounded thick and wet as though his false teeth didn’t fit properly. “Very soon.’

“Thanks,” Lee said, and sat back, relieved. The man nodded and smiled.

Lee looked around the bus, and it struck him for the first time how clean it was. There were no ripped seats, no graffiti, no advertisements for cheap fares or late-night services. It looked, in fact, like a bus that had just rolled straight off the production line.

He leaned back. The drone of conversation went on and on, and after a while he found himself nodding off again. Just before sleep claimed him, he thought how strange it was that they had neither stopped at any other bus stops, not turned any corners. 

Lee could see countryside, and wondered vaguely where Leeds and the fog had gone. “It’s a real pea-souper,” the old man said, though now he was wearing a track suit and carrying a tennis racket.

“Well, it was,” said Lee. “It’s gone now.”

The old man nodded sadly. “It’s like that,” he said. “It comes and goes.”

Lee was almost jerked out of his seat as the bus pulled violently into the kerb. He watched as the driver stood up and addressed the passengers.

“Which one of you came on drunk?” he demanded. Lee shrank lower into his seat, but the driver had seen him.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he said. Lee opened his mouth, but found he couldn’t answer. Suddenly the driver had a whirring drill in his hand.

“People like you need to be taught a lesson,” he purred, and advanced slowly.

“Stop him!” Lee screamed to the passengers. “Stop him, he’s the driller killer!”

One by one, the passengers turned to look at Lee. He gasped as he saw the front of their heads for the first time. They had no faces...

He jerked awake. Despite his chattering teeth he was bathed in sweat. Where was he? In bed? He looked around, confused. He seemed to be in a sort of dark corridor: he could just make out an aisle flanked by dim rows of rectangular shapes. Suddenly it came back to him. The bus - he was on a bus. He groaned. He must have missed his stop and gone right through. The driver must have taken the bus back to the depot, locked up and gone home without realising he was still aboard.

It was silent now, but this time Lee didn’t feel like sleeping. He had to get out and make his way home before someone found him. He didn’t think he’d actually done anything wrong, but his presence might take an awful lot of explaining.

He got up and made his way to the front of the bus, gripping the solid backs of the seats as though he were on a tightrope. His legs still felt a little unsteady, though his shock on waking had sobered him somewhat. He let himself into the driver’s cab, and was about to switch on the lights when he realised how stupid the action would be; after all, he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He groped on the panel, looking for a switch or lever that would open the doors, but couldn’t find one. For a moment, panic surged through him. How was he going to get out? Then he found the button he was looking for and pressed it.

Immediately a babble of conversation filled the bus, and Lee looked round wildly, half-expecting the empty seats to be suddenly full of people again. Realising what he had done, he pressed the button and abruptly the drone of conversation ceased.

Lee felt disturbed. Why did the bus company need to record conversation? What possible purpose could it serve? Curiously he pressed the button again. Conversation babbled. Suddenly scared, Lee jabbed at the button, shutting it off. In the dark, silent, empty bus the voices had been eerie and unnatural.

“Pillock,” Lee said to himself, as all at once he realised there would be an emergency exit at the back of the bus. He picked his way down the aisle again, pulling himself along by the jutting seats as though trying to locate his place in a dark cinema. He reached the back and groped for a catch, and sure enough there it was. He released it and the long window at the back came open with a quiet clunk.

Lee lowered himself out of the window and on to the concrete floor below. He was happy to get off the bus, but now where was he? He looked around, his eyes gradually adapting to the darkness.

He appeared to be in a huge square room, like an aircraft hangar, empty of everything but the bus he had arrived in. He felt uneasy, apprehensive: where were all the other buses? And why was this depot so featureless? Slowly he pivoted on his heels, looking for a way out. It was a few minutes before he noticed the door.

Lee walked over to it, the echo of his footsteps lost in the vastness of the depot. He felt increasingly nervous, certain now that something was wrong. This wasn’t a bus depot at all; no stretch of the imagination could believe it so. Then what was it? And what was the bus doing here? Was it in for repair? Had it been stolen? Questions kept his headache company. Lee would have been happy to leave them all unanswered if only this door led outside.

But it didn’t. Even before he had opened it fully, Lee knew he wasn’t going to be in luck. The first thing he was aware of was a pale green glow, like something out of a science fiction film. He opened the door fully to find himself looking down a long narrow corridor. He began to feel sick again; this was like nothing he had ever seen before. The walls, floor and ceiling of the corridor seemed to be made from beaten copper, lit from above by pale green strip lighting.

Lee took a cautious step into the corridor: the gleaming dimpled walls distorted his reflections, transforming them into writhing sickly-green phantoms. The phantoms, one on either side, accompanied him as he started down.

Up ahead the corridor branched off at a right angle. Please let it lead outside, Lee breathed to himself, please, please,

please.

He came to the bend in the corridor. Another corridor, identical to the first, stretched ahead. For a moment Lee felt like going back to the familiar territory of the bus, but the urge to get out of this place, to see the outside world again, was too strong. Taking a deep breath, he started forward.

This corridor was longer than the first, and, Lee felt sure, darker too. The green light seemed dense, murky, giving Lee the impression that he was heading downwards into the earth.

Nervousness and alcohol made him queasy. He forced himself to keep moving, his footsteps clanging softly on the metal floor.

Up ahead the corridor branched off to the left. Lee approached, hope and fear increasing with each step. As he got closer, the slight buzzing that came from the lights overhead seemed to grow steadily louder.

Lee reached the bend in the corridor and looked down it. Yet another corridor stretched ahead of him. For a moment he was swamped by a wave of terror and despair. He imagined himself wandering for days through corridor after corridor, eventually becoming hopelessly lost and hopelessly mad. He stood, undecided. What should he do? Go on or go back?

Two things decided him. The first was that Lee suddenly noticed the corridor ahead had doors set into the walls at regular intervals. They were made of the same beaten coppery metal as the walls, and at first glance had been unnoticeable. The second was far more sinister. From somewhere behind him came a snuffling and a snorting as though some animal were tracking him. He looked over his shoulder, and thought he could detect something way back in the murk of the corridor - a looming shadow on the walls and a pale bloated shape. Fear overcame his curiosity and he plunged into the corridor.

The light here was even more dingy. Lee groped his way to the nearest door and grasping the handle. Should he enter? A sudden thought, sharp and clear, crystallised in his mind: was he meant to enter? His hand, limp and sweaty, hovered over the handle. A further outbreak of snorting and snuffling, closer now, reverberated from the walls of the corridor behind him. Bracing himself, he yanked down the door handled and entered.

Immediately light blinded him. Lee threw up his hands, terrified at his sudden inability to see where he was. He felt vulnerable as a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. Scrabbling behind him, he found the door handle and pushed, closing out the pig-like snorting from the corridor. He stayed in that position for a moment, crouched with his weight against the door, until his eyes adjusted to the light.

Little by little the glare subsided, and Lee was able to make out vague shapes. His first thought was that he was in an operating theatre, his second in an abattoir.  The brightly lit room was dominated by a white man-sized slab which was streaked with blood and scraps of offal. The smell that hung in the air was rich and hot and sticky. Lee moved away from the door and began a cautious examination of the room, taking care not to step in the blood that lay in small pools about the floor.

The room was white-tiled, square and functional, lit from above by the same strip lighting as in the corridors, except this was white instead of green. Along one wall was a runnel supporting a row of butcher’s hooks, while along another wall hung an assortment of oddly shaped implements. Lee examined them, feeling uncomfortable and afraid. There was an assortment of knives of various sizes, the blades peculiarly curved, and many tools that he couldn’t put a name to. He lifted one down from its hook, a small sickle-shaped implement with a fine serrated blade. Lee was surprised at how heavy the thing was, then noticed what appeared to be a small motor inside the handle. Intrigued, he looked for a switch, found one, and turned the tool on. With a high-pitched whirr the blade began to spin, the teeth blurring together as it picked up speed. He turned the tool off, shuddering. The whirring noise reminded him of the dream he had had on the bus.

He put the tool back on its hook. Then it struck him that it might come in useful if he had to defend himself against the snorting thing outside. He reached for the blade again, then hesitated and drew his hand away. For some reason, just holding the tool gave him the creeps.

Lee tried to make sense of the situation. Maybe the bus depot backed onto a slaughterhouse, and those metal corridors that he had come through were where the animals were kept, prior to being slaughtered. It wasn’t a very plausible explanation, but it was the best Lee could manage. He needed some shred of rationality to cling to.

He jumped as something soft and heavy thumped against the door. He stood still and listened. After a moment the noise came again, followed by a grunting and sniffing. The thing outside must have picked up his scent. Lee looked round wildly as the handle of the door began to turn.

He noticed what appeared to be a cupboard set into the wall beneath the butcher’s hooks. He hurried across to it, praying that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t. Lee tugged it open and dived inside, aware that behind him the snorting was growing louder as whatever it was entered the room.

He found himself in a space about the size of a bathroom. It was dim, but he could make out a rack of clothes along the wall behind him. Despite his terror, he found the clothes strange and intriguing. Although in different sizes, they were all identical - pale pink body stockings, each with a dark furry hood. Lee examined them curiously. The material was odd - pliable, almost rubbery in texture, smooth in parts rough in others.

Lee turned his attention to the door as something plopped against it from outside. He held his breath as he heard the familiar terrifying sniffing and snorting, and he shrank back against the rack of clothes. Go away, he prayed silently, go away, go away. His prayers were not answered. The door handle turned and the door slowly opened inwards.

Light flooded into the room, bringing with it a whirring sound - and a nightmare. Shapes filled the doorway: grey bloated creatures, their skin as soft as dough. They had vaguely human features, though with snouts instead of noses, and stubby three-fingered hands. Lee crammed himself back against the far wall, too frightened even to scream. The creatures parted to form a tunnel, and a petite dark-haired girl appeared, holding the whirring sickle-shaped blade that Lee had examined earlier. It was Joanna.

“Hello, Lee,” she said brightly. She smiled, hugely now, and came towards him. Lee began to whimper.

And as the creatures held him down, he suddenly realised what those pale pink things on the rack really were.

[Originally published in Final Shadows, 1991. Then in Kimota 2, Summer 1995]

HOME COMFORTS

by Peter Crowther

The sign comes up on our right. Merrydale, it says, 4 miles.

I look across at Melanie, her face set to the windscreen and bathed a faint green in the dashboard light. Her mouth moves around, saying nothing in particular, just chewing syllables. Quiet.

The turning comes up quicker than I expected in the gloom and I almost miss it, spinning the wheel into the gravel and earth at the side of the road, watching the headlights wash across trees and earth and the last far-off gleams of the sun going down. Rain washes the windows and runs down in thick rivulets that the single wiper can’t easily clear. For a second I think we’re going to get stuck, but the wheels, skidding noisily just the one time, catch on something solid and the Old Dodge jumps back onto the road. Now we can see a tree-lined lane in front of us, stretching down a hill. No Streetlights, No noise. No signs of life.

Never any signs of life.

“Maybe here, honey,” I whisper to Melanie, placing a hand that she once recognised gently on her knee. “Maybe this is the place.” I put the hand back onto the steering wheel. There had been no response to it.

We start down the lane.

A few minutes later we roll onto a main street that must have once looked like something out of a Saturday Evening Post cover. Now it looks as lost and forlorn as we must look, drifting into town through the mud and the rain, our bellies empty of food, eyes empty of warmth, minds empty of compassion.

I check the gas gauge. It’s low.

“Gonna have to get some gas, honey,” I tell Melanie, though I know she isn’t listening. I snatch a sideways glance and see her head making those staccato movements as she checks the storefronts and the barn doors, and we roll on down the road to what looks like it might be, or maybe once was, the Merrydale town centre.

Up ahead there’s the remnants of a picket fence surrounding a square of overgrown grass. Behind the square is a wooden walkway, its slats sticking up into the night-time sky, and a general store, a barber shop and a couple of others I can’t make out. The windows are smashed in, a couple of them boarded over and the wood pulled open. The darkness behind the wood is absolute. A pure colour. Complete black.

Round back of the square, to the left, I see a Texaco sign swinging in the wind. In my head I hear its rusty whine, like a baby left too long by itself, all hoarse and cried out, dried up of tears and passion. I pull off the main drag, into the shade of the buildings, and the rain seems to ease off. I drive around the square and now I see the garage. There’s an old DeSoto, tyres flat, windows smashed, parked half in and half out the station window where once a kid, or maybe some old guy who’d spent his whole life in Merrydale, would sit listening to the ball game or the Wednesday night fight or rap music, watching, and waiting for cars and customers.

Suddenly the rain seems more insistent, wetter, relentless. The night looks darker and colder and even less hopeful. But we left hope, Melanie and me, a long way and a long time back.

I park the Dodge and get out. As I open the door, Melanie grabs my arm and shakes her head, groaning. She points into the back seat, “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m just gonna see if there’s any gas in those pumps, is all.” But no, she won’t have it. She hangs onto my jacket, fingers white, eyes wide and staring. I tell her okay, and I reach in back for a couple of the stakes. Lift the old strapped hammer and shrug it over my head and my right shoulder so it sits around me like a gun. And I step out into Merrydale.

The wind is whistling and the rain coming down in intermittent sheets. A few steps away from the car and I’m soaked.

The pumps are smashed up, the nozzles removed and cast across the forecourt. I walk over to the DeSoto, look inside. There’s a mummified body on the back seat. It’s a woman. She doesn’t have any eyes, just black, staring sockets. Her clothes are pulled up and her scrawny breasts exposed... her pants are down, legs pulled wide apart. For a second I think maybe I saw something move down there... something small with a long tail... but I convince myself it’s just the clouds across the moon making shadows. Something I don’t want to feel turns around inside me, calls to me to let me know it’s still there. I take a look back at my car. Melanie is hunched forward in her seat, nose against the windscreen, watching me through the rain. I smile and shrug, walk away from the DeSoto to the pumps.

On closer inspection I see that I might be able to put one of them back together. I glance around to make sure I’m still okay and then crouch down, lay the wooden stakes on the pavement, pick up the nozzle, and heft it to the pump. It just needs screwing in again. I do that.

Melanie knocks on the windscreen. She’s telling me to get the stakes. I wave and she stops knocking. Then I pick up the stakes and jam them inside my jacket pocket. The pump gun lever seems to be stuck, so I give it a tap with the hammer to free it up. I give it a gentle squeeze and nothing happens. Squeeze it some more. Still nothing. I curse my stupidity. No electricity. Just before I wrench the nozzle back out again, I see the crank-bolt on the side of the pump. Of course! There had to be a way to get the gas moving manually in such an out-of-the-way place. I look around on the floor for something to use, but there isn’t anything. I lay the nozzle down and walk back to the Dodge.

Melanie leans over and lifts the catch. I pull the door open and crouch down beside the car. “Honey,” I say, real soft and slow, so she won’t start to panic on me, “I’m gonna go into the filling station, get a wrench or something to crank up some gas.”

She shakes her head.

I reach over and take her small white hand in mine, stroke it once or twice. “Melanie, honey, we need gasoline. I have to try. Now you just sit tight right here and I’ll be back before you know it.” She blinks at me like she doesn’t believe it. For a second I see how much she looks like her mother. How much she looks like my beloved Mary. But her memory seems tainted now.

I stand up and slam the door, turn my back on them, on Melanie and Mary. Walk over to the office.

Most of the glass is gone, littered across the inside of the room. In back there’s a sign saying Washroom, but I ignore the privacy it promises. Near the counter is a comic book stand, no comic books in it, and a book rack with no books. Down on the floor I see a dog-eared paperback all puffed out with water damage. I pick it up and read the cover. It shows a baseball and a bat. Gone To Glory. Guy called Robert Irving or Irvine... I can’t make it out. Something about it being “a Moroni traveller mystery.” I toss it back onto the floor and slide across the counter to where the pump controls lay covered in dust and dirt.

From the other side of the counter I can see the Dodge. I give a wave to Melanie, but she isn’t looking my way. I see her profile. Watch her 11 years turn into 34 years, see her face turn from a girl into a woman. I jerk my hands up to my face and jam fingers into my eyes, stop the thoughts.

It would be so easy to just walk out of the office, walk out of the filling station, take it on the lam from beautiful, downtown Merrydale and hightail it up to the Interstate, catch a ride on a truck heading for St. Louis or maybe Kansas City, chew the fat with one of the good-ol’-boy truck-drivin’ boys while we listen to some sounds on his radio or shout back yells and thoughts at the voices that come over the CB... and, outside, the night speeds by us and he offers me some of his sandwiches and maybe a slug of Lone Star beer he’s had cooling in the box beneath his seat. And he pulls his old steam whistle that honks into the darkness, lets everyone know we’re alive... and we’re comin’ !

I take the hands away.

There are no trucks on the Interstate. There are no sounds on the radio, no voices on the CB, no ham on rye and no cold beers. There’re just a few survivors and a few drinkers. Guy back in Racktown, little place due south of Columbus, had told me that there weren’t too many drinkers left, he figured. He hadn’t seen one in more than a year. That maybe it was all over now and it’s time to rebuild.

I tell Melanie what the guy said. “Now ain’t that just the best news you’ve heard all year?” I ask her. But she doesn’t respond. Guy watches her and then asks me if she’s okay. “Sure she’s okay,” I tell him, “Sure she’s okay.” And Melanie just stares ahead, past the old man, watching the road out of Racktown across the state of Ohio and into Indiana, next stop Indianapolis and, after that, Springfield, Illinois and, after that...

Melanie can see me now. I wave at her and she waves back at me. The wave looks strange, woodenlike.

The old guy’s voice comes back into my head.

“So what’s wrong with her, then?” he says. “She your daughter?” I nod back to him and smile, proudlike. “Yep,” I tell him. “So what’s wrong with her?” he asks me again.

“She’s been hurt,” I tell him.

“Hurt?” he asks. “Yeah,” I tell him. “Drinker got her.” I say it real low so that Melanie can’t hear me too well. “Back home, Macon, guy got her in the house and...” I let my voice trail and let him figure the rest. “That’s what we’re doin’ now, her and me,” I tell him. “Trackin’ that bastard down.”

He shakes his head in my memory.

“Look,” I say to him. And I reach over to pull Melanie’s scarf down from her neck. They’re still there, on her neck, the bruises. Both sides. “Skin ain’t broke, “ the old guy says. “No, “ I agree,” and that right there is the one almighty blessing. “ And I pull up the scarf again. Melanie doesn’t move, she just stares at the road. “But she got broke in other places,” I tell him sadly. As if on cue, Melanie clasps her hands on her lap and draws her knees tight together.

“Trackin’ him down, you say?”

“Right in one, “ I say. I take a sip of the lemonade he’s given us. It tastes like I always figured champagne would taste, little bubbles tickling my face as I drink.

“Like a detective on an old TV show, “ he says. I grunt, thinking back to television shows,

“You got any idea which way he’s headin’ ? “ he says.

I shake my head.

The old guy nods. “ Happened back in Georgia, you say?”

“I say.”

“ Long ways, “ he says.

I nod in agreement and look up at the sun, squinting.

“Long ways for such fresh-lookin’ bruises,” he mutters, and shakes his head giving Melanie the once-over, looking down at her tiny, clasped hands. “Funny,” he carries on, “I ain’t never heard of a drinker doin’ that.”

Pretty soon after that we got back inside the Dodge, Melanie and me, and we rode on out of Racktown,

Melanie has settled some now, I see, my mind coming back to the filling station office. Now that she can see me.

I try to cast my mind back to before the sickness, before the “drinking” plague... the plague made that AIDS thing seem like a summer cold. It’s like a dream to me now.

And I think back to Mary. In my mind I watch her getting sick. Lord knows where she got it from, or who gave it to her. She just got it. I think back to how we kept her locked up during the night-time, when it was dark, and she was thirsty, thinking maybe it would just wear itself out, the sickness, like a fever. And how, during the daylight hours, we kept her safe and warm and dark. She had lost all recollection of who she was early on, become just like an animal. And Melanie and me we fed her the occasional animal I caught out in the woods. Let her drink to her heart’s content.

But old man Snapes caught on to how he never saw Mary during the day. I told him she was sick with the flu - there was one going around at the time, which was a big help. But after a while most everyone else who’d caught it was getting better and Mary still didn’t make an appearance.

I shake my head at the memory, but it’s all churned up now and I have to run it through.

I think back to the night when they came for her. Old man Snapes and Corley Waters and a couple of boys I hadn’t seen before. Knocked on the door, large as life, like they were making a social call, and then pushed past me and Melanie with their stakes and their hammers.

“Where is she, Jake?” Corley Waters shouts. I don’t say anything, just grab hold of Melanie and glance at the bedroom door. They see the bolts, of course. And they go in, close the door behind them.

But we heard it, Melanie and me. We heard every thud and every scream.

A few minutes later, they drag her out in a sheet, blood all over it, and a few of the stakes are still in her. “You shoulda told us, Jake,” old man Snapes says to me. His eyes look sad and tired as they look everywhere but right at me. “Woulda been easier.”

And then they left, leaving the house quiet and still.

Melanie doesn’t say a word. She just walks to the bedroom door and pulls it closed, pushes the bolts home.

Somewhere behind me I hear a noise.

I spin around and stare into the gloom.

Back away from the counter, the office lets onto a corridor with a door at the end. The noise came from in there. I glance back outside and wave at Melanie. She gives me that dull wave again, like a puppet, someone working her strings.

I creep slowly away from the window, into the corridor and towards the door. I hear it again, softer this time.

My hand is shaking as it reaches out for the handle, tests it, and finds it moves. I turn it all the way and push gently. As it opens, I can hear more noises now. Seems there’s a whole lot of little sounds but, with the door closed, I can only hear the heavier ones. I get my head up against it and look inside.

It’s light in there. The light is coming from a candle that flickers in the little breezes and drafts that find their way into the back room. It’s a storage room... or was once. There’s a whole line of shelving made out of metal scaffolding. On the shelves are a load of boxes and clothes, some hanging there on hangers. The room is done out like a home. On the floor, in front of the candle, a man is cleaning something. It’s an animal. Looks like he’s preparing something to eat. I can’t make out what it is but I see a tail. Then I know why the woman’s been left in the DeSoto. Bait.

Next to the man a woman is lying across some blankets and carpets. They’re about 30 years old, maybe younger.

I watch the man.

I see him smile at the woman.

He smiles at her the way I used to smile at Mary.

He smiles at her the way I tried to smile at Melanie that first time, back in Macon. When I pushed her down and held her hands and made believe she was Mary. When I told her I needed some home comforts. Man can’t get by without home comforts, I told her. That was when she stopped talking to me. When she stopped saying anything at all.

I pull the hammer off my shoulder and push the door open wide. It slams against some of the shelving right behind it and I march into the room. The man looks up at me, but I walk straight to the woman. She’s making to get up, but the hammer catches her in the face and she falls right back down. I swing the hammer high and bring it down right into the face... that face that took the man’s smiles. It bursts like a watermelon. The woman lies still.

“J-Jane?” the man says, making it a question. He knows there’s no chance he’ll get an answer from that pulp, but he just has to ask. For a second I feel a little sympathy. For a second. But I have other things to think about.

I reach down and grab the man’s shirtfront, hoist him to his feet. As I drag him out of that back room, he’s shouting back over his shoulder to the woman. Then he’s shouting at me, asking me what I’m doing, telling me he isn’t a drinker. He uses God’s name a lot, and Jesus’ too. But they don’t have any place in this. They don’t have any place in anything any more. I don’t say anything.

I drag him through the office and out into the night. My blood’s pumping inside me and I feel something uncurling inside my pants.

Melanie gets out of the Dodge.

“I got him, honey,” I shout to her. “Daddy’s got the bastard what messed with you.”

“What...what the hell are you-”

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, smacking him across his face with my free arm, letting the hammer drop to the forecourt where its clattering echoes a while and then fades away.

Melanie is out of the Dodge now and leaning against the hood. Her eyes are wide and expectant, her hands are rubbing themselves together.

I lift the man and toss him onto the hood, pull a stake out of my pocket. He holds his hands up in the air, covering his chest, pulling his knees up like a baby. He’s shouting at me, but I don’t hear. The thing in my pants is screaming now. I hold the stake over his chest and Melanie hands me the hammer. “Thanks, honey,” I say to her and she smiles at me one of those special smiles.

“Jesus Christ,” the man shouts, trying to grab my arm. But he just isn’t strong enough.

“Is he the one, honey?” I ask her, ask her the way I’ve asked her all the other times.

She nods, quickly, emphatically... like she’s nodded to me on all of those same times.

“I never seen her bef—” The hammer comes down on the stake and drives it into the man’s chest, stopping him in mid-sentence. The blood spurts like an oil-gusher. When I lift my hand from him he stays right where he is, jerking his belly up and down, not saying anything, and I figure the stake has gone right through into the Dodge’s hood. I pull out another stake and hand it to Melanie. She holds it over his left-hand side and I hit it squarely. The man is still now.

“He’s dead,” I tell Melanie, exhausted.

“I killed him for you, honey. He can’t hurt you no more.”

Melanie takes my hand and squeezes it tight. The way she’s done it after all of the others. The way she did after the boy in South Carolina and the old man in Racktown. Like after the youngster in Raleigh and the young feller in Charleston.

She squeezes and leads me around the Dodge to the back seat, pulls open the door, I get inside first, sweeping all of the wooden stakes onto the floor. Before she climbs in after me, Melanie helps me with my pants.

When we’re through, I ask her, “Are you sure he was the one, Melanie honey? Do you think we could’ve made a mistake?”

Melanie frowns and looks down at her hands, pulls her dress over herself. Then she nods.

“Then he’s still out there,” I say to her, “the bastard.”

Within an hour I’ve found a wrench and gotten some gasoline out of the old pump. Our luck is in.

With the sun starting to show across the hills, we leave Merrydale for points north.

As we pull onto the deserted freeway, I think back to what that old man said, back in Racktown. About how maybe I was like a detective in one of the old television shows.

Watching the road trailing into the distance I half imagine I hear end-credits music drifting across the blacktop and the roof of my old Dodge. At my side, Melanie stares out of the side window... like she’s hoping to see something different to what we’ve just passed by.

I pat her on the knee, but she doesn’t respond... just gives out a little shiver.

After a few hours, a sign comes up on our right. Hannibal, it says, 28 miles.

I look across at Melanie, her face set to the windscreen. Her mouth moves around, saying nothing in particular, just chewing syllables.

Quiet.

[Originally published in Vampire Detectives, 1995 then in Kimota Autumn 9, 1998]

THE FIRES OF SUMMER

by Steve Lockley

Robbie Dawson took an involuntary breath as he walked into the shadow of Milk Hill. To his left, out of the shade, a motorbike with a leather jacket draped over the seat gleamed in the sunshine. Even the brass studs on the jacket caught the sun and although he could not read it from where he stood, Robbie knew they spelled “MIKE THE BIKE”. In the long grass near the bike he could hear a girl giggling. Robbie had lived next door to Mike for years and he got on with him okay, but Mike had left school now and never seemed to have the time to kick a ball around with him.

“C’mon then,” beckoned Kev and the other boys who strode on fearlessly through the long grass, ignoring Mike’s presence. “You comin’ or what?”

More giggling from the girl.

“Or what!” called one of the other boys. Robbie thought it was Vince. “Maybe he’s afraid that he’ll roll back down.”

Bastard, thought Robbie as he hurried to catch up. He couldn’t help being fat. The doctors had said he would grow out of it eventually. In the meantime he had to put up with the snide comments that always seemed to slip out of someone’s mouth, intentional or not. He doubted if they would have even let him play football with them if one of the gang hadn’t been away on holiday with his parents. And they needed someone to play in goal.

Now they had goaded him into climbing Milk Hill, a man made mountain of spoil from the pit where his dad had worked. The mine was long gone but Milk Hill remained as a constant reminder. From a distance the milky whiteness of the clay was hidden by the vegetation that had taken hold over the years. Close up it was more prominent, and obviously treacherous.

“Where’s Don?” he asked, noticing for the first time that one of their number was missing.

“Home,” replied Kev. “Don’t you know nothing? Our man Don’s got asthma something rotten.”

That explained a lot. Don had played in goal on the opposite team, and whenever the ball had gone out of play for a corner, or had slipped between the coats for a goal another player would recover the ball for him. They had not been so kind to Robbie, seeming to prefer to see him puff as he chased after the ball. They cheered whenever his sweatshirt rode up to reveal the rolling flesh beneath.

“We’ll take the North face shall we boys” said Kev as if talking about Everest. The others nodded and one or two threw jumpers on the ground, which had previously been tied around their owner’s waists.

“You ready then Rolly,” said Vince leading the way up the first stage of the climb. The others followed silently in single file until Robbie was left alone with Kev.

“You next Robbie. You sure you’ve never been up here before?”

He shook his head. If his mother so much as got a whisper that he was here he would be stopped from going out for the rest of the summer holiday. Maybe longer.

“Dad used to say it’s dangerous up there.” 

“Dangerous now is it? And why’s that?”

“Every now and then, in hot summers, this place can catch fire.”

“Don’t worry, nobody’s going to be throwing matches about,” said Kev.

“Its nothing to do with matches. Its something to do with whatever is underneath this lot. There’s all sort of muck rotting away inside, it gets hot, and...”

“Yeah?”

“Well it gets hot and starts burning. Dad said it can be burning underground for years. Besides, he always said that when kids go missing, and they never find the bodies, well they’re probably lost up here.”

“Sounds like this dad of yours used to feed you a load of bull, but please yourself. If you’re too afraid don’t bother showing up for footie tomorrow.”

Robbie shuffled in silence, he knew he had to do this. It had taken long enough to make any sort of friends and there was no way he was going to be left out in the cold again without a fight.

“Okay. Well this is the easy bit.” said Kev. 

The first part of the climb was little worse than the embankment by the railway lines, but Robbie still felt out of breath after only ten or twelve strides and had to stop. Six feet above him the others were waiting on a ledge, sniggering at his progress.

“Come on Rolly. Come on Rolly,” they chanted in unison, following the lead that Vince had set.

“Piss off,” he muttered under his strained breath before finding himself being pushed from below.

“Shift it Robbie. We ain’t got all day,” said Kev. “And I want to get back down before it gets dark.”

“Looks like it’s pretty dark where you are already,” shouted Vince. The others laughed. 

Robbie lost his footing as he reached up to pull himself onto the ledge, stripping the skin from his knees despite the protection of his jeans and sent a shower of dust into Kev’s face. He coughed and spat without complaint while Robbie muttered his apologies. Robbie felt more uncomfortable with Kev’s silence than the taunts.

Before he had even recovered his breath, the others including Kev were ready to tackle the second, steeper half of the climb.

“You go on I’ll catch you up.”

“Not a chance Rolly,” Vince again. “We let you off now and you’ll never see the top.”

He scrambled to his feet, and supporting himself on the dry, crumbling rubble, sent another shower of debris skidding down the side of the mountain. 

“What do you boy’s think you’re doing up there? If you don’t come down straight away I’ll call the police.” The woman backed away from the hill and shielded her eyes from the sun. Robbie pressed himself back as far as he could in the hope that he could make himself invisible.

“It’s Don’s gran,” said Kev.

“What the hell is she doing over here?” asked one of the other boys.

“Coal picking.”

“What, in summer?”

“Plan ahead Curly. It gets too bloody cold to do it in the winter when you need it. There’s enough of the stuff just lying around to keep a fire going through the winter.”

“Mainly small bits though, and more stone than coal. Hardly worth getting excited about.”

Kev shrugged, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” 

Everyone nodded as if the comment had been the wisest thing they had ever heard. Even Vince had lapsed into silence for the moment. Robbie knew that Don lived alone with his Gran, and for that reason alone he considered him a kindred spirit.

After a minute the silence became awkward and a few of the boys began shuffling around on the ledge, obviously eager to continue the ascent.

“You first this time then Robbie,” said Kev and the others moved around to reveal a narrow crevice leading up and around the hill.

There was no backing out. If he went down, not only would he lose face but Don’s gran would see him, and any hope he had of keeping the climb a secret would be ended. Carefully he edged along until he was able to find a first tentative foothold in the crumbling surface. He was sweating and the top of his thighs felt sore where they rubbed together in the gap between his pants and the crotch of his trousers.

He heard laughter behind but on turning to look, was relieved to see they were laughing at Vince pissing down the side of the hill and not, for once, at him. This was his chance. He tried to seize it quickly taking two, three, four steps up the crevice while the others were distracted. Five, six, almost at the next ledge before he slipped and slid back down. His sweatshirt dragged up and the dry clay dug into the flab of his stomach. He bit his tongue as he tried to stifle a scream and his chin hit a lump of clay. The laughter started again, this time it was meant for him.

“Let the dog see the rabbit Rolly,” said Vince climbing over him while still zipping up his jeans. “You’ got to know what you’re doing up here. None of this barging about.” He stepped into the crevice sideways on, keeping his back to the hill and worked his way up slowly until he was on the next ledge before disappearing around the far side.

The others followed quickly leaving Robbie to pick at his wounds. Even Kev left him while he was plucking stone and dirt from the mass of blood and grazed flesh. It stung, worse than anything he could remember, and he could barely stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. He was glad they had gone. Glad that no-one was watching him as he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. For a moment he was tempted to try to make his way back down on his own but knew that even in the state he was in he would be better getting to the top. He copied the way Vince had climbed and after a minute of sweating and straining he was on the shelf and able to follow what turned out to be a gentle path to the summit.

The top of Milk Hill was not the peak it appeared from ground level, but a plateau almost the size of a football pitch, with a number of piles of rubble over five feet high scattered around. Looking beyond the edge, back the way they had come, he could see Mike and the girl getting on the motorbike. He watched as they set off along the rutted path. The girl screamed each time the machine almost took off with the rise and fall of the path. Only when they were out of sight did he realise he was alone.

“Kev?”

No reply. It was some sort of game they were playing.

“Kev?” he called again, more insistently, but still without reply. He skirted part of the edge in case they were hiding just out of sight but the rock and clay crumbled as he did so, causing him to retreat while small pieces of debris cascaded down the side of the hill. Behind him he heard stifled laughter, but as he turned the sound was lost in the air. They had to be crouching behind the piles of rubble, but as he approached each one he heard noises from the direction of the others. It was a game he was not interested in playing, becoming more frustrated as the sounds changed from laughter to taunts.

“Okay. A joke’s a joke. If you lot just want to prat about that’s fine by me, but I’m not hanging about.”

“Home to Mummy is it fat boy,” called a voice from behind one of the stacks. It had to be Vince.

“Yeah maybe you’d be happier at home by the fire. Got to stay warm even in the summer haven’t we Robbie. I’m surprised your mum let you out without a coat today.”

Kev? Surely not, he was his friend. But he was right. His mum had made him wear a coat when he left the house, despite the blazing heat, but he had hidden it in the garden shed before meeting up with the others. He would have to remember to pick it up again before he went back in the house. But what did they really know? They didn’t know about his dad dying of a chest infection because he had been out in the cold and damp too long. They didn’t know how the sound of a cough could rattle around in your head so much that it could begin to hurt just to hear it. They didn’t know what it was like to wish someone dead just so you could get a decent nights sleep. They didn’t know, and they never would.

He began to walk back the way they had come despite the danger, head still high, when a stone skidded on the ground in front of his feet. He chose to ignore it. It was hard trying to fight back the tears again. There was no way he could let them think they had won, but when the first stone hit the side of his head he fell to the ground. Almost instantly stones and lumps of clay rained down on him, some thrown with force and venom, others obviously just tossed in his direction. The sound of his assailants cries drowned out his sobbing.

Again and again stones struck his back and arms as he tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but still they managed to hurt him. He wanted to look, to see who was throwing the stones. There was no way that it was just Vince, the stones were coming from more than one direction. What was more frightening was the sound of them moving from their shelter and gathering closer around him. Trying to crook his arm to get at least a quick look. He registered the sight of advancing feet, but not the grubby trainers he expected to see, these were as bare and grey as the surface on which they walked. The feet were uneven, almost ragged as if half worn away, covered in cracks and oozing blood through the grime. 

Another stone bounced close to him and caught him just above the eye. His cheek pressed against the ground, stones digging deep into his flesh, threatening to break the skin. The smell of sulphur and heat burned his nose and throat, he wanted to give in to it. Anything to stop the pains of the stones that continued to rain down. He tried to scramble along on his belly until the mountain rumbled again and a crack opened up only metres away.

For a moment the stones stopped and as he looked again through the crook of his arm he could see the feet had retreated. He wanted to look, to see fully who or what had been trying to hurt him. No. They were not trying to hurt him, they were trying to kill him. That was the point at which Robbie realised how frightened he was. He had to try to get away while he had the chance. Then the crack widened and he sensed movement inside. In the instant he hesitated, finger tips began to stretch over the edge, each as cracked and bleeding as the feet. Hands stretched out to find purchase and strained to pull thin waiflike heads and bodies to the surface, each with hollow eyes. He froze.

“Why don’t you join us Robbie,” said a dry and dusty voice. “You know you belong with us.”

“No,” he said. “Leave me alone. You’re not real.”

“Yes we are Robbie. We have all found our place at last. Found real friends.”

Robbie pressed his hands hard against his ears, trying to block out the voice, even though for a moment he had started to believe it. He didn’t really belong, at least not with the gang who had left him to suffer alone.

“Come with us Robbie.” said another voice. “You don’t have to go back down. You can stay.”

Somehow he managed to conjure up a voice in his head, reassuring him and blocking out the pleading voices. Dad’s voice, the way it used to be before it became croaky and rasping.

Softly and quietly the voice said, “The Lord is my shepherd...” It was the only thing he could remember his dad saying clearly enough to hold onto in his mind. The voice continued and Robbie tried to mumble along in unison.

Then there was the sound of a motorbike, and the shouts of one or two of the boys running away. Robbie chanced another look and saw wheels flashing in front of him. The bike’s wheels dug into clay and stones and dust spun into the air. 

“You okay Robbie?” asked Mike, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“I think so. Thanks,” replied Robbie, still shaking. He looked around but there was nothing there, no grey creatures, just a scattering of stones around the place where he had been lying. He climbed on the back of the bike and Mike rode back down the hill using the rutted tracks that the lorries had once used to tip the spoil. The same way that the others had used for their escape 

“A piece of advice Robbie,” said Mike after Robbie had climbed off the bike at the bottom of the hill. “Keep away from this place. You know your dad wouldn’t have liked you being up there. The fumes that come up can make you see some bloody strange things. And don’t be lonely OK.”

Robbie nodded without speaking as Mike rode away. He wanted to ask what he had seen but perhaps it was better he never knew. 

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

TIME’S CHANGE

by Barbara Davies

The time-travel device looked like something from a Heath Robinson cartoon, but Dr Stephen Crowley had always known it would work. On the very first trial, three weeks ago, it had disappeared and reappeared exactly as planned.

He remembered when the box had first materialized in front of him - the videotape, taken some ten years ago, showed the shocked expression on the then undergraduate physics student’s face in embarrassing detail. By its next appearance, he had become more blasé, having deduced that his future self must have sent it. From that time on, confident of success, he had worked single-mindedly to perfect the device that guided the box.

Crowley put the squirming guinea-pig into the compartment with the air-holes and closed the lid. The other compartment contained the time-travel mechanism itself and a video camcorder, its lens snug against the two-inch hole in the box’s side. Wires snaked between the hi-tech controls, circuit boards, mini-generator and camcorder - the only item he hadn’t built himself.

It was time for the latest experiment, but for the first time he was worried. He couldn’t remember being present when a guinea-pig arrived. Either this particular experiment had failed, or the box and its passenger had materialized when his younger self was absent. To be on the safe side, he calibrated the dials to 1956, five years before he had been born. Then he started the generator, closed the lid, and stood back.

The machinery hummed, and the box disappeared. Two seconds later, the time machine was back, apparently unscathed. With shaking hands, Crowley opened the lid and switched off the generator. Then, he opened the smaller compartment. Inside, the little brown-and-black animal chewed contentedly at a piece of lettuce, its whiskers twitching at the sudden brightness. It stopped nibbling for a moment then resumed eating. Still alive, thank God! Relieved, Crowley turned his attention to the camcorder. Part of the video tape had been used; something had been recorded. He put the cassette into his video player, rewound it, switched on the TV and began to watch.

Onto the screen came the familiar view of his lab, and of himself. His lab coat, he noticed absently, badly needed a wash. The scene blinked out, to be replaced by what was clearly someone’s dining room.

A youngish woman in a floral print apron, her hair styled like Marilyn Monroe, was setting out well-worn cutlery and napkins on a Utility table. She looked up suddenly, and her brown eyes widened, the whites showing prominently. For a long moment she stood as if frozen. Then Crowley watched her take a deep breath, put down the cutlery she had been holding in a white-knuckled grip, and approach purposefully. Her hands grew huge as they neared the camera lens.

He flinched. Even though he knew the box was safely back in the lab, he couldn’t help fearing that the woman was going to tamper with it and strand it forever in the past... But before the giant hands could grab the box, the screen went blank and the picture of the lab reappeared. A few moments more, and all sound and vision ceased. Crowley let the blank tape continue playing. Then he punched one fist into the air. “Yes!”

Dee Lewis had lived in the house for nearly a month before she ventured into its loft in search of storage space. She opened the tiny trapdoor, stuck her head and shoulders through, and shone the torch into pitch black emptiness. The loft stretched the full width of her part of the terraced block, rafters soaring to an apex. There were no floor boards, but around the trapdoor lay some old wooden planks - perhaps she could stack her cardboard boxes on them.

The sound of running water gradually claimed her attention. Turning the torch onto the water tank and its pipes to check it was properly lagged - you couldn’t be too careful with Winter approaching - she realized there was something wedged beneath its supporting trestle. Something that looked like an old tea chest.

Dee eased her way over to the tank, braced herself, and gave the tea chest a tug. It moved more easily than she was expecting, and she almost lost her balance - whatever was in the chest didn’t weigh very much. She shone the torch into the corner now protruding. The contents were covered by a dust-encrusted piece of faded wallpaper which she twitched aside. In the dim torchlight, she could make out ancient newspaper, scratched tin boxes, and some old ornaments. She pulled out one of the boxes and opened it. Old stamps, some Victorian by the look of them. Promising. Carefully she began to unpack the case...

Half an hour later, the items from the loft were ranged beside Dee on the lounge sofa, the worst of the dust wiped off them with a damp cloth. She picked up a carved wooden elephant and rhino, a tiny soapstone statue of Buddha - souvenirs from some holiday? The soapstone felt remarkably smooth. She put the items back and reached for an old fob watch. It ticked for a few seconds then stopped; an antique perhaps? The other timepiece was a puzzle. It looked like a modern wristwatch, but, strangely, seemed as timeworn as the fob watch. Rubbing the grubby face with a spit-moistened tissue, she managed to decipher some writing - a single word, ’quartz’. Not Victorian then. She shrugged and put both watches aside.

Two tin boxes, one smelling of peppermint, the other of aniseed, proved empty. The third contained the stamps - no mint Penny Blacks, unfortunately, just some tatty, used, Victorian Jubilee stamps of other denominations. They had been soaked from their original envelopes, and closer examination showed the colours had bled. The stamps were worthless.

Dee unfolded a copy of The Times dated 1887. It headlined the celebrations in honour of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. The newspaper was faded and yellowed, corners crumbling, pages torn. No value in that either. Dee sighed. Some treasure hoard this was turning out to be!

The final item was a small bound notebook smelling of mould and tightly tied with string. With difficulty, and torn fingernails, Dee prised loose the intricate knot. Many of the notebook’s pages were stuck together, and she had to use a penknife to separate them; even so, some refused to be parted from their neighbours. Carefully she turned the fragile pages, each headed, like the newspaper, 1887 and filled with crabbed writing. The pencilled portions had faded until in places they were illegible, and the once black ink was now a pale grey.

Water damage had smudged the ink on the first few pages of the notebook beyond recovery. Dee struggled to decipher what writing remained :

June 28th, 1887

The Jubilee is over at last, and what a celebration it’s been! Unfortunately, it means this temporary hostel will have to close tomorrow, when the last of the sightseers leave, and I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. The chances of finding a place this cheap elsewhere in London are minimal.

Must find a way to earn some money. Wish I hadn’t bought that watch and those souvenirs on my first day here, but who knew I would still be here? I don’t regret buying this notebook though - it will help me get my thoughts in order.

As a stopgap, I’ve pawned my gold ring. The proceeds will last for a while, but I need more cash - these clothes are attracting funny looks.

God knows why the box has stopped working. I stripped down the mechanism and reassembled it. All the components seem fine but there must be something I’ve missed. In the meantime, I’ve hidden it in a nearby wood, right by a midden from the neighbouring farm; the stench is terrible, so no-one goes there - it should be safe for a while...

“So you really believe you’ve invented time-travel, Dr Crowley? Just like in Wells’s ‘The Time Machine’?” The young woman reporter smirked at the TV camera as if to let her invisible audience in on the joke.

Crowley stifled his irritation. The knock at the front door had proved to be a TV crew who clearly hoped to catch him unprepared. Standing in a doorway in shirt sleeves in the Autumn cold was no fun, but he was damned if he was going to invite the media into his front room.

“Not ‘invented’,” he said patiently, “…discovered the underlying principles of. The idea of time-travel has been around for years. But Wells’s time machine was pure Science Fiction; there was no way it could have worked using the scientific knowledge then available, let alone the technology. My time-travel device works using the principles underlying both Einstein’s Laws and Quantum Mechanics.”

The reporter thrust her mike closer to his face. “Dr Crowley. Isn’t this all a gigantic hoax? You’ve just published a book, haven’t you? This announcement will do its sales no harm at all.” Then, perhaps belatedly remembering the defamation laws, she continued, “Or maybe you’re just being over-optimistic in your interpretation of the facts. It wouldn’t be the first time scientists have got it wrong. Look at Cold Fusion...”

Crowley realized abruptly that this interview was probably destined for the ‘and finally’ slot at the end of the news. But he had absolutely no intention of rubbing shoulders with flying saucer sightings, cute pets, and minor members of royalty.

“I haven’t been ‘over-optimistic’, as you put it, about anything,” he said crisply. “My time machine works. What’s more, every trip has been fully documented and videotaped. All my research notes and evidence have been vetted by my peers, who include members of the Royal Society, and my paper is due to be published in the next issue of ‘Nature’.”

The reporter’s look of chagrin warmed his heart. This would teach her to do her research properly.

“But if you still won’t take my word for it,” he continued, “I’ve a proposition for you. I intend travelling back in time myself - if it’s safe for guinea-pigs, it’s safe for humans. Name the proof you require and I’ll provide it for you. In the meantime, I’ve work to do. If you will excuse me?”

He took great satisfaction in closing the door in her face.

Dee rubbed her eyes. This was certainly a very odd Victorian diary - it seemed to be written in late 20th century English, and what on earth was ‘the box’? She sighed. She had a nasty feeling that the aim of the diary, and the identity of its author, had been written on the destroyed first few pages. How frustrating. Never mind, perhaps it would become clearer as it progressed.

June 30th, 1887

My new suit is tight, and the collar is making my neck sore. At least I blend in now - until I open my mouth, that is. Must be more careful with my choice of vocabulary.

July 6th, 1887

Can’t get used to the noise and dirt - hooves on cobbles are deafening, and everything for miles is covered in soot from the factories. Right now I would kill for a hot shower’.

I’m still baffled by the box. If only I had my research notes and the tools from the lab. I need a second opinion, but who is capable of providing one in this day and age?

July 7th, 1887

Walked to South Kensington this morning - couldn’t afford the cab fare - and now my feet are killing me. Every time I asked the way to the Victoria and Albert Museum people gave me blank looks. When I got there I realized why - it’s still called the South Kensington Museum!

The science and engineering exhibits were primitive, but they gave me an idea. Perhaps I can get a job as an engineer of some kind. My skills in computing and electronics are useless. Picked up a pamphlet giving the names and addresses of the leading scientific institutions; perhaps they can help me ...

Stephen Crowley set the dial for January, 1936 and wiped a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose before it could drop onto the delicate machinery. His heavy coat was making the heat from the TV lights even worse.

After much discussion, the TV news producer had chosen a state occasion thoroughly documented in the newspapers and newsreels of the time: King George V’s funeral. The reporter would insert a fresh videotape into the camcorder, be present when the time machine disappeared and reappeared, and then retrieve and validate the tape’s contents ... all this to be filmed by the TV crew.

Much to the reporter’s obvious surprise, Crowley had immediately agreed to the conditions and invited her inside his laboratory.

He stepped into the box - a man-sized version - and switched on ...

Crowley stepped out of the box, looked for a chair and sat down gratefully. The lights were dazzling, and the reporter was clearly eager to continue the interview, but he held up a hand. “I had to walk miles to the funeral procession and back,” he explained breathlessly. “I’m exhausted and my feet hurt!”

“What about -”

“Don’t worry. I got what you want.” He nodded at the camcorder, making no effort to touch it. “Now it’s your turn.” Visibly sceptical, the reporter stalked towards the time machine and reached for the camcorder. She ejected the tape.

“And so,” she said, holding up the video tape and talking direct to camera, “ we await with baited breath the results of this amazing experiment. Has Dr Crowley really travelled back in time to the funeral of King George V, or is it all in his imagination? The evidence is on this tape. Join us, after the break, to find out.” She drew a finger across her throat, and when the cameras had stopped rolling turned back to Crowley. “Right. Let’s go and see what’s on the tape, shall we?”

Reluctantly, he stood up. “Come this way,” he said.

The diary continued :

August 21st, 1887

Received a reply from The Royal Society at last. They think I’m mad. Oh, they didn’t say so in as many words, just thanked me for my letter, explained that current scientific thinking was radically opposed to my theories, and suggested I pursue a different line of enquiry. Damn. I’m running out of ideas. If only I could talk to Einstein - but he’s still just a boy. It’s so frustrating - Maxwell published his unified equations over a decade ago, but no-one’s done anything practical with them yet. I wonder if I should try another avenue?

August 22nd, 1887

Got depressed last night, so spent some of my remaining cash on a theatre ticket. Oh to watch TV! Chose the Haymarket, because Beerbohm Tree is manager there and I seem to remember hearing of him. Disappointing though. The play was very mannered and loud. Still, it passed the time.

August 23rd, 1887

Went to see H. G. Wells today. Thought if anyone would believe me, he would. My heart sank when I saw him. He’s still in his early twenties - a mere biology student at The College of Science. He appeared interested in my story, but thought it all a huge joke. Damn.

September l0th, 1887

I’ve found work as a solderer. Been doing it for a week now. The pay is terrible and the conditions appalling, but I’ve no apprenticeship papers and I’m not in a union, so they’ve got me over a barrel. Still, at least I’m earning enough for food and lodgings.

My kind landlady slips me extra rations from time to time ‘to build you up, dearie, as you’ve been looking very poorly lately”. I’m not surprised. In the evenings I’m too tired to do anything except sleep, and yet I can’t sleep because my thoughts keep going round and round in the same old rut. Maybe it would be best not to think about the box at all for a while...

October 20th, 1887

Not thinking about the box seems to have done the trick, but I’ve had an appalling idea. If it’s true, it means I’m trapped here. It came to me in a nightmare last night; I woke up shaking and dripping with sweat. I must think it through thoroughly, try to find a flaw in the argument ...

Dee sighed and put down the notebook - she had the beginnings of a headache. She made herself a cup of tea, and switched on the television.

“So there you have it. Proof that time-travel is not only possible, but has actually happened. We leave you once again with Dr Stephen Crowley’s amazing video of the funeral of King George V. Good Evening.”

On the screen, the solemn cortege, followed by its mourners, moved slowly on its way. The footage was lifelike and in colour, unlike the jerky black and white footage with which Dee was familiar. She gaped at it until it was replaced by tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Crowley watched the civic dignitaries, seven men and three women, file slowly into the room. The long blue velvet robes, the heavy chains of office, made them look ridiculous, he thought, and very, very hot.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr Crowley,” said the red-faced man with the largest chain. “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to reach a final decision.”

“ You mean we didn’t agree with you,” muttered someone under his breath.

Crowley sighed. “Maybe if you tell me what you’ve got so far?” ”Certainly.” The red-faced Mayor produced a piece of paper - his robe must have a secret pocket, decided Crowley - and began to read its contents aloud. “The short list is as follows: Councillor Fowler suggests the General Strike of 1926; Councillor Reed wants to see Jack Hobbs score his 316 runs at Lords - 1926 again, I believe. Councillor Shaw,” - he glanced at a middle-aged woman with dangly blue earrings - “suggests any suffragette rally from the years 1903 to 1904, and Councillor Norville thinks the Blitz of 1940 would be interesting -”

“Stop, stop!” Crowley held up his hand. “I should have made myself clearer.” It had seemed so patently obvious...” Your choice must not put me in physical danger, and it should be of interest to the majority of Londoners. The videotape is for them, after all.” He sighed. All this for the sake of PR!

The Mayor frowned.

“Perhaps I might make a suggestion?” said Crowley at last. The frown cleared. “Of course, Dr Crowley. What did you have in mind?”

It was a week before Dee settled down to read the notebook again.

November 4th, 1887

I’ve found the reason for the box’s failure. Universal physical laws aren’t constant as we have always thought but change to reflect the prevailing view. So in Newton’ s day, Newtonian laws existed, and in my day... Einstein’s.

This means the box can’t possibly work until prevailing opinion changes to incorporate Einstein’s theories ... until 1919 at least! I’ll be in my sixties by then. There are only two courses open to me - wait or try to change prevailing opinion now. There’s really no choice - I’ll start tomorrow.

The next few pages were blank. Dee riffled through the diary until, on the very last page, an entry appeared in an unfamiliar hand.

February 5th 1888

Dr Stephen Crowley has this morning been admitted to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital. In recent weeks, he has been increasingly unstable, accosting leading scientists and mathematicians, babbling about something he calls ‘relativity’. His health is poor. He needs sedation and constant supervision. We can offer him these at ‘Bedlam’.

Before he was taken to join the other inmates, he gave me this notebook and requested that his belongings be left to posterity. He spoke strangely, and asked me ’to warn his future self not to use the time machine to travel back before 1919’. The babblings of a lunatic, no doubt, but I will honour his wishes. His effects, including this notebook, will be put in storage.

Helen Draper, Nurse,

Bethlehem Royal Hospital

Dee stopped reading, shocked. Dr Stephen Crowley? The man who had brought back the videotape of King George V’s funeral? For a long time she stared at the notebook, absently fingering it and thinking. Could it be an elaborate hoax? Even if it was. Better, surely, to take action than to do nothing and find out every word in the diary had been true.

“An SOS from over a century ago,” she murmured at last. “And I’m the one who must deliver the message!” She reached for the phone book ...

“London Headquarters of the Royal Society,” came a woman’s bored voice on the other end of the line. “Can I help you?”

“Dr Stephen Crowley, please.”

“Putting you through.”

The ease with which Dee had got past the switchboard made her feel slightly off balance. Perhaps it was going to be all right after all, she thought. The sick feeling in her stomach subsided and she waited for Crowley’s voice to come on the line. And waited.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said another female voice. “Dr Crowley’s not here at present. Can I take a message?”

“Oh,” said Dee, flustered. “I was hoping to speak to him about his time travel experiments.”

“You’re a colleague of his?” Dee let her silence imply that she was. “He’s gone time travelling again,” continued the voice. Actually,” - the woman’s tone became confiding - “he’s a bit behind schedule returning, but we’re not worried as yet.”

Too late, thought Dee despairingly. “I think maybe you should be,” she said aloud. “Especially if he’s gone back to Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.” Her nausea returned, stronger than before.

For a moment that seemed to stretch forever there was silence, then, “How on earth did you know about the Jubilee?” asked the voice, its tone now sharp. “That information hasn’t been released yet!”

Dee sighed. “It’s a long story,” she began, “but one I think you should know...”  

[Originally published in Kimota 10, Winter 1999]

A ROOM OF MY OWN

by Kevin K. Rattan

I’m going to do my room in shocking pink, and deep dark black.

When I told mum, she wasn’t going to let me, but dad said that a promise is a promise, and since I’d been waiting for the room for so long it was the least they could do. Besides, I was going to have to live with it, and it was my problem. That’s right dad, you tell it like it is. I have waited for ever so long for a room of my own. Why David couldn’t leave home at a decent age is beyond me. I won’t be staying here a moment longer than I have to, I can tell you. He wasn’t expected to help with the housework.

Dad got it wrong on one count, though. I won’t have to live with it. ‘It’ is my older sister, Marie, and she will absolutely hate my new room. Japanese prints and sophisticated hangings, that’s her style: she’s into taste, and ripping down my posters. When I’ve finished decorating my room she won’t even want to visit.

I can tell what you’re thinking. You think I’m overdoing it, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Let me give you an idea about my dear older sister.

When I was a baby, mum would leave me alone with Marie. What a pretty picture: the baby, happily burbling away to itself in its cot; the little girl, four years old and dressed as a nurse or something equally sweet. Blue eyes, blond hair. Beautiful teeth. The teeth - keep your eyes on them, they’re the point of this tale.

Every time mum left us alone for more than a few seconds, I’d start to scream. Mum would come back at a run, to find nothing wrong. Always. I’d be wailing, (that being the limit of my conversation at the time, except for ‘googoo’, ‘gaagaa’ and the like) and Marie, sweet little nurse, would be bandaging a doll, solicitous of its hurts. And not a sign of damage to yours truly.

Mum couldn’t understand it. Not until the day when she pretended she was going away, but hid herself when she could see what was going on. Sneaky.

“What The Mother Saw”: an exclusive from our roving reporter.

Hardly has the dust of mother’s departure settled, and dear sweet Marie walks over to my cot. Hello Sarita. Googoo Marie. But what hurt can she be ministering to? Shock! Horror! Our diminutive Florence Nightingale has taken my plump (but cute) arm, and sunk her milk teeth into it. Cue the wailing.

Mum returns. Marie is bandaging a doll. My sleeve, methodically rolled down, hides the Mark of the Vampire. Beware, fiend, Van Helsing is here. Alas, poor Marie, innocent of the approach of the Furies.

And that was the end of that.

Hah!

Okay, so she never bit me again. Gee Wizz. Golly Gosh. She managed. Endlessly inventive, my sister - and when, hardly out of nappies (less podgy, just as cute) I began to share a room with her, she had endless opportunity.

No, that’s not right. We never shared a room. I was only ever a lodger, and an unwelcome one at that. And at night when all good little children are in bed, then she’d come into her own...

But now, at last, I’m going to get away from her. David’s unconscionably long stay is finally over, and I get a room of my own. It’s small. Not very big at all. Almost a cupboard. But it’s mine. I’ll be the one who decides what’s trendy, what’s tasteful, what’s classy. And she won’t get a look in.

I can’t wait.

I don’t believe it!

They can’t do this to me: not after all that thinking, and planning, and looking forward. Not when it’s so close, when all that’s left to do is my colour scheme.

Not when all that was left to do was my colour scheme.

I should have known what was coming from the way dad sidled up to it. “Girls,” he said, “there’s something I want to discuss with you.” After dinner: after a gorgeous dinner, and a sweet that will require me to do a penance (say three minutes of aerobics, don’t want to overdo it).

Mum comes over from where she’s been pottering about with the washing up (normally my job - hold on, what gives?). She sits down, and I notice how drawn she looks. What’s been going on? What have I missed, thinking of nothing but my room?

Please God, please don’t let it be a divorce. Please don’t let it be that.

It’s not. What made me think that? Obviously not. Dad has mum’s hand in his.

“Girls, you know that your Aunt Edith has been unwell.”

She popped her clogs, then? But no...

“Well, she’s had to go into hospital, and she’s likely to be there for a while.”

Come on get to the point.

“Now, you know that she’s been looking after your grandmother since she hasn’t been able to look after herself.”

Translation: since mum’s mum went Gaga.

“Now, Alfred offered to look after your grandmother, but we do not think that with his job, he can do it properly. And none of us can afford to have her put into a nursing home. And we have a room almost ready which...”

OH MY GOD.

It was Marie who stormed off, though. “It’s not on! I will not have her staying in my room any more. I won’t have it. A working woman, and with a little girl there all the time. I’m not having it!”

She didn’t stay to see mum start crying. I did. Dad looked at me. “What about you?” he said. “How do you feel?”

“She’ll come round, knowing you don’t mind,” said mum, pleading.

I just looked at them.

“I knew you’d come up trumps, love,” said dad, and suddenly it was all decided. I didn’t said a word, not a bloody word. I knew there was nothing I could say. Hello room, goodbye.

She lives here now.

No, It lives here now. We have a new It in the family.

I remember my grandma. She was a big woman - very bossy; but nice with it. That thing upstairs in the lilac (lilac!) bedroom isn’t my grandmother. It can’t feed itself. It can’t wash itself. It can’t go to the toilet for itself. It can’t walk, can’t think, can’t talk - not even googoo, gaagaa. And it’s not cute. Wrinkled skin. Wispy white hair. Warts. Hairy warts.

The only sign that there’s anything behind that face is that sometimes, you look up, and she’s watching you, but vacantly, vacantly.

The arguments started soon after Granny was installed. Marie refused to help with anything to do with looking after her. “You wanted her,” she said to me (to me!) “You look after her.” Mum gave in. She doesn’t want Marie leaving home yet. Not while she’s still mourning David’s belated departure.

I didn’t get out of it so easily. I don’t have the freedom Marie has. And history’s been rewritten.

Apparently I was enthusiastic about Granny coming to us, so I ought to play my part. Still at least they don’t make me do the dirty jobs. Yet.

Last night I went into my bedroom, where I was going to have walls that were pink and black, and where I could have listened to my music without big Sis telling me to turn it down. I went in and looked at the overgrown, ugly baby in my bed. One of her arms lay on the coverlet, waiting for me.

Hello grandma.

[Oringinally published in Kimota 1, Winter 1994]

DEEP INSIDE

by Steve Dean

I am looking up into a sky split into two halves. The left hand side is a dimmed blue, filtered, corrected. The right side is glaring, lit by a huge white sun. Dividing the two, a zig-zag line of sharp edged glass has leaked a greasy liquid. One side of my face is burning, the other cold. Somewhere in the middle, just a thin strip, it’s about right.

As an experiment, I close my right eye. It isn’t helping much, as all I can see is the sky. As I lie thinking, it occurs to me that I am lying on my back, and can, if I want to, move. Slowly, I rotate my head. A Soft whirring sound accompanies my head movement, but the view has changed and the glaring light lessened. To the side I know as left, a wide plain stretches as far as I can see. It is mostly - no, it is all - flat, brown rock. Nothing else moves. No threats present. The last sentence isn’t me speaking, but something else, more a signal than a voice. I don’t know where it is, but it is close, and for the moment it’s a comfort.

I try again, this time moving right. All is well until my head is about two thirds round, then a grating noise judders my vision and my head stops. Looking as best I can, though the light has returned, I see the same plain, but this time strewn with shapes. Some are long and thin, some round, some like stars. The ground is disturbed in places, cratered and churned up, particularly around the shapes.

The left side of my vision has filled with coloured lines. A scan of some kind. The signal has commanded it, it may be important. The lines pick out each shape in turn, fill it with colour, then a series of letters appears underneath. I read some of them, they sort of make sense. 

Wreckage, type 37 Bio-enh-suit:- spent.

Wreckage, type unknown:- spent.

The light is glaring too much now, so I am going to move. Relaxing my thoughts, the signal comes in. It recommends a full system check. I brace myself for whatever that is and the signal continues. There are several beeps, then the screen fills with text. It appears to list all the systems I have, but most of it is meaningless to me. Besides, the results of the check seem to be on the right side of the display, which is not visible to me. I decide to stand up, and if I make it I’ll take it from there.

With a lot of effort and much grinding and complaining on the display, I am now upright. It appears I have the use of two legs, although the right one isn’t perfect, and my left arm, which is ‘functional’. I can’t turn my head all the way right, or do anything with my right arm. There is also a pain, like fire, in my middle region from my right shoulder to my waist. The signal says I am damaged but mobile. The display says I am vulnerable, and should... but the advice is on the right half, again.

The first thing I do is turn my back on the white light. My face is still hot but the relief is instant. I can see properly for the first time, if the display will stop drawing lines around everything.

I walk over to the nearest wreckage. It consists of a large central mass, with two long attachments at one end. The top half, above chest height, is missing. Two different liquids have ran out onto the bare rock. The dark one has dried, the lighter, oily one has gathered in a pool in a shallow depression. It refracts the sunlight in iridescent patterns of orange and purple. It is quite pretty.

I reach out to examine the melted edge of the mass. Its construction and materials are like my arm. A certain heaviness settles on me as I realise we are, were, the same.

The voice says there is no threat here, nor useful repair items or weaponry. The visor says “move on to avoid...”

I move on. The signal is silent on the direction I am to take. So, with my back to the sun, I walk off. My gait is light and flowing, I cover a lot of ground. Occasionally, my right leg starts to drag, but a boost of something brings it back to speed.

The right half of my vision begins to dim, although the left side is fine, if a little green. I realise the sun is setting, it will soon be dark. A green matrix fills the left side of my vision, with the odd fuzzy green dot, some bright some dark. There isn’t much to see anyway. The signal recommends I keep moving under cover of darkness. So I do.

Later still, the sun appears in front of me, glowing orange, not at all like the white of before. Again my visor says I am vulnerable and should seek shelter. A full 360 degree scan produces nothing but flat plains. I am deciding what to do when a small movement captures my attention. Before I know it the visor has locked on and zoomed in on a small dust cloud. My body turns in that direction and we set off. I don’t mind, it’s somewhere to go.

Finally I reach the spot I estimate the movement came from. The land is empty as far as I can see, enhanced or otherwise.

Perhaps my sight is working imperfectly, or the heat is blurring everything. Perhaps there had been no movement. Perhaps I only imagined it.

I walk a little further, in case I have under estimated, and am rewarded by the sight of thin tracks in the dust, faint, but unmistakeable. Two parallel trails, possibly of some tracked vehicle, smaller than me, and moving in either one of two directions. Not having any more data, I set off in the direction I am facing, which saves energy, and is therefore more logical, according to the signal.

The sun has moved quite a distance, and is now to my right. In that time my bounding strides have carried me a long way. Just how far, none of my systems can tell me. Before me, only a few metres away, a small tracked robot is scanning the area with a dish it produced from its back. The dish has pointed in my direction several times, but it has shown no reaction.

Scanner nulling circuits, the signal explains. The words almost fall out of my mind, but there is no further explanation. As the little robot moves on I follow. It stops again, this time I move closer before it can get away.

The vehicle opens a small door on its front and a thin tube appears. Automatically, my left arm comes up and the signal calmly advises me it is neutralising the threat. Frantically I think ‘No, I don’t want to’, and my arm slowly drops. Although the signal is advising the former action. With a struggle I am able to control the thought, and the arm. I have no need to kill the little robot. But just as I have myself under control, the vehicle fires on me, causing a warm sensation in my chest and an alarm in my visor.

Moving forward, against the shots of what the signal tells me is a pulsed, low emission laser, I try to open communications and talk to it. There is no response to normal frequencies, (except from the visor which is reporting radio emissions from this unit which are revealing our position. I ignore it), so I switch to voice. But all that comes out is an incomprehensible croak. My voice circuits are too badly damaged after all.

Another alarm sounds and this time I am unable to stop the signal. My arm raises fluidly and a single blast of blue light burns through the small vehicle. It stops moving, its weapon sagging on its mount.

One Kill. So says the signal. But somehow I don’t think the robot was ever alive. Still, I feel a strange feeling inside as I approach the vehicle. I am sad that it no longer works. All I wanted was to talk to it, I’m sure it could have answered.

The half visor fills with tactical data, it recommends an immediate change in position, followed by several hours of... and then a careful re-assessment of my tactical...

As I don’t know what its talking about, I run on, travelling the direction I estimate the robot was heading. 

Just before nightfall, my visor highlights a feature in the distance. From this range it looks like a green lake. As the feature becomes clearer, the matrix outlines a wide crack in the plains, getting wider as it goes. The visor recommends I seek shelter, and, as it is what I want to do too, I follow its advice.

The crack turns out to be a long chasm, one of many that break up the plain as it looses altitude. I have selected a side channel off a branch channel, which itself runs off from the main one. Three left turns into a dead end. So here I sit, wedged between solid rock walls about ten metres beneath the plain. Now it is dark, there isn’t a light anywhere, except for the millions of stars that form an almost rectangular roof over my world. The signal did a few things when I stopped, and now all the little sounds seem to have halted. The fire in my side has gone, and a certain warmth is spreading over my body.

A feeling descends across my mind, a letting go. Images soon begin to form, long forgotten memories dance around the edges of more recent events. The centre is hard, like metal, whilst the dancers are like feathers. This goes on for sometime, until a loud voice shouts something. A blast of fiery wind slams across the picture. When it clears only the metal remains. Sadness takes me, until a sudden thought arrives, unbidden. Not from the visor, or the signal, but from somewhere inside. Underneath the metal, deep below, something lies concealed, something sheltered from the blast. I try to see under the metal, but I am not strong enough to lift it. I will try again later.

I am woken when the sun has returned and is quite bright. Inside, although my mind is active, I am strangely calm. The pain has almost gone, although my head still won’t turn all the way around. A thought has arisen, as though I am on the verge of remembering something. The image struggling to form is shattered by the signal bursting into life. A warning appears on the visor, something about radar waves being detected, then a recommendation to shut down all none-essential something.

Relaxing, I allow the signal to do as it pleases. Nothing out of the ordinary happens, although my view of ordinary is severely limited at the moment. A few seconds later, I can hear a low sound, getting louder and higher as it nears. Something flashes across the rectangle of light above me, a barely seen glimpse of grey metal. But the visor has seen it, and has soon outlined, filled and classified it, then tagged it as a potential threat. Very useful the visor, if only I knew what a low-atmosphere long range Ramdart was.

The signal advises a move to a safer position, one not open to the sky. I like the sky, it gives me a warm feeling inside, but the signal insists, so I stand and begin to walk along the chasm floor.

It’s getting dark now, and I am walking back to a small cave I found a while ago. It is not perfect, as it would require me to lie flat on the ground to enter it, but nothing else has presented itself.

The visor is green again by the time I get back. A threat warning has appeared, and the visor is outlining a large animal with six legs loaded with talons. Fleetingly, a thought forms, we could share the cave, but the visor insists the threat be neutralised, and my inner self tells me the idea is ridiculous. My arm rises suddenly, but I manage to move it to allow the shot to go wide. A blast of rock and dust peppers the animal, which retreats with a high-pitched squeal.

The cave now mine, I wriggle through the narrow entrance and prop myself up inside. It is just big enough, although I can only fit in if I recline rather than lie down. With a little shuffling around I am finally in a tolerable position, and the signal is quiet. There is a strong fruity smell in here, but the signal and visor seem unable to detect it. It appears only the inside part can pick it up. The memory that is on the edge of being remembered returns, a hazy image in my mind. I reach out to grab for it, but my mental hand goes straight through it.

The darkness produces phantom-images on my eyes, inside the visor as well as out. Soon I begin to drift off to sleep, and the hazy memory follows.

Something has woken me. I feel a mixed emotion of exhilaration and fear. The thought has finally revealed itself, and now I know what I am, if not who.

But there is a shadow in front of the cave entrance, and it isn’t the creature, for it only has two legs and stands upright. The signal is telling me it is picking up radio emissions, and that danger is present. The visor advises swift and immediate...

I review my options; for I am me, inside this suit, and the suit isn’t me, although we are closely connected, quite literally it would appear. I ask the suit, because that is its purpose, to advise and protect, whilst I guide it, to seek and destroy, whilst I direct it. The signal says proceed with extreme prejudice. The visor displays a grid and various lines that show trajectories that will allow me to hit the target, if only I move just a few centimetres. I ignore them for the moment, because I can, because ultimately I am in command. 

A series of loud noises fills the cave. The visor lights up with warnings; damage taken, avoiding action imperative. The signal comes in; return fire immediately, threat to continued function substantial, tactical re-positioning vital.

I am trapped, there is nowhere to go but to the mythical better place, if I stay here. Moving myself around, I slide to the floor, my left arm below me. As the arm clears the opening it fires several times. There is a shout of pain, and the noises stop.

With my head to the ground, I can see the man. He is rolled up in a ball on his side, his feet are missing from just above his ankles. There is little blood. He isn’t wearing a suit like mine, just light armour. A thin rifle lies close to him, a backpack against the far wall.  His eyes meet mine, or rather the one he can see. His face is contorted with pain. The visor says the threat isn’t neutralised. The signal recommends another shot. I am in control, I will decide.

With a struggle I emerge from the cave a few metres away from the man. His face shows only fear now as I look down on him. I realise I don’t even know why we are enemies. From the facts I deduce he is on home ground, and I am the aggressor, but what this is all about I don’t know.  

I could walk away, or run and be kilometres away in minutes. The man has a radio, he can call in and be rescued. His feet can be replaced as good as new. With a last glance, I turn and walk away. The signal shouts, the visor lights up. I ignore them both, they are merely tools, as easily put down as picked up.

I am running now. The suit is a marvel when it comes to movement, fast, agile and fluid. The signal cuts in again. Missile lock-on, immediate action required. I relax in that certain way and the suit is allowed momentary control. It leaps into the air and spins around. The visor zooms in to a point some distance back. I have a fleeting glimpse of the man pointing a small tube at me, then the arm fires. There is a large blast which sends rocks and debris flying everywhere. 

Threat neutralised. Recommend tactical re-positioning.

I expected the suit to dive for cover, or rush away. But it seemed the most logical way to deal with the threat was to remove it altogether. The killing was unnecessary to my human way of thinking. So will I kill again, (Or allow the suit to kill, it’s the same thing.) if another searcher locates me? Yes I decide, as a last resort. Sometimes it is necessary to take action to preserve oneself. 

I move on, heading down hill towards a wide green valley. The smell of trees and the sound of running water reach my senses. I smile, it seems for the first time ever. 

One day soon, I will climb out of this shell and be free of its programmed destruction. But for today, and tomorrow, it is keeping me alive, and alive is something I very much want to be.

[Originally published in Kimota 14, Spring 2001]

AGNES IN WONDERLAND

by Annemarie Allen

“F26, H19, E74…”

Two middle-aged women stood watching the line of people pass below a crenellated archway, muttering quietly as they shuffled towards the turnstiles. Above them, a huge banner danced in an artificial breeze, bearing the legend, ‘Welcome to Wonderland – Where Dreams Come True’, picked out in violent pink letters.

“What are they doing, Maude?”

“Trying to remember where they’ve parked, Agnes.”

“Ahhh… I see.”

And she did. Behind them, the parking lot stretched out in almost every direction as far as the eye could see. The latest arrivals were streaming across its vast surface like ants on a table.

Turning away, Agnes came face to face with a hunched figure dressed in billowing black rags, sporting an enormous hook of a nose that swooped down towards a sharply pointed chin. The chin was embellished with a huge, hairy wart. Agnes favoured her with a long, disapproving stare before dismissing her presence with a sniff.

“I don’t know, Maude. A five thousand mile trip to see my only son and then to discover he’s working as a cartoon mouse in a place like this.”

Maude was having none of it. She jabbed her companion in the ribs with a very sharp elbow.

“Lighten up, Ag! They’ve got nothing like this in North Berwick! This place is going to be a lot more fun than dancing naked through the heather in November.”

Agnes shot her a look and Maude had the grace to blush.

“Nothing wrong with a good stout pair of boots,” she snapped defensively. “Tell you what – let’s get something to eat before we look for Brian.”

“Good idea.”

Agnes clutched her handbag to her generous bosom and reached up to check that each iron grey curl was firmly in place before launching herself into the stream of humanity.

“Let’s do it!”

Inside the Burger Palace, they took their places in the queue.

“What can I get for you ladies?”

“I’ll have a hamburger. And one for you Maude?”

“Would you like fries with that?”

“Yes.”

“Extra Large, Large, Medium or Cheapskate?”

“Medium, thank you.”

“Ketchup?”

“Please.”

“Would you like a drink with that?”

“Oh, yes. Cola, please.”

“Mega, Regular, or Really Very Tiny?”

Agnes leaned forward and took hold of her interrogator’s stripy bow tie.

“Young man,” she said, in a confidential whisper, “Is there a prize if I get all the answers right?”

His smile never wavered.

“Here you are, ladies. Have a nice day.”

The two women turned away, unaware that a white, shocked face was peeping out at them from the hatch where staff were served. Brian’s fists clenched, crumpling the paper cup in his hand and sending a stream of ice and cola flowing unnoticed down his furry front. It was too much. This job was as far from home as it was possible to get, yet still she had tracked him down. Why couldn’t she leave him alone?

He replaced the head of his costume and hurried off to the staff room, where his replacement was waiting to take over, his mouse head sitting companionably in the chair beside him.

“Tom! You’ve got to go on now.”

“No way – I’ve still got five minutes left.”

“Please – you have to. I – I’m sick, man.”

Tom just grinned and stretched his furry feet out more comfortably on the table in front of him.

“Look - you can have all my Jesus and Mary Chain CDs – and the tissue Dylan blew his nose in.”

Crouched in a dingy corner, Cinderella was also taking her break. She stuck her hand down the front of her laced bodice, withdrawing a cigarette and a book of matches. Lighting up, she squinted at Brian through the smoke.

“You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

“Pleeeeeeease!” Brian knew he was being pathetic, but he didn’t care.

“O.K.” Tom hauled himself out of the chair. Cradling his mouse head in his arms, he treated Brian to a hard stare. “But you owe me.”

Two minutes later his costume was grabbed from behind and he was whirled round into the arms of a grey-haired woman he had never seen in his life before. He was surprised. His assailants were usually much shorter and stickier.

“There you are!” she boomed gaily. “I’ve mislaid Maude. We were just leaving Cinderella’s ball when the heel came off her shoe and we lost sight of each other in the crowd. Never mind – I’ve found you instead! Come on – I’ll buy you a beer and we can have a good long natter!”

Tom’s brain connected with the only thing he understood. “You can’t have a beer. The theme park is dry.”

“Dry?”

“No booze allowed.”

For once, Agnes was speechless. Then she shook her head. “Oh no,” she said firmly. “We can’t have that. Come along. Here’s a door – “ she pointed to a large plywood construction, brightly painted, with gnomes and pixies dancing across it and a large, cartoon-style keyhole – “And here’s a key.”

She delved into her bag and produced a giant brass key that perfectly matched the style of the door. Puzzled, Tom watched the key slide smoothly into the drawing and heard it turn with a gentle click. Slowly, the door creaked open.

“Come on, then,” she said, dragging him through the opening.

They stepped from midday heat into the gloom of an overcast evening. From what Tom could see through the eye holes in his mouse head, they were on a cobbled street, hemmed in by grey stone walls that rose up on either side, blocking out most of the light. The crowds milling past had swopped shorts and T-shirts for coats and hats.

“Where…?”

“Thought we might pop back home for a bit and have a decent drink for a change. Come along, Brian!”

The woman tucked his arm firmly in hers and stepped into the crowds. Tom opened his mouth to explain the misunderstanding but the words froze in his throat at the sight of a pack of grim-faced warriors bearing down on him, teeth gleaming through a mask of blue paint. Their meaty fists rested on the hilts of the broadswords they wore jammed through the broad leather belts that kept their plaids from slipping off. He stopped dead. He had never thought men in skirts could look so threatening.

Agnes pulled at him impatiently. “Football hooligans! Just ignore them, son – we’re wasting valuable drinking time.”

They turned down a roofed-over alley, emerging on to another street of narrow doorways and deep-set windows, with archways blocking the sky every few yards. If this place had seemed claustrophobic before, now it was positively subterranean. Agnes stopped for a moment to get her bearings and Tom found himself staring at a ragged poster showing a giant worm in a tartan hat with a bobble on top. ‘Nessie welcomes you to Scotland,’ it said.

“Here we are!” said his companion.

She pushed open a door set back in the shadows of a stone archway that was streaked green with moss. Tom peered through the haze of smoke at a large, low-ceilinged room. The walls were yellow with nicotine. Empty booths with ancient, tattered leather seats lined the walls, their doubtful comfort spurned by the row of customers propped up against a huge, scarred bar. They turned in unison to gaze at the new arrivals. Visions of Trainspotting danced in his head.

“I don’t think I’m dressed for this,” he quavered.

Agnes inspected her companion critically. Then she made up her mind. “Believe me, this lot have seen a lot worse than a giant mouse.”

Gripping him firmly by one furry arm, she marched forward and hefted her broad backside onto a bar stool. Tom had no option but to follow her example.

He stared straight ahead, determined not to catch anyone’s eye. In front of him, row upon row of bottles glinted golden in the dim light. He squinted, trying to read the labels. Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie, Highland Park, Islay Mist, Laphroaig, Talisker. It dawned on him that every one was a different whiskey.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed.

“We don’t have that one.” The barman had approached while he was distracted.

“Aye, Agnes,” he said.

“Aye, Shuggie,” she replied. “Brought ma son in for a wee taste of the real thing.”

Shuggie looked at the mouse. It stared back at him, one large ear flopping over its eye.

“He does ye credit, Agnes. What’ll ye have?”

“I’ll have a Highland Park and a chaser,” she decided. What about you, son?”

Tom thought. “Can I have a Jack Daniels?”

A silence the size of Kansas fell over the bar. Hastily, he reconsidered. “I’ll have the same.”

“Give the mouse a double,” came a voice from the other end of the bar.

That’s very good of you, Alexander,” said Agnes politely.

The drinks arrived, along with, Tom was relieved to note, a small jug of water. He lifted it. “Shall I pour?”

There was another, heavier silence. The same voice spoke again.

“Do you know nuthin, pal? There’s two rules in this life – you never sleep with another man’s wife and you never water another man’s whisky. And make sure you add no more than a teardrop to that drink.”

Agnes leaned over to whisper in Tom’s ear. “Regius Professor of Anthropology,” she offered, by way of explanation. Tom shuddered.

He considered the problem of the amber liquid in front of him. No way was he taking his head off to drink – not with the madwoman sitting right beside him. Maybe he could ask for a straw. And possibly one of those dinky little umbrellas to go with it. Perhaps not.

There was one other possibility. After an epidemic of fainting mice, the head had been redesigned with a wide space hidden below the snout. He had no guarantee it would work. Eating or drinking 'In Character' was a capital offence at Wonderland ™. But it was the best he could do. Tom lifted the glass and shoved it firmly up his nose. The barman stared, then shook his head slowly and walked away.

Things settled down. This was a bar for serious drinking, and that was what they concentrated on. But at last, Agnes threw the last drops down her throat and said, “Time we were making a move. Come on, son.”

By this time, the mouse was feeling extremely ragged around the edges.

“You know, you guysh are really jusht pooshy catsh, arncha?”

“Aye,” said one. “And you’re a mouse.” He climbed down from his stool and moved alarmingly close.

“Now, now, Erchie,” said the barman.

“Time to go,” said Agnes. “Come along, Brian.”

They made a speedy exit. Night had fallen as they proceeded at a swift stagger up rain-slicked cobbles to the top of the alley, Agnes blithely ignoring her companion’s slurred comments.

“Nottamoush. Nottabrian,” he was insisting.

The door they had come through was gone, but Agnes used her key on another, much larger and heavier. They emerged into broad daylight back where they had started.

“Wha? Wha?” Tom was in no condition for clarity of speech. Agnes looked at him doubtfully.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ve just been testing out their latest section. I think it’s called the ‘Scotland Experience’. Now, I really must go. Maude will be wondering where on earth I’ve got to. Stick with your job, son. Work hard. You could end up the biggest rodent in the park.”

And she was gone.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

THE TERROR AND THE TORTOISESHELL

by John Travis

After The Terror we had to learn fast; I’d seen the whole world change overnight for no apparent reason - the animals had taken over the Zoo; the Sappy’s had all gone gaga, and old habits were hard to break. Licking between my claws I looked out of my third floor office window past the newly painted Logo, Benji Spriteman, Detective - Animals rights, Human wrongs, realising that I should’ve had it done the other way, so it was legible in the street and not just to me. I’d been learning fast, but not that fast.

The pavements were slick, rainwater belched through clogged gutters. I’d heard rumours that a gang of Collies were trying to figure out the city’s plumbing problem now that the Peace Accord between Mutts and Mogs had been signed; although how long that lasted was anyone’s guess. Down below a rhino from the zoo charged an already busted car. A grizzly rifled through a grocer’s store window, Lemurs swung from busted street lights.

As I said, we don’t know how it happened; rumour was of a book going round written by some dude called Machen saying we’d tried to take over once before, way back in WW1. It didn’t really matter. All I knew was that one evening I went to sleep a normal Tortoiseshell; next morning I woke up on two legs speaking English and about eight times the size I used to be. Jimmy - I took his surname for the business - folks don’t like that much change - was a quivering mess on the floor; insane. Going out later I saw that it had driven all the Sappy’s crazy - most ended up in the zoo’s they’d built for other animals. Later that day I got back and found he’d been savaged by a pack of lions out for revenge. I felt bad about that.

So I took over. I’d been open for weeks and no case to show for it. Food wasn’t a problem, or lodgings; it was all this time I had to fill, and it was taking some getting used to.

Then a shadow appeared at the frosted glass. I told it to come in.

She slinked into my life like a mirage, tail wrapped around her neck like a stole.

“Benji Spriteman?”

I tried to keep cool. “S’what it says on the door.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She curled up on a chair, white tail gently swishing the air. I was distracted by a Parrot outside doing a loop-the-loop on a phone wire when she said the word Tortoiseshell. I was all ears.

“One of my own. Tell me more.”

“Well you see, it’s like this-”

The long and short of it was that a Tortoiseshell had gone missing. Boy, was I dumb. You learn from experience - I hope.

I picked up one of the dimestore paperbacks Spriteman had kept on his shelves, putting it back down again straight away. I’d memorised it pretty well. “My fees is a hundred up front, plus fifty a day, plus expenses. If I crack the case I get to take you out for salmon.” She purred her agreement.

I wasted no time and headed for O’Bells on 24th, a regular hive of skulduggery. My hunch was it was the work of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Humans, a new and potentially dangerous group bent on trying to regain power. There’d been various stories of animals going missing; mainly dogs, but dogs aren’t smart even now. I daresay a few other creatures had got waylaid too.

Tipping my hat to the Gorilla on the door, he moved aside. Even though it was mid afternoon the club was swinging. The band hadn’t improved none; the Tabby on the double bass kept getting her whiskers caught, and the drummer whacked his tail with his sticks from time to time.

“I’m looking for a missing Tortoiseshell, name of Ed Mahoney, he’s said to frequent here.” I was bluffing, but it sounded good. “Ed Mahoney...” the Tom behind the bar scratched his whiskers and yawned. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Get you a drink?”

“Yeah. Tuna oil. On the rocks.”

There was laughter over at the other side of the club. A dog was kicked out for licking its butt. I turned back to the bartender. “Know anything about the SPCH?”

“A little,” he said, polishing a glass. “Yeah, they’re going be bad news. Bar snack?” I grabbed an anchovy from the bowl. “You think they took him?”

“I don’t know.” Knocking back the oil, I left the bar, unsure where to go next.

I went and got a bite to eat, the tuna oil had made me hungry. I tried a new place on Main taken over by a consortium of Alsatians. At least they had some idea - the poodle parlour I’d tried last week had nothing but that nouvelle crap the Sappy’s used pretend to enjoy. I was feeling adventurous with the advance in my pocket so I ordered a steak, rare.

“I’m looking for a Tortoiseshell,” I said to the waiter, an Afghan.

“Aren’t we all sir,” he replied. This new order of things was throwing up some interesting configurations. There was talk of a pig and a frog that had got spliced someplace. Word was they were gonna call the nipper a Frig.

“It’s one that’s gone missing, is all.”

Another one?” the waiter called to a back room. “Hey, Alphonso, come here a minute.”

Alphonso looked like he still had trouble with the Two Leg thing. Hobbling over to my table he panted eagerly. “Yeah?”

“This fella here’s looking for a Tortoiseshell too.”

“No kidding? Jeez, what’s happenin’ in this town lately? They sure are popular all of a sudden.”

“Yeah?” I leaned across to him, moving away when I caught his breath. “tell me more.”

“There ain’t much to tell. They just seem to go missing, like that.”

“You heard of the SPCH?”

Alphonso looked confused. “I doubt it’s them. Those guys aren’t too smart I hear. Not that specialised.”

I was going to interrupt and make a speech about me being the detective, but thought better of it. He was right though - the Sappy’s I’d seen had the brains of cat litter, and about half the use.

I ate my meal, looking around the joint. An oversized Toucan waddled around topping up drinks. My eyes were drawn to a strange looking dude in the corner, hunched over and badly in need of a suntan. There was something about that guy that made me feel uneasy. “Who’s the old guy?” I asked the Tuke.

“Oh him. Arnie, his name is. Bit kooky, ain’t he? Mind you, knows his way around the city. Reckon’s he seen it all in his time.”

“Yeah?”

I waved the Tuke away and finished my meal at around the same time Arnie finished his. I gave him a few minutes then paid my bill, following him to a tower block on the edge of the city.

By now it was getting dark, and the streets were livening up a little. The lights of the Fairground shone through the skyscrapers, and I caught a faint whiff of candy apples. My whiskers started to twitch. There was thunder in the air. The pavement was grey with rain.

Arnie stood at the door talking to the Doormog. I got to wondering why a Persian would want to be a Doormog, when it was pretty clear we Felines were the smartest things around. As I got near I recognised him. Arnie had gone inside.

“Hey Bootsy,” I clapped him on the back. “Beneath ourselves, ain’t we?”

“Shh!” he licked his paw and smoothed his fur back down. “I’m undercover. Been here a week.”

My heart sank. A cop. Just what I needed. I drummed my pad against the wall. “Did I just see Arnie go in there? I’ve been meaning to catch up with him for ages. I even heard he had a Sap for a servant now.” I was fishing, of course.

The Persian looked me over. “First I heard. You know him?”

“Yeah.” I pulled my keys from my overcoat. “I need to return these to him. He left them at my pad the other day.”

Despite his breeding - or perhaps because of it - Bootsy wasn’t the brightest cat on the block. “Can I get in?” I persisted.

“Oh, what the hell.” Pushing a secret code on the grille which I pretended not to notice, he let me through. “Fourteenth floor.” He called after me.

The lift took me as far as the seventh when the door opened. A bulldog in overalls was shaking his head. “Hey you, oughta there. Maintenance. Lift’s on the blink.”

“Seems fine to me.”

He started growling. “You an expert? Go on, skidaddle.”

Seven floors later I was all in. Before The Terror Spriteman didn’t give me much in the way of affection but he fed me well. I needed the exercise badly - just not today.

I padded down the murky hall. One light flickered on halfway down then gave it up. Near the end of the corridor overlooking the street I’d just walked along the name Murchess had been scratched off the plate and replaced with Arnie. I knocked.

It took the old fella a while to get there but I heard him wheezing down his hall. “Yeah, just a minute,” he called, fumbling with the chains.

Opening the door I recoiled slightly. What kind of a guy was this? Ugly as sin and a face with more lines than the underground map. “Yeah, whaddya want?”

“Hi Arnie,” I said, showing him my badge. “I hear you know your way around this fair city.”

His eyes bulged. “Who said that? who are you? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Didn’t say you had,” I walked past him into his front room. “I need information, Arnie.”

He walked round me. “Hey, I ain’t no snout! whatcha think I am, huh?”

“Take it easy, Arnie, take it easy.” I was thinking of the films I’d seen in the old days, curled up on Spriteman’s lap. But I was no Spillane. I had to play it my way, or none at all. It’s what being a cat is all about. “I’ve been enquiring about all these Tortoiseshells that keep going missing and somebody said you knew your way around. Might even able to help me.”

Arnie looked at me slyly. “Fancy a change, huh?” I’d no idea what he was talking about but went with it. “Yeah. Change is as good as a rest, they say.”

“I see.” Arnie picked up a pen and started rolling it around his mouth. Grabbing a piece of paper he scribbled down an address. “Go here, sometime after midnight. It’s near the river, big warehouse. You can’t miss it.” I looked down at his writing. It was worse than mine but I knew where it was. “Thanks.” I made for the door, stopping at the frame. “One last question, Arnie. Is this anything to do with the SPCH?”

Arnie threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, no!” he chuckled. “Imagine the irony in that!”

The path next to the river was full of sludge. Behind me I heard the bells of the clock chime thirteen. They hadn’t got the hang of it yet, whoever they were. Ten minutes later I decided to make my move.

Creeping around the side of the corrugated wall I heard voices up ahead. Peering round the corner I saw two odd looking figures shamble towards the door. They made me feel the way Arnie had. I gave them a minute to get inside and went to the door, finding it unlocked. I edged inside.

I don’t know what I’d expected but it wasn’t this.

The warehouse was filled with brilliant white light, the walls also tiled white. Huge sinks with runnels along the edges filled a large section of the room. One wall was lined with knives and hooks, and what looked like fine string wrapped around nails. A shudder ran through me; my paw itched on my gun as I saw the others in a room over to the right of me.

Inching my way along the wall I heard the talk in there. Before I burst in I should’ve listened properly: first rule of being a detective. Well, it would become my first rule. All I heard was talk of cutting and chopping and it got my fur up. I rounded the corner and burst the door inwards, gun pointing at the assembled mob.

“Okay, freeze!” I shouted.

A Siamese looked at me with disdain. There was blood on his white jacket. “Now, what the hell is going on here? Where are the tortoiseshells?” The cat sniffed the air like I was a bad smell.

“You must be one hell of a traitor,” I continued. I wanted to knock that grin off his face so badly. “I though the SPCH was bad but-”

“Hey just hang on a second.” He snapped. “We run a legitimate operation here. Well, as much as we can without any laws to stop us... what’s your problem anyhow?”

“I’m looking for a missing Tortoiseshell,” I told him. “Ed Mahoney.”

The cat looked angry. “Why don’t you just take it, like you took the others?”

I was thrown off balance. “Excuse me? A client of mine reported him missing.”

“Him?” A faint smile crept over his face and he whispered to the Ginger Tom beside him, who passed it along to another Siamese and before long they were all laughing wildly.

“Hey! I’ve got a gun, here. You want to tell me what’s so Goddamn funny?”

The Siamese stopped laughing. “Follow me.”

With the piece in his back, he led me through a corridor with the word “Surgery” above the entrance. Every door we passed seemed to have a weird name next to it: ‘Dewclaw Correction’, ‘Beak Reductions’, ‘Spot Removal’. A strange thought came into my head. I couldn’t have been that stupid. Could I?

I purposely ignored the sign on the door he led me through.

And there they were; all stacked against the wall like green piecrusts. He looked at the labels on each one, and stopped. “Here we are,” he said, lifting it and placing it in my arms. “Ed Mahoney.”. I could feel my skin reddening beneath my fur.

As I walked through the street with Ed Mahoney’s old lodgings on my head keeping the rain off, one question kept coming back to me; what did she want it for? Maybe she’d said but I hadn’t been listening. It was my first case, I was hot to trot. Suddenly I remembered something Spriteman used to say. Hell, it was true. “God in his heaven should’ve left the earth to the monkeys.”

I was learning fast. But not fast enough.

[Originally published in Kimota 15, Autumn 2001 and has since been expanded into a novel]

LIMBO LARRY

by Hugh Cook

“But he's perfect!” said Gibi Gibi with dismay, checking out Larry's parameters. “Where do we even start?”

Young. Athletic. Upper middle class parents. Good education. Good genes. Good at the pool table, too.

“Just wait,” said Broblomov Zooz. “Just wait, and watch what happens, and you'll learn something.”

They watched.

“Kiss me,” said Caroline. “What's the matter, Larry? Didn't you take your pill?”

“I have the weirdest feeling,” said Larry, “that we're being watched.”

The feeling came again, now and again. At the oddest moments.

Eyes staring at him from out of his spaghetti. Eyes? No, just chestnuts.

“Caroline! Is this your idea of a joke?”

Maybe God was watching him, or something. Well, no matter. I'm a good boy.

So thought Larry. And maybe he was right. But good isn't perfect. Stealing the policeman's dog was the first mistake. It was meant as a joke - - we're just college students, okay? But nobody was amused. Strike one! Kidnapping the baseball to hold it to ransom was the second mistake. Hey, that baseball was worth half a million bucks. Half the nation could remember seeing, live on TV, the hero hitting it for the record.

“It was just a joke,” said Larry lamely.

But the law has no sense of humour, and that was strike two.

A bunch of other stuff he didn't get caught for. Smashing the window to get at the whiskey. The bar fight in which he hospitalised the other guy with a pool cue. Trashing the company's backup tapes on the day he got fired. Stealing the car and driving drunk out of Las Vegas on the day he lost the last of everything at the blackjack table.

The third strike was stealing the chocolate bar.

“My client is a hopeless alcoholic,” said the public defender.

And by then it was true. Alcoholism: self-inflicted. But so what? Three strikes are three strikes.

“You're out,” said the judge.

And he was, right out.

“No tomato sauce?” said Larry, in dismay. “Then what's that red stuff on the table?”

“Don't ask.”

So he was in, for life. Productively in, picking up roadside trash in the chain gang, until the day the truck's tire blew out and the vehicle flipped, killing eight, maiming nine, and sending Larry to hospital with a bad case of concussion.

He didn't mean to escape. It was just that he needed a drink. Sure, prison had dried him out, but all those medicinal smells in the hospital brought back those old cravings. Somehow, Larry associated all medical smells with alcohol, Something to do with childhood, and his mother, and cough drops, and Oedipus - - he could never quite figure it out.

“Don't drink that!”

But he already had.

The nurse yelled for a security guard, but that was when the disgruntled postal employee turned the corner. In the resulting confusion, Larry stole a wallet - - at any rate, he picked it up when he found it, and never had occasion to give it back - - and so was rich by the time he hit the nearest bar.

One drink, of course, led to another.

Six months later, Limbo Larry was walking along in an alcoholic haze when he tripped over something soft and soggy and fell flat-smash onto the pavement, breaking his last truth.

“Lursh aba,” he muttered.

Lursh aba? What did that mean? It was too dark to see the answer. His brain was as shiny as beer bottles. There were cockroaches inside it. He could feel the Hand of God stirring in the darkness.

Abruptly, a bright light shone on his face, illuminating the blood spilling down his chin and the dead dog he had tripped over. Larry put up a warding hand. Not again! Not the boots, I'm too old for this. Then, with a clink of keys, the security guard was moving on, and Larry's world lapsed into darkness.

“Sha,” said Larry, groping for phonemes, morphemes, syllables, words.

Shame you died. Weep! For, alas, poor Fido is dead! Weh weh weh! Our Fido is dead! Who now will summon the soccer fans to the sauna to feast upon the pigeons?

“Bloody Germans,” said Larry.

A German was in his head - - fragments of a German, anyhow - - and no way to get the bugger out. But he could do something about the dog. The Hand of God was within him. He could feel it.

“Lazarus,” said Larry, laying his hands upon the dog.

As he did so, he heard Madonna singing. It was a hallucination, and he knew it, but that blonde Hollywood voice rang out loud and clear. And the dog came shambling up to its feet, snorked, slurgled, wavered between life and death, then settled for life, and promptly attacked Limbo Larry. It was only the timely return of the security guard which prevented him from being savaged to death.

He healed his own wounds. He did a loaves-and-fishes with an empty can, drunkenly filling an entire street with rolling metal. He turned waste paper into money. He summoned up an erection. He paid for time with a prostitute and, miracle of miracles, lit her up with an incandescent white orgasm. Flashgunned by the light, her tropical fish darted this way and that.

The police tried to arrest him six hours later. By then, he was sitting in a park beside a beer fountain and a miraculous wedding cake as big as a house. Larry decided he didn't want to be arrested, and turned two of the police officers into pigs. Unfortunately, he was unable thereafter to reverse the change.

Hollywood. A blonde, but she wasn't Madonna. A big swimming pool, but he couldn't swim. Endless lawyers.

“I didn't mean anything,” said Larry sulkily. “I don't see why I should pay them anything.”

“Larry,” said Chance, the chiefest of his lawyers, “they're pigs!”

“They were always pigs.”

“No, Larry. There are thousands of millions of people on this planet. You've got to play ball, otherwise you're just not going to survive. Got that?”

“I am God.”

“Someone nukes LA, we'll see how much of a god you are.”

“They're talking of that?”

“They're afraid of you, Larry. Play ball, okay? Join the human race. Do what the court says.”

So the police pigs got their thousand million each, and that's big bucks in anyone's language.

So much work, now. So many pressures. He no longer needed to beg just enough to buy a bottle of port. His needs had escalated to the point where he was going through millions daily. His legal bills were incredible. He needed serious money - - government money, military money, IMF money - - and that required precision work.

Bring rain to Australia. Abolish Ebola. Bring back the dodo. Heal the ozone layer. Cure malaria. End Aids.

“But why isn't the guy in jail?” said President Starr.

“He's appealing through the courts,” said Intern Ombersley, speaking to him from the other side of the no-touch, the safety screen which these days protected presidents from their human frailties.

“But he's already been convicted!” said President Starr. “Three strikes are three strikes!”

“It's kind of a special case,” said Intern Ombersley, stalling, as she had been instructed to.

It was, too. Though President Starr didn't know it, right then Limbo Larry was with the CIA, working on their new pet project: neutralise the North Korean nukes.

That last one was too much of a stretch. Where is North Korea? Even when they showed him on the map, Larry couldn't grasp it internally. Simpler if he could go there. But they said: No hope of that. He would have to do it remotely.

“I can't,” he said.

“But you have to,” said Chance. “You've already spent the money.”

So he tried again, but it made his head hurt.

“The hell with it,” said Larry, losing patience finally.

And - - easy to do, since it needed no precision at all - - he detonated all nuclear devices on the planet. Simultaneously. Immediately, the earth shook.

“Nukes in LA?” said Larry.

“No, the nuke was just a threat,” said Chance, who as yet had no idea what Larry had done. “This is just an earthquake.”

Only it wasn't just an earthquake. It was the Big One, and Larry was hit on the head by a piece of falling masonry when his mansion collapsed.

Afterwards, he realised that his miraculous powers had vanished.

Radioactive dust clouds. The sun screened out. Nuclear winter. People dying in their millions, their tens of millions, their hundreds of millions. The new ice age beginning. Larry went anonymous. A tough ten years, then he came out on top, the new shaman of one of the auto-auto tribes now fighting for control of the snowy Californian coast.

“All in all, it worked out pretty well,” mused Larry.

Yeah. It had. He had kicked the alcoholism, pulled himself together, got a grip on himself, restored his self-respect. Just one last regret: now that Hollywood was gone, there was no chance of him ever seeing Madonna play the role of his girlfriend in the movie of the story of his life.

“Well - - now?” said Gibi Gibi, who happened to be Larry's designated observing demon. “Do we get to work on him now?”

“No,” said Broblomov Zooz, who was Gibi Gibi's supervisor. “Just sit back and watch. I know these humans. He's only just started. Give him enough elbow room, and sooner or later he'll really screw things up properly.”

[Originally published in Kimota 14, Spring 2001]

THE MURDER MYSTERY

by Peter Tennant

The crowd standing huddled in the rain outside the police station seemed unnaturally silent and tense, like mourners at a funeral. I could sense the undercurrent of feeling, an ugly mood that could easily erupt into violence if it were given direction. Something terrible had happened.

Several people recognised me and called out my name. I nodded to some and the crowd parted to let me through. A stern faced policeman ushered me into the building and took my coat. He directed me to the Prefect’s office.

The Prefect of Police was standing in the corridor talking with an officer I did not recognise. Seeing me the Prefect broke off his conversation and gestured a curt dismissal to his colleague.

I had never seen my old friend look so grim. His eyes were bloodshot and his features bore a strange cast, the haunted look of a desperate man. It was as if he had aged twenty years since I saw him last, only three nights before at the house of Herr Werner, the cotton merchant.

“Herr Doctor.”

“I came at once old friend, but what can have disturbed you so?”

“Am I that easy to read?” The Prefect shrugged. “A child has been murdered.”

“Ah.” I nodded. The Prefect’s own son had died young, and though it had been over twenty years he had never reconciled himself to that tragic loss.

“We live in terrible times, when such things can happen.”

I followed the Prefect down to the morgue where the child was waiting on a cold stone slab. He drew back the white sheet covering the body. It was a boy of ten or eleven, one of the local children. I had seen him many times before, though his name temporarily eluded me. Transfixed in death he had the shining features of an angel and I wanted to weep for all that lost beauty.

An examination would not be necessary as the cause of death was self-evident. The child’s head had been completely severed from his body. The cut was clean; I had never seen better. There were no jagged edges or serrations of the sort even the sharpest cleaver would leave. The flesh showed signs of burning, as if some attempt to cauterise the wound had been made.

Gently I drew the sheet back over the child’s body and head. There was a mystery here. I could not imagine how the boy had been slain.

“Do you know what sort of weapon was used?”

The Prefect nodded. “This is a strange affair. In all my years as a policeman I have encountered none stranger. I seek your opinion not only as a physician, but as a man who has travelled and seen a little of the world.”

The Prefect turned to draw back another sheet and revealed a second corpse. The body was that of a man, covered from head to toe in a shiny black material that resembled leather but felt strange to my touch, warm like skin itself. I had never seen anything like it before. Only the man’s head and hands were uncovered, and there appeared to be no way in which the garment might be removed, other than by cutting it free of his body.

The man could have been a foreigner; there was a slight Asiatic cast to his features. It was the face of an old man, but the lips were curled back in a smile that reminded me more of the carefree innocence of youth. This man had died happy. I could not tell the cause of death. The left hand was severely burnt but other than that there was no sign of external injury. An autopsy would need to be performed.

“Who is he?”

“The murderer.” The Prefect pointed at an ugly lump of congealed metal lying on a table next to the wall. “And that was the weapon he used.”

I reached forward to pick it up but the metal was too hot to touch. It burned and I hastily snatched back my fingers.

“That thing, whatever it is, projected a beam of white light that was used to decapitate the child.”

I shuddered, horrified that such a thing could be possible. “You have witnesses to the crime?”

“Several, but their accounts only make it seem all the more inexplicable.”

“Tell me.”

He pointed at the corpse on the slab in front of us. “The child was playing in the street with his friends when that man approached. Nobody saw where he came from. They exchanged a few words and then the man pointed that metal thing at the child. He shouted something in a foreign language; one witness believes it was Yiddish but she is not certain. The weapon projected a beam of white light which the man swung like a sword and took off the boy’s head. Death must have been instantaneous. Then the weapon appeared to combust and the man dropped down dead.”

“At least the child didn’t suffer.” The words were empty, but I could think of nothing else to say.

“Franz, I’m at my wits’ end. None of it makes any sense. It’s an impossible murder. I feel as if I must be dreaming.”

I looked at my friend’s imploring face, but there was nothing I could tell him that would make sense of this brutal act. Instead I took a firm hold of his arm.

“Let’s go up to your office. A glass of schnapps will do us both good. Doctor’s orders.”

The Prefect nodded. Solemnly he replaced the dead man’s sheet and turned to follow me.

On the stairs a uniformed officer met us and informed the Prefect that the child’s parents had arrived.

They were waiting in the Prefect’s office. The woman was seated, staring silently into space as tears rolled down her cheeks. The man stood next to her, his own face drained of emotion as he comforted his wife.

She jumped to her feet as we entered. “Why did they kill my son? Why?”

I shook my head and shrugged helplessly. There was nothing I could say to her. I did not know.

My friend the Prefect of Police pushed past. He gripped the woman firmly by the shoulder and clasped her to him. This was Klaus at his best, all fear and uncertainty forgotten in the face of this simple woman’s need.

“Frau Hitler, you must compose yourself...”

[Originally published in Kimota 3, Winter 1995]

THE LAST DOOR DOWN THE HALL

by Paul McAvoy

Storytellers would have us believe that there are always endings, answers and reasons for the little fables they weave. Real life, unfortunately, is not like that. There are not always answers and meanings, tied up together in pleasant bundles. I don’t know why Roberts did it, whether he had made a deal with the devil, and why it had to be children. I have my own conclusions, and perhaps you will too.

The beginning? Where does any story begin? A stormy night, with lightning flashing and thunder rolling? My story did not begin like that. Roberts was always there, ever in the background.

It was hard to tell just how old Roberts was: he seemed to have run the corner shop for hundreds of years. ROBERTS’S had traded when my gran was a child, with Mr Roberts behind the counter, ever cheerful with his chirpy laughter. Of course, he had been younger back then, that silver hair had been jet black and considerably thicker than the five strands he patted down each morning with water. But he had been there nevertheless, according to Gran; always polite, selling his cigarettes, newspapers and boiled sweets with the same happy smile. That smile never seemed to leave his face.

He was a thin, wiry man with long limbs. He always wore a suit and a tie, and always smelled of peppermint and tobacco. He spoke in a soft, syrupy voice: he said “Abewt,” instead of “About,” and “Mooeer,” instead of “More.” His whole persona was one of kindness.

He was a man who genuinely seemed to love life, and people. The only thing I ever heard him complain about were flies. He abhorred them: I saw him many times with a rolled up paper in his hand, or a can of spray. “Got you, you little sucker,” he would exclaim as he surveyed his handiwork with can and rolled up paper.

A bachelor, he had no family; not that anyone knew of anyway. Gran had said he had even been in that shop when her mother was a girl.

This puzzled me. Always had. But I never spoke to Roberts about it. Gran was growing old and in a home; she could have been mistaken. It had most probably been Mr Roberts’s father who had served my great-grandmother all those years ago.

If not... well, that would make him well over a hundred. And that was, of course, impossible.

But there was always something very adamant in my gran’s tone when she talked about it. Even just before she died, the cancer finally conquering her. “He’s not normal,” she said. “Made a deal with the devil, I’ll bet: to keep living, never to die. You know, like Dorian Gray?”

I nodded, remembering the Oscar Wilde story.

I did not entertain for one moment what she told me was true, just the ravings of an old woman, the confusion of a person riddled with senility.

However there were other puzzling facts, too. No vans or lorries pulled up outside ROBERTS’S, delivering goods for him to sell. My ex-girlfriend worked at the local cash and carry and she had once told me he never bought his stuff there, either. We conversed about Roberts often and used to get quite passionate about the furtive old man: if only our relationship had had half the passion.

The things he sold appeared to pop onto the shelves on their own accord like magic.

The recession did not hit Roberts, either: where most shops were folding and sporting CLOSING DOWN signs, a prelude to wooden boards, ROBERTS’S carried on, business as usual.

Then, when Morrisons opened up, practically killing off all the small trade in the area, Mr Roberts still opened his shop every morning; smiling, happy, loving life and people, smelling of that peppermint / tobacco smell, dressed in suit and tie.

I yearned to speak to him about it, but what could I say? I used to pop in every morning for a paper and a brief chat. I did broach the subject once, saying something like, “Been here a while, huh, Mr Roberts?” But he had just smiled in reply, giving nothing away. He nodded, “Been here a while, oh yes, Johnny.”

I suppose I could have found out more, searched old records at the town hall, perhaps, but I guess my obsession was not that strong. Anyway, I did not like to pry. What business was it of mine?

Still... he was a mystery.

“Made a deal with the devil, I’ll bet,” my gran said.

“To keep living, never to die.”

Last March, the mysterious story of Mr Roberts came to a ghastly conclusion. I still have trouble dealing with it. Whenever I close my eyes, I see them, staring their lifeless stares.

But I am going ahead of myself.

Did I say conclusion? A kind of conclusion. An ending. When Mr Roberts died.

It went like this:

I had been in the police force for five years and had just progressed to detective constable. I was out with D.S. Beck when we got the call over the radio. A woman had phoned the station, saying something about a dead shopkeeper. We were to go and investigate. When I heard the address of the shop in question, I felt an icy chill run up my back.

ROBERTS’S.

Siren wailing, we twisted and turned through the streets to Roberts’s shop. A lot of people had gathered outside, forming a bottleneck in the road. Ghouls, D.S. Beck called them, and was instantly angry upon seeing them, pushing and shoving, itching to get a look at a dead man. My superior told me to check inside while he tried to disperse the crowd.

I went inside, smelling that familiar aroma of sweets and tobacco. I saw Roberts immediately. He was sitting by the side of the counter on an old wooden chair. His arms were limp at either side of him; his head was resting on one side.

From outside I heard Beck tell the crowd to go back, there was nothing to see.

I walked over to Roberts and looked down at him. I had never noticed before – even though hundreds of pounds had passed from my hands into his – but his fingers were incredibly long and crooked. The crookedness could be the start of rigor mortis, I supposed, or perhaps he had suffered from arthritis; but the length of those fingers, that was something else.

I knelt down before him, looking at his closed eyes. I reached out and put a hand to his face, then quickly pulled it away. He was ice cold.

Beck from outside: “Come on, now, everyone move away.” I glanced at the door and saw the detective sergeant waving his arms in a swooping motion.

I turned back to Roberts. Whatever my gran had told me about the old man, whether any of it had been true, did not matter, for Mr Roberts was dead. I sighed, taking hold of his hand to check for a pulse. As expected, I found no signs of life. This was no longer police business; it was a job for the undertaker.

I was about to stand up and head outside to inform Beck when Roberts’s head suddenly flung backwards. His eyelids opened and he fixed me with those pale blue eyes of his. His lips parted.

“Ah,” he said. “Johnny Harrison.”

I stared at him in disbelief. His skin had been inhumanly cold, there had been no pulse, he could not possibly be alive. I wondered if I was experiencing some crazy hallucination. I checked myself, realising I had simply made a mistake and was letting my imagination run amok, which was not good for a policeman who wanted to progress up the ladder of promotion.

“Mr Roberts?” I began. I stood up, collected myself, then turned to get help. Roberts grabbed hold of me by the hand. I looked down: those long fingers curled around my wrist.

“No time,” he said, as though having read my mind. “Been a... mystery to... you, haven’t I?”

His hand was like a slowly tightening vice.

“Been a puzzle... How have I lived so... long?” He blinked, eyes swimming in their sockets. “So many... so many... countless.” His voice was a whisper.

I felt a short, sharp sense of disorientation, then said, “I need to get an ambulance for you.”

“So many of them... Energy. Like a vampire. A vampire feeding. Feeeeding.” He stared up at me. “You came close. You know? I... I haven’t long left. I need to tell you, you came close... so close... from being... fodder. For.”

“This can wait,” I said, trying to sound professional. “I’ll get help.”

“The Energy,” he said, as though not having heard me. “The deal I made... him. Him. Upstairs, go look, you will understand then. Go see, if you dare, see my crime. Remember, you came close. Remember Billy? Billy Brown?”

“He disappeared,” I said. Then, “What about him, Mr Roberts. What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t... ask for forgiveness. He came to me, made a deal. I could have said no, but I did not. Scared of death, but not any... more. I could have gone on, and on, and on. Had to stop. Too much killing.” He paused, a harsh breath escaping from between his lips. Then, in a slowly fading voice, he continued. “The years I have seen... pass by. So many... No more. Let this... this be it, let him take me.”

“Mr Roberts?” I said.

He just stared at me, eyes not blinking.

“I have to get help for you...” I paused, watching his grip over my wrist slowly loosen.

“Absolute,” he whispered.

It was the last word he said. Then his body eased and his hand fell away from my wrist. He lay still.

“Is he dead?”

The voice startled me. I swirled around to see Beck had entered the shop. “Yes,” I said quietly. Then, “We have to go upstairs.”

He looked at me curiously. “What’s up there?”

“Roberts told me to.” Without waiting for his reaction I made my way to the door behind the counter.

Billy Brown. He had disappeared over twenty years ago. Some said he was abducted, others said he had run away. I was his best friend, and I knew he would never run away. I had a vision then, of Billy and I playing with our Action Men, we were eight. He loved his parents, would never do anything to upset them. A good friend, a close friend, as far as eight-year-olds went. Then one day he was no longer there. I remember the police talking to me, asking me if I had any idea where he had gone, that his mother was very upset and if this was some kind of game we had to stop it at once.

We would not be punished for causing everyone pain... just tells us where he is hiding.

That was the time I decided I wanted to be a policeman when I grew up. Become a policeman and find out what had happened to poor Billy Brown.

The memories danced through my mind as I made my way through the door.

I used to tease him and sing, “Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down.” He used to wear a silver St Christopher, said it would protect him. I did not wish to know why Roberts had mentioned him, but found myself walking to the door with stiff legs. Years of not knowing what had happened to my boyhood friend. I had sought answers during long nights afterwards, sometimes doing my own investigating, other times merely daydreaming about him. Had he been abducted, was he lying in some shallow grave, alone? Now I was beginning to understand, was drawing closer to answers I realised I no longer wanted to find.

Billy Brown used to say, in reply, “Little Johnny Harrison hasn’t got his undies on!”

I found myself in the back room. It was a kitchen-cum-dining-cum-sitting room. There was a table and chair, a sink and a TV. I scanned the room quickly, then made my way up the stairs by the door. Halfway up, I turned, having heard movement behind me. Beck was following me.

“Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down.” The song filled my head, repeating, over and over.

I heard a buzzing in my ear and a fat bluebottle circled my head before flying away. I smelled a strong aroma of bleach and disinfectant.

But at the top of the stairs I perceived another smell. The smell of a slaughterhouse. I put a hand to my face, then turned right. I paused a moment, suddenly certain I did not want to carry on this search. Another bluebottle buzzed past my ear. I turned to the door ahead of me and pushed it open. It was the lavatory. Then I opened the next door. Double bed containing neatly ironed clothes, chest of drawers. Roberts’s bedroom.

I headed for the last door down the hall.

Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down.

I reached out a hand to open it, but something stopped me. A feeling worse than the one I had had a moment ago. A feeling that turned my stomach. I felt a chill race down my back and my body went suddenly numb.

“What’s that smell?” Beck arrived at my side. He looked at me, eyes wide. He did not say anything else, just turned to the door.

Billy Brown went to town...

Taking in a deep breath, I shoved open the door to see what was in that room. I see it now, as though it was only yesterday. I see the door slowly opening, light from the hall slowly filling the room, and revealing what is hidden within those four walls.

For the room contained the children.

Hundreds of them, crammed together, and at varying states of decay. The smell seemed to engulf me like a poisonous gas. I stood rigid, eyes focused on them. I opened my mouth, then heard a strange wailing sound. I turned to Beck, he was looking on in horror, and I realised the wailing was me, screaming.

A fly buzzed past my head, I saw others too.

Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down. The words reverberated around my head crazily. Over and over, becoming a chant. Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down. Billybrownwenttotownwithhistrousershangingdown.

Some of the children were dust, others pieces of bone, some still had hair and skin, some still had clothes. Skulls grinned up at me, hollow eyes sockets glared at me, in thanks, accusation?

Billybrownwenttotown...

Then the chanting stopped, and I heard my gran: “Made a deal with the devil... to keep living, never to die.”

Suddenly Roberts’s voice filled my head: “My time has come... been a mystery to you, haven’t I? Lived... so long. So many... countless. Energy. Fodder. Remember Billy Brown?”

I shut the voice away. Beck was vomiting. I was too numbed to do even that.

Billy Brown, taken.

Which one of you is Billy Brown? I looked over at the sea of skulls that filled the room. His voice entered my mind: “Johnny! Johnny. Little Johnny Harrison hasn’t got his undies on!”

Then on one of the small corpses I saw a flash of steel. A silver St Christopher.

Now I did want to be sick. In my mind, uninvited, Roberts spoke up:

“You came close...

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

JULY

by Paul Finch

Greg had never expected to see the two cooling towers again. At least, not outside his nightmares.

As the minibus crested the low hill on the country road, the whole of Kent spread out before it, a quiltwork of golds and greens. The two monoliths of concrete, heads buried in clouds of stationary steam, loomed up to the left. Red-brick buildings were clustered around their feet, behind fields of electricity pylons. Greg stared at the two gigantic chimneys through the side-window. They were the same. The very same. Weren't they?

Sweat trickled into his eyes and he wiped it away. They couldn't be. It hadn't been round here, where it had happened. Had it? Of course, this time the red orb of the sun wasn't hanging between the towers, throwing off its searing, sapping heat, turning the land a bloody crimson, setting the clouds aflame... so the illusion wasn't entirely complete.

Greg turned round to face the rest of the team. They hadn't noticed his discomfort. Most were still talking together, a couple rooting through their kit-bags, sorting their whites and pads. He could already smell the grass and linseed oil.

It was only five o'clock, he reflected. The sun wasn't ready to set yet. It would be by the end of the match, though. He glanced at the towers again. He'd know for sure, then. A moment later, they'd pulled off the road and were on a single-track lane.

Sumpton Margaret. It meant nothing to him. Why should it? Just another minor team in another minor midweek league. Of course, he hadn't noticed any names this time last year. He hadn't noticed much. All he remembered was driving: endlessly, recklessly driving; the red globe of the sun and its sentinel towers filling the sky ahead, bleared through dust and tears and drink, like a scene from the Apocalypse.

And then... Tara. Tara in the back.

Greg was last out of the minibus. The rest of the team were scampering about on the forecourt in front of the clubhouse. He could hear his father barking orders: “Tom, you'll be opening with me.”

“Righto, Colonel.”

“Harry! Give it all you've got. Remember, we owe these chaps.”

“Wilco, Colonel.”

“Greg! Where the hell is Greg? Come on lad, we haven't got all night. Five hours of sunlight at the most, by my reckoning.”

Five hours? Was that how long he had driven for, that day? Or had it been longer? Maybe he'd gone on into the night, the sun and towers the last things he'd seen in daylight?

“What are you mooning about for?”

Greg shook himself. His father, hugely-chested, iron-grey sideburns down either side of his leathery, nut-brown face, was peering at him from the clubhouse door, a bat over one shoulder. “Not been smoking more of that blasted weed again?”

Greg shook his head dumbly. The cooling towers soared into the azure sky beyond the clubhouse. The boy was too agitated to work out whether the sun would sink between them in its final moments of glory, or simply pass them by in some other direction. At the moment it was a distant fireball, far overhead. It gleamed on the bonnet of the minibus. How had he found his way to this place, that night?, he wondered. Or had he? How many pairs of cooling towers were there in Britain?

“Hmmphf!” With a familiar grunt of disapproval, the Colonel disappeared into the shady interior of the clubhouse, his feet clumping on its floorboards. “I knew we should've picked Cambridge,” he was saying to himself

The Colonel's men were all out for forty-eight.

Greg's contribution didn't help much. “We're counting on you, boy,” his father boomed, clapping him hard on the shoulder as he went in last, the bat tight under his arm.

Greg's mind wasn't on matters, basically. For one thing, the cooling towers dwarfed everything, and now threw dusky shadows over the wall of foliage at the far side of the pitch. For another, evidence of the power station was everywhere: to the south, beyond a green net fence, high voltage pylons stood in regimented rows, linked together by jungles of cable. To the east, behind the clubhouse and its gravel car park, spoil-heaps of cinder were visible, rolling away in a desert of reddish-brown humps. There was no escaping it.

Then there was the fast bowler; a husky, bearded man, standing at the other end of the square, tossing the ball up and down as Greg took his crease, staring hard and trying to suppress an ironic grin, as if he knew something the batsman didn't. Greg had no time to wonder what it was. The first missile came at him before he even knew what was happening. He flailed at it without looking, knowing that he'd missed and jerking his head away from any possible rebound. It was actually a relief to hear the click of the middle stump and the muted applause from the deck-chairs in front of the clubhouse.

For once, his father wasn't able to deride his puny effort as he came off - the Colonel had only made three himself. He still managed to glare at his son with undisguised contempt before stalking away.

After tea, he despatched Greg to the distant boundary. “Long-on,” he said irritably. “Let's see if you can get that right.”

Greg's heart sank as he sloped across the green. This meant that he'd be directly facing the clubhouse... and the cooling towers. He shook his head to clear it. The July heat was still intense, sweat dribbling down his nose. The air was full of midges and sweet with the smell of cropped turf. He wiped his hands on the back of his white pants as he approached the boundary. It was marked by a wall of vegetation - trees with blue shadows among them, dense leafy bushes and tall mid-summer grasses. Greg viewed it nervously as he approached. He remembered tangled woodlands last year - hot and dark, twisted, primeval, crimson sunlight shafting through, thorns snagging his soaked shirt and waistcoat, nettles stinging through his dress-trousers.

He was biting a knuckle when he turned his back on it to try and concentrate on the game. The home side were just starting their innings; they had a useful batting order by all accounts. Coincidence... pure coincidence, he told himself over and over again. Somewhere in front, the opening bat hooked a straight six from the first ball. Greg looked up at the cooling towers - deep blue sky, now with a trace of purple, was still framed between them.

“Damn your lovely hide, Tara!” he hissed under his breath. “Look... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it's over. I can live with it, now. I'm sorry. Alright... I'm bloody sorry!”

The final apology came out so loudly that one or two other fielders glanced briefly round at him. He grinned and shrugged, then had to duck as the powerhouse batsman hooked his second ball straight for the boundary, this time on Greg's side.

“Six!” shouted the umpire.

Greg went scrambling into the foliage after it, dodging round the first mesh of thickets, then wading through a profusion of weeds and nettles. Green shadows closed in. In the distance, he could hear his father complaining bitterly to his team. The old soldier's sixth sense had still not deserted him. Even at an early stage of combat like this, he recognised impending doom. Greg sniggered. The old windbag. He'd had plenty of practise.

Then he stopped dead.

The ball was visible a few feet in front. But beyond it, by fifteen yards or so, what looked like an old van was peeking through the lush undergrowth. For a second, Greg was rooted to the spot. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

The vehicle was mottled and mossed, and sunk to the fenders in briars, but it was definitely a van - a Ford by the looks of it. Greg came a step closer, fresh sweat breaking on his brow. The white and brown paint had now faded and was riddled with cracks. In many places it had flaked away completely, leaving rusty metal beneath. You could no longer read the words 'Gallagher & Son, Caterers' on it. Not unless you had a good imagination. Or knew what you were looking for.

Greg qualified on both counts. He picked the ball up, turned stiffly, and walked through the trees to the pitch. He threw the ball back and resumed his position without a word. It didn't prevent him shaking violently. It couldn't stop the frightful jack-hammer of his heart.

At least the door at the back was still closed, he thought vaguely. It was the van's rear-end he'd seen, so he knew that for a fact. It couldn't have been the front - that was still hard on the oak-tree, where it had mashed itself twelve months ago, after that manic five-hour drive into the setting eye of the sun.

Greg mopped new sweat from his brow. It felt like cold grease.

Twelve months! Had it really been so long ago, that day at his uncle's country seat. In the middle of that first university summer; those endless, idle months of holiday, when Greg, long-haired, bored and now on his father's lead again, was re-introduced after many years to Cousin Tara. Lovely Tara, her hair a wave of flaxen glory, her young lips ripe and red as wine.

For seconds Greg lived it again. Leading her giggling and tipsy down the steps to the lower veranda, where no reveller could see them from the high terrace-windows. Taking another slug from the bottle of Jim Beam, before throwing it into the flowerbeds. Kissing her, her arms wrapping around him. Pushing her back against the ivy-clad balustrade. The silken bridesmaid's dress riding up. The pretty white stockings and suspenders beneath. Tara struggling slightly. His hand on the smooth flesh of her upper thigh, gripping it hard... harder. Suddenly drunk with lust. Ignoring her cries of pain. His fingers yanking at the lacy crutch of her panties.

“Come on you silly bitch,” he jabbered, as material tore. “It's just a bit of fun... you silly, horny bitch!”

God, the rapture of penetration! The hot tight folds enclosing his manhood. Tara's cries becoming shrieks. His hand clamping over her mouth. Bucking savagely against her, jarring her again and again on the crumbling, ivy-clad balustrade... which apparently was not crumbling as much as he'd thought.

The loud crack was terrible in its finality. Greg heard the smack of wood on leather. He looked up just as another clean drive came rocketing towards him, and ducked with seconds to spare.

“Six!”

The Colonel began to berate his men again, as Greg turned to the darkling woodland behind him. The barrage of abuse this time was something about nobody being deep enough. Now somebody was taking his father on. Somebody always took his father on. This one sounded gruff and working class.

The row faded into the background as Greg ventured into the trees again. It was hotter and gloomier than before. Moths flitted among the groves. The air felt clammy. He glanced warily about him, but nowhere could he see the ball. He knew that within seconds he'd be back in the glade with the vehicle. He swore. Surely this wasn't possible? Surely, somebody must have found it during the last twelve months? It couldn't have lain here undiscovered for so long. What would the odds be against him being the first? Then he remembered hearing something in the clubhouse about the pitch having been re-marked recently, and the square turned around. Good God, he might be the first after all!

He toyed with the idea of going back and saying the ball was lost. Sumpton Margaret were bound to have more than one. They probably wouldn't be satisfied with that, of course - corkys were expensive. They'd expect a more thorough search. Some of them might even come over to help him. Christ... they might find the van! Now Greg fought his way through into the clearing. He had to find that ball, and quickly.

He did. At least he found where it had gone to... and it couldn't have been worse. Greg felt his jaw drop. By the looks of things, the ball had struck the vehicle in the middle of its rear door. The old lock, caked with rust, had smashed off with the impact. The door now hung ajar, sullen darkness within.

Greg stared blankly at it. The horror was almost too much to bare. Seconds passed and he couldn't do anything; neither advance nor retreat. If only he'd been more sensible, he found himself saying. If only he'd kept a cool head that day, and thought his way through. But of course, he'd panicked. God, how he'd panicked.

He remembered staggering backwards across the lower lawn, dragging Tara's leaden weight behind him. Remembered hearing calls for her on the veranda. Natalie - Tara's older sister - looking to pass on the bridal bouquet. Oh Christ, they'd seen him dancing with her! They'd seen them come out together!

“Jesus wept, Tara!” he spat. “It was just a bit of fun. It didn't mean anything. What the hell are you crying for, for Christ's sake!”

Not that Tara had been crying. The sobs he'd heard were his own. From the glaze in her eye and the angle of her neck, Tara would never cry again.

Moments of sheer madness had followed. A winding garden path, which seemed to lead nowhere. The frightening click of croquet balls just over a hedge. Natalie calling again, some short distance behind them. Greg's eyes filled with sweat, his crooked back aching. And then, suddenly, salvation! A side-gate leading to the drive, and there, unattended, one of the catering vans. Its rear compartment unlocked, keys still in the ignition.

As Greg stood staring at the vehicle, in its shroud of forest debris, he remembered the mad, directionless drive, and always that sinking ball of flame ahead; his only marker. How many hours had he driven for, and how many times over the legal limit of alcohol had he been? Even then, that awful thought had penetrated his skull; so much so that he'd finally had the sense to get off the road before some traffic patrol stopped him. Greg cringed as he remembered turning sharply down a rural track, and hearing that tumbling weight in the rear.

Oh God... oh Lord, what had he done?

He swallowed and padded quietly forwards, vision locked on the half-open door, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He closed his eyes as his mind tried to grapple with the magnitude of the thing he had to do. He came to another halt, and stood swaying, hugging himself. The van's interior was a chasm before him. Nothing stirred in its depths.

He stared into it, his hair prickling.

From some distant place behind him, he fancied he heard shouting. How long had he been gone?, he wondered. Seconds? Minutes? They'd be coming to help soon, whether he liked it or not. And they wouldn't hesitate to look in the van.

Like a statue creaking into life, Greg forced himself forward to the back of the vehicle. Still, nothing was distinct inside it. A faint musty smell poured out, but it wasn't as foul as he'd feared. His hand was shaking as he extended it to the door. A dent was visible, and a slight red blemish where the corky had struck the metal.

Greg assumed it was from the corky. His fingers made contact. The old door squealed noisily as he pushed it slowly open. Dull greenish light rolled inward over a floor of corrugated metal, revealing rivets, strips of crinkled paper, an old tray... and a cricket ball, sitting at the farthest end.

And that was all.

Greg made no move to enter. He was totally perplexed. He looked around again; tried to check out the message in the faded paintwork along the vehicle's flank. What if it wasn't the same van? What if it was coincidence? What if the whole thing was just coincidence?

He scrambled quickly inside and crawled towards the ball. What if it was the same van but somebody had already been there and found Tara? He paused to consider. No. He'd have heard about it by now. He took the ball thankfully in his hand, then a truly horrible thought struck him. Suppose, just suppose, Tara had got out herself... finally released when the corky broke open the door? Greg went cold. He glanced uneasily around, looking for evidence that she'd been there. The first thing his eyes alighted on was a torn fragment of material lying in the nearest corner.

Silk?, he wondered. White silk, now ripped and filthy?

A shadow fell across him.

Greg slowly turned. A black, tattered figure was standing framed against the trees, staring silently in at him. Its head was cocked unnaturally to one side.

The boy threw himself backwards, screaming hysterically. Unable to retreat further, he slammed his hands over his face.

“For God's sake, what bloody rubbish is this!” came a hushed but outraged voice.

Stuttering, Greg peeped through his sweaty fingers. The figure outside was his father, his broad features written with disbelief. Other cricketers were emerging through the undergrowth behind him. Most were swishing through the weeds with bats and wickets.

“I... I...” Greg didn't know what to say. A tear ran down one cheek. “I... I got it,” he finally stammered, holding up the ball.

The Colonel's astonishment seemed to grow. Now there was a hint of fury, as well. “I can see I'll have to keep a tight rein on you even beyond the summer,” he hissed forcibly. “Those drugs have knocked you for six.”

Greg nodded dumbly and climbed hurriedly from the van. All of a sudden, living at home under close scrutiny seemed a far better option than returning alone to his flat in the dingy Oxford suburbs. He followed the others out of the woods without a single backwards glance, and once on the pitch, asked his father if he could change position and maybe field from the other side.

The Colonel's reaction was to start swearing, and eventually he had to be led away by Tom and Harry. “Do you have any inkling of the humiliation we're facing?” the old man shouted over his shoulder, as he was steered back towards the crease.

Greg didn't. And he didn't care, because as the rest of the team drew away, he became aware of the woods behind him, and sounds he hadn't noticed before.

There was a faint, ongoing rustle for one thing, like old skirts dragging through the undergrowth. He listened to it for minutes in a state of horrified fascination, too frightened even to glance over his shoulder. It seemed to be coming closer. Then there was something else; almost like a chuckle. Hardly discernible, but clearly a chuckle. A slight, girlish chuckle.

The game resumed but Greg scarcely noticed. He was almost paralysed with fear. “Oh Tara,” he whimpered. “Don't do this to me... please. I don't deserve this.”

“Greg,” she whispered, from somewhere very close at hand. “Greg, my love...”

His joints were like ice. He could sense the figure behind him, slightly shaded in the cover of the trees, but almost within touching distance.

“Greg... ory!” A breathless, beautiful, singsong whisper.

Slowly, despite himself, Greg twisted round to look.

And was baffled. The boughs were heavy with leaf, the spaces between them deep in shadow. But there was nobody there. Nobody at all. He scanned the tranquil groves frantically. Hardly a breeze stirred among them. The forest lay at peace. He turned slowly back to the game. A dream, then? Fevered imagination?

Then he looked up.

And saw the dull red globe hanging between the cooling towers. He gaped in horror. It was immense. It filled the sky like a scene from the Apocalypse.

It smashed into his left temple.

There was loud crack, and a searing light filled Greg's eyes. Blinded, he tottered backwards. Only when the bushes enclosed him, did the light diminish. In fact, it went out like a candle. And in the sudden darkness, he tripped. With a scream, he fell.

With a sigh, she caught him...

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

TREADING THE REGOLITH

by Cate Gardner

Lunar dust blew into the tent with the strength of her frustrated kick. Sarah stood in the opening, looking out at the world they'd left behind, and gulped oxygen as if it ran short. Across the clearing, Ted sat on a bench. She wondered what occupied his mind, assuming his mind was occupied. It so often wasn't. Such thoughts would drain her sanity until she sat vacant eyed beside Ted. She almost wished for that.

The absence of sound reminded she was a long way from home and there was no thumbing a lift back. Within the weight of his helmet, her husband's smile beamed and his eyes bugged out. He couldn't get enough of the view.

The sight of Earth hurt Sarah's eyes. You do it for him. For the love of who he was.

A land-truck lurched across the desolate landscape. Windscreen wipers left grey arcs across the glass. The rev of its engine drowned out the silence and allowed her sanity to settle back into place.

Ted shifted position. He turned away as the truck stopped just shy of his bench. Sarah waved to the driver. Her arm felt cumbersome within the suit. The driver jumped out of his vehicle.

“Just enough room to breathe,” the driver said, his voice crackling through her helmet's speaker. “You get used to it.”

A dozen comebacks tore around her mouth. She remained silent.

The driver's steps bounced across the surface and, coupled with his inane grin, gave the impression he no longer possessed all his faculties. String spooled from his waistband and led back to the truck. Mad for sure.

He flicked his finger at the string. It pinged. “When you've sprung a little too far to the left you'll understand. I'm Dirk Dillon, your Luna Four representative.”

“Sarah and Ted Mulhern.” Her voice echoed within the helmet. It sounded as if she had a cold. “Good to meet you.”

“First off, allow me to apologise for being unable to take you with the rest of the group. The usual land truck, a thirteen-seater, broke down as we were leaving Luna Four forcing us to use the smaller non-regulation vehicle. Complimentary oxygen, Spam and other assorted tinned goods will be provided as an apology.”

The thank you caught in her throat. Breath issued as static and disturbed the dust that had collected around her helmet microphone. He nodded and grabbed her gloved hand.

Ted turned away from the Earth as if sensing an invasion. Finally, he moved.

“Ted Mulhern, Ted Mulhern,” his voice echoed. “Pleased to meet you.”

The two men shook gloves, then Dirk patted Ted's shoulder. Ted responded by patting Dirk's elbow. Sarah coughed.

“Now aren't we a happy triangle.” It hurt Sarah to smile. “I guess we should be going.”

They followed the string back to the land truck. With a final glance at the unmanned tent, Sarah climbed in.

“What's Luna Four like?” she asked.

“As they say in the brochures, it's unlike anything you've seen before.”

That helped. Her sigh crackled and disturbed the song playing on the radio. On board the wrong spaceship, David Bowie asked if there was Life on Mars.

“Not yet.” Dirk winked.

Stop the moon, I want to throw up.

Dirk's comments were not the only things making her queasy. The land truck appeared to bump over every rock on the moon. She felt like a goldfish; her head swimming about the helmet, not certain if she'd travelled this way minutes before. It all looked similar.

“How do you find your way?” she asked.

“Don't tell me, you expected to find road signs on the moon?” Dirk laughed.

“I expected roads.”

Had she? The idea sounded ridiculous now she thought about it. Who puts a motorway on the moon?

“The LE Corporation has submitted plans to the newly-appointed Lunar President. All being well we should have our first roadworks next April.”

“She's beautiful,” Ted said. “Why build roads and cities? We should camp out here.”

And suffocate… Sarah recalled sitting in the doctor's office, pulling at her collar and forgetting how to breathe. It was no better down there. Ahead of them, a glass dome broke through the darkness.

Sarah shuffled in her suit. “I expected it would be larger,” she said, meaning the dome.

“It'll grow on you,” Dirk said. “Hold onto your lunch campers, we're heading for home.”

Ted bounced in his seat. Sarah hoped the act due to a lack of gravity and not that he'd regressed forty years. Perhaps she should have read something more in-depth about the moon than Lunar Lunacy. As friends and family insisted--she'd not thought this through.

“We're farther than you think and closer than you hope,” Dirk said.

What appeared a ten-minute ride took another hour and by the time they'd reached the dome, Sarah's backside was sore and her brain numb. People, dressed in the requisite suits and helmets, congregated around the outside of the dome. They cupped their hands to the glass and peered in. Two lunar rovers drove parallel, one heading east and the other west, behind the group. They looked like sheepdogs herding the escaped population.

“They're looking at Earth,” Dirk said. “The dome is a cross between a telescope and television. You've perhaps heard of ScopeVision.”

Sarah suspected Dirk had coined the term and was hoping to make mega-dollars from its copyright. The spectators traced their hands along the dome as they shuffled to the left, to the right and stood on tiptoes.

“Why don't they look at Earth from within the dome?”

Both Ted and Dirk snorted at her question, neither answered.

Glass doors swished open, cutting into the dome. Dirk drove through, leaving them all in limbo between the two layers of the dome as the air acclimatised—something to do with decompression. The science left her brain as muddled as Ted's. A rainbow of colours swirled in contrast to the grey of their journey. Weight settled around her middle. Looking out the rear window, she saw half a dozen helmets pressed against the glass.

“They can't see us,” Dirk said.

“All they see is the Earth,” Sarah said.

Ahead of them, a second set of doors opened and the colours faded to grey.

“Welcome to Luna Four, the perfect place to lose your mind.”

#

Ted's circuits began to unscramble circa 2064. At least, that was how he put it. As if, he considered himself akin to broken machinery. The only cure--relocation to the moon (his words, not hers). Well they were here and he didn't look any less unscrambled. Impatience irked.

The living quarters were spaced about eight feet apart. Rocket ships tented to the earth by poles with net curtains covering the windows.

“Ingenious.” Dirk removed his helmet and winked. “Inspired.”

The removing of her helmet muffled Sarah's answer. Ted kept his in situ. Sarah's hair fell lank and sweat pasted her fringe to her forehead. She looked up at the dome, at what she had thought an anomaly brought on by 'caught-in-a-helmet' effect. She blinked. The anomaly remained.

“Why is the dome painted with yellow clouds?” she asked.

“Someone has read their brochure.”

“You got me, and?”

“Consider them our 'eye in the sky'. It's a million times better than the white coats back home, less clinical.”

Sarah nodded. “So which is our rocket ship?”

Dirk led the way.

Ted raised his hands to the sky and stared at the gaps between clouds. He muttered, “Beautiful.”

Sarah took in a deep breath and unzipped her suit. She felt almost normal. Sarah left Ted staring at the sky and followed Dirk to a rocket ship with the number 17 painted on its side. A refurbished ex-rocket is never something that can look like home. Metal clanged beneath her boots as she climbed the ladder.

“I'll leave you to get acquainted. If you require any assistance there are red buttons placed in all rooms.” Dirk saluted.

The roar of the land truck broke Ted's stupor. Sarah sat on the fifth rung of the ladder and peered up at the dome. She pulled stuck her tongue out at the sky and waited for a cloud to zoom in. Give her five or six weeks of rocket life and she'd be as away with the little green men as her husband.

“Ted, you want spam or corned beef for supper? Or maybe we could eat out. Do they have an all-night diner on the moon?”

She knew they had a recreation pod or something and a food rocket that touched down every fortnight, so why not a diner?

“Barbecues are encouraged within the dome.” A man popped his head out of the doorway of rocket 18. “However, no food fights. Your husband reminds me of my wife.” When Sarah didn't answer, he added, “She's locked in the facility. They found her running between the dual layers looking for a door back to Earth.”

“I thought the point was to not lock people away?” Ted, my husband, was fading in the Home and wandering when at home. Now he has all this space.

She climbed down the ladder and stood on the moon. She discerned no movement in the yellow clouds.

“If someone gave you a key out of the dome I'd like to make a copy. Last time I checked the brochure it was supervised visits only.”

“Not for us. That is, I mean you and me, non-patients.”

“Look, the truth is, if you go out there all the time to look down at the Earth well that can make you kind of nuts. And if you ever want to get off this heap of rock, nuts is not a good place to visit.”

She laughed. “No one press ganged us onto a rocket ship. We signed up.”

“No one had a talk with you? No kind hand pressed a brochure into your tired fingers when he went missing for the sixth, seventh, twentieth time? No real estate agent promised to take care of your finances?”

Before she could answer, Ted interrupted by tugging at her sleeve.

“Corned beef and mashed potatoes,” he said.

Moon dust covered Ted's hands and knees. Sarah tried to brush it off, but it caught and snagged her skin. She sneezed, brushed a trail of dirt across her cheek and sneezed again. Joy! It seemed hay fever on Earth had morphed into a lunar allergy.

“You look like a chimney sweep,” Ted said.

“Gee thanks honey, would you like bacon with that comment?” She unfastened his helmet and pulled it off his head.

“We're here,” Ted said.

“We're here.”

“I'm going inside.”

“I'm going to stay outside a while longer. Acclimatise. Take in the view.”

She looked towards the edges of the dome and at the trail of people waiting in the space between. She recalled the saying 'God's waiting room' and thought whoever had coined the term had imagined this place.

“Barbecue's at nine Earth time, hope your watch is set,” her neighbour called after Sarah as she left footprints in the regolith. “We'll throw some of your complimentary Spam on the fire.”

“Nine it is,” she said.

As she headed towards the dome and trained her attention on a section of unspoiled sky, her boots left trails in the regolith. She wondered how far she could walk before someone kicked up dust and chased her. She figured forever.

[Originally published in M-Brane SF 2010, contributed by the auther in place of her many Kimota stories which could not be used for copyright reasons]

SIRA

by Derek M. Fox

To Forster the jade statuette was exquisite: a centuries old nude carved by a craftsman. And he had to have it.

Career down the tubes, funds depleted, he thought briefly of Margaret, his fat bitch of a wife. Probably shoving more food into her oversized mouth, while she pets that hairbrush on legs. Damn dog pissing all over the place...

“What’s with you?” he spat at the woman eyeballing him. She hurried on, as Forster grimaced at his sallow complexion in the grimy Georgian panes of the shop. A sad sign read ANTIQUES & CURIOS, nothing more.

He slicked back greying hair and straightened his tie, his shadow overlapping the jade. “I want you, little lady.”

Closer to the window now, he detected a dim light burning and grinned. “A quick barter and I’m away.”

Age, the dull cracked bell, his sneeze at the disturbed dust were all partners of hope. The light issued from a shadeless pendant dangling from a cracked ceiling.

“Hello.” A mountain of house clearance stuff wearing yellowed price tags, absorbed it. A counter of sorts, hemmed in by dusty Georgian tables was stacked with more clutter. A few pieces caught his attention, but Forster had set his heart on one thing.

About as big as the Oscar, she was indescribable. Long suppressed sensations bubbled, as he caressed her form.

He pulled back quickly. Surely the head hadn’t turned. “Trick of the light.” He felt uneasy, her blank eyes full upon him. “Ridiculous.”

Vehicle lights lent an impression of wanton writhing. He wet his lips, daring himself to caress again that, which in reality, was memory. Here was nubile flesh and longing, a strange, discordant melody rippling the edge of silence.

Needing real company, Forster squinted into accumulated shadows. “Anyone back there?”

A car horn was reality, it underscored frustration. But the jade was....Escape? The thought hung. “I need her.”

No cost could be too excessive. Margaret, her expensive tastes, her wine, and whining could go AWOL along with her expansive stomach. “And fuck the dog! Let’s think about me for a change.”

“Her name is Sira.” Cracked tones drew him towards the counter, a tassel shaded lamp almost toppling as he knocked against it. He managed a tired smile. “Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was... You, er, made me jump.”

His skin prickled under her slitted, ancient gaze from eyes buried within the wrinkles of a grey, nodding head.

“I see you like my little figure.” It was a dismissive statement. “I was closing, passing trade is close to nonexistent these days.”

Not surprised, he thought, aware of the stale, old smell she exuded. “The jade-” he said pointing. “-I assume it is for sale?”

Her holed slippers slithered like dead fish on the floorboards. “Sira is ancient, sir. And priceless-”

Forster did not want to hear that.

“-beyond any man’s dreams.”

Her tone sounded like nails dragged down slate. Forster backed off. He was near the door, and closer to Sira. And, crazy thing, her blank stare followed him.

Shadows dried on the shop’s walls; traffic noise crescendoed and faded; a solitary street lamp lit the statuette, and Forster swore one eye winked.

He cleared his throat and said, “What are you asking?” in a tone he always used when business had been good. Now most of the money, courtesy of Margaret, had either been supped, eaten or invested in senseless bric a brac, his own arguments and life thrust into virtual oblivion. Where Margaret belongs. Hold the thought.

He’d hoped for a quick haggle, a swift settlement, his nest egg spent how he wanted. He could live with the rows. Then again-?

“Sira is from the time of Homer,” the woman said. “Her name derives from the Sirens, she sings a sweet song-”

The tune. Yes. Hardly sweet, but it replayed in his head.

“-It’s in her lines, her beauty. Sira is unique, sir. None other in the whole world. Her song lures.”

“I’m not one for legends, madam.” Forster had trouble quelling his impatience, and told himself he shouldn’t have come. Exactly what had brought him? A whim? A song? He shrugged. “As you say, very old. So, how much?”

Blast you, make your fragile mind up.

Her eyes bared his soul. He sought solace in the statuette.

Her dry, rasping laugh made his heart race. “I see you want her.” His skin crawled. “I am too old,” she added, “my life measured in heartbeats, yet- ,“ She jabbed the air with a bony finger as an ancient clock ticked the seconds, tocked her pulse.

“Name your price,” he snapped.

Her toothless grin smacked him in the face. “To you I say go. Sira is not for sale.”

Forster died, his fists clenched. “Come on, old woman, be reasonable, set a price.”

Creaking her way back to the counter she slapped a mittened hand down, her print like an ancient seal in the dust. “No haggling. You leave. NOW.”

His heart hammered. This close, this. . . I must have her. “Please, madam, reconsider. I apologise for my rudeness.”

Her head shake, and pointing finger defeated him. He stepped out of the shop like a petulent schoolboy and slammed the door.

Some half dozen or so angry paces further on he stopped - the song - the call - eroding everything he filed under Logic. He went back.

The woman wasn’t anywhere to be seen as he carefully unlatched the door, the bell held firmly in his other hand. With the jade under his coat, Forster relaxed only when he parked his BMW in the garage of his country house.

In a quiet broken only by the sigh of the closing garage door, car warmth assisted his conjured thoughts. He drank of the jade.

“Priceless, yes. But only to me, not that stupid bat. No-one takes me for an idiot.”

Oh no? Margaret’s been doing it for years.

“Fuck her!” He caressed every line, every enticing curve. “Sira,” spoken softly even as a low, decisive moan issued from -

No way! Yet, Forster’ s mind scurried into swirling mists; he ran naked across plains of pleasure, scaled mountains of ecstasy, paused at forbidden peaks, explored secret valleys, as the song climbed. He was lured down forbidden paths... And she moved between his fingers.

Scrambling from the car, Forster ached with suppressed longing. “The hell with Margaret. A giant foodbag on legs that’s her. Couldn’t ever be like...”

He paused, deviousness in his slitted look. “Can’t let her see Sira. She’d sell her. Make herself fatter... So bloody fat she might well explode.” He grinned, loving the idea. If Margaret wasn’t around anymore he could stay here every day with his dream.

Forster wrapped the jade in his scarf and secreted her behind a can of GTX. “Soon,” he promised.

“What the hell are you looking so chipper about?” Margaret, sipping Cherry Brandy and guzzling soft centres, appeared to grow from the easy chair.

Forster sat on the sofa. “Possible job,” he lied. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Your dinner’s in the dog.” She petted the comatose rag on her lap, the poodle’s stomach as distended as her own. “Enjoyed Daddy’s supper didn’t you baby? All dat lovely gravy and those itsy bitsy chunks of beef.” Her lips suctioned the animal’s head.

Forster was repulsed. The TV played but he heard a different song - Sira’ s song, green eyes tantalising in close-up. He moaned and crossed his legs to hide his embarrassment.

“Coming down with something, dahling?” Margaret savoured another chocolate. “Tummy bug?”

Forster gawped at the standard lamp behind Margaret, the lamp transformed into a swaying figure with soft breasts, grippable hips. “Sweet Jesus.”

“If it’s that bad take some Epsom Salts. And don’t moan when the tele’s on.”

He gestured rudely behind her back, the dog’s yipping forcing her half turn as he exited. “What I’d like to do to you, you oversized-”

In the kitchen the whistling kettle became the song...

He hit the worktop hard with the flat of his hand - just like the old woman had struck the counter - Margaret yelling: “WILL YOU BE QUIET.”

“Shut your fat mouth,” he hissed. The dog yipped again and he wondered how it might sound if he shoved it in the microwave.

Steam from the kettle held her voice. “Cold, so-o-o cold here. G-e-r-a-l-d.”

Possession became obsession. “She knows my name. She. Knows. My. Name.”

Bloody Margaret! His eyes raked the rack of knives over the worktop. “Too much blood.” There were two cakes by the biscuit jar. “Mmm, one oversized cream slice should do it.”

He carried the plate and one slice through to the lounge. Margaret raised her eyebrows. “I thought you had stomach cramps.”

“I brought the cake for you, dear.” You’ll be smiling the other side of your face in a bit, bitch.

“How thoughtful. You can enjoy yours later.” She reached for the plate.

“Allow me.” Forster tendered his best smile.

‘G-e-r-a-l-d,’ Sira called.

“I’m coming.”

“Pardon?” Margaret was puzzled.

“I mean I’m bringing the cake, sweetheart.”

“Gerald, are you on something? What’s all this lovey-dovey nonsense?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The cake! Give it to me. Or must I wait until it solidifies?”

“Oh no, dear, you can have it.. now.”

And Forster didn’t realise just how long it would take to choke somebody with a cream slice, especially with a yapping dog tearing at his ankles, and Margaret’s desperation. .. God she had strength. How she managed to raise her legs and shoot her slippers across the room was beyond him.

He prodded her, her wide, shocked eyes staring, her body so still. No detectable heartbeat through all that fat. He laughed, the cadence all around him. And there was Sira: on TV; in the family photographs... everywhere.

He set the jade on the dressing table, the room lit by her pale green glow, and removed all his clothes.

Forster demanded she be real, his mind slewing into wild, erotic fantasy, his arousal complete.

Sira danced naked, her mystery hidden by flowing hair; waves washed the beach of his mind, the sea stroking, cajoling. And they came together. Naked, they twisted, and writhed and sweated, his fingers stroking every voluptuous mystery...

The room glowed, vivid, omnipotent, violent.

Even the thumping didn’t deter him.

They kissed, the lash of her tongue taking him higher, only to sink back again into the song... into her.

THUMP-BUMP. . .THUMP-BUMP…

He was vaguely aware of the bedroom door opening, and a dog yapping. What in hell was that lurching through the door? Across the carpet?

He thought: Sod it, locked as he was in the throes of delirious climax. Yet even before it started, before he opened his eyes properly, he knew something was wrong... something had changed.

Nubile flesh became wrinkled parchment; bony talons raked his back; coarse, lank hair smothered him -

He opened his eyes wide.. wider his demented wail rising into the room as he struggled to be free of the nightmare who was Sira... who was the old woman... who was now Margaret throwing the whole of her twenty stone across

him, straddling him, going down on him.

“Kinky bastard,” she laughed, and spat crumbs. “You never could do anything right. I’d eaten two thirds of that cake before you realised, so I just played my own little game... dahling. Hey -“ Margaret bucked, this is fun, too bad we didn’t do it more often.”

And the mountains heaved, smothering him, the valleys hampered his breathing.

Through it, he heard Margaret:

“exactly where I want you...” Before she stuffed the other cream slice into his mouth... and kept on stuffing...

[Originally published in Kimota 9, Atumn 1998]

FLY ON THE WALL DOCUMENTARIES

by Jonathan Taylor

Sheila: television on left; husband: television on right.

That had always been their arrangement: in bed, she took the left hand side, he the right; during their ‘courtship’, she’d sat on his left in the cinema, with the popcorn in the middle, like a baby too small to have a seat to itself. It didn’t signify anything - it was just their arrangement.

She fished out the remote control from under a dozen crisp packets, and started flicking through channels till she reached the Television Directory Home Page:

Type in the word or words that best describe what you want to watch, and the Directory will find someone who fits your description.

Would you like to see someone eating? We now have 135,352,793 people registering positive for that action.

Someone being violently assaulted? Well, we have 128,453 hits for that at the present moment. There are also 7,397,862 other people on line who are currently involved in crime, either as criminal or victim: are you interested in armed robbery? gang rape? cow tipping?

What about watching someone sitting on the sofa, eating crisps and watching television, watching someone else sitting on the sofa, eating crisps and watching television, watching... ? Well, we have 103,981,201 target channels located in the U.K. alone: could you be more specific? Or would you like us to select one randomly for you?

Yawning, she typed in the code for her own channel. There she was, sinking down the back of the sofa with the crisp packets, half of her husband visible next to her.

How many people have visited my channel today? How many people have watched me today? she wanted to know.

None, of course. Not even your devoted spouse.

He doesn’t need to visit my channel if he doesn’t want to, she hissed back at the television. If he just shouted at me from where he is; if he demanded that I go and get him a beer or tub of popcorn; if he kicked me off the sofa, so he could stretch his legs out more; - but he hasn’t spoken to me or shouted at me or even kicked me for five days. Perhaps if some kind stranger turned over to my channel, they’d feel sorry for me and write him a note to tell him I’m lonely - tell him that he’d see for himself how lonely I am if he just took one glance at me or my station. We all used to write to television stars when I was young - but that was when there were stars.

She switched to one of the million advertisement channels. Some twenty-somethings appeared on the screen, drinking, eating and generally over-acting enjoyment.

“Watch yourself at a party surrounded by loads of friends!” the voice-over blared. “Be the centre of attention of gorgeous people like these! Just type in the code shown at the bottom of the screen and today can be your birthday!”

There was a pause as the guests turned towards the doorway. A man wearing a tweed jacket and pink cravat entered, gesticulating at people with his handkerchief. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen - now, for a small, extra fee, Oscar Wilde will make a surprise appearance at your soiree! It’ll be even more of an occasion with his renowned wit and bon mots!” (Oooh, thought Sheila, some of those nice continental chocolates).

The advert changed to one of a beautiful couple, exhibiting beautiful (and rather large) teeth to each other whilst wandering through a beautiful park. Beautiful strings swooned beautifully in the background.

“Your life is humdrum and lonely, isn’t it? You’re tired of watching everyone else’s humdrum and lonely life, aren’t you? Well, now you can have romance! Love! Marvellous sex! With the star or stars of your choice! See yourself meander through meadows with Monroe! Make a pass at Al Pacino! Sip vino with Valentino! Eat escargots with Bardot!

“Tap this code into your remote, with your bank account pin and your National Insurance number, and we’ll arrange the rest.”

Next came an advert showing a man and a woman doing the Charleston; the man - short, with a tiny moustache and hair greased to one side - seemed familiar.

“Yes - you can dance with your favourite historical dictator today! McGee Enterprises will arrange your dreams! All you need do is dial in this code on your remote - and from the comfort of your own home you will see yourself Cha-Cha with Genghis Khan, Tango with Ivan the Terrible, or Lambada with Lenin!...McGee says: ‘You shall go to the ball!’”

Sheila flicked channels, back to the Directory Home Page. She decided she might check her channel just once more, to see if anyone had been watching her in the last few minutes.

But no. According to the Directory, no one had visited her today. Did the counter ever go wrong, she wondered? Almost embarrassed to do so, she stole a glance at her husband, who was still guzzling the popcorn.

She thought of their first wedding anniversary (a memory which had acquired the dated campness of an old, fondly-remembered advert). During the afternoon, the B.B.C. had been around. Sheila and her husband were the last couple in the street to have their own channels installed - but it had finally happened and she couldn’t quite believe it. Away from the T.V. there wasn’t much to show for all the fuss: the fly-like cameras which buzzed around her were almost too small to be seen. As soon as the technicians had left, though, she’d perched on the edge of the sofa, and had turned her channel on. And there she was: and every giggle, every silly face and every sudden twitch were reflected back. Will I be famous now? she wondered. Then suddenly she and her image had jumped and yelped as she saw a figure appear behind her on the screen. “Gis a hand, for God's sake, luv,” the figure had said. She turned, and found her husband there, struggling under the weight of a box tied up with ribbons. “Happy anniversary,” he said after they’d manoeuvred the box onto the settee. And she’d opened it - and had found inside a second television - and had then let him kiss her in front of the cameras - and had then let him take her for the first time in front of the cameras - and had (for some reason) found it difficult to recognise herself when she’d glanced at the T.V. during the sex.

Next morning, Sheila got up earlier than usual. She found her husband snoring on the settee, his belly spilling out from under his vest. He clutched the remote control in his hands; the right hand screen showed two tramps huddled together in a box.

Shifting his legs to one side (afraid to wake him), she squeezed into a corner of the sofa, and picked up her remote. And, ever so quietly, she tapped in some numbers.

Within ten minutes, she was watching herself being swept across a hall, to a waltz by a guy called Khachaturian, in the arms of Josif Vissarionovich Stalin.

There she was on the McGee Channel: her hair done up in ringlets; her eyelashes drawn out perfectly; her figure flattered by the low-cut gown she was wearing; her midrift looking surprisingly toned (perhaps I’m wearing one of those corset things underneath, she thought); her feet squeezed into such tiny shoes they were almost painful to look at. It was hard to resist the temptation to glance critically between her real self and her screen incarnation.

Stalin, who was smaller than she had expected, was wearing his Red Army dress uniform, and had evidently brushed his moustache. She knew she felt comfortable, if a little frightened, held by those puffy hands which had crushed so many: he could have killed her now, but instead he directed her steps with gentlemanly subtelty - their every, graceful movement absorbed by the real Sheila and the sofa as if they were waltzing too.

“You almost make one believe that all women are not equal,” commented Stalin in his gruff voice.

“Oooh,” Sheila replied, blushing.

“You are like the country I lead and dance with every day: large but beautiful, and made up of many different parts.”

“Oooh,” she replied, hoping he wasn’t going to ruin everything (or make everything complete) by getting lecherous.

“Yet you dance with me more splendidly than Mother Russia.”

“Oooh,” she replied, as she was carried one more time across the room - her real self trembling, tearful and out of breath on the sofa.

Her husband yawned and stretched next to her. Had he seen what she’d been doing? She did not dare look at him. It would be typical of him, she thought, if, just at the time when I least want him to take notice of me, he’s watching. But then - perhaps it might not be such a bad thing for him to see me dancing with another man. I don’t think he’s ever been jealous.

Stalin bowed, kissed her hand and was gone; her own image disappeared; in their place, the price flashed on the screen.

Still shaking, she flicked back to the Directory Home Page, and then to her own channel. Surely someone would have visited her? After all, there couldn’t be many people in the country to watch who are watching themselves dancing with a tyrant.

But when the counter registered zero, she didn’t feel disappointed in the way she’d expected.

Instead, to her husband’s and her own astonishment, she stood up. He was so surprised, he looked up at her.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?”

“I’m going out.”

“Out?”

Sheila was surprised to find that ‘out’ was where it had been the last time she had been there: in the kind of ‘willing suspension of belief’ induced by the Television Net Directory, she’d begun to think it might just be fiction. She was nervous, but also exhilarated at the thought that someone somewhere might now actually think her channel was worth looking at.

She’d decided where she was going without even knowing she’d decided. After three hours of walking, she managed to find the place.

“I wish to speak to Mr. J. Stalin,” she said to the receptionist.

“Which department is that?” asked the receptionist, not bothering to look up from her monitor.

“I don’t know... I just need to speak to him.”

“I have to know which department he’s in so I can contact him, madam.”

“I told you - I don't know.” She was flustered and out of breath.

“Well,” said the receptionist, slowly and distinctly, “you tell me his job, and I might be able to help you.”

“Is this lady bothering you, Gladys?” asked a security guard who’d sauntered up. “Are you bothering Gladys, ma’am?”

“No, I...”

“Because if you are - and if you have no security pass, ma’am, I have a right to escort you from the premises.”

“It’s all right for the moment, Clive. Please, madam - tell me what this Mr. J. Stalin does.”

“He’s President or something of the U.S.S.R. and Chairman of their Communist Party - or he was, a hundred years ago. He took over after Lenin died. He told me that was what Lenin had wanted. Now Trotsky...”

“Right, that’s it. Come along with me. We’re going to get you some nice fresh air.”

“Please...”

As Sheila’s arm was taken by the guard, a tiny man who had been listening from across the hallway trotted over and interposed.

“Wait a minute there, Clive. We don’t want to be unfriendly to our customers do we?” The tiny man had a large head, thick spectacles and eyes that blinked too often.

“No, sir, no, certainly not, Mr. McGee.”

“I tell you what. Let me take care of this lady. You two get back to your work, and leave her to me.”

The security guard relinquished Sheila’s arm, with a parting scowl in her direction. She looked at McGee, worried that he would try and escort her away from Comrade Stalin like the others.

“You’re Mr. McGee?” she asked. “You don’t look anything like this on your adverts.”

“Don’t I? Afraid I wouldn’t know. Afraid I don’t watch them myself. I’m quite happy for someone to stand in for me. Between you and me, I don’t watch much television full stop.” He was guiding her gently towards the elevator, though she hadn’t really noticed. “Sheila, is it? Yes, I guessed as much from the description the wife gave me. The wife watches all my programmes (afraid, like I say, I don’t) - and told me you danced wonderfully. You and the great Russian despot made a splendid pair, she said. Might have made a decent man of him, she said - though, personally, I think she might be stretching the point there.”

They were now in the lift going up.

“Yes, well,” she said, shyly. “That’s... well, that’s really what I’ve come here for. I didn’t want to cause any trouble down there, but...”

“Mmm?”

“I wondered if it’d be possible to... well, to see Mr. Stalin.”

“But you have seen him.”

“Yes, but to... to meet him.”

“You did meet him.”

“But I wondered if it’d be possible to meet him actually, really, if you see what I mean.”

The lift stopped and they wandered into a passageway - a passageway which led directly into the very hall where Sheila and the ‘Father of Children’ had danced. Unlike McGee, the hall was as it had been on television - apart from one wall which was made of darkened glass. Behind this window, technicians could be seen, playing with computers and other gadgets; in front of the window, a large television screen displayed the room, with Sheila and McGee in it, like a mirror.

Sheila forced back a cry of excitement. “Where is he, Mr. McGee?” She was shaking with the effort of controlling herself. “Oh, Mr. McGee, if you only knew how charming he was, how gentle, how... If you knew, you’d understand why I had to come here.”

“Sheila, I understand perfectly. You’re not the first to come.”

“You mean he has other admirers?”

McGee paced away, over the chequered floor. He hated having to do this - and he could have delegated the task - but he felt that he should shoulder the responsibility for the drawbacks of his enterprise himself.

“Sheila,” he started slowly. “Sheila, I understand how you feel. But you must know that Josif Stalin has been dead a hundred years."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I know... I know, but... what about the man you get to play him?”

McGee strode across the hall, and seemed to make a few signs at the men in the adjoining room. He turned to beckon Sheila over, and pointed at the screen in front of her.

The main lights in the hall dimmed. A spotlight started circling, both in the room and on the screen - as if trying to find her. A Russian waltz came from somewhere.

And there, on the screen, was Sheila’s lover, waltzing partner-less in the spotlight. Yet - she looked desperately round - he wasn’t with her in the room: in the real hall, the spotlight was empty.

“You see, Sheila? We built up his image from photographs, and the computer makes him waltz. Quite simple, really.” He hesitated. “Afraid, though, it’s not really what you were looking for, eh? He’s dead and gone, Sheila - dead everywhere but on T.V.”

Sheila was crouched on the floor now, crying - whilst, on the television, Stalin danced straight through her. McGee stepped over and patted her on the head.

“Look, I’ll leave you here for a few moments alone. I’ll be back when you’re ready to go.” With that, he strode away as fast as his little legs would take him - though not towards the corridor and lift, but instead through another door which led into the studio. He was rubbing his hands together and grinning a toothy grin that looked almost diabolical. He knew what was needed here.

Meanwhile, Sheila cried - and would have soaked the sofa if she’d been on one. She cried - and would have short-circuited any dictator who’d come close. She cried - and heard a different voice to McGee’s and Stalin’s.

“Eh? Is that you, luv?”

She looked up, drying her eyes.

“Oi, Sheila - am I going to have to stand here all day?”

Her husband - rather slovenly dressed for the occasion, and looking rather lost - had replaced Stalin in the cone of light on the screen.

“Why are you here - or there?”

“Some bloody advert just popped up on me telly - out of bloody nowhere, like - saying, ‘You can dance with your wife today if you type in this code!’ - and there was a bloody picture of you in this bloody hall on your own. You could have knocked me down with a bloody feather, you could - a bloody bloody feather in fact. Well, what was I supposed to do?”

She glanced around the real hall. “But I can’t dance with you. You’re only in the hall on the television in front of me. You’re not here, in the real hall.”

“Well, you’re not here in our bloody sitting room either, luv. Whichever lazy bugger set this thing up didn’t bother to do it the normal way, so as you can sit back and just watch yourself do things without any bloody hassles. But, since I’m here (or there or wherever the bloody hell I am) - let’s think about this. If you can see both you and me on your telly, and I can see where both of us are on my telly, then - I suppose we could give it a whirl, as I s’pose they say.”

She was sobbing again, now, as she positioned herself in the spotlight, keeping her eyes on the television in front of her: next to her in the real hall, there was nothing, nobody; on the screen, she was standing by her husband.

On the screen, she was almost holding her husband’s hand; on the screen, he had his arm around her waist; on the screen, he was stepping on her toes.

On the screen, they waltzed (ever so jerkily, awkwardly) together.

“Damn,” she thought, “I bet he’s forgotten to video this.”

{Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

BEHOLDERS

by Trevor Mendham

George and Ian trudged across the field, gloved hands in pockets. Both middle-aged men were well-dressed for the cold night with heavy boots, raincoats and scarves. A thin frost was beginning to settle on the grass and the clear, Scottish sky was lit by a bright half moon and innumerable stars. The silence was broken only by the running water of the nearby river and the occasional hooting of an owl.

“How’s the family?” George asked. The two old friends made this journey once a week and over the years their conversation had become as predictable as their route through the fields.

“Not bad,” replied Ian “The wee one had a touch of the flu but she’s over it now. How’s Anne?”

“Fine, fine.”

Both men stopped talking as they clambered over a wooden fence into the next field and began to walk uphill.

“John really must get round to putting that gate in,” grumbled Ian, as he did every week. “He’s been promising for months.” George just grunted in agreement, saving his breath for the climb.

By the time they reached the top of the hill both men were puffing, their breath forming white clouds in the air. “I swear that hill gets steeper every week,” George murmured, then sat down on a conveniently positioned log. Ian stood on a half buried rock and looked down at the town in the distance. He glanced at his watch - ten to one. From his pocket he brought out a pair of binoculars and focussed on the bridge. A young couple were walking across, arms around waists and laughing at some shared joke. Other than that nothing moved.

“Ian, why don’t you...” George began, then stopped and looked around. A high pitched whistle was cutting through the air. Ian clambered off the log and stood besides George.

“What is it?” whispered Ian as the noise grew louder.

“I don’t know, but it’s definitely coming this way.”

“There!” Ian pointed. A bright yellow light hung in the sky, growing gradually larger. As it approached the two men could make out more details of the silver shaped object. It was a classic saucer shape with a series of translucent portholes around the sides. The pulsating yellow light came from a dome on the top. Around the base were a series of markings in a language not of Earth

The craft flew over the town and straight towards the hill on which the two men stood.

“What is it?” Ian repeated.

“Hang on,” said George, swinging the binoculars up as the craft passed over their heads. “Got it! It’s an old Centauri Type 40 transport, serial 762915.”

“Must be running late,” muttered Ian as he pulled a notebook out of his anorak pocket and flicked through the pages. “Damn it, we got that one back in September.”

“Not to worry,” said George, “There’s an Altarian pleasure cruiser due in an hour. As I was about to say, why don’t you pour us some cocoa.”

[Originally published in Kimota 16, Spring 2002]

TRIPLE GLAZING

by John Travis

Well, I did tell him. Of Course, he never listened; he just used to rush in, act first, consequences later… and look what happens. Anyway, I suppose I’d better start at the beginning…

My name’s Arthur Adams. My brother, Colin, was five years younger than me. I’m 44. We had different fathers; nobody knew who his father was. I suspect it was someone who had an equally volatile temperament; Me - well, anything for the quiet life. That’s how all this got started.

I needed new windows. The old wood frames were starting to rot, and the curtains used to blow about in the winter. And you’re always getting those calls, aren’t you; “Hello sir, I’m from suchandsuch windows, we have a representative in your area, blah, blah, blah.” And for once, I said yes and the next thing I knew was the salesman was coming round at ten thirty on Tuesday morning. I wanted Colin to be there that day, but he couldn’t get the time off work.

I suppose it sounds pathetic, a grown man ‘wanting his brother’, but he knew the world much better than I did, knew the lying and cheating that went on. I’m a soft touch, taken in by any old sob story. And double-glazing salesmen do have something of a reputation...

Anyway, Mr. Savage (highly appropriate, as it turns out) walked down the path just as I was brewing the tea. I didn’t like the look of him then; seemed to have too many teeth in his head. He peered in through the windows at me, tapping the mouldy frames, then walked round.

That’s another thing; he just walked in - didn’t knock. “Mr. Adams? Good Morning, I’m Mr.Savage, Conu windows.”

“Yes, good morning. Would you like a -”

“Just been looking at those frames. Bad. Very bad. Don’t know why you’ve left it so long, to be honest.”

“Well,” I started, “what with one thing and another, you know how it is...”

“Not really, no. Anyway, I’m here now and that’s all that matters. Now, if I could just show you these brochures I’ve brought with me...”

I’ll cut out the rest, if you don’t mind. It was boring enough at the time. The only thing of interest was when Mr. Savage rolled up his sleeves, and revealed a rather singular tattoo on his left arm. He was half way through telling me about the guarantee when I asked him about it.

He looked a bit annoyed that I’d spoiled his mind-numbing mantra. “Oh, that. Yes, I’m part of a black magic group. Now, about this guarantee -”

I interrupted him quickly. “Er, excuse me! I don’t think there was any need for that. It was a perfectly civil question.”

His bearded face bristled as he looked down at me. “I wasn’t joking, Mr. Adams. The Satanic Order of Hucksters. Now, if we could get on, I do have another appointment in...” he looked at his watch.

Fascinated, I butted in again. “Are you serious? Good Lord! Oh... sorry…”

“I’d rather not discuss it if that’s all right with you, sir. Now, do you want new windows or not?”

And so on and so forth. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I felt like I’d been backed into a corner, and apparently I was buying new windows. Only I hadn’t agreed on it yet. Despite this “other appointment” he told me he’d wait until I decided. I just didn’t know what to say, and sat there like a fool. He stayed for three hours.

I have to say that Mr. Savage was an incredible man; in three hours he never directly threatened me, but had me in a sweat and made me feel like something from the bottom of a fish-tank. He’d look at me out of the corner of his eyes, and I’d get sharp stabbing pains in my chest. He knocked over two cups of tea I gave him, and crunched a biscuit into the carpet. He kept telling me he’d “have to be going soon” but never did.

In the end, I told him I didn’t like being put under pressure in this way, and would prefer it if he came back another time. He stared at me, and I felt like a well-prodded voodoo doll.

At that moment Colin came down the drive. He’d passed Savage’s car, and was squinting in at me. I guess the expression on my face told him that something was amiss.

He came through the hall and looked at the salesman suspiciously. “Got here soon as I could,” my brother said, his eyes never leaving the salesman’s. “Who this?” He asked him. It was like two alley cats squaring up. “I’m Savage. And you are...?”

My brother never answered, but kept on staring. I spoke for him. “Oh, this is my brother, Mr. Savage. He comes round every day to see how I am.”

“This bloke bothering you, Art?” he said, arms folded.

I could feel Savage’s eyes boring into me. “Er, no, no. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s just that you hear so much about these guys, you know. Always on the make—”

“What did you just say?” Spat Savage.

Colin stepped back slightly. “Well, I don’t know what kind of a man you are, do I? Are you sure you’re alright, Art?”

I gulped again, the tension in the room unbreathable. “Yes, yes, fine.”

“Okay, that’s all I wanted to know. But you have any trouble, and you give me a call, okay?”

I was ready for passing out now. “Yes, I will. Of course. B-but it won’t come to that, will it?” I tried to smile at both of them. Colin stared at him a second more, then went to his own house, five minutes down the road.

Savage stood there in fuming silence for about a minute, and then turned on me.

“Now. I don’t like being told I’m corrupt, Mr. Adams, even if he is your brother. I think the least you can do is look at these brochures again, and see if anything interests you.”

I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared in my life as I was at that moment. I couldn’t think straight; I never can when I get like that; and after turning the pages too quickly to even catch the page numbers, I blurted out those regretful words that salesman love to hear; “Where do I sign?”

He grinned at me with that dark assortment of mouldering teeth. “Excellent, Mr. Adams! And what day would be convenient for you?”

That day, a Tuesday, I made sure Colin was there. Or rather, he made sure he was there. He sat there in the living room with me while a few shifty - looking workmen got on with it. Colin stared at them all the time. “Stop it.” I kept mouthing at him but he just ignored me. Then, if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Savage turned up, grinning from ear to ear.

He invited himself in after a word with the workers. “So, how’s it all going, Mr. Adams? Looks pretty damn good, don’t you think?”

“Why, yes,” I mumbled. “very n-”

“They’re a bit slow,” my brother butted in. “I’m sure I could do it quicker myself.” The workmen glared back at him, which he missed, and then added as an afterthought “they’d better be good for the money its costing.”

And that’s when it all changed. A simple (if offensive) remark like that seemed to start the whole thing going. I could feel my pulse jumping along as I watched Colin stare at the salesman, and the salesman and the workers staring back at Colin I’d only ever felt an atmosphere like that once before, at a Christmas midnight mass. That particular service always gets its fare share slightly the worse for drink, and well, to cut a long story short, one of the congregation stood up and called the Lord a name that I could not possibly write down. Needless to say, I don’t think He would do anything like that, and to then suggest that the Vicar was also involved was reprehensible.

And that’s what my house felt like at that moment; as if some unholy taboo had been breached, and normal civilities had been dispensed with.

Then Mr. Savage smiled, surprisingly enough, and left the house, calling the workmen over to his car at the top of the drive. They stood in a circle around him and mumbled something in unison - a disquieting, silly-sounding noise to come from grown men. One of them turned round and laughed at us, and they all joined in. Savage drove off soon after and the men got on with their work, and eventually it was done; nice new windows to protect me against the ravages of winter.

And things passed well enough for the next week and a bit, and I was pleased one afternoon when I saw the trees blowing outside and my nets staying put.

After a while though I noticed something rather strange. I get cats coming through my garden sometimes, and I always like to watch the way they carry on. But that day, in the space of an hour and a half, two cats passed through, looked in at me and hissed viciously before racing through to next door; the next day the same thing. Curious, I got out of my chair and looked around. I saw nothing, and was just about to sit down again when I glimpsed a peculiar thing in between the two panes of glass.

It was a small globule of clear fatty liquid, perhaps two inches across, like a small dollop of fast-sticking glue or something like that. It must have got in when they were fitting the glass, but it was strange how I’d never noticed it before. And at the far end was a moth, or the remains of one. The latter was nothing unusual, but I couldn’t understand what that globule was. I didn’t make any connection with the cats odd behaviour at the time. Who would?

Well, over the next few days this blob got bigger and bigger; and by the end of that week it was nearly six inches along the glass in both directions.

Of course, knowing what his reaction would be I didn’t mention it to Colin. He’d have kicked up a fuss, and God knows where it would have ended. It wasn’t until one Saturday morning later on (by which time it was about ten inches across and three inches high) that Colin saw it. He stood at the window and called me in the kitchen. “Hey, Arthur, come and look at this! Quick!”.

So I ran in and saw him pointing down at the window frame. “Quick, you’ll miss it! Bloody nora!”

And I got there just in time to see the trail of slime pounce yes, pounce upon the remains of that moth, and when it moved away, the moth wasn’t there!

The thing was, it kept getting bigger; started climbing up the way; and within two weeks it was nearly two feet high and five feet across. It rippled slightly when the sunlight hit it. I think the word is ‘opalescent’. I do know it put me right off iced Cointreau.

In a way I was lucky. My house is at the bottom end of the road, and nobody bothers me. I also noticed that from a distance this thing had no real form or substance, and from the street it just looked like any other window, but one smeared with grease, the way they are in empty properties. It’s not much fun though, having what looks like a Portuguese man o’ war as part of the fixtures and fittings. But the spectrum of colours it brought to my carpet in the sunlight looked very fetching - until they started to burn holes in the Axminster.

And of course, Colin had been round. He was as flummoxed as I was about the window, and when he saw the scorch-marks in the carpet he chucked an almighty mental.

“What the hell is going on? It’s that bloody salesman’s fault. It’s like the damned thing’s possessed or something.”

“My God! That’s it!” I said. “He said he was in a black magic club or something. Remember I told you? Satanic order of something—or-other?”

Colin shot me a look I can only describe as contemptuous.

“What? Are you saying that Savage bewitched your double glazing? Oh come on!”

“It must be,” I replied feebly, “there’s nothing else. I think we should get in touch with him.”

He still hooked at me rather sadly “Listen, Art. You’re my brother. But you’re talking crap, man. You’re right though. Savage should be told about this.”

Colin phoned up, and even after the words “I want to make a complaint” had no trouble getting through to the salesman. My brother sat there with a puzzled expression on his face, and eventually hung up. “He’s says he knew what I was calling about and he’ll be down first thing in the morning.”

I’ll say that about our Mr. Savage; he kept his appointments, and was knocking on my door at half past seven the next morning. Between the knocks I could hear a slow, deep chuckle.

I had all my questions prepared, but neither of us had a chance to say anything as Mr. Savage spoke without prompting. “So... it worked then, he looked at the window, “wasn’t sure y’know. But, there it is.”

“It’s not a very nice thing to do to someone, is it,” I said lamely. “to put that in there. It’s awful. I hope you’re going to get rid of it.” From me that was quite a petulant outburst. Savage looked from me to my brother as he said “Or else there’ll be bother. Big bother.”

Savage’s grin was wiped off. “No. No go. It stays. ‘Cos I’ve had it - with your sort - never satisfied are we? I try and do my job, but it’s never enough. And I’ve taken as much as I’m going to. Pass the word around, that anyone who messes with this salesman will get more of that!” and he pointed at the glass.

“Oh no they won’t.” Colin said, eyes blazing, face the colour of beetroot. “I don’t know how you’ve done this, but it’s going today! You hear me? Today!” and he marched over to Savage, who stood his ground.

After a few seconds the salesman grinned at Colin and said, “I’ll see you both around. Incidentally, I really should charge extra for it.” He looked around my living room “it brightens the place up no end…”

With that he started for the front door. Colin was furious, and seeing that Savage had left his briefcase behind, hurled it at him with incredible force.

The briefcase missed its target, smashing against the wall. It can’t have been shut properly, because as Colin threw it something shot out of it past my face. It’s sound was deadened by the bag smashing the wall.

It had been a tape measure. It sat on the windowsill, and maybe a foot above it there was a long hairline crack running along the glass.

Savage’s eyes bulged. “No!” he yelled “you stupid fool! That glass won’t take any knocks - It’s not proper glass- OH MY GOD!”

And at that moment a small piece of the defective glass chipped off the whole, dropping next to the tape measure, leaving a half-inch gap in the pane.

It was like piercing a raw egg and letting all the white run out, the way that liquid slime dribbled, then flowed through the hole and, down the sill, along the wall, and onto the salesman’s shoes. He screeched in terror as it crawled up his trouser legs, out through his pockets, up his chest and finally covering him from head to foot. At that moment I think he started speaking in tongues... anyway I couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying as I was peeping through the kitchen door by this time.

And then I noticed Colin. He stood there, roaring at it all. He looked a bit deranged actually, and when the salesman and the jelly-thing started to sink through the carpet and the floor I thought he was going to wet himself.

Then there was only a small patch of it left on the floor. Colin called me, still laughing. “It’s okay, Art, it’s gone - and it’s taken that nutter with it. My God, they won’t believe me down at the p-aarrrggghhhh!!!!!!!!!!!”

He must have been standing too close to it. The next thing I knew he’d gone through the floor as well.

And that’s about it, really. People keep asking where Colin is, and I tell them I don’t know. I called the window people, told them their salesman hadn’t turned up and the window was cracked. They were very apologetic and replaced it free of charge. I wonder if there’s any windows where Mr. Savage is now...

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

WAR STORY

by Caroline Dunford

“Dits-moi la reve encore une fois.”

Her brown eyes are wide with fright, still rimmed with the dark marks of insomnia. I repeat my question haltingly in bad schoolboy French and wonder what this young woman makes of it all. She has a dream that will not go away, which is ‘a nonsense’; she doesn’t believe in such things. I have to ask her to go slowly, her speech becomes increasingly slurred as her fear mounts.

“I am walking along a road. It is dark. I think it is near the cottage, but it looks a little different. I am tired. I have been working hard and I’m afraid; it is bad to be out so late. Then ahead of me on the road I see a group of men. At first I think it is soldiers and I am terrified. But then I recognise it is only Gustav and his men. I walk up to Gustav to greet him. Then as I look into his eyes I know that he means to kill me and I do not know why.” She is shaking with fear.

“And that’s it? That’s all there is to this amazing nightmare?” Peter desperately does not want to believe. His outburst in English frightens Marie. I send her away.

“You’re just going to let her go?”

I sink down into one of the pair of overstuffed chintz armchairs by the hearth. Peter is striding up and down in front of the hearth. Finally his emotions are too full for him to hold and his annoyance erupts in the ritual banging of his pipe, this time off the mantelpiece, sending a shower of glowing sparks down into the fire.

“You’re not going to ask her anything else?”

Peter never fails me. The tension flows away. I smile. “One minute you tell me this is all nonsense and the next you want to conduct the investigation yourself.”

“I could certainly do it a damn sight better than you.”

“Really and what would you do?”

“Ask the girl more questions. Who she is? Who’s Gustav? When is it? A hundred and one things.”

“She doesn’t know any more. I have tried.”

“Well, then let me try.”

I sigh and rub my hands across my stinging eyes. The bridge of my nose is sore from sunburn. “Peter, I’m glad of your company, but this situation is outside both our areas of expertise. Besides I think I know who Gustav is.”

He flops angrily into the opposite chair and fixes me with his pale blue eyes. “Who?”

“The gardener. Well, actually he owns the cottage.”

“How convenient.”

His tone makes me wince, but now I’ve started I see no choice but to tell him all. I know it sounds ridiculous. Perhaps I am hoping Peter’s laughter will shatter this dark, damn illusion. “This is no haunting, Peter, this is an attempt at possession and we are only at the beginning.” I feel the cold prickle of goose-bumps across my skin, a tense chilling sensation.

Peter doesn’t laugh. Our eyes meet.

“I think you had better start at the beginning,” he says very softly.

Peter and I work at the same university. This summer I am over here writing a book; Peter is travelling, stopping at many of the better known vineyards. he arrived, at my invitation, to add some much needed cynicism to this extra-ordinary situation.

“Peter, two weeks ago I wouldn’t have believed any of it either.” It’s a long story that takes us well into the twilight hours, with many questions and cross-examinings on Peter’s part.

It revolves around Marie Chantrelle, a first year student at one of the higher education institutions that litter Paris, during Les Grande Vacances she acts as a hostess to holiday cottages for the British. This rather glorious title translates, roughly, as cleaner, dogsbody and even occasionally cook. Marie at once dazzled me with her life, her joie do vivre, and if she had been a little older or I a little younger, I would, probably, have tried to improve my French, considerably.

But by the end of my first week here I had seen a dramatic change come over the girl. She was nervous, always jumping at shadows. Previously she had been eager to chat, drink my coffee and bicycle slowly home in the fading light. Now she was in and out of the house in two hours. When it became obvious she was also dropping weight by the pound, I cornered her in this room and out came the story of the dream.

By profession I am a psychologist, my book is on some of the lesser understood symptoms of schizophrenia. Naturally I was eager to help the girl.

Peter finds my chivalry amusing. “Your avuncular feelings...” he murmurs.

“Actually her brown eyes. I invited her for some sessions. I suppose at the back of my mind was the unchivalrous thought that the least I would get would be a couple of extra chapters for my book. But this, this dream of hers goes beyond all imaginations... I have come to truly believe that someone is trying to communicate through her.”

“So we come to the conveniently named gardener-owner.”

“I don’t believe she even knows his name, Peter. Marie works for the agency that Gustav assigned his cottage to. He only comes round here occasionally. There are some rare plants in his garden that he trusts to no-one.”

“So when do we meet the illusive Gustav?”

I check my watch. “Any moment now. I invited him round for a drink, tonight, while Marie was still here.”

“What’s my role in all this?”

“You’re my witness, Peter.”

Gustav is old, grey and bent; a wisp of a man inside the shabby, bright clothes of the region.

Ensconced in one of the armchairs I expect him to crumple to dust at any moment. His voice is as thin as ice on a half frozen river, but his English is surprisingly good. It seems that he was involved with the Resistance during the war. Although he is not forthcoming about his role, Peter and I soon begin to understand that he was a key man in this area. I am about to involve a war hero in my silly imaginings. If I am to make a fool of myself I want to get it over with quickly. I call Marie in, ignoring Peter’s disapproving frown.

At once there is tension in the room. Marie stares at Gustav, puzzled, and the old man jerks upright in his chair, his hand shoots up to his left breast, then drops. 

Almost, he crosses himself; the room seems colder to me.

I explain in a bright, helpful voice about Marie’s dream, about the possibility of it being tied into local history, a half forgotten tale told to a child, surfacing in young adulthood. Marie’s gentle brown eyes watch Gustav as a barnyard cat watches a cornered mouse. I ask her to tell Gustav the dream; I give him no option to leave. She sits opposite him on a hard backed chair Peter places for her, she is suddenly intent, desperate to tell the dream she previously hid from the world so carefully.

She speaks quickly and in French. I cannot understand, but I watch Gustav’s face and the horror that gradually takes hold of him. He puts up a hand to halt the rapid flow of words, but Marie only speaks louder and faster, ending on a sob. Gustav tries to rise to his feet, but he is shaking too much. Peter is at his side in an instant, brandy in hand.

It is some time before the old man can speak.

“It was a long time ago, during the war. The Germans were looking for some airmen they believed were shot down nearby. They interrogated many people, but no-one seemed to know anything, so they decided to make an example of one family.” Gustav dropped his head into shadow, “I need not go into details. You may guess that that family is no more. I was in love with the daughter of the house; she was also called Marie.” He nods at the girl. “And when it was over they called for me and my men. We were the grave-diggers for the region. Some called us collaborators.”

“It was a cold hard night and it took us far longer than we expected to chip up the graves. When it was over, most of the men went down to the cafe-tabac to drown the memory. Pierre, Lou and I walked home alone. Walking under the trees, which stood like dark sentries of death all around us, I felt bitterness grow with every step. Each stride it surged through me and each time I thought I could take no more, but the tide continued to rise. And we saw them...

“Two soldiers around a campfire, I do not know what they were doing there. It was so unexpected, a gift from the gods. Their motorbikes and guns were leaning against a tree. They were drinking and laughing; perhaps they had arranged to meet local girls.

“But by then my rage was so strong and Pierre and Lou were with me. We rushed them and beat them to death with nothing but our shovels. At every blow I thought, this is for Marie.”

Gustav took another sip of brandy. Marie had not taken her eyes from his face. “Then?” she hissed, and I jumped. I did not think her English was good enough to understand the story. 

“Then,” he said, “then we were afraid of what we had done, at what reprisals it might bring. So we hid our crime, we hid it well. We counted on the soldiers being off duty, perhaps even disobeying orders. That should have been the end of it, but walking home we met the local school teacher... remember we were afraid. We did not want anyone to know we had been near... even though we had hidden the bodies... and he wasn’t a local man... there was nothing else we could think of to do... I am sorry. It was after this I joined the Resistance.”

“You killed him,” said Peter quietly.

There were tears in Gustav’s eyes. “The worst of it was the look on his face. He never knew why...”

And then the door opens. Standing there is a man, youngish with round gold spectacles. He nods to Gustav. Marie faints. I run for the door. There is no-one in the hall and when I rush to the front door, all I see are fields and trees, Gustav’s dark sentries of death.

[Originally published in Kimota 4, Summer 1996]

A TOTALLY ORDINARY YOUNG WOMAN

by Hugh Cook

Her name was Valencia Cambridge. She was a perfectly ordinary young woman, apart from her name. (She really wished her parents had called her Mabel.) She was 14 years old when she got on the bus. The bus was a red bus. It was travelling in London, England, on a route which took it past three post offices, a police station, and a safe house for the Dutch secret service.

His name was Ted. Ted Blavern. He was carrying a pair of scissors when he got on the bus. Big scissors. Black. Old. They had once belonged to his grandmother. But his grandmother was dead now. He was 32 years old when he got on the bus.

He looked for the video camera. But he didn’t see one. No matter. He saw the girl, and he walked up to her, and he did what he had to do.

Her name was Valencia Cambridge. She was 26 years old. She worked in the office. She made coffee. And she did other things, as well.

“Your photocopying is ready,” she said. “Come and get it.”

But he was still dabbing at the stain on his tie.

His name was - -

He had forgotten his name. His head was still jangling with the chemical inputs of the night before. He knew which planet he was on, however, and he knew that there was a stain on his tie. Tomato sauce? And it was a silk tie! The label: Lanvin. The city of provenance: Paris. Should have shot that waiter.

Even though he had forgotten his name, he still remembered the waiter.

“Come here,” said Valencia, again. “Or I’ll cut off your tie.” Then added, “Someone did that to me once.”

“Really?” he said. “You were wearing a tie? When was this?”

“Oh, when I was a kid,” she said. “It was in England. It was part of my school uniform. The tie, I mean. I was on the bus, see. And ... this man came along with a pair of scissors.”

“And cut off your tie. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. You don’t argue with someone with a pair of scissors.”

“So what did your mother say?”

“I didn’t tell her. She would have... I had to get a new tie.”

“Ah,” he said.

His name is Ted. He is an artist: a failed artist. His bad move came when he missed the bus show. Clothes being cut open, the actresses screaming, the unsuspecting members of the travelling public frozen into shocked immobility. The video tapes were later sold to Tate Britain for half a million - - it was the big breakthrough for the Group. One in which he, of course, had no part.

“I got on a different bus.”

He still tells people that story, sometimes. Too often, in fact. This is one of the reasons why he has no friends, except the mad old woman who feeds stray cats and the guy from Brazil who steals umbrellas for a living.

He does not know Ted Blavern. He has never heard of him. He does not even know his own name. He thinks, for some reason, that it might be McDonald. But then he remembers that McDonald -- or, more exactly, McDonald’s -- is the name of a hamburger chain. He imagines that he might experience legal problems if he tried to call himself McDonald.

Then he bumps his knee against the photocopier.

The pain helps.

Now he knows what that stain is. The stain on his tie. It is blood. At the same time, he remembers his name. He is Egon Paplin, and he is an assassin in the service of the Dutch secret service.

(Most people do not know that the Dutch have a secret service, far less assassins. The Dutch are not like the Americans. They do not advertise, and they know how to keep their mouths shut. They are very serious people.)

Her name is Valencia Cambridge. She is a totally ordinary young woman. And then she opens the lid and this weirdness comes out.

“I like marmalade in my tea,” she says.

Nobody believes her, but it’s true. People are stranger than you think.

Now, this tie... no, it’s not going to come out. Okay. Get the silencer, put on the ski mask, walk in, pop. Do it tonight. These waiters... someone needs to make a stand.

[Originally published in Kimota 15, Autumn 2001

PERPETUAL MOTION

by Julie Travis

Sometimes I think I can read minds.

I look at someone and I get an air of who they are, how they feel, what their life has been like. It’s never anything coherent, just a jumble of pictures and words. There’s nothing to say I’ve ever been right, or that it’s anything more than my imagination, but I like to believe that it’s true.

I wish I could make sense of what I’m seeing now. There is a girl standing at the bottom of the garden. She is startled, like she thought the house was still empty, but there is more. As she looks straight at me I can see an image of a stone slab surrounded by grass and the name Sarah, then calmer feelings, the image of a dog. Then the girl turns away, climbs over the back wall, and is gone.

The house I’d rented was small and reminded me of the places we used to stay in on holiday as a child; the wallpaper was yellowed with age and tobacco smoke and ornaments were dotted around to make the place look homely. Everything was old enough to make it look almost quaint, but there was nothing anyone would want to steal. I’d put a few of my own things in the bedroom so I didn’t feel too lost last thing at night or first thing in the morning, but the rest of the place could look like a holiday home for all I cared. That’s possibly all it ever would be. I intended living in the place over the winter; three months to see if I really could - and wanted to - escape the rat race. I had a novel to finish. Don’t we all?

But I was wondering if I’d chosen the right place. The people were dark, moody like the sea. I knew I would not be immediately welcome as an outsider, but it was more than that. It was as if the people were suffering from mass depression, the town itself sickening. I’d seen people sitting on benches by the beach, in tea rooms, looking out at the beautiful harbour, their eyes brimming with tears, as if their world was about to end. Just this morning I’d seen a man crying into his tea in the cafe. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I didn’t wish to intrude.

When I returned to the house I could see the landlady, Mrs Click, standing outside. She saw me and waved. She, at least, was capable of smiling. As we went indoors I told her about the girl I’d disturbed in the back garden the day I’d moved in. Disapproval crossed her face. The girl was from the Smith family, she told me. The children ‘ran wild’. I hoped I hadn’t made trouble for them.

A week later I was out shopping when I came across the girl. It was raining and she was standing there with her hood down and her coat undone, soaking wet. At first I thought she was looking in the shop window but then I realised she was staring at her own reflection.

“Hello,” I said. “Remember me? You ought to do your coat up.” I was aware that she’d probably been told not to talk to strangers, but she looked strange, disturbed. Without moving, or looking away from her reflection, she spoke.

“I’m going to die,” she said.

“Not for a very long time. Decades and decades. You don’t have to worry about it.” I wasn’t going to patronise her, although as I spoke it struck me that she might be terminally ill.

“No, I’m going to die soon.” She began counting on her fingers. “In four weeks’ time. The twenty-eighth of November.”

She looked at me and smiled. “I don’t have to use the Green Cross Code any more. I don’t have to do my coat up because I won’t catch my death of cold.”

She ran past me, straight out in front of a car. It missed her by inches and as she reached the other kerb a woman strode over to her and shook her arm. I heard her shouting at the girl, asking her if she had a death wish, and to come along, Sarah.

I smiled. I suppose I had to be right about something, some time.

Mrs Click had said the children were wild. What she really meant was that one of them at least was very strange. I watched them go. The rain was beginning to get me down. I had been making a real effort with the people here, but they were dour, preoccupied. I went into the bakery and tried once more at conversation. The woman serving me was young and quite astoundingly pretty, the sort that would leave for the city as soon as they were able. We talked but she, too, was unreachable, caught up in her own sadness, her eyes far away. I gave up and went home.

The next day was sunny and nearly warm, so I did some work in the garden. The rent on the house was lower than anywhere else in town, in return for me tidying it up a bit and doing some re-decorating. Despite everything I wanted to stay and make a go of it. Later I walked along the cliff path near the house. It was peaceful there, for once not blowing up a gale. The silence was broken by the sound of a child crying. Behind a clump of bushes was Sarah Smith. She was not alone. There was a figure with her. It bent down toward her in a jerky movement.

“Well, Sarah? Are you pleased? You’re going to die very young. You’re still going to be a virgin when you die. You’ll never grow up, never get married, never have children. Never live.”

The man was grinning at her. There was something unnatural about him. He was wearing a top hat and tails like an undertaker and apart from what he was saying his voice, his whole manner made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When I’d been at primary school there had been several attempted abductions of children and we’d been shown a video to scare us into keeping away from strangers. This man reminded me of the bogeyman on the video. He was torturing the girl quite flippantly, casually putting horrible thoughts into her head, for the fun of it, it seemed.

“But I want to get old, like my nan,” cried Sarah.

The figure jerked itself upright and gave a shrill laugh. Then he turned on his heels and walked away, his stick-thin arms and legs bending and flailing. The figure frightened me. He was like something from a nightmare. I thought to comfort Sarah but followed the man instead. At first it looked as if he was heading towards Sarah’s house but he went instead to the waste ground that ran along the cliff top. The row of houses that stood there had been bombed in the second world war. The area had been walled off, and never made safe. A small wooden door was set into the wall. The figure took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and went in. As he made to shut it, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then to my horror he stopped, swung the door open and jerked his head around to look me full in the face. After what seemed an eternity, he slammed the door shut, locking it noisily behind him.

I walked back on shaky legs to find Sarah, but she was gone.

On the 28th of November Sarah Smith died.

I didn’t find out until the day of the funeral. As a newcomer, I suppose I was not on the town’s grapevine. One morning, a few weeks after my encounter with the thin man on the cliff top, Mrs Click appeared at my door, dressed in black. I owed her some rent, so I reached for my cheque book but she shook her head, began to cry and said she couldn’t think of such things at a time like this.

Sarah had been hit by a car and had died before reaching hospital. I remembered the conversation I’d had with her. The thin man had convinced her that she would die on that day. Did having that date in her mind make it happen, make her feel like it wasn’t worth taking care because she couldn’t stop it? It could have been just a bizarre coincidence. Or someone could have made sure it happened on November 28th. Had the thin man not been teasing her, but telling her what he was planning to do?

I gave Mrs Click my condolences but told her that I hadn’t known Sarah, so I wouldn’t be going to the funeral. Later I changed my mind and went to the cemetery. I kept my distance from the knot of mourners and walked the narrow paths around the edge of the grounds. I watched the graveside ceremony and wondered who I could talk to about the figure on the cliff top.

I spied movement on the path ahead of me. It was the young woman from the bakery. She was tending a grave, brushing leaves away. She crouched silently, looking at the headstone, then got up and walked towards me. I gave a nod of acknowledgment but her eyes were glazed over and she didn’t notice me. As she rejoined the mourners I thought I should pay my respects, and approached the group. I recognised Sarah Smith’s mother and struggled for something to say.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” was all I could manage. It was inadequate, a platitude.

“What will be, will be,” she replied. “We can all get on now. And she’s at peace. She has nothing to fear any more.”

The remark sounded cold, callous even, although I knew better than to judge someone who was grieving. Mrs Click was standing nearby at her husband’s grave. I asked her who had been driving the car that had killed Sarah.

“It was John Tooley. He’s a farmer from outside town. He’s in a terrible state, poor man.”

“Is he tall, very thin, dresses in black, seems a bit.... well, mad? It’s just that I saw him talk to Sarah a while back and it was almost as if he was threatening her.” It was a bad time to ask, but I had to know.

But Mrs Click did not reply. She was staring at me, horrified, crossing herself.

“That devil, that devil,” she muttered.

The next day Mrs Click came to the house and said she was cancelling the lease. She was friendly, overly so, and said her daughter’s family were moving back to the area and so she would need the house for them. It was obvious she was lying, but I knew I had little in the way of rights and I wanted no ill-feeling. I asked her if she knew of anywhere else I could stay.

She looked at me and spoke softly but firmly. “Why don’t you go back to London, Molly? This is not the sort of place you want to get stuck in.” She clearly wanted me gone.

After, I went to the bakery and told the young woman, Elizabeth, that I needed to talk to her about Sarah Smith. Over lunch I told her about what I’d seen on the cliff top and Mrs Click’s strange reaction to it. Elizabeth shuddered, and I thought she was going to get up and leave. I asked her if she knew who he was.

She began to talk, to ramble and I thought that she must be insane. She said the man was the Grim Reaper, and only God could help me now. She spoke of a door somewhere in the town that led down into Hell. In the middle ages the locals had found it and sealed it shut, but a year later the man I’d seen, who was known as the Stonemason, had hammered the door open and had been punishing the townspeople ever since.

I shrugged it off but Elizabeth shook her head, eyeing me carefully. I relented. I asked her to tell me more of the story.

The Stonemason was working for the witches that used to live in the town. He made people’s headstones and sneaked into the graveyard at night to put them up. People never knew when theirs would appear, but they grew up knowing that one day they would know the date of their own death. Sometimes it was a few weeks away, sometimes years or decades in the future. But the stones were never wrong.

I decided to go along with it. “But everyone dies. What would it matter?”

“No one really believes they’re going to die. You don’t, no one does. Can you imagine what it feels like to come face to face with your own grave? To know that the date on it is the date you will die? It’s a burden, a terrible burden to carry around. People tend their own graves. They eat, breathe and sleep death.”

The woman was terrified; it was pouring out of her. It was more than belief in a story, or old fashioned superstition. She had seen her own grave.

It had been there for years, generations, she said. “My grandfather found it before he was married. Before my mother was even born he knew when I was going to be born and he knew when I was going to die. I’ve known since I was ten. It’s cruel. It’s made the whole of my life pointless. I have to go now, I’m due back at work.”

I let her go and stayed in the cafe, thinking. Elizabeth certainly believed the story, what she had seen, completely. It had to be folklore, but someone - the thin man - was using it for his own ends and the whole town was wrapped up in a sick prank, the victims of a bizarre conman.

I was back in the cemetery. I had gone first to the library and found a book of local history. The story was there. It said the town had been rife with witches and the locals, while hunting them out, had found a door which they believed evil spirits were using to infiltrate the town and possess the people. The Stonemason was a demented figure ordered up from Hell to “reside in the town until all were dead or driven to melancholy by the fact of knowing when they and their loved ones were to die”. The story was fascinating and I was happily lost in it until I turned the page and saw a reproduction of a woodcut of the Stonemason. It was the image, the exact image of the man I’d seen talking to Sarah Smith.

Seeing the illustration disturbed me and I went to the cemetery to see if Elizabeth’s grave was there. I also remembered that the thin man - the Stonemason - had a key to the bomb site on the cliff tops. I would go there again later - if there was any evidence of him living there I would go straight to the police.

The cemetery was old and picturesque, a typical country graveyard. I re-traced my steps to where I’d seen Elizabeth, wandered around for a short time and then I was suddenly looking at Elizabeth Martin’s grave. It was a shocking, disorientating sight. The stone was old, worn away in parts, with moss on one side. There was a photograph of a middle aged woman on it, an older, future Elizabeth. It all seemed so believable. No wonder the woman was in such despair. She was grieving her own death.

It was beyond me why someone would go to so much trouble just to make Elizabeth’s - and the other townspeople’s - lives a misery. There was a nagging feeling now that the answer was not simple. What if it were all true? I shook the thought away and carried on through the cemetery. I was nervous and jumping at the sound of the wind rustling the trees. To my relief the rest of the graves were normal, but I had no answers to my questions.

I made my way to the footpath that began in the fields behind Sarah’s house and led along the cliff top. The wind was fresher here and I zipped my coat up around my neck. As I approached the bomb site I left the path and walked to the wall that surrounded it. I did not intend to let myself be seen. As I got to the door I could see that it was open. There was no sign of anyone, so I went in.

Inside was a different world.

There was a street, a small row of houses. Some were completely ruined, one or two were nearly intact. I expected them to have been looted, but the furniture was still there, frozen in time, a snapshot of the war. Nature had tried to take over. Trees had grown through the floorboards, ivy and bindweed were competing to cover the walls and the ground outside. Or rather, they had been. The area was derelict, wild, but everything was dead. The smell of stagnant water and rotting vegetation was strong.

I could see no evidence that anyone had lived here since the bombing. I walked through the houses, treading carefully in case the floors were unsafe. I had just decided that the thin man had moved on when I heard a faint rhythmic sound coming from the next house. I went outside and edged up to the rotting window frame. He was inside.

He was sitting in the remains of the kitchen, the quaint faded yellow units contrasting with the taut menace that ebbed from him. He was working on stone, using a hammer and chisel to cut letters into a polished slab of marble. He was making a tombstone.

And he knew I was there.

In the instant before he turned around I knew he’d sensed my presence. And then he was looking at me. I didn’t see him turn. I don’t think he did turn, as such - one second he was busy working, the next he had put his tools down and twisted around. It was like a film that had jumped a few frames. His face, like his body, was long and thin, the bones prominent, angular. Lank black hair stuck out from underneath his top hat and his long, black coat tails hung nearly to the floor.

His expression was quite terrible. He had the air of an undertaker, an insane funeral director. And just as I wondered if I would be able - or would want - to read his thoughts, they exploded in my head. It was as if he had lobbed them neatly to me. In the space of a second I knew the legend was true. That this was the Stonemason, a thing from Hell, called up by the witches that were burned or banished from the town. And the doorway was here, in this bombed out row of houses.

The Stonemason stared at me, completely still. I was shaking, drenched in sweat, full of awful, dreadful knowledge. I knew I could not get away, could not outrun him. He beckoned me inside and I went.

I looked at the tombstone. There was a man’s name on it that I did not recognise, a man who had just a few months to live. I tried to swallow my fear.

“So this is when you’re going to kill him. Just like you killed Sarah Smith.”

The Stonemason went back to his work. “I did not. I have never killed anyone. I am not a murderer. I am just a messenger.”

He stopped again. “You people should be grateful. It is surely freedom to know how much time one has left.”

I found myself echoing the words of Elizabeth Martin. “But no one wants to think about when they’re going to die. You’re as good as giving them a death sentence. These people are innocent. Why punish them for something their ancestors did three hundred and fifty years ago?”

The Stonemason grinned, a grotesque expression that split his face nearly in two. “Innocent, are they? Well, have a look around this room. See how innocent they are.”

I looked. The room was untouched, the same as it would have been the day it was bombed. Cutlery and a rolling pin lay on the draining board, cleaned and dried over fifty years ago. A chair was lying on the floor, another was upright but at an angle to the table, as if someone had vacated it in a hurry. The calendar caught my eye. It was for April, a busy month, judging by the notes on it. I turned the page. May was blank. And then I saw the year.

“But this calendar’s wrong,” I said. “The war ended in ‘45.”

“Clever girl, know your history!” screeched the Stonemason. “The Germans didn’t bomb this street during the war, the local RAF did it afterwards.”

“There’s still some people alive here today who took part in that raid. They wanted to seal the door up again, they wanted to kill Yours Truly,” he leapt to his feet, took a bow and then sat down again. “They failed! But they slaughtered the people who lived here. It was carnage, blood and bones and flesh everywhere. I knew they were all going to die. I’d been busy. I’d made the tombstones.”

I couldn’t believe it. “But why would they not warn the people living here?”

The Stonemason laughed. “They thought the people in this street were possessed. They knew the door was here somewhere and they assumed the people who lived close to it were in league with me. So they murdered them. And their sons and grandsons have been covering up for them ever since. History repeats itself, doesn’t it? Round and round!” The Stonemason made a jerky circular movement with his forefinger, laughing. He was doubled up with mirth.

“Can the curse be broken?” I asked. “Surely you don’t want to stay here forever?”

“A few hundred years? It’s not a lot. The town will be driven to madness. And all because the good people here cannot accept their own mortality. Some people discover they have forty, fifty years left to live. They should rejoice. Instead they let the knowledge be a shackle, a ball and chain. They close down, a living death. They’re fools! But that’s not my fault.”

“Your landlady, by the way, your lovely landlady who’s throwing you out on the street, will find out tomorrow that she has three weeks and four days to live. You might get to stay in that house after all!”

“She was trying to save me,” I said. “She wanted me to leave town.”

“Perhaps she thinks you’re a witch!” screamed the Stonemason triumphantly. “She can’t save you. You will die when you die, either here or anywhere else you care to be.”

“Do you want to see the door?” he asked suddenly.

The door was underground. There was a trap door in the cellar of the house the Stonemason was working in. Steps led down to an old sewer system and there, nearly invisible behind pipes and spider webs, was a door. What I could see of it looked like rusted metal. The Stonemason brushed the webs away. It was not rust covering the door, he said, but old, dried blood. I asked him what lay behind it.

“Hell, of course. Your worst fears and nightmares come true, forever and ever amen. I could open it, just a crack, give you a taste if you like.”

Terror must have showed on my face. The Stonemason laughed, the sound bouncing up and down the tunnel.

“What’s to stop me going back and telling everyone where the door is?”

“Oh, I think they’re resigned to their fate now. They’re too worn down to come storming down here with flaming torches. Besides, I don’t think you’ll tell anyone. I don’t think you see anything wrong with what I do. You think they’re weak.”

For a moment I forgot to be afraid. There was a lot wrong with taunting children about death and I was angry enough to tell the Stonemason so. He shrugged, unconcerned.

“The little girl came in here. She found what she was looking for. It’s how you look at it that’s the problem”

He bent towards me, suddenly very serious. “They’re wasting their lives away, Molly. You know that as well as I.”

The Stonemason walked back up the stairs. I turned to the door. It looked unthreatening, like the entrance to a service tunnel. I reached towards it, wanting to touch it, to see if I could believe it, and hesitated. Fear was beginning to seep into every inch of me. I was aware that the Stonemason would be watching, enjoying every moment. In an act of bravado I took my handkerchief, spat on it and cleaned a small section of the door. The surface was uneven, a texture unlike the wood or metal I was expecting. I bent forward, squinting in the half-darkness. Staring back was an eye. Next to it was a mouth, the tongue lolling out over swollen lips. As my hand brushed across the rest of the door my fingers found the curve of a woman’s breast. The door was covered in human flesh.

Disgusted, I bent down to wash my hand in a pool of water. It was raw sewage. The foul smell hit me and I jumped up again. Retching, I rubbed my hand violently against my shirt and made for the steps, the sing-song sound of the Stonemason’s laughter bursting into life all around me.

The Stonemason was walking away from the house when I ran up from the cellar, his jerky movements only slightly hindered by the tombstone he was carrying. I sat on one of the chairs and wondered what to do next. The Stonemason would not be stopped, the town could not be saved. I questioned whether it deserved to be. I decided, then, that I was going to leave. Mrs Click’s house, the town, this whole place. The Stonemason was a figure from a nightmare, the door underneath where I was sitting led to who knew where, and I never wanted to see either again. The town was cursed, hopeless. I wanted to get far away.

I left the house and walked down the remains of the street. How would it have been for the people who’d lived here? To have survived the war, seen Spring arriving and then.... And the men who had dropped the bombs - they must have truly believed that the end justified the means. But the words witch hunt went through my mind as clearly as if someone had whispered it in my ear. Perhaps there had been other motives; old feuds, scores to settle. Even now, the town seemed unsure, or unwilling to touch the land. Was it guilt? Unless, as the Stonemason had said, the people had given up, defeated by the curse. In which case, of course, his work would soon be done. And what would happen then?

I passed the last house and stopped. A surreal image caught me off-guard; in the remains of a respectable looking 1940s sitting room, were a collection of tombstones, brand new, the work of a master craftsman. I went inside, wanting to remember every bizarre detail. The tombstone the Stonemason had just finished was here, resting on the carpet, next to the fireplace.

A creak on the floorboards behind me told me I was not alone. I turned to find the Stonemason standing in the doorway, grinning again. He pretended to wipe away a tear.

“She’s leaving us, she’s leaving us,” he sang softly. “And where will she go? What will she do?”

The Stonemason sat down. “But you can’t leave yet. You haven’t finished here.” His grin got wider and wider. I thought of the question, the situation I’d been avoiding all along: what about me? How long have I got? And I knew, the Stonemason’s face told me, that in this museum piece of a room was my own headstone.

I looked around. There it was, my own name, carved immaculately into the stone. I couldn’t take it in. It looked ridiculous, unreal. Untrue. The Stonemason sat staring at me.

“Well, Molly, nearly fifty-four years. Think of all that time! Over half a century! Isn’t that marvellous? What are you going to do with all that time?”

The Stonemason raved on enthusiastically. But his words were insignificant. I was going to die. A hundred, a thousand years, would not be enough. I felt frail. Which part of my body would fail me first? I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, saw it counting down the seconds of my life, the hands moving faster and faster as I watched. Time and the reality of my own mortality began to crush me.

Elizabeth had been right. It was as if the walls were closing in. It was unbearable. I began to wish I’d never been born. The whole of my life - forty years - an unstoppable march towards death. Gasping for breath, I crawled into a corner and covered my head with my hands, a futile attempt to protect myself. To stay safe and watch every moment approach and then pass me by.

And there, nearly fifty-four years later, is where I died.

[Originally Published in Kimota 16, Spring 2002]

THE HAPPY CLAPPER

by Jonathan Taylor

“And now a word from our sponsor.”

Eve accepted the fruit in Eden ...

Peter denied Jesus three times before the cock crowed ...

And Jesus Himself started wondering, whilst on the Cross, if Daddy had forgotten Him ...

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Vitafaith: The Viagra for Christians.

The show’s new format was definitely a success – the risk had paid off. Network ratings had increased by twenty percent and, despite a few grumbles from high-church bigots, no one was too angry at the Broadcasting Standards Authority. Even the sponsor was placated.

None of these improvements, however, stopped the Reverend Scaper going home one day to beat up his autistic brother and take an overdose of Vitafaith.

He’d been overjoyed at first when, six months before, the Resurrection Channel had asked him to host one of their game shows. Relations had been getting a little strained in his old parish, especially with his Treasurer. The Treasurer had been exhibiting an unhealthy interest in God’s financial affairs, and in the couple of trips taken by God’s collections to and around Aintree. (What did it matter anyway, since God had made sure His money went on the right horse?) As it had turned out later, the Treasurer had also been taking an unhealthy interest in Scaper’s wife.

So it was with relief that Scaper left the parish for the job of compere on Test Your Faith – a ‘parish’ with no Treasurer, enthusiastic (studio) congregation, decent stipend and the prospect of his message reaching thousands. The show even had its own, quite superb, Christian Rock Band called “The Clap.” For the first five months, Scaper had thought he was finally enjoying himself again – and the show’s ratings had reflected that enjoyment. 

He would always remember one delectable moment when he was recognised on Blackburn High Street. A number 6 ‘bus had pulled up at the stop opposite - a ‘bus emblazoned with a smilingly attractive picture of him on the side, swearing by a bottle of pills he held aloft. At the same time, a little boy had started pointing frantically between the advert and the original, tugging his dad’s sleeve, “Jesus Christ, dad, it’s that Jesus Christ man!” Scaper heard only the praise, not the vain use of Jesus’ name – so he patted the boy on the head and agreed to sign his Pokemon Guide Book.

For a short while, things just got better and better. For a short while, God and cable television granted the Reverend Scaper some almost-fame. One perceptive critic (Scaper read all the critics) even went so far as to call him the “Bruce Forsyth of the Evangelical Movement.”

But then his wife left him for his old Parish Treasurer.

Of course, his fame and ratings soared at first because of the scandal – but, actually, it wasn’t a cynical marketing ploy. He had, in his own way, rather liked her. And, anyway, her leaving meant there was no one but him to look after his damned retard of a brother and keep him out of the way.

In a frank interview with a local tabloid, Scaper’s wife (pictured lying in a pink camisole, red hair splayed like an octopus over the pillow) said she’d left him for both religious and sexual reasons. She told the reporters that she’d never quite credited his apocalyptic predictions from the pulpit of an imminent Second Coming because she’d never known a first.

But don’t worry. Even God has His off days and wonders what it’d be like to become a free thinker. [Picture of a troubled, white-bearded, old man in the clouds. Think Father Christmas]. Even God sometimes finds it hard to believe in His own omnipotent remarkableness. Even God looks down on the Earth He’s created now and then and wonders whether it’s a great work of art or just a big poo.

That’s why even He needs Vitafaith. [Sun comes out as God pops a pill and smiles].

Vitafaith: The Viagra for Christians and their God.

After the initial excitement following the scandal had died down, Scaper found Test Your Faith’s ratings starting to slip. This was caused by various factors. For one, there was increasing competition from terrestrial stations: the Church of England had commissioned a rival game show on the B.B.C. entitled Examine Your Beliefs, and Channel 5 screened a fly-on-the-wall documentary series in which five curates and five prostitutes had to survive together for a year in the Gobi Desert. At the same time, the pharmaceutical corporation who produced Vitafaith was being investigated by the Fraud Squad and was therefore considering withdrawing sponsorship from the show. And, to top it all, Scaper was overheard one day, when he thought the microphones were switched off, muttering invective to himself about a gee-gee which God had strangely seen fit to turn into a dog’s dinner during the National.

Reverend Scaper was increasingly dependent on an hourly dose of Vitafaith, trying to stop the old desperation slithering back.

After a couple of months, the producers, the script-writers, and the sponsors all met together and decided to overhaul the entire format. In order to regain lost viewing figures and retain sponsors’ support, the following three-point plan was proposed and seconded:

1. Vitafaith’s name is to be inserted into the show’s Order of Service at appropriate points. The audience should be encouraged to sing along with the Vitafaith jingles as well as with The Clap’s songs. Commercial breaks are to be considerably longer.

2. If he wants his contract extended, the Reverend Scaper is to redouble his efforts at cheerfulness. Any repetition of his run-in with the microphones will be viewed very dimly.

3. The sponsors insist that the “Wheel of Deadly Sins” be fixed, so that the contestants are tested, more often than not, for the sin of Lust. 

Within four weeks of the implementation of the three-point plan, Test Your Faith’s ratings showed a respectable upward trend. Within five weeks, the programme had been discontinued, the producers sacked, Scaper was in a coma and his brother seriously injured. 

But why drain the Cup of Sorrow on the Mount of Olives when Vitafaith’s here to help?

Just listen to some of our real-life success stories. There’s Theresa, for example:

“I used to be Catholic, but, since using Vitafaith, I feel better every day.”

And Maria:

“I used to be a nymphomaniac, enjoying sex with hundreds of strangers - but now I feel as pure as Robert Powell in Jesus of Nazareth.”

And Tom:

“I used to hate my boss at the bank. I even had day-dreams about shooting him. But then he introduced me to Vitafaith – and it was like feeling Jesus’s wounds from the Cross. Now, we’re all one big, happy family at work – and I owe it all to Vitafaith.”

Like Theresa and Maria and Tom, Vitafaith can revitalise your lost faith as well. Developed by our dedicated and expert team of research scientists, Vitafaith has been clinically proven to help you believe.

[Schematic diagram of a brain with arrows pointing at one section]. Our scientists isolated the part of the brain responsible for spiritual belief – you could say, the part where God lives in us. [In the highlighted section, cartoon of a rheumatic God sitting in a comfortable chair, smoking a  pipe]. They then developed a revolutionary pill which, if taken twice a day, renews and “resurrects” these brain cells before you can say the Nicene Creed. [Cartoon God gets out of chair, flings away his walking stick, and starts tap-dancing].

Build a little Jerusalem in your head today with Vitafaith: the Viagra for Christians.

Scaper’s movements on the evening after the last show proved difficult to trace, let alone understand. One of the studio’s cleaners told the police that Scaper was still in his dressing-room at seven-thirty, obsessively arranging and rearranging some Biblical Fuzzy Felts on his desk; the landlord at the Headless Chicken reckoned Scaper was there for three hours, silently drinking, refusing to speak to anyone; a prominent member of Blackburn’s Neighbourhood Watch made a (peculiar and unreliable) statement to the effect that she saw Scaper peering through the window of Number 66 Scythe Street for a whole hour in the rain. That would have been about midnight.

Number 66 Scythe Street was the address of Leonard Lincoln - a member of St. Michael’s Parish Church Council, and the final contestant of the final Test Your Faith.

Leonard Lincoln had managed to survive the ultimate test of faith, and had thus gone home with £600 for the Church Repair Fund of his choice, a do-it-yourself Holy Communion kit and a brand new Mercedes Benz.

Leonard Lincoln had stoically withstood “Trial By Lust” – the one test which no one had ever got through before.

Leonard Lincoln had been tied to a huge Cross in the middle of the studio with electrodes attached to his “nether regions” (as Scaper called them). Three voluptuous and scantily-clad blondes had then entered and, using every trick they were aware of,  had tried to tempt Leonard and his nether regions into betraying themselves. An electronic chart suspended above the stage displayed Leonard’s relative sexual excitation as sensed through the electrodes. 

The studio audience and the audience at home watched breathless - in more ways than one - as the girls stripped, kissed, tickled, stroked and licked the man on the Cross for four minutes. (Every now and then, a disclaimer flashed at the bottom of the screen, reassuring everyone that, as stars of illicit films, these ladies were damned anyway, so it didn’t matter what sins they committed on the show).

Reverend Scaper watched from the wings, biting the side of his index finger, snapping occasionally at a make-up artist, and shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to another.

(And the Reverend Scaper’s brother watches, as usual, his favourite programme and his favourite brother on T.V. at home – the babysitter meanwhile watching him. “Do you like those girls, Charlie?” she asks. “I like my brother best, Miss Blyth,” he answers. “But do you like them, Charlie? Do you like what they’re doing, Charlie?” “I like my brother best,” he answers, feeling himself getting hot, though he has little or no idea why. “But do you like what the girls are doing to that man, Charlie? Do you think I’m as nice as they are? You don’t need to be uncomfortable, Charlie. I think you’re quite lovely.” “I like my brother best.”)

Throughout, Leonard Lincoln’s level of arousal remained stubbornly low – the green pulse on the electronic chart never fluctuating once. 

After three and a half minutes, an astounded studio audience started counting down. Some of them had rather shaky voices.

After three minutes and fifty seconds, the cheering had already begun.

After four minutes, the last trumpet sounded, and the whole audience shouted “Hallelujah” with one accord, thinking they’d never before seen such beatific fortitude. 

Leonard was taken down from the Cross, and his family rushed onto the stage to congratulate him. The “Gates of Paradise” at the back of the stage then opened (creakily) to reveal the Mercedes he had won. And finally, everyone joined in a final song of praise, with much trumpeting and tambourining, as they all followed the Lincolns and the Mercedes out of the studio.

Everyone except Scaper, who stood watching for a minute, and then retired to his dressing-room and the Fuzzy Felts.

And then to the pub.

And then to Scythe Street, looking through the window at the perfect Christian family: the children all huddled cosily round the television, the wife making a victory cup of Ovaltine in the kitchen, Leonard in his reclining chair reading, the Mercedes in the drive shining self-satisfiedly in the rain.

(A pamphlet called Dealing With Impotency hiding between the covers of the Bible which Leonard’s reading).

And then home.

Scaper let himself in when no one bothered to answer. Much as it always irritated him, he was disappointed today that Charlie wasn’t there as usual to leap out at him, hug him and shout madly about his “famous brother.” at the neighbours. Instead, Scaper was just greeted by the blare of the television from the sitting room.

Scaper put down his bags and coat in the hall, and pushed open the lounge doors.

Adverts were shouting into an empty room. Scaper stood on the threshold for a moment, frowning.

Where is his brother? Where’s that damned babysitter who’s meant to be looking after him?

A tiny noise coming from somewhere whispers the answer. A tiny noise which he dimly recognises as something he once knew. A tiny noise which now tilts his once-familiar home into a terrifying labyrinth, full of ghostly whisperings and gigglings and moanings.

Scaper gropes his way back into what used to be the hall. He staggers through a darkened kitchen, up some ridiculously steep stairs and down a passage which leans to one side – all the while the murmurings getting louder.

Finally, he lurches towards a door handle which seems to recede each time he tries to grasp it. Falling through the door, he sees on the bed a naked “babysitter” sitting on the “baby” (of course).

The girl shrieks, grabs her clothes and runs out – eventually calling the neighbours when she hears the thuds and shouts from the bedroom.

Scaper stops beating his brother’s head against the bedroom wall, though, before anyone else can come. (The only reason he carries on for so long is that he knows he’s bound to catch his brother’s eyes when he stops).

Leaving the bed covered in his brother’s blood and his tears, he climbs out of the bedroom window, down the side of the house, and runs all the way back to the television studios. There, he lets himself into his dressing-room and takes about sixty-nine Vitafaith pills in one go.

Wishing they would make him more like Jesus, more like Leonard Lincoln.

Wishing they would stop him getting turned on by Jezebels and naked, beaten-up brothers.

Wishing, in fact, for the coma he got.

Is your holiness rent full of holes?Is your faith often faithless? Is your soul too soulful?

Then take Vitafaith: the Viagra for Christians.

[Small print at bottom of screen: No more than one or two tablets to be taken daily. If symptoms persist, please consult your doctor and vicar. The manufacturers of Vitafaith take no responsibility for abuse to their products.]

[Originally published in Kimota 15 Autumn 2001]

REMEMBER, REMEMBER

by Kevin K. Rattan

This year clan Smith-Donaldson provided the Santa for the Fawkesfeast, and so uncle Albert, who had our nomination, has to wait at least another year. He didn’t seem very sorry about it, I must say. Mummy says its indecent of him, that he ought to have more respect for tradition, and at least pretend to regret missing out on the honour. I said as much to him, one day when I had nothing better to do. Any other clan-uncle would have got mad, especially blood-kin, but not him. He just laughed and took another swig from the jar of mummy’s brew that I’d sneaked for him.

I remember when I told Aunt Elisabeth something mummy had said about her, she just told me to watch my tongue. I was only little then, and I stuck out my tongue as far as I could, but even straining I could only see the tip. Aunty did not see the funny side. It must have been nice in the days before the clans, if there really were such days. Imagine it, only a few grown-ups in every family!

When he’d finished drinking, Uncle Albert said something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. It makes me think that I was right on the night of the feast: most people don’t really feel traditions, not even when they have important parts to play.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘If they’re worried that I’m some kind of heretic innovator, why did they single me out for the honour in the first place? Perhaps they wanted to kill two birds with one stone? Not very devout, eh, or traditional?’

Then he drank some more beer. It’s a pity he wasn’t Santa. His big red nose is just right for it.

I didn’t take Uncle Albert’s comments back to mummy - I have some common-sense, even if I do let my tongue run away with me (and no, I’ve never tested that one to see if its possible).

Why do I want to write about the feast, though. Why did I risk stealing paper from the meeting-hall, and almost getting caught, too? Because this year I was chosen as Inky Dev! I always used to think it was fixed, because the other Inkies have all been boys, and older ones at that. But maybe it is fair - or maybe Santa made a mistake - you could tell he was excited; he was sweating a lot, and I’m sure it’s not all that hot, even in his Reds.

All the children lined up (even Billy 3-Fingers, who’s normally not allowed to join in, being a border-liner. I think it would have looked worse for Dr. Jones if they hadn’t let Billy in. It would have been admitting that there was reason why Billy should have been exposed, and that he only passed him because he was the chief’s son). Then we marched up to Santa in the old way - nothing’s ever changed at a feast. They’re one of the things that haven’t changed right through all the times.

Little Danny (my brother, and mummy’s pet) got a tin for himself, and I was jealous till I got the tinder box. (Actually, I didn’t need to be at all, because I came out best there, too. Daddy let him use his knife to open it. It was full of little pale bean things in a red sauce. He was very pleased with it, but when he’d given daddy his knife back, and we’d gone off with it, I said they looked like rat babies in blood, and he wouldn’t eat them. They were delicious).

But that was later. That night I was green with envy watching Danny turning his tin about, looking for something to tell him what was inside. All the time I was wondering what I was going to get, knowing it was going to be as boring as the needle I got last time. Then it was my turn, and I was holding the tinder box. Everyone was shouting and singing, and making a fuss of me. I hardly noticed, though. I was too busy trying to wake up.

I recovered when Chief Morgan came over and ushered me to my place, congratulating me and at the same time warning me not to let the clan down. He’s always like that, grudging when he has to be nice. Then again, he’s always grudging about walloping you, too. Perhaps he just doesn’t like being made to do things, even if he only has to do them because they’re expected of him as chief.

There was one thing I noticed when Santa gave me the box, though. I wasn’t too surprised for that. I was going to thank him, and then I saw the look in his eyes, and I didn’t say anything. I think he was as reluctant as Uncle Albert. He looked just like uncle Andrew the day his first daughter (after five sons) failed the tests and wasn’t opted in.

I stood in my place, proud as can be, smirking at my brother and cousins. They glowered back, which was about the best thing they could do as far as I was concerned - it showed I was winning for a change. My only worry was that I’d make some mistake and give them a chance to get back at me. I concentrated on checking out the box, then, just in case.

It’s just the same as your usual box, complete with flints and tinder, but it’s made of metal, and its old. It was part of the ceremony even in the days before the great change. It felt really strange to hold something like that, and to think that other children must have held it on the same day through centuries. In all the changes at least some traditions hold true, and through them we remember what we are (that’s what daddy said in the meeting hall when they were honouring him for the prize catch of the season).

When all the presents had been given out, the marshals went over to Santa, and helped him to his feet. They’re supposed to be there in case Santa is possessed by the will-to-chaos, and won’t complete the ceremony, but I’ve never seen them have to deal with any trouble. The only thing they ever have to do is help one or two along when, like this time, the excitement of the occasion’s become too much for them, and Santa’s not up to making the journey on his own.

Once he was properly in place the singing began. I joined in at first, till I saw Chief Morgan shake his head at me. I enjoy singing so much I’d forgotten Inky isn’t supposed to. It was embarrassing, especially because I could see the boys smirking,

but I knew that it wasn’t much of a mistake. They can’t take it away from me with that.

The singing came to an end at last. The night was cold, but still, not like last year when it was windy and rained, almost putting out the fire. Everyone was tense, waiting for the bonfire to be lit and the fun to begin. The chief of Clan Smith-Donaldson came over with the torch, and put it on the ground in front of me. I bent over it, and set to with the tinder-box. Everything was dry and ready, so it didn’t take long to set it alight. Then he took my left hand and I picked up the torch with my right. I felt like the May Queen must do, but without the fear. Everyone was looking at me. I was special.

It was a shame I had to end it and become ordinary again, but if I hadn’t had to do something to bring the moment to an end, I wouldn’t have been special in the first place, I suppose. I threw the torch into the bonfire with as much strength as I could muster, wanting to look really good.

It had been quiet before, but now there was complete silence. Then the clan chief held up my arm, almost lifting me off the ground. The bonfire was alight. Noise erupted all around, everyone shouting, laughing, knocking wooden bangers together.

Then something terrible happened: Santa started to scream. It was awful. Everyone would hear. The ceremony would be ruined. Clan Smith-Donaldson would never live it down, and neither would I. I wanted to crawl away and hide.

Then, suddenly, the screams stopped. And everyone else was still celebrating. No-else could have heard it, not even chief Smith-Donaldson who was right next to me. He must be a bit hard of hearing. I cheered up at once - everything was alright again. My ceremony hadn’t been spoiled.

Once that moment was over, I just let the night wash over me. I seemed to forget myself entirely, to become just the Inky Dev, the same as all the other Inky Devs there have ever been. After a time I pulled away a bit. I felt separate from what was going on, and the people there. For them this was just a feast, done in the proper way, for me it was more. I don’t know how to write down how I felt. But it was like there was magic about, and I knew that all the Fawkesfeasts are really the same one, happening in a time of its own. There is only one Fawkesnight, and we’re all there, around the same fire, people of the past and people of the future, all bound together by tradition. That’s what makes us human and special, and those of us who can really go out of our time, and feel that past and future with us on such a night, we’re special, too.

[Originally published in Kimota 3, Winter 1995]

THE SIMULATOR

by Paul Finch

It was the best offer Belper had had all week. What, a free bottle of booze and an afternoon off lectures to drink it. What was the catch?

As the young inspector led the way into the hangar-type building at the back of the police station, he repeated that there was no catch. It was part of an official experiment, and there was nothing to worry about. All the student needed to know was that he’d be enjoying himself and at the same time, helping save lives.

Inside, the hangar was more like a laboratory, with graphs on the walls and long tables arrayed with jumbled electronic equipment. A group of people were waiting there. They consisted of several more uniformed police officers, among them a tall stern-faced man with superintendent’s pips on his shoulders, and two civilians in white lab-coats. In the middle of the room, an old Escort, minus wheels, was propped up on metal struts, amid various banks of computers. Cables snaked into it from all sides.

“This the chap, Perkins?” asked the superintendent, stepping forward.

The inspector nodded. “Mr. Belper, sir. From the college. He’s got a rough idea what it’s about.”

Superintendent George Matthews sniffed. He didn’t like students much. They were useful for ID parades, but he knew they could turn into Rentamob overnight if they wanted to, and he’d been infuriated once, when driving past the college gates in his command-car and seeing a whole bunch of them throwing him big cheeky salutes.

“Well, Mr. Belper,” he said tightly. “Enjoy yourself by all means, but please behave as naturally as you can. The object is to drive the car around the simulated city as any normal person would, the only difference being that you will be consuming a bottle of spirits as you do. Please do not attempt any silly games. Our aim is to study the progressive impairment of the everyday driver’s abilities during alcohol consumption. We’ll be tabulating the results. We hope to have built up an impressive dossier in time for our Christmas drink-drive campaign.”

Belper nodded, grinning. He had just noticed the brand new bottle of Jack Daniels on a cabinet beside the car. When they’d asked him which drink he’d prefer, they’d apparently meant it. This was too good to be true. Inspector Perkins opened the bottle and poured its contents into a flask, which he then fitted with a flip-top lid. “Get as drunk as you like,” he said, handing it to Belper. “Just don’t think you can go off and drive a real car until at least mid-day tomorrow.”

The two policemen then stepped back and the lab-coat men took over. One was an older man, but the other was young, bearded and scruffy, and he took charge. This was the Simulator, he said, as he helped Belper slide into the driver’s seat. Virtual Reality at its most advanced. It contained state-of-the-art graphics: three-D and digitally colourised. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine he was following a real road-system, because to all intents and purposes, he would be. It existed only in the computer’s memory of course, but it was there. All normal rules would apply - pedestrians got injured if you knocked them down, cars got damaged if you pranged them.

Belper looked round, briefly perplexed. He’d expected to find the interior of the Escort rigged up with all sorts of gadgetry, but it seemed perfectly ordinary: pedals, steering wheel, brake, gear-stick and so on. Through the windscreen however, he saw the police officers now gathered beside a blank TV monitor. As the Super had said, they’d be tabulating results.

“Put these on,” said the young scientist, leaning in with a helmet and a pair of padded gloves, wires trailing away from them to the equipment outside.

The gloves were heavy, while the helmet was globular, with a visor which covered his eyes and nose, and made from some fibre-glass-type material. It fitted snugly, but was opaque and shut off all light. Once he’d put it on, Belper felt isolated and for the first time, slightly nervous. He sat there uncertainly.

Then someone placed the neck of the flask at his lips and a voice in his ear, which sounded something like a Dalek, instructed him to: “Start drinking, hero!”

It was the young scientist, speaking through some sort of transmitter. Belper grinned and took a long swig. It hit him in the gut in a delightful burst of flame. He sighed, then placed the flask down and reached out to find the steering wheel. As he did there was a sudden humming sound, then a loud click... and the Virtual World blossomed in front of him.

Before he knew what had happened, he was inside another car, parked in an open garage, with a wide concrete area in front of him and beyond that a road. In the far distance, he could see tower blocks and a church steeple. Everything looked bright and metallic, but aside from that it was stunningly realistic. His arms were now clad in the sleeves of a business suit, and his hands bare. He glanced sideways, and found the whisky flask perched on a tray on the passenger seat. A faint rumble revealed that the engine was running.

“Keep drinking please,” instructed the voice. “We’re monitoring and it’s imperative you start to get drunk.”

With a chuckle, Belper placed the flask to his lips, taking several deep slugs, before breaking off, coughing. Then he slammed the car into first, and gently pressuring the accelerator, pulled slowly away, leaving the garage and crossing the open area towards the road. He gazed around, fascinated. The sensation of movement was uncanny. On all sides, images were shifting in perfect synchronization. Behind him, he saw that he’d just driven out of a large nondescript building. To the front there was a net fence, but he noticed a gate and zeroed in on it.

“What sort of car is this?” he asked aloud.

“Anything you want it to be,” replied the voice.

Belper laughed. “But nothing I can burn rubber in?”

“Anything you want,” said the voice again. “Just remember what we’re trying to achieve here. At least, while you’re reasonably sober.”

Belper took another long pull at the flask, then accelerated towards the gate. “Always did fancy a Mustang,” he said to himself. “Hah... I wish!”

He had no trouble getting out into the slow-moving traffic, though the sensation of driving while even mildly intoxicated felt odd, and several horns honked at him. He stuck up a general V-sign to them all. The other drivers were visible only as dim, featureless shapes, but it seemed a natural thing to do.

He swilled some more bourbon and gunned the engine hard. He was now moving along a simulated dual carriageway, with what looked like a busy intersection ahead. There was a wall of stationary traffic in front however. Belper cursed under his breath. They even had jams on bloody computer roads! Well... not for him. Not when he could do basically whatever he wanted. He spied a narrow street on his left, leading away onto a housing estate, and took it immediately. It was empty of cars so he stepped on the gas.

The simulation was incredibly vivid. As he sped along, he saw children playing in gardens, figures moving behind lounge windows. There were even birds passing overhead. “It’s impressive, I’ll tell you that,” he shouted, then he chugged some more Jack.

Not far in front, he saw a row of shops and a red postal van parked outside them. He approached it at speed. There was nobody in the cab, so he assumed there was no danger of it suddenly pulling out.

Then the postman appeared. Stepping out from behind his van in that very last second when braking was simply impossible. Belper hit him square-on, at full speed. Then had to fight the wheel to avoid swerving off the road. The car still went into a skid, but eventually he managed to right it and pulled up by the kerb.

Absurdly, even though he knew it was only a simulation, his heart was thumping. He turned and looked behind. A crumpled shape was lying on the tarmac, a mass of what looked like envelopes fluttering about it. Figures were hurrying over from the various houses. Belper felt a chill run down his spine, and he quickly put the car back in gear and drove on. “Hey lads,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. Christ, it’s a bit much!”

Oddly, there was no reply.

He glanced at the flask. Through its semi-transparent skin, he could see that it was still half-full. He suddenly didn’t feel like drinking any more, though. One thing this Virtual Reality lark would prove good for was rehabilitating drunken drivers. Christ, he hadn’t expected anything like that.

He turned left at the next corner and found himself in a cul-de-sac, with maisonettes on all sides. He made a three-point turn, then pulled up to think. The postman incident had almost knocked him sober when he was supposed to be getting soused. But it had been so real. Even down to the spilled letters. Eventually however, knowing he had no choice, he picked up the flask and in a single mouthful, drank a good quarter of it. It exploded in his head and for a moment he went dizzy.

Once things swam back into focus, he drove out into the road again... and instantly collided with the back wheel of a cyclist he hadn’t even seen. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but the machine went careering over the pavement and deposited its rider in someone’s flower-beds. Belper took off at speed, this time not bothering to look back.

He made it to the next junction without further incident, but realised that now his vision was starting to falter. He was waiting by a busy road, but though he looked in both directions, was too fuddled to make out which vehicles were coming or which were going. Eventually he chanced it, and in a shower of sparks, shaved the wing of a speeding Jag. It screamed to a halt, but Belper took off in the opposite direction, narrowly missing other vehicles and braving a barrage of angry horns and sirens.

“Bastards!” he spat, glancing into his rear-view mirror. He was unnerved to see a long white vehicle pull out some distance behind him, with what could have been black and white flashes down its side.

Surely it wasn’t a police car?

Worried, though unsure why, Belper pulled off the main drag into a side-street, but only when it was too late did he realise that it was the drive to a house. He had slammed into the garage doors, crumpling them to scrap, before he managed to brake. Hurriedly, he backed out, bouncing off a concrete gate-post and finding himself skewwhiff on the pavement. Everywhere he looked, groups of people now seemed to be standing watching him.

He swerved back into the traffic, and met a blue Austin Maestro front-on. The Maestro veered to one side, tyres shrieking, mounted the kerb and crashed into a garden wall, which promptly collapsed.

“Jesus Christ!” Belper swore, jamming his foot down to escape.

Now he wasn’t even sure which side of the road he was on, let alone which way he was going. He came to another junction, but carried straight on across it, slugging more whisky. Ahead of him he saw the graphics of taller buildings. Even in his drunken state, they looked incredibly clear and real. He glanced into his rear-view mirror again. The distance was fogged, but closer up he saw pedestrians running across the road to an object lying on the blacktop. Had he just hit someone else? Had he hit someone else and not even noticed because he was so pissed?

Belper didn’t like this at all. Surely it shouldn’t be this real! Onlookers helping casualties, imaginary drivers who honked horns and waved their fists. A horrible thought was starting to occur to him. “No,” he said aloud. “They couldn’t... they wouldn’t do that.”

Reaching for the flask, he saw that only a few drops were left, and necked them. Then he looked to the front again... straight into a fast-approaching brick wall. With horrible shock, he realised that he’d left the road altogether and driven onto a boulevard. Shoppers were scattering ahead of him as he slammed his brakes on. The car seemed to skid for minutes before coming to a halt.

When it did, Belper looked weakly around. He’d driven blindly onto a pedestrianised precinct. Flagged walkways led off in all directions. But what was worse, he thought he recognised some of the shops. Not just the brand-names, but the individual stores themselves - their distinctive frontages, the advertising hoardings they had in their windows. An icy hand gripped Belper’s heart. Jesus H. Christ... this was the town centre! His own town centre! He stared slowly up. Towering above everything else, was the town hall clock - the one he saw every morning from his bedroom window.

Then he became aware of the various figures milling about the car, their voices raised in anger. Terrified, Belper got his foot down again. He didn’t care any more, he just had to get away.

Dear God, why had they done this to him? Why?

The pedestrians cleared in front and he slewed back onto the road, his mind racing. Escape was all that mattered now. He had to get out of town... find somebody who’d believe him... God, how had this happened?

A figure stepped into his path and Belper struck it with terrible violence. Tears burst from his eyes as the casualty cart-wheeled away, going head-first through a shop-window. He hadn’t even seen them, Christ...

In the far distance now, he imagined he could hear police sirens. It spurred him on, and he rammed down the accelerator. The road, at last, seemed clear in front, and he tore along it. Ahead of him, he saw that the carriageway crossed a suspension bridge. Salvation, he thought. That was the river. Beyond that lay only the outskirts, then freedom. He’d hide out somewhere, then sober up and try to work out what had happened. Those bastards... those bastards, doing this to him. If they had. Could he recall who they were, or if they’d even been real? He hadn’t dreamed them, had he?

He cast his mind back, trying to remember what it had all been about... and only at the last moment, did he see the old lady push the pram out into the road. Belper’s cry of warning strangled in his throat, but his hands stayed locked on the wheel. Determined to avoid at least this atrocity, he wrenched the car to one side, hurtling over the kerb like a bucking bronco, crashing into the railings.

Something struck him in the chest with gunshot force, and he threw his head back in agony. Then he heard only the wind. From far below, rocks and rushing water loomed up towards him...

They tried artificial respiration on him for several minutes before giving up and laying him out on the lab floor, next to the Simulator. They were stunned.

“It must have been the whisky,” said the young scientist after a moment. “Must have been. I wouldn’t like to drink a full bottle of Jack that quickly. Enough to stop anyone’s heart.”

“The shit’s really going to fly over this,” said Inspector Perkins after a moment. He glanced up at Superintendent Matthews. “Notice the way he started panicking, sir? Maybe we shouldn’t have based it on the town centre so closely. Might have made it too real.”

Matthews snorted. “Christ Almighty, Perkins... a simulation’s a simulation. What’re we supposed to do, trawl the cities of the world ‘til we find a suitable grid-pattern? Stop worrying... it was a simple accident. Probably find that he had heart-disease or something.”

It was viewed that way at official level as well. So much so that the programme was allowed to continue. Hope was still expressed that the results could be published in time for the next drink-drive campaign.

Volunteers were less forthcoming now however. Neither policemen nor civilians offered their services. Even Inspector Perkins developed an unseasonal bout of ‘flu the week before the experiment was due to resume. Superintendent Matthews didn’t care. He’d drive the imaginary car himself, he told them. And drink a bottle of bourbon at the same time.

The spirit flowed down smoothly as he eased the vehicle out of the garage. They were right about one thing, he thought, as he cruised across the deserted lot to the gate. It was very realistic. A bit garish perhaps, the sky an odd greenish colour, but apart from that it mirrored the outside world impressively.

Ahead of him, he could see heavy traffic moving along the road towards an intersection. He applied the handbrake, then reached across himself and checked his seat-belt, determined to drive as well as circumstances would allow. He took another long swig of whisky, then pulled out onto the road. The other cars slowed down to allow him access. Matthews gave a thumbs-up to the closest one, though their interiors were too dark for him to see their drivers clearly.

Driving drunk wasn’t as complicated as he’d first expected it to be, he thought, though so far he’d only had three or four mouthfuls. Doubtless it would get steadily harder. He noticed that he was falling behind the vehicles in front, so he stepped on the gas.

Then it struck him that objects to the side of his vision were slightly blurred. He’d first assumed this was a limit to the graphics, but when he actually glanced that way, he found everything crystal clear. Maybe the booze was having an effect, after all?

There was a sudden terrific jolt and Matthews was thrown forwards against his seat-belt. He looked round, startled, and found that he’d driven into the rear-end of the car in front. It had been waiting at a traffic light, behind a line of others, several of which had now concertinad into each other.

He’d done most of his service in Traffic, so he was able to assess the damage quickly: a six-car RTA, from what he could see. Six motors damaged, and he’d only been driving for three minutes! That was a good result for the experiment, but secretly Matthews was a little peeved. He’d have thought he’d be able to handle the car for longer than this.

In front of him, doors were now opening and figures climbing out. The Super watched them, feeling uncertain what to do. The average drunk would probably not hang around to give explanations. And anyway, what was the piont of arguing with computer graphics?

He took another long drag at the flask, then stepped on the accelerator, pulling sharply out of the line and into the path of more oncoming vehicles. Somewhere behind him, he heard a horn blaring, then a screeching skid and a crash of metal. Matthews didn’t even bother looking. He rammed his foot down and swept straight through the lights which had just turned back to red. The figure of a lollipop-woman was walking out. He swerved round her and tore dangerously across the intersection. More horns tooted but he ignored them. He took another drink. Now he was definitely starting to feel it. It seemed to implode inside his head and he felt sweat greasing his brow.

He glanced up at the rear-view mirror but it was too fuzzy to see anything. Turning back to the front, he found himself soaring down an open dual carriageway with tall buildings to either side of it. He recognised it as the town centre. It was certainly a fascinating experience, this. The reality of road-markings, traffic-signs, even shop-fronts was astonishing. No wonder that student had started to freak out. With a deafening crash, the near-side of the car suddenly bounced up and Matthews realised he had mounted the kerb. He swore and fought to master the vehicle as pedestrians ran from his path.

Only then did it strike him that he was doing nearly seventy miles an hour, but in that brief distraction he lost control of the wheel again, and went further onto the pavement, sending a waste-bin spinning out of his way. Seconds later he was back on the road, and slowing down considerably. He risked a glance over his shoulder, but saw only a mass of vehicles, the front-runner a brilliant shade of red. Everything seemed normal. Apparently he’d got away with that one.

Then he ran into somebody crossing the road.

It happened in the blinking of an eye. There was a shuddering thump, and a dark shape flitted down past his rear window, to land rolling on the tarmac behind.

Matthews’ reaction was to chug some more bourbon. To calm his nerves as much as to get drunk. He wondered what the rest of the team would be talking about up there in the real world. Probably sniggering, passing comments about how their boss was an even worse driver than that scrote Belper.

He’d show them! Alright, he’d caused some damage, but now he’d slow things down a little and try to get to the bottom of the flask without hitting anything else. It wasn’t easy though. The world drifted past him in a foggy dream, and soon he was having trouble reading signposts. He couldn’t even tell if traffic lights were on red or green.

He’d had several more minor collisions before he tipped the last drops into his mouth, and his head was swimming. Objects swirled around him. Things were invisible until he was right up to them. And where was he anyway? Because he had to get back; had to get the car into the garage. That would impress them, that would.

On impulse, he turned sharply right, glancing a lamp-post. At least this imaginary car never took damage, he thought. Every hoodlum should have one. Still, home now. Home. If he could just identify a landmark.

That was when he noticed that he was driving alongside the river. At last something he recognised. He was sure he could find his way back from there.

Seconds later he was on the suspension bridge and picking up speed. He would turn round when he got to the other side. Just then however, he realised that he was being overtaken. It was the red car from before. It was overtaking at speed too. Matthews veered left to avoid it, but the vehicle kept on coming, surging ahead then cutting sharply into his path and braking.

Matthews screamed and dragged the wheel left. His car bucked as it crashed over the pavement, catapulting itself at the crash-barrier. A vast gulf seemed to open in front of him. Despairingly, Matthews looked back at the red car, and in that last split-second, realised it was a Ford Mustang.

Behind its wheel there was a driver who, unlike all the others, was neither dim nor featureless. He was even grinning, and throwing a big cheeky salute…

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

THE WEDDING JOB

by Paul McAvoy

There are some events in a person’s life he just will not forget, and boy I will not forget the wedding job. What happened that day will be etched upon my brain until the day I die. It was the day I learnt that in life you just have to expect the unexpected at times, a serious illness just around the corner, redundancy looming; I also learnt that there are strange things lurking underneath the everyday things we know in life. That there is something else other than what we both see and touch, what we know to be real. I only glimpsed it, but I wonder just how large this other plane of existence is; I wonder if there is goodness in it, or if it is totally evil.

I got the job through a friend. Cash in hand and with Christmas coming up and a new baby in the house it was money that would come in handy.

This is what was supposed to happen: I was to go to Pristine Car Company at eight o’clock, get changed and take the Rolls to the home of Mr and Mrs Smalley. I was to pick up Mr Smalley and his daughter Lilly. I was then to take them both to the church, wait until the wedding was over and drive the new Mr and Mrs Gavin Peterstone to a reception at the Black Friars Inn.

Straightforward, yes? That’s what I thought. I would get fifty quid in my hand for it, too. I don’t think I ever saw that money.

This is what did happen:

I went to pick up the car and was given a five-minute lecture by one of the bosses. I was not to smoke whilst driving the car, was not to drive over thirty miles per hour and was definitely not to put a single scratch on the thing. I was to be polite at all times to the customers and if things worked out okay there could be other jobs in the pipeline for me. 

Once I was changed into a silver grey suit to match the Rolls I sneaked out for a quick cigarette before I headed for the Smalley residence. Driving the Rolls felt good. It was as though every eye was upon me. I received appraising glances from both women and men. I enjoyed posing as I made my way to the Smalley’s house.

When I got there I guess I knew something was wrong the moment I saw the curtains flicker and then the front door open wide – intuition I suppose. I felt a cold chill race up my spine.

The house was detached and set back from the road. It looked big. I saw a dark blue BMW parked in the drive.

The woman was perhaps twenty-two, and she came lumbering towards the car, holding the hem of her dress so that it would not drag on the floor. I saw that the dress was virginal white with splashes of red on the chest. I remember thinking it was an odd design. I got out of the car, ready to open the door for her and pass nice comments even though she did look dishevelled and harassed.

“Drive,” she said, and wrenched open the back door.

I felt stunned. “But... your father? Isn’t he..?”

“I said drive.”

That was when I saw that the odd design on her dress was not a design at all but were splashes of blood. A quick appraisal of the rest of her body told me the blood did not appear to be hers. 

I thought, Run? or do as she says? Deciding she might well have some kind of weapon concealed about her, and coupled with the fact she looked stressed to the point of breaking; I got in the car as she climbed into the back. She looked capable of anything.

“Drive,” she repeated.

I did not need telling again.

When we turned onto the main A road towards town I asked her “where to” and she said I was to head for the motorway. “There I will be able to do a bit of thinking, do some relaxing before... well, before it happens. Christ. Revenge, I will tell you, can harbour so tightly and so abundantly at times. Revenge can be well worth the wait and the Peterstones’s revenge must taste quite sweet now!”

I looked at her through the rear view mirror, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about.

“It’s a long story,” she said. “And I would assume you wouldn’t want to hear it. Anyway, if I told you, you would not hear me, you’d be too busy looking at the blood on my chest, too busy wondering where we are going and why we are not at the church. You will be wondering if I am a crazy bitch.”

I saw her picking at her fingernails, slicing bits of hard red stuff from out of the nails.

“Why aren’t we going to the church?” I asked her. Then, more as an afterthought,  “Did you kill someone?”

“The groom won’t be at the church; at least I’m pretty certain of that. No, I did not kill someone, but given the chance I would!”

“Are you going to kill me?” I asked and she laughed incredulously. “Does that mean no, that I can relax?”

“Relax,” she said and looked out the window as we turned onto the M55. “Murder is not my forte. But I could certainly kill someone at this moment in time. Kill them with my bare hands, rip their heads off.”

I shifted in my seat uncomfortably and took a moment to study her. She was quite tall and slim with fine straight blonde hair. She was fairly attractive and on first inspection had a nice personality. Shame she was crazy, I thought. I put my foot on the accelerator and we sped up towards seventy.

“Faster,” she said and so I put the foot down and we went to eighty. “What is your name by the way?”

“My name is Mark,” I told her, “and I am not going to go any faster than eighty. I’ve never driven this car before, I have never driven a Rolls Royce before, so I am going to be careful.”

“Be as careful as you like,” she said. “Makes no odds to me.”

“Well it does to me,” I said. “I have a wife at home who wants to see me come home tonight. I have a baby...”

“Okay, okay, I get your gist,” she said. A pause fell between us then. I remained still, my heart racing. I noticed I was shaking. I took a hand off the wheel and viewed my trembling hand for a moment. I asked her where she wanted me to drive to. “Just keep going,” was her reply.

“You must be Lilly,” I said after a moment, heart beat starting to slow and become more steady, thankfully. Lilly Smalley nodded.

“Lilly of the valley,” she told me with a smile. “Soon to be a real bitch.” She laughed then. It was a sudden, sharp laugh. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “I don’t mean to scare you; I am sorry I have put this on you, Mark, but I had no other choice. It’s not nice watching... well... watching death...”

I turned to face the road, hoping I would get out of this in one piece, and if not, at least alive. It is amazing how life is so precious at times like that. Faced with the uncertainty of it all (for all I knew Lilly Smalley might have been some crazed killer and I was next on her list) you just pray you will be all right. Sure, life is hard, you worry about your family and you worry about money, but all those worries go out of the window when you come face to face with the prospect of death.

I don’t know if I was hallucinating then, for as I had a look at her in the rear view mirror, I thought I saw her face change a fraction. It only lasted a moment, then her face returned to normal. I exhaled deeply, blinking and then turning to the road once more. For a moment I thought I saw a bulbous lump the size of a marble appear under the skin on her forehead. I blinked again.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Lilly asked.  “My parents, who from now on will be known as the Smalleys, and my fiancé’s parents, who shall from now on be known as the Peterstones were once great friends. Then the Smalleys, in nineteen seventy-seven did something not so nice to the Peterstones. Want to know what it was?” she asked, then continued without an answer. “They opened a sandwich shop next door to the Peterstones’ sandwich shop, selling muffins and barm cakes cheaper and better. The Peterstones went out of business and the Smalleys marched on. The Peterstones were not very happy at all, thought that the Smalleys had robbed them of their livelihood. Which they had done, of course. And this was a terrible mistake. You do not cross the Peterstones. The Smalleys, I would guess, should have realised that, especially if they had listened to the rumours about them. The friends decided not be friends anymore and did not speak for years, not until me and Gavin became involved. Not until we started seeing each other and later decided to get married.

“Let me just tell you about the Peterstones and what passionate people they are. They took it really, really badly when my parents opened up the sandwich shop next to theirs and consequently stole all their trade. They went from doing something they enjoyed to getting mundane jobs, from being their own bosses to having to answer to people. It hurt them really badly, so badly I did not realise until this morning when they got their revenge.”

Lilly paused a moment and undid the top three button on her dress. “It’s getting hot. It will happen soon, I guess. I did not think it would happen to me as well, but I ate the cake as well so it is obvious it would do. I wonder if the Peterstones wanted me to pay for it too. I wasn’t even born then! I guess they must have because if it had been meant for just my parents they would have made two separate, smaller cakes. Sorry. Off on a tangent there. Where was I? Oh yes, the cake.

“They brought it round last night. Gavin was out with friends having a few beers; I was in alone watching TV with my Mum. The Peterstones brought around the chocolate cake, knowing how much we Smalleys adore chocolate cake. They mentioned the thing with the shop and how it was all water under the bridge. They left and I had one slice of cake while my parents had two slices each. That must be why it got to them sooner, and it is taking longer for me.

“They must have watched us eating through the window somehow, made sure we ate it that night, because this morning on the doormat was a note that said, Hope you enjoyed the cake - have a howling day! - you bastards, love the Peterstones. My parents did not know how to take the message. I was getting changed into this dress. Then suddenly they started changing, becoming... That’s why there is blood on my chest. God, it’s hot.”

Lilly took off her dress to reveal cream bra and matching panties and light beige stockings. She screwed up the dress. “Over a grand, ah well. Weddings are just a total waste of money. You married? Of course, you said you were... waste of money, huh?” I just shrugged. She sighed and I carried on along the motorway. She had lovely smooth skin, tanned and flawless. I thought of my wife and immediately felt guilty.

“I had heard rumours about the Peterstones as well, all about them being into black magic and the occult. Guess everything I had heard was true, huh? Once heard a rumour they conjured up one of the Devil’s chief henchmen, or henchdemons. Beelzebub or Baal, one of those.” She ran a hand across her brow and sweat fell down the side of her face. “I’m going to burn up. That’s how my mum and dad started. Then they changed. Now they are... God knows where. God knows what!

“They must have used this magic on us. Bastards. How they must have waited to get their revenge. Turn their enemy into... that... on the morning of their daughter’s wedding to their own son. Ultimate revenge.

“Stop the car now, over there on the hard shoulder. I need to get out. Don’t worry, I won’t bite you.” Then she laughed again, that same sharp laugh.

I pulled up on the side of the road. I did not know what to make of Lilly’s story; a lot of what she said was still sinking in. I suppose I did not want to think much about it all, just wanted the whole ordeal over with. I turned off the engine. “Mind if I get a cigarette,” I said. “It’s not as though I am going to run off.” We were probably five miles from the nearest civilisation.

“Do what you want,” she said. I got out the car and walked over to the bushes next to the barrier at the side of the hard shoulder. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I blew smoke, wondering what the hell I was going to do now. Lilly Smalley looked quite sane, but she talked nonsense. She ranted on about demons and magic. I surmised that she was crazy, had blotted out some events of the morning. Was she a murderer though? Or had she witnessed a murder, her parents’ murder?

Suddenly, I heard a muffled thud and turned to the Rolls to see the windows splashed in blood.

I let out a small cry of shock and reached out for the door handle. I pulled open the door, calling out Lilly’s name. A single second passed and then Lilly came half crawling out of the back seat of the car. She got to her feet as I stepped backwards, staring at the side of her face. It looked as though she had been shot. There was a gaping hole full of seeping blood just above her right jawbone.

Then she swayed, as though drunk. Steadying herself, her eyes rolled and what happened next is something I will never forget. The whole of her stomach seemed to explode. Bits of flesh and blood shot in every direction, some hitting me on the face. Then she appeared to crumble to the floor, the whole of her body seeming to tear apart. From a huge gape in her stomach something black began to emerge.

The dog was perhaps the size of a Labrador but did not appear to be of any breed. It’s fur was black and bloodied. It looked at me cautiously for just a moment. Then it emerged from the remains of Lilly Smalley proper, turned and sniffed at the woman’s dead flesh. It slipped a purple tongue from out of its mouth and tested the remains of Lilly’s shoulder.

(Don’t worry I won’t bite you)

I watched the dog for what seemed a lifetime, hearing the licking and slurping sounds, watching the black eyes.

The sound of a police siren filled the air and the dog looked up, body tensed. The sound began to grow louder and the dog sniffed the air briefly before it turned and ran.

“Lilly?” I asked. The dog only paused for a moment, its head tilted slightly. I watched it head along the hard shoulder, then over the barrier and into the fields beyond.

I looked over at the other side of the motorway, at the police car coming in the opposite direction.

I looked down at what was left of Lilly. My eyes fell upon a severed hand, then at her disembodied head, looking up at me with lifeless eyes.

I turned and vomited.

I don’t know how I got back into town. The smell of blood and death was almost unbearable. I noticed the occasional driver giving me a strange look or the odd pedestrian eyeing me closely. They were not looks of admiration as they have been when I drove to the Smalley’s; they were looks of caution, of fear.

At the police station I got out and told a Sergeant all I knew, about the pickup, about her turning into some dog. He remained surprisingly straight-faced. He either thought I was a loon and he was humouring me or he was naturally so sour faced. He checked the inside of the Rolls. We went up to the Smalley residence with some other policemen, and saw the remains of Mr and Mrs Smalley in the front room. Everything was a daze to me. Two dogs, one black and one golden were found dead in one of the rooms upstairs. The chocolate cake was taken away to be examined.

(Hope you have a howling day)

They found nothing in the chocolate cake.

They went to the hard shoulder, of course, for what was left of Lilly.

They arrested me, held me for as long as they could for questioning, but even they did not know the cause of Mr and Mrs Smalley’s death. I had decided not to talk about people turning into dogs anymore.

(It’s getting hot. It will happen soon, I guess. I did not think it would happen to me as well, but I ate the cake as well so it is obvious it would do)

They set me free. They thought of spontaneous combustion and looked into the rare phenomena.

(Once heard a rumour they conjured up one of the Devil’s chief henchmen, or henchdemons. Beelzebub or Baal, one of those)

Sometimes when I am lying in bed and unable to sleep, my wife breathing heavily beside me and my son in bed in the other room, I think of what happened. I think about the Peterstones and then the Smalleys. The dogs, lying dead upstairs. Strange, the neighbours had said, because the Smalleys had no pets.

(Don’t worry, I won’t bite you.)

Sometimes, when I lay there thinking of that realm I visited, that place where the notsupposedtohappen happened, I pray I never go there again. I would rather be ignorant. I sometimes hear a dog barking somewhere in the night and I wonder.

(Don’t worry, I won’t...)

I wonder. But that is all I do, for I want to remain ignorant and safe. I am not a hero. I’ll leave all that alone I think.

Bite you.

[Originally published in Kimota 15, Autumn 2001]

THE IDIOT STICK

by Steve Dean

The light streaming in through the open door at the front of the cave woke the boy. After several hours of trying to sleep, with every little noise startling him, he had finally dozed off. The mage CulluC walked in through the door and slammed it shut behind him, he wasn’t in a good mood. Last night CulluC had attempted a very difficult spell, it was Phlay’s inexperience that had ruined the spell and the mage wasn’t going to forget.

“Wake up flea! drag your self out of your pit, we’ve got work to do.” CulluC strode up to the rickety cot and kicked it, setting it creaking from side to side. The boy pulled the thin blanket over his head and mumbled “It’s Phlay not flea”.

The wizard, who had turned away shouted over his shoulder,”Did you say something, boy!”.

“No master, just clearing my throat”.

CulluC disappeared into his quarters behind a crude wooden wall opposite his dark corner. Phlay had never been in that part of the cave, he wasn’t allowed. That was one thing CulluC had stressed when he had first arrived here, but since the wizard had changed he wouldn’t dare anyway.

Although he was very tired he managed to get out of bed and get dressed fairly quickly. He was just ready when CulluC emerged, “Right boy, go down to the stream and fetch me some cold water. Do... you... understand? Not warm from the puddles, cold from the bottom of the stream. Is that simple enough for you?”

With those few quick instructions he hit Phlay on the head, pushed a leather bucket into his arms, put one hand on his head and guided him out of the door. The door slammed shut behind him. Phlay tottered back up the hill a few minutes later with the heavy bucket sloshing icy water down his leg. Glancing at the sun to check the time, a memory suddenly appeared in his head and he was taken back to his first days here as CulluC’s apprentice.

“Now young man”, CulluC had said. “Your father is a farmer, right?”

Phlay nodded in agreement, he was still too awe struck to speak much. Imagine, him little Phlay being trained to be a wizard of all things.

“So he needs to know the seasons so he can plant his crops, do you see?”

Phlay nodded eagerly. “But”, CulluC held up a finger for dramatic effect. “The seasons take weeks to change, see? Then again there are Blacksmiths, when it’s light they get up, when it’s dark they go to bed. They don’t care what season it is, just as long as people bring in the horses and what not.”

CulluC leaned closer to Phlay and whispered “But me and thee, my little flea, need to know the time you see?” CulluC straightened up and laughed a jolly laugh. “It’s the magic you see, no good just boiling a cauldron full of stuff till it tastes right, like your mum’s stew. We’ve got to know how long it’s been there. Not only that, but what time of day or night as well.” He suddenly looked Phlay straight in the eye, “How do you know it’s midnight?”

Phlay looked at his boots until CulluC ruffled his hair, “Don’t worry yourself my little flea, all will become clear” and he tapped the side of his nose, a huge grin on his face.

CulluC had been so kind at first. Not now though, not since he came home from one of his trips wearing that ring. Phlay shivered, not only from the cold.

“About time too!” shouted CulluC as he fumbled the door open. He snatched the now half empty bucket out of Phlay’s hand and carried it to the workbench, gruffly he shouted “Go cut some firewood, no, go cut lots of firewood, big thick pieces.”

Phlay lifted the heavy axe from its place by the door and left without saying a word. Chopping wood wasn’t exactly easy but it kept him out of the cave for a while.

The nearest trees of any size, apart from the old Hazel that grew up one side of the cave, were quite a distance away. A dark wood grew at the top of the long valley. To reach the cave from the west meant passing through this thick tangle of trees, very few bothered. Phlay stopped on the edge of the wood and looked around. He kept telling himself he was a wizard, the things hiding in the gloom should be afraid of him, not the other way around. He got to work quickly, hacking at a tree he had felled a few days ago. Phlay was a pretty skilled axeman for his years and soon had a large pile of logs without too much trouble. Of course, thought Phlay, CulluC could have cut twice as much in half the time with a spell, but he didn’t do menial work these days. At least getting the wood up the hill was no problem, his master had taught him a few things, fairly simple stuff but they made his life easier.

Phlay pulled a long feather from his inside pocket. Then he looked around for some kind of crawling insect. He pulled some bark away from one of the logs, underneath were several fat, white grubs. Holding the feather in one hand, the grub in the other he began to chant. As the last syllable of the chant left his tongue he flicked the grub into the log pile with the feather. A tiny streak of yellow light flashed briefly behind the grub which disappeared between the logs. A second or two later the logs began to move, shaking at first then rising up like a long snake. Phlay concentrated on forming a picture of the cave in his mind, then he issued a command to the log snake, “Home!”

One by one the lengths of wood joined nose to tail as the leader slithered up the hill. Phlay walked proudly beside the strange beast, this was easily the largest amount of wood he had ever managed to move in one go. Phlay opened the cave door and began shepherding the wood towards the fire place. On hearing the noise CulluC turned from his workbench. He suddenly stood up, knocking his stool over. He shouted something and pointed his finger at the head of the wooden snake. A bolt of blue lightening blasted from his finger and smashed the first four logs to kindling.

Phlay stumbled back against the door in fright, scattering the now lifeless logs. The mage stormed up to Phlay and grabbed his arms. The grip was so tight Phlay cried out, but CulluC didn’t seem to hear. “I...!” CulluC’s face was a mask of anger, his eyes burning with some inner fire, “...am the mage around here, until I say you are ready, you can keep what you have learned inside your thick skull! Understand!”

“Y...Yes, master, but I am supposed to be your apprentice”.

“Apprentice! You are nothing but an idle, butterfingered feather brained simpleton! A flea sent to torment me! Why I ever chose you I’ll never know, I’d send you back to your family but they wouldn’t want you!”

Phlay felt a hot tear roll down his cheek, before he could stop himself he had shouted out, “At least I have a family, not even a dog would stay around you for long!”

CulluC threw Phlay to the ground, his staff flew to his hand as he lifted his arm, but instead of striking, he stopped as if in thought. “Let’s see how you get on as a dog shall we.” CulluC laughed loudly as he tapped Phlay’s hands. Slowly Phlay lowered the hands he had held over his head for protection. He felt them tingle and itch, then grow hot. His finger bones began to writhe and crack, becoming shorter and wider, sending waves of pain along his wrists. He stared at his hands in horror as they blackened and shrank, looked on in terror as short claws sprouted from the tip of each finger. Phlay found himself unable to look away, for now instead of hands he had paws!

A long scream filled the cave as the heat began to crawl up his arms, his pale skin bubbling then sending out thick brown hairs.

“Master! No! Please!” Phlay begged as more and more of his arms were encased in the brown fur. CulluC stood back, an evil smile settling across his face, as he toyed with the large black ring on his left hand. Phlay’s pleas turned to whimpers as an agony of creaking bones mutated his arms into the legs of a dog. Inside his skull his brain was spinning, terror and pain uniting to lock his body into a rigid frame.

CulluC laughed again, “That’s the first time I’ve seen a flea with its own dog!” He threw back his head and sent laughter echoing back and forth across the cave. Through his laughter he managed “Go on boy, fetch the sticks”; he dissolved into fits of giggles. Phlay leaned against the door, his arms held out from his body, as if to distance himself from this nightmare. CulluC turned away, apparently satisfied, and returned to his work. The creeping heat immediately stopped, settling down to a dull ache almost to his shoulders. When Phlay was finally able to move again he rushed across the cave and rolled onto his bed, holding his arms stiffly out in front of him.

Phlay spent a pitiful night curled up on his bed, his arms tucked under the blanket out of site. He was dying to relieve himself but the thought of it terrified him. The darkness dragged by until he heard CulluC get up just before dawn. After what seemed like hours longer the mage finally emerged. Phlay looked up at him, whimpering like a puppy. CulluC ignored him, walked over to the fire and began to prepare himself breakfast. The mage hung an iron pot over the fire, then looked into it. He turned to look at Phlay then back to the pot. Phlay seized the opportunity and jumped up saying, “I’ll fetch water for you, master, if only I could carry the bucket.” He looked at his ‘paws’ for effect. The mage looked thoughtfully at Phlay then smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of smile Phlay wanted to see. This was amusement, not pity. CulluC pulled his ever present staff towards himself and touched it to Phlay’s eager arms. Once again he suffered a tortured nightmare of agony as his bones stretched and contracted, this time he closed his eyes. But when he could look again the sight he saw made him gasp with fright, now he had the arms of a monkey! CulluC, his eyes filled with tears of laughter managed to say, “There you go boy, back to normal, now fetch me some water.” Phlay rushed out of the cave and down to the stream, sobs escaping through gritted teeth, tears squeezing passed his determination not to cry. CulluC’s roaring laughter ringing in his ears.

Several days later there had been no further incidents. He had noticed, after a day or two, that hair was falling from his arms, and underneath his skin looked quite normal. They were almost his own again now. For the last few days CulluC had done little else but stare into the distance for hours on end, turning the black ring around and around on his finger.

The next morning CulluC woke Phlay early, shouting, “Come on boy, there is work to be done, fetch the water, cut some wood, catch some meat, but not rabbit!”

Phlay dragged himself out of bed and set about his chores with as little speed and energy as he could get away with, later producing three hares from a sack. Without comment CulluC snatched at the hares and rushed them over to the cooking pot.

He had been very busy today, Phlay noticed and now he was cooking large quantities of food as if expecting guests.

As the sun began to set CulluC suddenly spoke, “Boy? Make your self scarce, my visitors are not coming to see you”.

“But master it’s getting dark, where can I go?”

CulluC leaned towards Phlay and leered at him, “Would you sooner stay here with me?”

Phlay took the hint and scampered out of the door. It wasn’t dark yet but it soon would be. He looked around, there were hardly other dwellings he could go to, not even a distant farm.

Turning around he noticed the old hazel tree growing against the side of the cave. He climbed into a branch near the cave wall, settling in for a long night. Hugging his thin clothes around himself, he felt a hard metal shape in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out a small knife. It was simply made, three pieces of flat metal rivetted together. The middle hinged one was sharpened. It fitted easily in the palm of his hand. As he looked at it his mind filled with memories like cold honey pouring over his brain.

“Now Phlay, you take my knife here, it’s a good one, pr’haps it’ll come in ’andy for making magic or something”.

His father was leaning over him, one huge gnarled hand gripping tightly on his shoulder, his voice was flat and even but his eyes were filled with sadness. “See, it opens out ’ere so’s you can hold it, I used it to whit’le them lit’le animals for your sisters.” Then his mother was beside him, handing him a small bundle. She smelled of fresh baked bread and lavender as she held him tightly. “Don’t forget your old mum n...” her voice trailed off into quiet sobs. His father pulled him away and turned him around. “You’re not to worry now, go with this kind gentleman, he’s going to teach you lots of fine things. You can come back and visit, like, when you want”.

Then they were off, walking up the hill, the strange man leaning on a long staff, he carrying everything he owned in a flour sack. Half way up the hill he turned to wave, his younger brothers and sisters waved back and shouted out to him. Bewilderment and excitement clashed together in his head. This had happened all too quickly, he had never even been out of the village before. A soft voice in his head said “Don’t worry you’ll be back”. He knew with a certainty he hadn’t felt before that this was true.

His reverie was broken by the dull thud of hoofs. Phlay looked up, through the half-light he could see four riders approaching the cave from the west. Three of them wore leather armour and were obviously soldiers. They carried long spears, from which a small pennant hung, which carried the crest of Dorra, a small town about a days ride to the west. The fourth was dressed in fine clothing and wore a wide brimmed hat with a long feather. They approached the cave hesitantly, Phlay didn’t know if this was through fear or uncertainty. Before they could decide, the cave door flew open and CulluC appeared dressed in his finest outfit. “Welcome, gentlemen, to my humble abode, please step inside, your horses will be quite safe.” His voice, although not loud seemed very powerful and commanding, the four men certainly moved very quickly off their horses and into the cave. Phlay could hear nothing from out here, so once again he settled as comfortably as possible between two branches. A sudden thought came to him, the Moon hole! Scrambling up a few more branches he found a roll of tarred rags stuffed into a round hole about as big as his fist. Sometimes CulluC needed moonlight to cast his spells, so when the moon was full the hole was uncovered and a moonbeam landed on the workbench positioned beneath.

Carefully Phlay pulled the rags out of the way and pushed his ear into the gap. At first all he heard was the sound of drinking and occasional laughter. Then it all went quiet for a few moments before whispers started up. Phlay didn’t catch the entire conversation but from what he could work out, mainly from the long silence after a heavy bag had been placed on the table, CulluC was being offered a large sum of money to rid the town of something big with lots of teeth! Something that had been terrorising the town and which the soldiers were unable to defeat! Suddenly the voices inside stopped, Phlay thought he heard someone hiss “What’s that?” Phlay quickly replaced the rags and began to climb back down to his seat. Unfortunately it had become quite dark now, he could barely see the branches. Suddenly stepping in to thin air he flailed his arms, grabbing at a thin branch. The branch turned out to be a twig which promptly snapped sending him falling to the ground.

Against the clear sky someone was holding up a twig which seemed to glow in the pale light. It turned out to be himself.

Inside his spinning head two thoughts collided and stuck together. Despite a cracking headache Phlay smiled, a wide beaming grin that would have frightened many folk.

That night when CulluC and the visitors were asleep Phlay took out his knife and the hazel twig and began to whittle.

For the next few days Phlay saw nothing of CulluC, who stayed in his room, either snoring loudly or rattling about as if looking for something. On the first day of the next month at precisely midday CulluC emerged from his quarters, backpack in one hand, staff in the other, dressed for travel. “Phlay! Help me with this!” CulluC shouted.

The mage put his backpack on the floor and pulled out a finely decorated ivory tube. Carefully he undid the fastening and opened the top. “Please master, let me do that for you, I’ll be careful!” said Phlay, taking the tube from CulluC’s hand.

“It’s about time you made yourself useful, you can stay here and clean up this place too, I want it shining when I get back.”

“Yes master, of course I’ll clean every surface.” Phlay swept his hand around for effect. The two thin wands inside the tube dropped to the floor and rolled under the table. Phlay was immediately on the floor picking them up. CulluC roared at him and would have knocked his head off if he hadn’t been so quick.

“Look master, they are all fine, no harm done! Let me position them for you.”

CulluC stared daggers at Phlay for a few moments, then began to calm down. He held out his sleeves to allow Phlay to push the wands into the secret locations up each sleeve. Whilst doing so Phlay noticed a deep red sore under the black ring on CulluC’s finger, he had never dared ask about the ring, the wizard had caught him looking at it once and had flew into a rage. When he had finished CulluC picked up his backpack and Phlay helped him get it on. The mage walked to the door and went out, Phlay following behind. CulluC turned to look at Phlay. “My quarters are guarded by a demon I summoned last night, so you better keep out!” With those few words of farewell the mage set off due west.

It seemed to Phlay that CulluC, although walking normally, covered more ground than he should have with each step, so that he was soon out of sight.

Several days later, in a silent valley some days to the west, a figure picked its way carefully across a boulder strewn stream. CulluC, sensing he was being watched, stopped for a moment and studied the landscape. Up ahead, between two massive rocks he could just make out a large amber eye looking straight at him. He approached a little further, keeping one eye open for sudden movement, until he was at what he considered to be the right distance. Very carefully he climbed onto a large boulder, pushed his staff into his backpack, and stood with his hands on his hips.

“Well, Worm are you going to hide all day?” His powerful voice echoed off the valley walls, startling the few crows that had braved this place. The amber eye disappeared behind the rocks.

A few moments went by, then a giant clawed foot appeared over the top of the rock, followed closely by another. Suddenly a hulking shape leapt onto and over the rock in one shocking movement and tons of scaled skin drove down towards him. In a blur of movement CulluC’s hands pulled the hazel wands out of opposite sleeves and aimed them at the creature’s rapidly approaching head. CulluC tensed himself for the blast and began to speak a word of command. The word died on his lips, astonishment, anger and mortal fear flashed across his face. A single word burst from his mouth and echoed in the gullet of the monstrous beast as its mouth closed around him.

“Flea..!”

Back in the cave, the fire suddenly spluttered and went out.

Phlay had never seen the fire go out before, it had been burning constantly since he had got here. He knew what it meant. Phlay went over and sat on his bed. Pulling out two hazel twigs, he smiled that smile again. CulluC, soon after Phlay’s arrival, had told him a story about a fight he had had with a band of trolls.

CulluC had waited until the trolls were quite close, then pulled out a wand from each sleeve and blasted them to ash. Those wands were now in Phlay’s hand, he could feel the magical energies within.

The two wands so carefully positioned in CulluC’s sleeves were just plain hazel, swapped after the ‘accident’. Of course, if he had handled them he would have known, but he didn’t, not until it was too late.

Many months later a fisherman sat on his upturned boat gutting and cleaning his mornings catch. He was very surprised to find a splendid black ring in the belly of a large eel.

[Orignally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]

TROUBLE DOLLS

by Suzanne J. Barbieri

Every night Uncle Ray turned into a monster.

In the early hours, when her mother was sleeping, Anita would hear the creak of the top stair and the soft sigh of her door opening. The Ray Monster would stumble through the darkness towards her and pull back the covers, breathing alcohol fumes into her face.

Anita used to pretend to be asleep, in the hope that he’d leave her alone, but her slack face and limp body hadn’t deterred him, neither had tears and struggles, so now she just stared at him, still and silent, defying him to go on.

He’d close his eyes so he couldn’t see her watching his rank, heavy body crushing her; his dry stubby fingers pawing and poking, and his beery face smothering hers as the minutes ticked by; as if by not seeing, he’d somehow shift the blame.

The Ray Monster said it meant he loved her, and that their love was special and must remain secret. If she ever told anyone, she’d be taken away and locked up because no one would believe that a respectable man like Uncle Ray could love a hateful, ugly child like her. She was very lucky, he told her, to have the love of such a man.

After Uncle Ray had left her, Anita reached under her pillow for the matchbox. She pulled off the lid and took out the six tiny dolls. They were the only toys she had, and she’d saved up for weeks to buy them. She’d wanted a big teddy bear that she could cuddle, but she hadn’t had enough money; hadn’t had enough for any of the toys in the shop, except the Trouble Dolls.

“You tell them your troubles,” the lady in the shop explained, “And they make them go away.”

Talking to the dolls made her feel better. Telling them wasn’t the same as telling a person, so she wasn’t breaking her promise.

“I wish you could make him go,” she said, “he says he loves me, but if that’s love, he can keep it.”

Ray took a beer from the fridge and turned the television on, keeping the volume low so as not to wake Maureen. He couldn’t take another bout of her nagging. They were nothing but trouble, the pair of them, she and that daughter of hers. The house was a tip: clothes draped over the back of a chair waiting to be ironed, dirty dishes piled in the sink. He didn’t know why he stayed; they were lucky to have him, and they knew it. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then drifted into sleep.

At first he thought it was a power cut. The house was in darkness, and the television was dead. Ray tried to get out of the chair, but his limbs wouldn’t move.

A dream, he reasoned, it must be a dream.

He laid there for some time before he tried to move again. Still his body was paralysed. What kind of dream was this? It felt more like death than sleep. Although he could neither see nor hear, he was aware of time passing: seconds growing into minutes, minutes ticking softly into hours.

Six empty hours passed before the first signs of day came. A strip of light appeared above his head, gradually widening to give Ray a glimpse of white ceiling. Then a hand came towards him: a huge hand; its fingers twice the length of his body. The hand gathered him up and laid him down on something soft and white.

He fell sideways and came face to face with a hideous, motionless form. Its crude features - black dots for eyes, a garish crimson slash of a mouth - were painted onto a mask of tightly wrapped pink wool. Behind the figure were five more, all dressed in bright colours, all staring blankly ahead. Ray screamed, but nothing came out.

The hand picked him up again, squashing him against the figures. Their woolly bodies pressed against his face, fibres filling his nose and mouth, and scratching his eyes which he could not close. He tried to push them away, but his arms would not move.

Once again Anita counted her dolls, touching each one and saying its name aloud.

“Elizabeth, Josie, Meg, Philip, David, John...”

There was an extra one; a little man dressed in grey.

Anita’s face loomed over Ray for a moment before she replaced the lid of the box, sealing in the darkness. He heard her walk out of the room and close the door. There was nothing now but the cloying warmth of the dolls bodies. Clubbed hands pressed intrusively against his body; dry, woollen faces smothered his as the minutes ticked into hours; hours grew into days.

[Originally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]

THE EARTHLY PARADISE

by Peter Tennant

Automatic cameras track the rocket down. We watch it on the big screen in the bunker control room. It lands fifty miles to the west in the crater that used to be New Chicago.

“Grell,” I say.

Julie nods. “Someone will have to go for help.”

There are three of us in the bunker, four if you count Lieutenant Ferguson, but the dead don't count, not even now when they far outnumber the living. The Lieutenant had been wounded in a clash with a mutant pack five days ago and had died soon after we found the bunker. We'd put his body in the freezer. Julie's idea. Looters had stumbled on the bunker before us and taken most of the supplies. Ever the practical one, Julie had wanted something kept in reserve for when the food ran out. I wasn't sure if I wanted to still be around when that moment came.

Someone will have to go for help. Pete Bradfield is dying of radiation sickness and Julie won't leave her husband. That means I get the chance to be a hero.

Supplies. I take a compass and two canteens of water. No food. I want to travel light, and besides, the others will need what little is left. I'll live off the land, or starve if I have to. I take my knife and pistol, and the machine gun we found hid in the bunker, plus all the ammunition I can easily carry. I leave the other pistol with Julie, and a spare clip of ammunition. If she has to fight I tell her to make sure that she keeps the last two bullets for herself and Pete. I know Julie is capable of that. I have a bad feeling about all this. Pete will be dead in a couple of days, long before I can bring any help, and then Julie will be alone. The smart thing for us to do would be to put the guy out of his misery and leave together. Two travelling together would stand a much better chance than one on his own. I suggest doing this to Julie, but she won't hear of any such thing. Staying behind is an empty gesture, but she won't see that. Either guilt or some misplaced sense of loyalty keeps her tied to the dying man. It's such a waste. She doesn't love Pete, even if she no longer wants me, I'm certain of that, but she won't leave him. I go to kiss her on the lips as I take my leave, but she deftly turns her head at the last moment, offering a cheek instead, so that what was intended as a gesture of love becomes one merely of friendship. In my heart I don't believe that I'll ever see her again.

The mutants are waiting for me when I come up out of the bunker, four of them ranged in a half-circle round the opening. They don't stand a chance. They are slow and cumbersome, not much of a threat in spite of their size. I gun them down before they can even move. I have never killed anyone before, but I feel no regret. They are not human. They are mutants, survivors of the great plague that swept our world in the days before The Conflagration, altered beyond all recognition. Killing such misshapen creatures is no more an immoral act than the slaying of a rabid dog. I step on one accidentally. My foot sinks through his rotten flesh, like treading in shit.

I've been walking for twenty minutes or more when I hear the sound of gunfire from behind. Someone is screaming. I double back at a run. Mutants are all around the bunker area, more than thirty of them. The four I killed must have been scouts for the pack. I should've known there'd be more of them. Julie is in the thick of it, naked and hog tied, covered in blood. I can't see what they are doing to her but she keeps screaming. No sign of Bradfield. He's probably dead and better off out of it. I feel so helpless. I can't take them all on, there are just too many. I should've insisted that Julie come with me, but there is no time for such recriminations now. There is only one thing I can do for her now. I fire over the mutants' heads and they scatter, momentarily giving me a clear line on the naked woman in their midst. For a long moment I study Julie's face, caught in the crosshairs of my gun, and then I pull the trigger. The explosive shell strikes her right between the eyes and detonates on impact. She dies instantly.

They give up the chase after half an hour. Mutants have no stomach for the long haul. They tire quickly and lose interest. As soon as I can afford to stop for a moment I strip off my uniform and bury it. It won't do to get caught wearing army drill. Julie might have been spared if she hadn't been in uniform. The mutants hate the military. Back before The Conflagration there were rumours that the plague bacteria responsible for their condition was developed in a military laboratory. I smear my naked body with dirt for protective coloration. Despite the tragedy of Julie's death I feel a small thrill of anticipation. It feels good to have a purpose again and to be free of that damned bunker at last, breathing air that isn't stale from recycling, with the hot sun on my back and the comforting slap of the leather holster against my side as I walk. 

I cover only five miles that first afternoon, but it seems like much more. I am out of condition and the forced march takes its toll. Blisters form on my bare feet and all the muscles in my legs ache. Before the day's end each step is jarring agony. Towards evening I stumble on the remains of a house. A miracle to find a building still standing in the midst of all this desolation. Something, an energy weapon of some kind I'd imagine, has sheared off the top of the house leaving only the ground floor. The walls will provide me with shelter for the night. There is plenty of broken furniture to serve as kindling and I have matches taken from the bunker, but I am in two minds about whether to light a fire. It will keep any wild animals at bay, but could well attract other kinds of trouble. The bitter cold decides for me. I sit down with my back to a wall, the machine gun cradled in my arms like a child, and fall asleep as soon as the fire has caught, its mellow warmth wrapping around me. When I wake the sun has risen and the fire has gone out. The traps I'd set the night before are all empty. My stomach feels like a bottomless pit.

Later that morning I am attacked by a wild dog. The beast must be mad with hunger to attack a creature so much larger than itself. It springs up out of nowhere and is on me before I can use my gun. We go down together and roll over and over in the dirt, its teeth snapping bare inches away from my face. I get my hand on a rock and pound away at its skull until the dog is dead. I am bleeding in a dozen places where its teeth and claws have left their mark, but only lightly. More serious is the loss of half my water. One of the canteens has been punctured in the struggle, and I can do nothing except stand and watch, shaking with anger, as the precious fluid drains off into the parched ground. I cannot even eat the dog. Its coat is moulting in places to reveal the ugly blue welts of radiation sickness.

In the afternoon I sight a large pack of mutants, perhaps as many as a hundred, but I am able to give them a wide berth. I find treasure trove as well, a rapid fire laser rifle that appears to be in perfect working condition. Far superior to my own machine gun and no ammunition to carry either. Built to a Grell design it has its own compact generator. The Grell had been our friends and shared the secrets of their technology with us. We could have built an earthly paradise with the Grell science, but all we'd done was use their knowledge to fashion better weapons of destruction. I find the remains of the rifle's owner a few feet away, his back set firmly against a rock outcropping. Wild animals have stripped him to the bone; only a few shreds of cloth and flesh are left. I use the laser rifle to destroy my machine gun so that no-one will be able to use it against me.

I kill a snake. It lies on a rock, basking in the afternoon sun, blissfully unaware of its peril until my laser beam slices it in two. The separate halves twitch madly, then are still. The snake is fat. I can barely get my hand round its circumference. Mouth watering in anticipation I gather up the brushwood to start a fire and roast the snake slowly on a makeshift spit. The tender white meat tastes surprisingly good and I have no trouble keeping it down. That night, for the first time since leaving the bunker, I go to sleep with a full belly.

My water is nearly gone. The canteen makes a hollow sloshing sound as I walk. There has to be clean water in this desolate land, but I have no idea where it is to be found. For the past hour someone has been following me. I can see a figure on the horizon, trying hard to stay concealed and failing laughably. It has to be either another person in search of the Grell or a mutant mad enough to hunt alone. I have no strength to run or fight. I climb the next rise then double back to lie in wait behind scattered rocks, hunched over my laser rifle. It is a woman. For a moment I believe it is Julie, risen from the dead to follow me, but then the illusion shatters. The woman is naked except for a scrap of cloth between her legs. All bone and skin, tanned brown by the sun. Large breasts that swing from side to side as she walks. Most of her hair has fallen out. She carries a knife and a sling. I take all this in with a glance. She sees me and realises that I have the drop on her, so stands still, waiting for me to decide what will happen next. I rise to my feet and clamber down the scree. The woman's eyes never leave me. There is a stone in the sling hanging by her side. A moment's hesitation on my part will be the only opportunity that she needs. I keep my rifle trained on her. I tell her that I mean her no harm and ask her name. She opens her mouth and points. Her front teeth have been knocked out, her tongue torn loose. Some of the Fundamentalist groups who were so prominent in the years before The Conflagration used to mutilate their women in such a manner.

We travel together. Companionship is welcome, even that of a mute. I decide to call her Rip. I once owned a dog that answered to that name, a King Charles spaniel. In many ways Rip is like a dog herself. Faithful and obedient. Eager to please. She sniffs the air and leads me to a water hole. We wash and drink, and I fill the canteen. That evening we huddle together for warmth. Against my will I am aroused. It has been so long without a woman. I grope for her in the dark, and she responds. My hands caress her breasts and belly, work the rag away from her crotch. Our lips press together and my tongue invades her mouth, rubbing against the stump of her own. My fingers delve between her legs and find only a hard pad of scar tissue where her clitoris should be. I feel revulsion and instinctively push her away, fighting down the urge to vomit. Wild with anger she attacks me, fingers gouging for my eyes. I knock her aside. We tumble together on the ground and when we stop rolling I am uppermost. Her legs are wrapped round me and my painfully swollen cock is buried deep in her cunt. We are like two animals, thrusting at each other in a white fury. I nip and knead her bruised flesh between my fingers. Her nails rake my back. I sink my teeth into her shoulder, taste the blood in my mouth. There is no tenderness, only need to cause pain and to feel alive. I seem to take forever to come, the sperm shooting out of me in thick strands. She bucks under me all the while, moaning and grunting like a pig. Then I am falling off of her, the world turning madly before my eyes as the stars crash and collide in the night sky overhead.

“Carol.” Her name is Carol. She traces it in the dirt for me with her finger. A Grell flier passes overhead. We signal but they do not see us. It is good to know that the Grell are still taking an interest in the human race, have not abandoned us to the consequences of our own folly. There may yet be reason to feel hope.

We go a day without food. Then another. And on the third day we find a cluster of houses, standing, untouched by the holocaust. It is like stepping back in time. There is a child playing on the lawn in front of one of the houses, a boy of twelve or thirteen. Our appearance startles him. Carol gives chase. He eludes her outstretched arms, but she manages to drive him back in my direction. I dive at the boy's feet as he runs by and bring him down. Carol is upon him and rips open his throat with one expert slash of her knife before I can do or say anything to stop her. I punch her full in the face. She sprawls on her back and I stand over her glaring with anger. One hand raised to staunch the flow of blood from her nose she looks up at me. Her eyes convey hurt, lack of understanding. She points at the boy, then at her mouth, smiles and rubs her belly. I feel sick. She disgusts me. I want to be alone. I turn and walk off, not bothering to look back to see if she is following.

I search the houses thoroughly but can find nothing. No more people and no food. There is something eerie about this place. Wandering through the rooms I have the feeling that they have just been vacated, that people have stepped out moments before my arrival and will return after my departure. The beds have all been made, the tables have all been set, there are logs piled in the fireplaces. This moment is unreal, a mere ripple in the flow of events. I go back to Carol as darkness falls. She has started a fire in one of the houses. When I go inside I find her trying to hack off the boy's arms with her knife. She has stripped him. He looks healthy and well fed. If there was food here for him then there could have been food for us too. The boy might have told us where it was hidden. Instead there is this stupid waste, of human life and knowledge both. Carol wants me to help with the laser but I ignore her importuning. I sit down in a corner and close my eyes. Soon I am asleep. When I wake the air is thick with the aroma of meat cooking. Carol has an arm on a spit over the fire. It smells delicious. She cuts off a strip of flesh and offers it to me. I hesitate for a moment. My stomach aches with hunger and her eyes are so imploring. Finally I take the meat and pop it into my mouth. It tastes like pork, but perhaps that is just my imagination. I chew and chew but I cannot swallow. I have to spit it out, then rinse my mouth with water. Carol looks at me, bewilderment in her eyes. She eats her own portion with such obvious relish that just to look at her makes me feel sick. She licks the grease from her fingers and wipes them dry on her loincloth, then nuzzles up next to me. Her hand reaches for my cock, but I push it away. I will never feel desire for her again. She disgusts me. I cannot get the image of her killing the boy out of my mind. I turn my back on her and go to sleep.

When I wake the next morning Carol is gone. She has taken the laser rifle and the canteen. The boy's body has been further mutilated. His other arm is roasting on the spit but both legs are missing. Carol must have taken them with her. With my bare hands I scrape out a shallow grave in the soil of the back garden and bury the boy's pitiful remains, his head and torso. The dirt is loose and easy to move, but the work is hard and tiring. The sun is high in the sky before I am finished. When I go back into the house I find the arm waiting for me. The fire has gone out. The meat is charred and cold. I eat it though. This time I have no difficulty swallowing, and afterwards I sleep the deep, dreamless sleep of the truly content.

From a distance I see a Grell flier strafing a pack of mutants who hurl rocks in reply. The mutants stand no chance in the unequal combat and are soon dispatched. From my hidden vantage point I silently applaud the Grell victory. If the human gene pool is ever to recover from self inflicted wounds then the mutants must be eliminated. I am pleased that the Grell have taken this task in hand.

I lose all track of time. The days and nights all fade into each other. I fight and kill lone mutants. I feed on roots, and small animals when I can catch them. I drink from whatever pools I can find, no longer caring about pollution or radiation sickness. My life is unimportant. Nothing matters except my self imposed task of finding the Grell. They gave us the science responsible for The Conflagration. Only they, and they alone, possess the means to undo the terrible wounds our world has suffered as a consequence. Pustules rise on my arms and chest, diseased skin peels from the bone. I lose the compass, but keep walking in the same direction. Scenery is all the same, a desolate, blasted landscape in which everything is either dead or dying. Perhaps I am walking in circles. There are times when I do not know, hardly care. Only the reality of movement is important. I must keep moving. Walk when I can, crawl when I cannot. Somehow I survive.

I open my eyes to find him standing there looking down at me. I blink but he does not disappear as all the others have done. It is the first time that I have seen a Grell without one of their cumbersome support suits. I recall hearing that their homeworld has a high radiation level. Earth will be a paradise for them now. He looks so small and insignificant, not the all powerful alien of our hopes and dreams, just a little blue man with spindly limbs and a huge bulb for a head.

I manage to force my cracked lips open, to move my swollen tongue.

“Help.”

The Grell studies me dispassionately and emits a series of high pitched whistles. The voice that comes out of the translator box dangling at the Grell's side is warm and female, but that means nothing; the Grell are not creatures of gender like us.

“You are beyond help human. Soon you will be no more.”

It is the truth. I am dying of radiation sickness. I've seen it take hold of others. I know the signs. My chest heaves. The air is raw and cold in my throat and lungs. The sun burns so bright that it hurts my eyes. The skin of my eyelids has turned transparent so that it is no longer possible for me to shut out the light. I work saliva in my mouth and gather strength to say what must be said but the words elude me. It seems that now I have found the Grell there is nothing I can say to them, at least nothing to justify or excuse our betrayal of their trust. At such a moment only the truth will serve.

“We were fools.”

Tears sting my cheeks. Each breath burns. The Grell stares down at me. In his eyes is a look that, if he were human, I would believe to be a sign of compassion.

“You were no wiser than we judged you to be.” 

[Originally published in Kimota 6, Summer 1997]

THE STRANGER

by Trevor Mendham

Good, you are still here. A lot of people wouldn’t be. Well, here we go mate, another two pints of lager. Didn’t take long, did it, even with the crowd in tonight? That’s one of the perks, I always get served first at the bar. Don’t have to say anything, just give them the old stare. Even from behind these shades, it always works.

What’s that? No, Joe, I do not drink Bloody Marys. Old joke. Not funny.

So, where were we? Oh yeah. I’d just told you that I’m a vampire and you were trying to decide - am I telling the truth, am I an escaped loony or am I Jeremy Beadle? Either way you probably reckon you should be a million miles from here. No, don’t deny it. I can tell if you’re lying so there’s really no point. It’s the standard reaction I always get. That’s why I waited ‘til we’d had a couple before telling you. Don’t worry, I’m not cross. If I was, you can bet you’d be dead by now.

And before you ask, no, I will not turn you into a vampire. This is an exclusive club, my friend, we don’t let just anyone in. Whilst we might be having a nice little chat now, I’m not really certain that I want your company for the rest of eternity. No offence meant, mate.

And before you panic, nor am I gonna suck you dry and leave your corpse to rot. Do us a favour, do I look that stupid? If I wanted to do that I’d have jumped you outside, alone in the dark. I’d hardly warn you and certainly wouldn’t do it here in the pub!

Anyway, I’ve gotta be honest, you’re really not my type. Young blood really does taste better y’know. And personally I’ve always preferred women. Some vampires reckon that there’s no real difference, but I say there is. Female blood has a certain piquancy to it, an extra little bite. It’s a bit like the difference between a good wine and an excellent vintage. The ordinary stuff is fine, but the vintage, when you feel it sliding down your throat, when you lick your lips and savour every last drop, oh that’s just so...

Hmm? Oh, sorry, getting carried away. Actually, I don’t get to taste the blood of a young female nearly as often as I used to. They don’t tend to go out alone at night now. It wasn’t like that in my youth - I don’t know what the world’s coming to nowadays. So I usually have to make do with some homeless wino. Let me tell you, meths really ruins the flavour. Almost as bad as garlic.

So what do I want with you? Just a chat, Joe, nothing more. Is that so hard to accept? I get so bloody lonely, every so often I just need to talk to someone. You humans take things like that for granted.

Think about it. Being one of the immortal undead might sound fun but it’s a real pain in the neck. I can’t exactly have a normal social life, can I? No holidays in the sun, no days spent window shopping. The only jobs I can get are night-shifts and let me tell you, you meet some weirdos there. As for sex - have you ever tried to buy a double coffin? I can’t have ordinary friends. Anyone who got close to me would soon begin to suspect something. Then it would be the whole Hammer Horror bit.

The only people I can really socialise with are other vampires and you don’t get many of them around here. To be honest, most of them need to get a life - all they ever seem to talk about is themselves.

So, after I’ve been in one place for a while, when I’m ready to move on, I like to have a little chat with someone I’ll never see again. Someone like you Joe. Some people can handle the occult better than others, I could tell from your face that you’d understand. You’ve got an aura or some such New Age crap. Whatever, I felt drawn to you. I’ll bet you even have a deck of dog-eared Tarot cards at home.

You were drawn to me as well, weren’t you? I could see you watching me out of the corner of your eye. To be honest, at first I thought you might be a queer, but then I saw you trying to chat up the barmaid so I knew you were OK.

I tell you, Joe, you wouldn’t believe the mindless bigotry I have to put up with. People just label you, stick you in a box. OK, so I’m a vampire - does that make me a bad person? I adore kids, I give money to charity and I have all of Cliff Richard’s records.

Yeah, yeah. I just knew you’d bring that up again. OK, it’s true. Every so often I sink my fangs into some nubile young woman and suck the life out of her. So I’m not a perfect citizen, but you can find fault with anyone if you try hard enough.

Drink up, mate, you’re falling behind and it’s your round next. Actually, you’re doing pretty well. Most people have found an excuse to go by now. You know, they remember that they left the bathroom light on or something urgent like that. You’re different, you look like you’re actually enjoying this. Bet I know why. You’re a journo, aren’t you? Gonna write this up. “I met a vampire in the Slaughtered Lamb”. ‘Cept this is the Slug and Lettuce, but I’m sure you wont let a little fact like that stop you. And you’ll probably give me some naff name like “Count Alucard”. Actually, I’m calling myself Pinner today. It’ll be something different tomorrow, time to change it again. I try not to use the family name, doesn’t go down too well.

You’re not a journo? Not a writer at all? I’d have staked my life on it. So what do you do then? Old family business, eh? Like me in a way! Ah, a business card. Very professional. Let’s see who you are now.

Ah come on, this has got to be a gag, right? You’re having me on.

“Josef van Helsing”?

[Originally published in Kimota 9, Autumn 1998]

BEYOND THE HELP OF MORTALS

By D.F. Lewis

Phil had been tramping for miles. The pain in his backside he put down to haemorrhoids, though he would have been hard put to spell the damned word. The itching was at one moment delightful and the next worse than agony itself, veneering the insides of his denims with overlapping reddy-brown skidmarks. He hoped the pain was haemorrhoids, blotting the thought of wiggling cancers from his mind. He couldn’t afford medication at the best of times. Sensible not to think about it.

In the wimpish light of the moon, he could see the outline of a lorry upturned on the hard shoulder. Hit and Run. And the pedestrian who had hit it had surely run! Phil laughed to himself like a stand-up comedian who’d lost his audience. Dossers were funny even without their cardboard bedding. It was ages since he’d had a good booze-up and a long smoke. Fucking had been pretty well hand to mouth, too.

Not averse to helping himself, whenever the opportunity arose, he clambered aboard the rear end of the lorry. The chassis had been buckled by the force of its skid into the deep ditch, the driver’s cab pointing up towards the cloudless night sky.

His usually inscrutable face began to reflect his mood and broke into a wide grin, when he discovered that the lorry’s payload was a number of ruptured cardboard boxes with cigarettes spilling out. He could not make out the make. He had been so long without glasses, he had entirely forgotten that his eyes needed them. It didn’t matter, of course. In any event, he did not know his own thoughts.

He did not have a match upon his person, so he scratched at his bum where it itched quite exquisitely as if that were a consolation prize. He would need to scale the articulates of the lorry towards the cab end and rifle the driver’s corpse (if he had one) for a lighter or something.

He forthwith fell off the back of the lorry in a flurry of self-misunderstandings and a grunt of disapproval at his own lack of co-ordination and panache. Thousands of cigarettes scattered around him like flakes of long snow.

He shivered, as the darkness became noisy. Nobody slept at night any more - the flights that were permitted to lift off from the nearby airport took advantage of fuel being cheaper after daylight hours. Something to do with storage propulsion. Phil shrugged. Something was wrong.

He glanced up at the cab - a real shadow etched against the moon’s faint widening blur. The moon was a ghost of a planet. He shrugged again. Shrugging made him warmer, more alive, comforted. His mittened paws could no longer feel themselves nor each other. The cab might have to wait for morning, however distant in time that happened to be.

The droning in the sky increased like long thunder.

It would be better in the cab, if he could but reach it. He could do with a drag. He took a fistful of cigarettes, trying not to break them in his numbed grasp.

He lodged one foot upon the petrol tank that had been punched out from the lorry’s underbelly by a tough tussock during the crash. Phil then noticed for the first time that the cab itself was stove in, as a result of an ancient tree root growing outlandishly from the waste ground high bordering the freeway.

There would be little room enough for both him and the driver.

He hoped that the driver had been scrunched beyond recognition. Phil dreaded undamaged corpses more than anything.

On finally reaching the cab, he panted, cross-eyed with effort. He unbent the door, sending up a horrendously nail-gritting squeal with the splayed hinges. It exploded with loose screws in all directions. Like a cyborg berserker being sick.

Phil had one of the cigarettes behind his ear. The others he hoped were undamaged in his jerkin pocket. The driver was wrapped around the steering column, the large face mooning upward, merely a few inches from the shatter-crazed windscreen. A jagged shard from the vanity mirror had skewered both eyeballs in one go, taking most of their glistening egg-white substance with it and out through an ear. The overlong neck had a steamy slime guttering down the wrinkles.

The driver had been no human. Whether Phil realised, only Phil knew.

The driver’s belly was covered in gapes, where the satiny overalls had been stitched back by splinters snapped off a dial’s glass cover. His innards were far from red, more a pulsing grey, with a sentience which derived neither from breath or heartbeat.

Phil’s eyes were pinpricking with the luminosity that emanated from the cab’s sunroof. He had not worried about the nature of this light source - nor did he now. He was too busy rummaging in the glove compartment for something to light a cigarette.

A slobbering slick of a sensation upon the back of his flinching neck... He turned his whole body round with the effort of a skewered jack-in-the-box with its lid stuck. The driver was flapping flayed muscles and jerked the gear-lever as if he were stirring stew one moment and tugging free a reluctant rib-bone from a fellow berserker’s chest the next. The ignition churned on one sickening note, never truly firing. The driver’s club foot pumped vigorously on the clutch pedal in a ludicrous attempt to roll start.

The vehicle lurched and began to judder irrhythmically. The shattered windscreen ballooned inwards. And through the jagged lens-holes which ratcheted forwards to slice around the edges of Phil’s throbbing eyeballs, he fleetingly focussed upon a patch of starlight grown far too large to be a moon of Earth.

Phil shrugged, as he felt the stinging white tubes meticulously inserted into his mouth, ear holes, empty eye-sockets, anus and penis. The haemorrhoids audibly burst one by one in salute to a fine human being.

Some were his own thoughts, others not.

Half-knowing he was on a UFO, Phil shrugged, shrugged again and died. And lived again to die again, this time more horribly, for ever and ever.

[Originally published in Kimota 9, Autumn 1998]

A MATTER OF BLOOD

by Martin Owton

The first thing Aron noticed was that the man was young; scarcely older than Aron himself. The second thing he noticed was that the man was a mess; someone had beaten him thoroughly, breaking his nose and splitting his lips. His eyes were swollen shut, the flesh purple around them. Someone had splinted his broken right arm, bound up the shattered fingers on both hands and plugged the stab wound in his side with clean linen. He lay back on the pallet, his breath rattling harshly between his ruined lips; he would live but would carry the scars to his grave.

Aron turned questioningly to Simeon.

“I couldn’t just leave him there, not after what that bastard did to him.” The boy threw his arms wide in a gesture of frustration. Aron liked Simeon, liked his openness and enthusiasm. Yet he knew that Simeon’s idealism would have had him taking on the perpetrator of this violence if the watch had not arrived when they did. The boy was an able pupil, but at sixteen not yet full grown and could easily have got himself a similar beating or worse.

“You shouldn’t have been down there anyway. Don’t you know how dangerous the taverns in the Swamp are?” Aron said.

“You live down there,” Simeon replied.

“I am not a merchant’s son with a coat that cost more than a docker earns in a six-month. Besides, I can look after myself. What is the point of me teaching you to look after yourself if you’re going to put your neck in a noose the first chance you get?”

“I got out alive. Anyway this isn’t about me. Will you listen to his story?” Simeon gestured to the injured man.

“Very well,” said Aron. “For the price of breakfast.”

“My name is Roger de Beaune,” the young man said, his words distorted by his injured mouth. “I come from Fox Hollow, a small village five days walk from here. A year ago I was happy. I worked my father’s farm and I was walking out with the most beautiful girl in the village. Then Seranna fell pregnant, and my father insisted that I put her aside. Her father threw her out of their house and I was powerless to stop her leaving the village.”

“Was the child yours?” asked Aron before he took a bite out of a warm bread roll.

“Certainly. I was all ready to make the arrangements with the priest, but father just exploded when I told him and wouldn’t hear of any wedding. He thought she wasn’t good enough for me. He was a hard man.” Roger swallowed noisily. Aron took another bite of his roll and waited for him to continue. “So she left and I couldn’t do anything. That was last spring.”

“And now you’re in Oxport.”

“My father died at New Year. The farm’s mine now, so I came to find Seranna.”

“You found her?”

“I found her in that tavern, last evening. I was going to take her away, but then he came.” Roger seemed to shudder at the memory.

“You realise what kind of women frequent The Sailor’s Ease?”

“I know what she has been driven to, if that’s what you mean. That doesn’t matter to me. I love her and I want to take her back to Fox Hollow, and she wants to go with me.”

“You’re sure she wants to go with you?” Aron asked as he speared a sausage with his knife.

“Yes certain. She wept in my arms and begged me to take her away. We were leaving when he stopped us.”

I can imagine. And what was your part in this?” Aron turned to Simeon. “I was there with a friend,” replied Simeon defensively. “I saw the fight, if that’s what you could call it. Roger didn’t stand a chance. He stuck a knife in him and then kept kicking him until the watch arrived. I couldn’t leave him there, so I brought him here.”

“It didn’t occur to you that a tavern frequented by whores might also employ someone to keep order and protect its assets?” Aron directed his question to Roger, but it was Simeon who spoke.

“How do you mean assets?”

“Do you suppose that the women just happen to frequent that tavern? Who feeds and shelters them? Who provides their fine gowns?” Aron jabbed the air in front of Simeon with his knife.

“You mean the tavern keeper?” said Simeon.

“Yes. Or someone who has an arrangement with him. And the bully is there to prevent the customers fighting and to make sure no-one forgets to pay.”

“I suppose I should have realised she couldn’t just walk out.” Roger sounded as if he was weeping, but the state of his face made it impossible to tell. “How am I going to get her out of there now?”

“The usual way is to buy her,” Aron said as he polished his plate with a crust of bread. He didn’t know whether to curse Roger for his stupidity or praise his naïve courage.

“I don’t have much money. How much would it cost?”

“Depends on how much she earns. She’s young, is she pretty?”

“Prettiest girl in the parish back home.”

“Expensive then, twenty, maybe twenty five gold crowns.”

“I couldn’t sell my farm for that,” cried Roger in dismay.

“So we need to find another way to get Seranna out.” Simeon’s voice was filled with excitement at the prospect of the adventure. “So I thought of you. After all, you’re the finest swordsman in the city.”

“What was the first lesson I taught you about the blade?” Aron looked hard at Simeon, knowing where the conversation was leading.

“Never draw it unless you are prepared to kill with it.”

“Correct. Now I teach the blade to the sons of gentlemen so that they can keep out of trouble. I hire out as a bodyguard to prevent bloodshed. I do not kill people for money, do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. Maybe I’ll just take the mangy Saxish dog myself.” Simeon stuck his chin out and tried to look dangerous.

“Maybe next year.” Aron snorted derisively. “How do you know he’s Saxish? Saxe is a long way away. I’ll wager you’ve never met a Saxish clansman in your life.”

“You can’t mistake that accent. I may not be able to place yours, but I know Saxish when I hear it; my father trades down there and mimics them. He’s very good at voices.”

“No doubt,” said Aron, suddenly preoccupied with the thought of a Saxish fighter. Probably nothing to do with what had happened, but Saxe is a very long way away. “Tell me about your clansman. How old? How tall? Slim or heavy, dark or light, right or left handed?”

“Er -- large, heavy-shouldered, dark, hair in a ponytail, mid-thirties,” said Simeon.

“Left-handed, I think,” added Roger from the bed.

“Hmm.” Aron stood up and made to leave. “Nothing will be done until Roger is mended. I will think on it.”

Aron did think on it; indeed he thought about little else for most of the day.

The girl’s story was common enough; probably half the girls at the Sailor’s Ease could tell something similar. That could have been Aron’s mother’s story but for one person; his father. He’d stood by her and now Roger wants to do the same. The thought of his father brought him back to the Clansman. If he was one of the betrayers of Darien then I will kill him and if it aids the girl’s escape then so much the better. His heart leapt at the prospect of the fight but he drew himself back. But I have to be sure, it’s just possible that he’s guilty of nothing more than being Saxish. And what will I do if that’s the case? I’ll cross that river when I come to it.

It seemed to him that he had two choices: the first was to ask the clansman as subtly as possible, but that carried a real risk of starting the fight immediately, and then getting the girl away could be impossible. There was another way though.

Nearly every city and certainly every seaport in the world has an area like the Swamp. An area where most things are cheap: housing, drink, sexual pleasures and life. So it was in the Swamp; so called because it was built on land (almost) recovered from a swamp, rather than because of the creatures who lived there. Aron lived in a tiny rented room in the Swamp; it was all he could afford if he was going to eat as well. Teaching swordsmanship to merchants’ sons wasn’t that lucrative. In the months he’d been in Oxport, Aron had got to know a bit about the area. Not a lot, you’d need to have been born there to be trusted enough to know a lot; but Aron knew where to find most of the services the Swamp specialised in. In a gloomy room in a house behind a bakery in the centre of the Swamp, Aron drank herbal tea with an old woman, his stomach tight with nervous tension.

“I need to find out something. A secret a man may be hiding.” Aron spoke cautiously. He knew the woman by reputation, but had never dealt with her. “Not a girl then. I thought it would be a girl. It usually is with likely young lads like you. Still things can be found out, hidden secrets dug up, for a price.” The woman’s eyes twinkled at Aron across the table. “What do you need to know?”

“There is a man in the city. I need to know if he was at a certain place and took part in a certain act.”

“You’re a cautious one aren’t you, my lad. Give me your hand and look into my eyes.” Aron did as he was asked, his other hand curled around the knife he wore in his sleeve. The old woman’s small hand was surprisingly warm as it gripped his. She stared deep into Aron’s eyes for three breaths and then her eyes lost focus. After a long moment she gasped and her grip tightened convulsively. Then her focus returned and she released Aron’s hand.

“You’re a killer my lad aren’t you, but your heart’s clean. You should have told me before I read you.” The woman reached for the teapot. Her hand shook as she poured another cup of tea. “I’ll need something to read from, something of his. The closer it’s been to him the better. Hair’s good. I can get a good reading with hair. I can manage with fingernails if I must.” Her voice betrayed a nervousness that had not been there before.

“How much?” The knot in Aron’s stomach unwound.

“Ten pieces of silver. Oh, you meant how much hair?”

“I meant both,” Aron said evenly.

“Just a few strands, so long as it’s got a root.”

Aron finished his tea and stood up. “I’ll be back.”

Aron next saw Simeon two days later for his lesson. Aron pushed the lad harder than usual during the two hours, to reinforce the lesson that Simeon was not ready for a real fight. Afterwards they sat in the shade and drank small beer. “So have you thought about it?” gasped Simeon, out of breath from his exertions. “Roger’s getting stronger day by day.”

“I’m glad to hear Roger is recovering,” said Aron, who was sweating only slightly. “I’m still thinking about it. Have you thought about it? Do you know who runs the Sailor’s Ease? Do you know how much trouble he can cause you? Are you prepared for the consequences if we go through with this? You could have to flee the city. What’s your father’s view?”

“My father supports my action in this. He just doesn’t want me to get hurt. He trusts you to look after me.” The lad’s dark eyes flashed defiantly.

“Thanks a lot. And what about the rest? Do you know if there are any more Clansmen in the city?”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“I have. That’s why I’m still thinking, particularly about the Clansmen. Ask your father to find out, he must have the contacts.”

Indeed Aron was still thinking and still gathering intelligence, torn between his lust for vengeance and the caution that his instructors had instilled into him. One thing certainly favoured them; the landlord of the Sailor’s Ease was a notorious drunkard who owed money all over the city. It was unlikely that anyone would rush to his aid in the event of his losing an asset such as Seranna. As days passed and Roger recovered, Aron could no longer put off the decision. Oxport was an unlovely city, and his own circumstances were not particularly favourable. He could easily move on. Almost without making the decision, he’d arrived at the conclusion that it all depended on the girl. If she wanted to be free then he would help her.

The Sailor’s Ease was a two-storey building with windows set in the steeply sloping much-repaired roof; the walls bowed, the roofline sagged dramatically and weeds grew in the gutters. Aron walked up the street towards the tavern, avoiding the larger puddles, taking in the evening scene. There were quite a few people about; none looked prosperously dressed, indeed some were truly in rags, and all had a wary and suspicious cast to them. The clientele of the tavern were similarly shifty, from what could be seen of them by the light of a few candle lanterns and the fire. There were at least two games of dice proceeding in two of the corners. A group of sailors, living up to the tavern’s name, caroused in a third corner with a number of girls who seemed more gaudily attired than anyone else.

Aron sat in one of the many dark corners and almost instantly a potboy was at his side asking what he wanted to drink. Aron ordered a mug of ale and looked around. Beside the stairs a large swarthy man in a leather waistcoat, his black hair caught in a ponytail, sat and cleaned his nails with a dagger. Unmistakably a Saxishman.

“My name’s Seranna -- would you like to buy me a drink?” The voice had a soft country burr to it. Aron turned to see a dark-haired girl smiling at him, only the smile didn’t reach her eyes which remained dull and lifeless. He could see how she had once been pretty before she got so thin.

“Seranna. That’s a nice name - - why don’t you sit down?” Aron tried to make his voice warm and welcoming. The girl’s eyes didn’t change.

“I know somewhere we could go that’s quieter.” Her voice did not convey the enthusiasm that her words implied.

“That sounds fine to me,” said Aron, keeping his voice low. “Ten silver pieces.” There was no invitation in her voice this time. Aron reached into his pouch. The price was about what he had expected; enough to rent his room for a month. Seranna walked towards the stairs, the Saxishman looked up at her, caught her gesture and stood up blocking Aron’s path. Aron held out the money, the Saxishman took the coins and bit each one in test. The coins passed and he stood aside glaring hard at Aron in silent warning. Aron avoided meeting his eyes and followed Seranna up the narrow stairs, along a corridor and into a room that was almost completely filled by the bed that she sat down on. Aron sat down beside her trying to ignore the powerful stink of stale sweat from the mattress.

“What happened to the baby?” That certainly got Seranna’s attention. Real expression entered her pretty face for the first time and she jumped as if Aron had slapped her.

“She died.” The heartbreak in her throat. “How did you know? Who are you?”

“Roger told me.”

“Is he -- ?” Choked off sobs destroyed whatever else she was going to say.

“He’s alive if that’s what you want to know.” Aron kept his voice low. “He’s with a friend of mine.”

“Why are you here? Who are you?”

“I need to know something, something important. Do you want to get away from here?”

“Gods, of course I want to get away. Now stop playing games and tell me who you are.” Anger replaced the tears.

“Listen carefully. This needs to be done right if we’re to get you away.” Aron spoke for a few minutes telling her what he needed for the witch’s reading and then made Seranna repeat his instructions back to him.

“Right. I’ll see you in three days then.” Aron stood up to leave. A brief moment of disappointment flickered through the girl’s eyes as he opened the door.

“Three days then,” she said quietly.

“You got something for me to read then?” The old woman’s dark eyes glittered in her lined face. Aron passed the small package to her and returned to his herbal tea. The package gave under her fingers as if filled with jelly. Nimbly she undid the cloth wrapping and examined the contents. “That’ll do fine. What do you want to know?”

“Nearly five years ago the Earldom of Darien was overrun and possessed by the Duke of Caldon. There were Saxish mercenaries in the fortress of Darien. They betrayed their employer, the Earl, and opened the gates to the Duke’s army. The Earl and his garrison were put to the sword.” Aron’s voice was low with all the emotion squeezed out of it. “My father amongst them.”

“Aah my lad, now I place you. I thought I recognised the accent. So you want to know if this one was there.” Her eyes glittered in the gloom. Aron nodded to her. “You go and sit next door and I’ll have an answer in a while.”

Aron sat in the small kitchen his nostrils assailed by the smell of fresh bread emanating from the bakery next door. He had no idea how long the process would take so he did not dare leave the room to buy something to eat. Instead he sat and thought about the immediate future, his concentration broken by the demands of his stomach. He fervently hoped that the Clansman had been one of the betrayers, that he could justify killing him to release poor pretty Seranna from that stinking room and send her back to her village. It would give an extra edge to his revenge.

Hours passed and the sun was westering before the door opened and the old woman appeared. She fixed Aron with a gaze that was slightly out of focus. “He was there -. I hope you get the girl out.” Then the door closed, leaving Aron alone.

“Tonight, gods I can’t believe it. I’ll be ready. What do you want me to do?” said Roger. The flesh around his eyes was still slightly puffy and yellow; his fingers worked but had lost much of their former strength, and the wound in his side was healing well.

“All you need to do is to get him out of his lair and I’ll take care of the rest.

Simeon are the horses your father promised going to appear?”

“Yes, yes of course. What time do you need them?” The lad’s words fell over each other in his excitement.

“An hour before the city gates close. Pack more than enough supplies for the ride to Fox Hollow. You may be pursued and end up a long way off your road. I’ll try to minimise pursuit but I can’t promise. And don’t forget some clothes for the girl. She can’t ride far in what she’ll be wearing.”

“Are you sure you can handle this?” The new voice cut across their conversation. Aron turned. Simeon’s father stood in the doorway. “Sure enough,” Aron replied calmly.

“I have a number of caravan guards standing idle just at the moment if you need a little help.”

“I suppose that it would be no harm if they were to drink in the Sailor’s Ease this evening, but please remind them that this is a matter of blood.”

“I wondered why you’re doing this,” Simeon’s father said quietly

“Darien.” Aron spoke the single word and was silent for a moment. “And why do you not forbid this?”

The older man did not answer immediately. “I knew a girl once and I didn’t know anyone like you then.”

Aron, Roger and Simeon walked, leading the horses down the hill from the prosperous areas of Oxport towards the Swamp. No-one spoke as they walked through the evening, the lanterns haloed as the mist rose from the wetlands beyond the city wall. Simeon and Roger halted the horses around the corner from The Sailor’s Ease. As Aron kept walking towards the tavern, he gave one tug of adjustment to the mail shirt beneath his tunic and stepped through the door. The taproom was only half full with the usual clientele, plus a group of six tough-looking men who sat quietly not drinking much from the table full of mugs before them. Seranna stood beside the stairs next to the Saxishman. She looked up as Aron walked into the room and broke into a broad smile, her eyes unnaturally wide in her face. At that moment Aron knew he was doing the right thing. He nodded once to her as his gaze swept over the Clansman beside her; if the man recognised Aron he gave no hint of it. Aron turned and strode out into the night back to Roger and Simeon, his nerves wound tight. “Go just inside, she’s waiting and she’ll come to you. Don’t delay. There’s nothing I can do if you don’t get her outside. Right, on your way.”

“I won’t see you after if this works. How can I thank you?” said Roger, his voice shaking.

“Call your son Aron, now go.”

Roger walked slowly towards the Sailor’s Ease. Aron eased his sword in its scabbard and tried to focus his mind as Roger disappeared through the door. A few breaths only passed before Roger reappeared half dragging Seranna. They were only five paces clear of the door when the guard emerged bellowing guttural oaths, a naked blade in his left hand. Aron smiled with relief, drew his own blade and stepped forward to block the Clansman’s path as Roger and Seranna ran past towards the horses Simeon held. The Clansman slid to a halt as Aron levelled his sword at the man’s throat.

“Get out of the way peasant.” The man’s accent twisted the words into almost unrecognisable shapes. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Darien.” Aron spoke clearly, his eyes not shifting from his opponent. The clansman’s eyes widened with surprise and recognition. The witch had been right. “I see you remember. I want you to know what you’re dying for.”

The clansman swore an oath in reply and swung a blow at Aron who blocked it firmly and flicked out a riposte that left a trickle of blood running down his opponent’s face. There was no need to hurry; it would buy the fugitives more time and the man didn’t deserve to die quickly. There was no reason to believe that the Darien garrison had died quickly.

The clansman was really quite a competent swordsman. He didn’t overextend on his thrusts and parried firmly, he never put all his strength into a move and so retained his balance. It wasn’t enough though. Aron was always a touch faster in his moves, always a shade ahead in anticipation, and the Saxishman was bleeding from half a dozen wounds after five minutes. He was good enough to know he was overmatched, and desperation entered his bladework as he began to tire; desperation seeking an opening against the odds. No opening came. A crowd gathered, partisan cheers began to ring out, with roars of encouragement and appreciation at every move. Wagers were offered and accepted. This was a far better duel than the Swamp normally offered.

Aron emptied his mind, just as he had been taught, of all except his opponent. Nothing mattered, nothing intruded. The Clansman started to slow, his counters slightly late, the co-ordination a little ragged as sweat dripped down his face and his breathing laboured. It was time for the kill. Aron began to increase the tempo, moving onto the offensive, pushing his man back waiting for the mistake. The mistake came and Aron killed him. It was that simple. The Clansman was a fraction of a second slow in blocking a thrust to his stomach and Aron’s blade skewered him. He gasped in pain, clasping his hands over his abdomen where dark blood was beginning to soak through his jerkin. Aron tugged his blade free, blood gushed, a blank dark stare entered the man’s eyes. He died in the mud gurgling and spitting curses. Aron put away his own sword, picked up the dead man’s blade and walked away, the crowd parting to let him through.

Aron kept walking up the hill, away from the swamp, a fierce glow of satisfaction burning within him.. “That’s one more of the traitors has paid the price father,” he said softly then muttered prayers to the soldiers’ god, one in thanks for his own survival and a second to honour his father’s shade. Later he would seek out a shrine and light a candle to offer more thanks; he offered no prayers for the dead clansman.

A servant, eyes full of questions, opened the door of Simeon’s house to him and showed him into a sitting room. Aron sat before the fire, closed his eyes and tried to let all the tension drain from him, washing him clean of the experience. Ten minutes passed before Simeon returned. He rushed into the sitting room and flung his arms around Aron declaring “You were magnificent, absolutely faultless. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“You shouldn’t have been there. You were to return here directly they were away in case things went wrong.” Aron was too tired to be truly angry. Things hadn’t gone wrong and he knew that he would have stayed to watch the outcome if he’d been in Simeon’s shoes. “Just fetch me a drink will you, a good strong one.” A drink was fetched and Aron contented himself with staring into the depths of the fire as Simeon prattled on until the door opened and Simeon’s father stepped into the room, extending his right hand. Aron reached out his own hand, the older man gripped it firmly. “Very impressive young man. My caravan guards say you’re an excellent swordsman.”

Aron didn’t know what to say so he said “Thank you.”

“I think it might be a good idea if you were to stay beneath my roof for a few days, just until the dust settles.”

Aron accepted gratefully. This was more than he’d hoped for. The solid walls of merchant’s villa offered much better shelter than he would find in the swamp and the clansman may have had more friends than he’d counted. He wondered about the girl Simeon’s father had referred to and guessed that the story had ended badly.

So Aron took up temporary residence in a fine house in the best district of Oxport and Simeon found his time filled with extra lessons. Nothing is for nothing, after all. During this time the merchant’s intelligence network provided two pieces of information; firstly a message arrived from Fox Hollow concerning the return of two young people, secondly four Saxish riders passed into the city through the east gate. Aron was pleased by the first piece, though he wondered for a moment how Seranna would settle back in to life in her quiet village and greatly interested by the second. He thought it most unlikely their arrival was a coincidence, blood feuds being a central part of Saxish life, and pressed the merchant to find out all he could of their doings. It’s nigh certain they too were betrayers of Darien, he thought with a smile. And I don’t have to scour the High Kingdom for them. The next few weeks promised to be more of a challenge than tutoring the pampered sons of Oxport.

Life passed quietly for the next five days with no news of the Saxishmen and, as the uneventful days slipped by, an unease grew within Aron that all was not well, like the dark finger of cloud hanging on the horizon that presages a summer storm. He started seeing movements out of the corner of his eye that resolved into nothing when he turned his head. Dark shadows crept across the floor as he lay in his bed and he took to sleeping with a lit candle by his bedside and a knife under the pillow. None of this disturbed him as much as the constant feeling that some malevolent being was watching him; a feeling he was quite unable to dispel.

Aron was three steps down the stairs when it happened. He felt a firm shove between the shoulder blades and then he was falling. He managed to break the fall partially by rolling, but he still hit the ground with a solid thump that drove the breath from his body and left his ears ringing. He had heard no-one behind him and there was certainly no-one to be seen on the stairs. Servants hurried to aid him having heard the tumble and soon Aron was the centre of attention being offered poultices for his bruises and a glass of spirit for the shock. Aron took the spirit but it did little to calm his nerves; the feeling of malevolent presence was stronger than ever.

Aron took much more notice of his surroundings from then on. Never before superstitious he developed a sharp aversion to walking under ladders or anywhere near loads on hoists; stairs took much longer to negotiate than his previous three steps at a time and nothing on earth would get him close to the edge of a drop. It was difficult continuing teaching his classes which had expanded with an influx of new pupils. Pleading damage from his fall, he no longer sparred, but watched as the pupils faced each other.

It is impossible to remove yourself from all sources of peril if you are going to continue some semblance of normal life so the menace persisted. Aron’s heightened awareness and sharp reactions in the street saved him from a fall of roof tiles. Four times horses shied and kicked close beside him, and each time he managed to step aside. His nerves, however, suffered and, acutely aware of every tiny sound in the night, he barely slept. Every situation presented a threat, there was in truth nowhere safe. He felt angry and humiliated in equal measure by his vulnerability and at times wondered if he was going mad. Reluctantly he was driven to the conclusion that he had no other option and went down into the Swamp to the house behind a bakery.

“Ah, the young killer from Darien. I didn’t think to see you again - what brings you to my door?” The dark eyes twinkled at Aron through the quarter-open door.

“I have a problem. Something is stalking me.” He spoke, quietly looking directly into her eyes.

“So kill him.”

“Something not someone. That makes it your area of speciality.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder, the alleyway was empty.

“’Something you can’t handle, hey. So you’d better come in.” The door swung fully open, filling Aron with relief. He had brought all the coin he possessed to try to persuade her and if she had refused him then he did not know what he would have done.

The old woman gestured to a chair and bent over the kettle that bubbled on the fire. Aron sat down as the woman poured tea. For the first time in many days he was not conscious of the menacing presence and it felt like stepping out into the sunshine after a week of rain.

“So, you killed the man I read for you. Well he deserved it, and you got the girl out. That puts you on the right side as far as I’m concerned, and I know your heart is clean. Now tell me your problem.” The old woman bustled around the room before she settled in her chair beside the fire. Aron recounted the sequence of events as clearly as he could remember it; the menacing presence, the shove downstairs and the other events that had nearly brought harm to him. When he had finished the woman looked hard at him, pursed her lips then stared into the fire, several breaths passed before she spoke.

“I think I have heard of something like this, though I have never dealt with it. I think I should enter the spirit world and have a look around.”

“Is this dangerous for you?”

“I think not. I think this is an enemy that threatens only you.” The woman reached into a box beside her chair and drew out a small bag. She shook some of the contents into the kettle, swirled the mixture around for a dozen breaths and then poured the murky fluid into a cup. Blowing on it to cool it for a moment she then drank the contents in one draught. She pulled a face. “Never got used to the taste of that and it doesn’t improve with age.” She sat back in the chair. “This will take a little while. Just make yourself comfortable, but keep silent.”

Aron watched as she settled herself, eyes closed, hands folded in her lap, her breathing deliberately regular. Nothing happened for a long time. Aron wondered if she had merely drifted off to sleep then she started from the chair, unfocused eyes wide open.

“I have found him. He is outside now waiting for you.” Her breathing was ragged as if she had been running.

“Who?”

“The one you killed. The Saxish warrior. His spirit lurks only a few paces from us. The wards I have set about this house keep him out, but he knows you are here so he waits.”

“How can this be?”

“His shade has been recalled to this world by a magician. I have heard of it being done, but I can’t do it. It is an Eastern trick. I don’t know of any in Oxport who would know how to do it.”

Aron thought immediately of the four Saxish riders. “Four Saxishmen passed into the city a week or so back. Few come so far west. It is most likely they are from the same mercenary band,” he said. “They will have come to avenge him.”

“Then one of them may be a wizard. It would not require one of great power because the warrior’s spirit burns for vengeance, but you have a bad enemy.”

“I know next to nothing of magic. How do I fight this spirit?”

“In this world I do not know. There are magicians of greater power and learning than I in other cities. I can tell you where to find them, but they are many weeks journey away. I don’t think you would escape the spirit’s vengeance that long.”

“What about this Saxish wizard?”

“He would know the banishing of it, but if he has summoned it he is not your friend.”

“If I kill him?”

“The spirit is like a hound unleashed to hunt you down. The wizard knows nothing of its location or progress, it will return to him only when you are slain. Slay the wizard and the spirit will still follow you.”

“Is there nothing I can do?”

“You could enter the spirit world to face it. If you kill it there it can no longer be summoned to harm you here.”

“What can I fight it with there? What powers does it have?”

“Nothing more than you bring with you from this world. You may walk in the spirit world as you are or as you were, but nothing more.”

“How do you mean?” This was important. Aron strained on her every word as his mind raced through the possibilities facing him.

“The blind may see again, the lame walk. The warrior who lost a limb in life is whole again, but that is all. You will not be a finger’s width taller. The mind remembers how you were in your prime, but it cannot make you more.”

“So I have no sword, no armour, no weapons to fight with.”

“Only your body, your skills and your courage.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then you are dead, both in the spirit world and here.”

Aron sat in thought, his stomach a tight knot of fear. He did not doubt his own courage, but his every instinct counselled against going into a fight without knowing what he faced. However, the days since he had killed the clansman had been an intolerable nightmare and he agreed with the old woman about his prospects of escaping the spirit’s vengeance for much longer. He really had no choice at all. “It is the only road open to me. If I can’t rid myself of this spirit in this world then I must in the next.”

“Drink this then, swallow it all. I will be waiting and I’ll lead you into the spirit world.” The old woman passed Aron a mug full of the murky fluid from her kettle. Aron sniffed at it, it might have come straight from a puddle in the street outside. He drew a long breath and then poured the contents of the mug straight down his throat. The taste was worse than the smell and Aron nearly threw the stuff straight back up. With a physical effort he swallowed then cursed in disgust. The woman held out another mug filled with clean water, Aron drained it, but the foul taste still persisted. Aron closed his eyes and sat back in the chair; his stomach churned from the brew, and his mind raced over what lay before him as he remembered all manner of childhood stories of spirits and phantoms. Gradually he managed to find calm as he focused on what he had to do and with a brief surge of vertigo he felt the potion begin to work. He opened his eyes, the room seemed to be filling with mist. He stood up and a hand reached out to take his. He looked around, at his side stood a beautiful young girl, her hand was as soft as rose petals.

“It is me, truly as I was.” Her voice sang softly in his ears. “Come with me.” Aron stepped into the mist, his hand in hers. Beyond the mist the room was the same as in the earthly world yet less substantial. He did not feel in any way different and yet the witch was so clearly changed that he could not deny the reality of the experience. He stood in wonder at the thought that he stood in the abode of the gods and spirits. Is my father out there somewhere?

“Your enemy waits beyond the door. Are you ready?” The witch’s words recalled Aron to his task. He looked about. He held no weapon. He reached for a stool and his hand passed through it. So no weapons then, hand to hand only. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his hands on his shirt and stepped towards the door.

“I’m ready.”

“He was standing to the right of the door about five paces distant.” Her soft voice whispered then she opened the door. Aron stepped briskly through the door looking to his right. The Saxishman stood before him, looking somewhat slimmer than the man Aron had killed, his eyes started open in surprise. Aron moved directly into the attack; pivoting on his right foot he spun and swung a kick at the man’s ribs taking him unawares. Aron’s foot sank into the warrior’s side and he fell to one knee. Aron recovered his balance, but so did his opponent. They stood and faced each other; the surprise fading from the Saxishman’s eyes to be replaced by a purposeful hatred. He bunched his shoulders and advanced on Aron, hands held low. Aron danced sideways on the balls of his feet; speed was his only advantage here, the Saxishman was heavier and stronger. Aron felt the knot of fear tighten in his stomach; this was a man in prime fighting condition. The clansman rushed forward. Aron slipped sideways, but took a glancing blow that spun him off balance. A kick followed up that thudded into Aron’s leg just above the knee. Aron half fell, but righted himself to face the next attack. The warrior surged in and, at the last moment, dodged to the right, the same way as Aron dodged. He swept his arms around Aron and pulled him close to crush him in a bear hug. The powerful arms enveloped Aron pinning his left arm uselessly between their bodies. As the blood began to roar in his ears, Aron knew he had only seconds to do something. With his free hand he sought out the man’s face buried as it was in Aron’s chest; he found the nose and pushed two fingers up the nostrils and lifting his wrist forced the man’s head up. The Saxishman snarled like a wounded dog but raised his head, loosening his grip, allowing Aron to free his left hand. Aron continued to push his head back and then struck savagely with his free hand at the man’s unprotected throat. The warrior collapsed gurgling and choking. Aron stepped clear and then struck him behind the right ear with his elbow. Moving in behind the prostrate figure Aron wrapped his right arm around his neck and then, using his legs to push, wrenched his head upwards and twisted sideways in the same motion. There was a loud crack and the Saxishman stopped moving. Aron stepped back from the body gasping for breath and another pair of arms encircled him. These arms, however, were considerably softer as were the lips that pressed themselves to his. Aron sank gratefully into the girl’s grasp and let her do her will.

“So my hero. What will you do now?” The eyes were the same, but the face was aged by about forty hard years. Aron looked about him. He was back in the chair in the old woman’s room. His ribs ached and his right leg didn’t move freely when he tried to stand. “I don’t know. I’ll need to think.”

“Don’t take too long, there’s still a wizard out there who bears you no good will. I don’t know how powerful he is, and I don’t want you drawing him to me.” 

“I have to go. How can I thank you?”

“I think you already did.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Of course you could try again before you go.”

[Originally published in Kimota 6, Summer 1997. Subsequently improved]

GOD’S FAVOURITE CREATURES

by Julie Travis

The coroner recorded a verdict of suicide on Kate Brooks, but that’s not the way it was. She had stood in the tiny bedroom of the tiny north London flat she rented, looking herself up and down in the mirror for over an hour. Then she had studied the Phrenology head she kept on her dressing table. It was old, a Fowler, a prop from a profession long since dismissed as nonsense, but Kate treated it as sacred. Finally, she’d thought about her life, the women she’d loved, and always lost. Thirty-five years of disappointments, of giving but never receiving. Of feeling too much. She had allowed herself a few tears, the last she would ever shed.

Kate was not thinking of death. She simply wanted to change. Facing the mirror once more, she had picked up a power drill. It looked like a gun, and was incredibly heavy, in contrast to the drill bit she’d chosen, which was just a few millimetres across, as delicate as a surgeon’s instrument. With the drill’s handle in her left hand, using her right to steady the front end, she’d guided it to a spot two thirds of the way to the top of her head, just a fraction left of centre. It was here that was marked ‘respect’ on the Phrenology head. And then she had pulled the trigger.

She’d found she had to push hard to get through her skull, but once through she’d felt the softness of her brain being torn away. As soon as she was sure that part of her was dead, she’d removed the drill and found the next spot, the one marked ‘benevolence’. When that part was destroyed, she’d moved on. And killed ‘friendship’, ‘sociability’ and ‘love of family’, then when she’d cleaned the mirror of flecks of blood and bone, she’d found ‘trust’ and ‘faith’ and destroyed both of those, too. It felt as if a huge pressure was lifting off of her. When Kate had moved on to ‘timidity’ she was feeling distinctly light-headed, and capable of doing anything, so she’d tried it one-handed, and the drill slipped down a couple of centimetres and buried itself in the spot marked by Fowler as ‘extermination’.

The coroner concluded that, in the absence of a suicide note, it must be assumed that Kate Brooks had felt a desperate self-loathing to have mutilated herself in such a manner. What Kate really felt, though, in that last moment before death, and for probably the only time in her life, was that she was finally in control.

Kate had always thought that death was like a light, or a tv set, being switched off. She had seen a bird die once, over a decade ago now, but she still remembered how she’d knelt down beside it as it lay on the ground and looked at its eyes as it died; just a moment, a hair’s breadth, between life and death. As the drill buried itself just behind her temple she found that death was not so much a switching off as a re-tuning. She was aware of a sudden pain, and could hear her body fall to the floor, but everything went black and she felt herself to be apart from her body. It was as if she - or whatever was left of her - had stepped away from the physical world. Through the blackness Kate could make out a doorway. She was suddenly aware that to go through would mean facing Heaven or Hell, whichever she was bound for. She had wanted to change herself, not in this drastic a fashion it was true, but now she was here she would experience whatever death offered her. She made her way through the doorway, and began her ascent to Heaven.

Her time there was brief. The blackness melted away and Kate could see again. It was different to when she was alive; everything had a superreal quality to it and was like a film running in very slight slow motion. In front of her was what was once a pair of beautiful, golden gates, that had been pulverised into a mangled mess. The way into Heaven was, then, barred by an assortment of pieces of wood and junk. It looked more like a barricade in a war zone than the entrance to Paradise.

A figure was waiting, a mixture of man and beast. He wore a pair of wings, neatly tucked up on his back. This must be an angel, thought Kate. He was furious to see Kate there.

“Get away from here,’ he hissed, “you’re a suicide, you died in sin. You’re an abomination.” The sound of his voice was out of sync with the movements of his lips, which made the scene all the more confusing.

Kate was shocked. Surely here they would know what she had been trying to do, would have sympathy with her plight. “It wasn’t suicide,” she said, “I just wanted to make myself like other people. So I could get along. Be happy.”

“Change the way God made you, you mean! It is an insult, and you deserve to burn in Hell for it. See what you have done to your loved ones.”

Kate was confronted by a series of images, of her mother weeping uncontrollably at her funeral, being carried along by her sister and father, of her father, alone, endlessly pacing his living room, drink in hand, then screaming and tearing at the walls, of her own body, dead on the floor, in a pool of blood.

“What gave you the right to do that? If you were unhappy, then it was God’s will for you to be that way. How dare you try to be as God is!” screamed the angel. He unfurled his wings and took to the air, circling Kate, a look of contempt on his face. “Get away from here. You’ll never have a place at God’s side. Deviant! Even Hell won’t have you!” He spat at her.

Darkness enclosed her again and she had a sensation of falling. In panic, she realised her next stop would be Hell, although after her run-in with the angel she really couldn’t decide whether she’d rather be allowed in or turned away.

Two figures watched the scene, with some amusement, it must be said. Two cheers rang out when the angel turned Kate away from Heaven’s gates. Her confusion only added to their fun.

“She’s floundering,” said one. “Shall we let her go to Hell? I don’t think they’ll let her in, either, though. She just hasn’t got it.”

“Shut up, Aleph, give her a chance. Her body’s barely cold.”

Aleph raised his eyebrows. “What’s got into you, then? Oh, I know, you think she’s cute, don’t you? Even with a head full of holes. I worry about your taste sometimes.”

Cory pretended to be annoyed and turned away so he wouldn’t see the smile on her face.

Aleph sighed. “Oh, let’s go get her. Someone’s got to help her out.”

Kate found herself in a graveyard. It was dark and there was a slight fog, so she assumed it must be cold, although she could not feel it. She felt frightened, then nearly laughed out loud; what had she to be afraid of - the dead? Unsure as to what would happen next, she waited. Looking around, she couldn’t be sure if she’d ever been to this place before, but she was back on Earth, that much she did know - everything was three dimensional, natural, again. When the wind blew the trees, the leaves rustled in time to the boughs moving. It was almost reassuring.

She heard a polite cough behind her, and turned to see a man step out from behind a monument, a tall stone angel weeping into her hands. Kate saw immediately that he was not human; he had a slight aura around him, as if he was lit from behind, and when he walked his feet made no impression on the grass. He held up his hands in mock surrender.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “You looked like you needed some help, so we brought you here.”

He stopped a few feet from her. Kate stared at him; he looked part animal, like the angel. What did he want? Could she trust him? He put his hands down, then held one out.

“I’m Aleph. Pleased to meet you, newcomer.”

He seemed quite genuine. Kate took his hand, only then realising she was in human form. “I’m Kate. You said we...” Aleph pointed. “That’s Cory, a friend of mine.” Kate could see a woman sitting on a bench. Aleph walked down to join her. Kate stood where she was for a moment, then realised she was meant to follow.

The three sat for a while and talked. Kate wanted to know as much about them as about herself. Aleph told her to slow down. “Kate, the one thing you have now is time. You were alive for thirty-five years, you have been dead for ten days. Take it easy.”

Kate asked why they were there, in the graveyard.

“It does seem a little corny, doesn’t it?” said Cory, smiling. “But it was logical to bring you here. This is where you’re buried, you see.”

They walked over to her grave. It was untidy, a mound of mud covered on one side with flowers. Kate bent down to read the cards, then realised she couldn’t go through with it and stood again. Instead she pointed at the ground. “How do I look?”

She could suddenly see herself in her coffin; peaceful, clean, and totally bald. The drill holes had been tidied up and there was a cut all around the top of her skull. Of course, she thought, there would have been an autopsy. It seemed ridiculous that anyone would need to investigate the cause of death. She’d been found with a drill buried in her brain, how much more straightforward could you get? No, she thought, they spent all that effort establishing how she died so they wouldn’t have time to think about why. The image faded.

Aleph broke the silence. “So how do you feel about not getting into Heaven?” There was an air of amusement in his voice.

“I don’t know. It was odd - the gates looked like a bomb had hit them, and there was someone there - an angel, I suppose - who was furious with me, because he thought I’d killed myself. He wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. It was horrible, really. Not quite what I’d been expecting.”

“So much for God being all forgiving,” said Aleph. “But you’re right; those gates have been under attack. Heaven and Hell are continually at war.”

As the night wore on, Aleph and Cory told amazing stories of the dead. Nobody ever really dies, they said. Everything, everyone, goes somewhere. Most find their place in Heaven or Hell, but some - those that were unhappy, or disaffected, in life - don’t fit in either place and are simply left in limbo.

“So that’s why I’m here?” asked Kate.

“You have unfinished business,” said Cory. “Your death was an accident, you have much to resolve. You can’t rest, not yet.”

“And you...?”

“Aleph and myself are partners. We were both in Hell, for a short time, but they couldn’t keep us there. Neither of us were disciplined enough for the war against Heaven, but neither were we going to accept the lot of rest of the population there -”

“Hell is everything you hated on Earth,” said Aleph. “Drudgery, banality, triviality. The ultimate torment, forever.”

“We are not foot soldiers nor inmates,” said Cory, proudly. “We chose our own path. We are demons.”

Later, when it became light, the three retreated to the gloom of the catacombs. Kate was assured that sunlight wouldn’t hurt her, but she found the brightness uncomfortable. Of her two new friends she could not form an opinion. Demons, Cory had said, and the word had frightened her, but they seemed to have no intention of harming her. On the contrary, they were concerned that she should find her way. They certainly didn’t look anything other than ordinary - Aleph reminded her of a college boy; clean cut and easy going. Cory was something else, something special. Though young when she died, having just turned twenty-five, she was extremely self-assured. They had both died less than a decade ago - Cory in an automobile accident, Aleph in a drunken brawl - but were more than happy to be where they were, neither having been particularly comfortable with their lives. They’d escaped from Hell and found their way back to Earth, and in the process had become powerful, capable of making their bodies physical and of possessing most living things. And they intended to spend eternity doing exactly what pleased them. Next to them, Kate felt almost useless, a simple ghost who had her life to sort out before she was allowed to die properly. Kate thought about her last moments of life, how she had let everything happen to her, for decades. She realised how crazy her thoughts had been at the end, although there had been a certain logic to them. What if she had succeeded, what then? If she had killed off all her emotions, what would the rest of her life have been?

“A darn sight better than it was before.” Cory had been reading her thoughts. “Sorry to intrude on your privacy, but we need to get a few things straight. Or, rather, you do. We could have let you get turned away from Hell, too, you know. You could’ve been wandering around on your own for centuries without sorting yourself out. But I thought you deserved a chance to find your own way to wherever you’re going. Though I don’t think you belong anywhere but here. With us. With me.”

Kate could see Cory’s eyes shining in the gloom. They were sitting together on the platform of the winch that took the coffins from the chapel above down to the catacombs. Of Aleph there was no sign. Kate felt a touch on her shoulder, and looked down to see Cory’s hand holding her. Her touch was warm and solid, not like shaking hands had been earlier, which had felt like touching sponge. As Cory caressed first her arm and then her waist, Kate felt her physical sensations flooding back, not even realising they’d been gone until now. Kate wondered briefly if she should worry - was Cory trying to seduce her or possess her? - but found she didn’t care, and when Cory leaned forward to kiss her, Kate couldn’t have stopped her if her soul depended on it. As Cory kissed her face and neck, Kate could hear her murmuring, “Think about your life, think about why you were so unhappy.” And she did; as Cory laid her down and began to undress her, she found herself awash with both desire and memory.

| Jane wouldn’t let Kate touch her unless the curtains were drawn...
Both naked now, Cory lay on top of her. |
| and the lights were out. It would have been unthinkable to kiss her in public...
They wound themselves around each other and just held each other awhile. |
| and on the odd occasion Kate was permitted to take her arm, she would be shaken off as soon as a child approached, like it was something...
Kate thought the kiss would never break. When it did, it was only so Cory could move down to her nipple. Kate stroked the woman’s shaven head and caressed her ears. |
| dirty or to be ashamed of or it might frighten the child...
Cory straddled her now. She took Kate’s hand and gently put it between her thighs. It was so warm and wet there Kate slipped deep inside her. |
| like love was something awful. And when they split up it was so messy, it dragged on, and they both knew it was over but neither of them would say so...
Cory entered her with her fingers. |
| because to discuss it would mean acknowledging they’d had a relationship in the first place, and...
And then Cory entered her with her fist and there was no room now in Kate’s head to think of anything else. |

Time, Kate was finding, meant little now. She did not know if this was how it was for the dead, or whether her friends were taking her backwards and forwards. It seemed as if it must be several days since she and Cory had made love, but she was still glowing, feeling warm and relaxed, although her physical form had all but disappeared again. She was sure that if she looked at a clock, it would be spinning one way and then the other, jumping hours or stopping completely.

She wanted time - or, rather, space - to think. But not now. She had her funeral to attend.

The three of them stood in the chapel, watching the mourners file in. She saw her mother weeping uncontrollably, being almost carried out of the chapel by her father and sister. It was one of the scenes the angel had shown her. Kate felt bitter, angry and terribly sad. But not guilty, not regretful. If you people cared, she thought, why didn’t you show it when I was alive. Cory took her hand. Kate looked at her. “You were right. I’m glad I’m dead.” she said.

Later, while her mother and father threw roses onto her coffin, she wandered away, among the stones, hoping to spot an ex-lover, someone who’d needed to come and say goodbye. There was no-one. Had she really meant that little? Or was there someone, who’d stayed home, being discreet? Crying over the loss of an ex-friend? Kate was as angry at herself as her ex-lovers. But her family must have known, the way she’d spoken about certain women, who’d obviously been more than friends. The situation had been almost Orwellian; they had known, but had not known, that one of their daughters was a lesbian. It had always been apparent, but, as long as it was unspoken, no-one had ever had to confront it. Including Kate herself. And so life had plodded happily on. She wondered how her parents felt. Was this tearing them apart? Or were they quietly relieved? It saddened Kate that she really didn’t know.

But one thing was becoming clear. She was happier now than she’d ever been in life. Her thoughts turned to Cory, but as she looked up she saw Aleph beckoning impatiently to her from the chapel doorway. It was nearly dark. The funeral was long over. Time had moved on around her again.

“Thought you might want to see the fun,” said Aleph. The vicar was still in the chapel, pottering around. Cory was staring at him, in what for one (jealous) moment Kate thought was lust.

The vicar was moving along the pews, picking up hymn books. Suddenly he stopped and stiffened, then stood straight.

He knows we’re here, thought Kate. She sat down and watched. The vicar, a rather solid looking middle aged man, evidently could not see Cory and Aleph closing in on him, but he could feel their prescence. He was squinting nervously at the shadows.

It was so quiet Kate could hear the man breathing; short, shallow breaths that betrayed his fear. Then Cory and Aleph walked into him. Just stepped inside his body and were gone from sight.

For a few moments nothing happened. The vicar stood still, knowing something was wrong but unable to comprehend what had just occurred. Then his limbs began to twitch, as if he was having a mild fit. He sank to his knees, a look of blind terror on his face. The two demons were inside his head. Kate could only imagine what they were making him see and hear, but he was tearing at the air now, then ripping his shirt open and clawing at his chest. Blood poured from his nipples as he twisted and pulled at them. Kate looked away. She could hear laughter but couldn’t place where from. It seemed as if it was seeping from the walls. She looked back at the vicar. The flesh on his face was rippling. One eye had been pushed from its socket. Kate could see a finger poking through the hole. Then the man, still kneeling on the floor of the chapel with his head thrown back, was dead. His one remaining eye stared up at the pulpit. Two forms, as light as smoke, left him. Cory and Aleph, intoxicated on what they had just done, swayed toward her.

Her first thought was to run. But the desire to know what they’d done, and why, was stronger. And she didn’t want to leave Cory. She was playing to different rules now, perhaps to none at all. Or was she simply making excuses for Cory’s behaviour?

“It’s okay,” said Aleph, as he lay down on the pew behind her. “He was a good man. He’s a dead cert for Heaven.”

As the three of them wandered the streets, Kate thought about Cory, and wondered if she was in love with her. Cory was not afraid of what she was; it made things so simple. It worried her too, that things seemed to be resolving themselves, that she might at last be happy with herself and her feelings, for surely as soon as she was at peace, she would find herself back at the gates of Heaven or Hell. Neither place was where she wanted to be.

And how did Cory feel about her? Kate was learning that a demon was more a free spirit than the Devil’s sidekick. Cory and Aleph were hedonistic, and selfish to a great degree, but they had rescued her from those first, awful moments after death and were trying to help her. Could there be room for her here? Cory had said that Kate belonged with them. Eternity with her and Aleph did not seem an unhappy prospect. And she was no longer concerned about the vicar’s death. He had, after all, been released from the confines of his body and his life. Living people were becoming alien to her - there was so much they didn’t know. But could a demon feel love? That was the question now.

Suddenly she was surrounded by images and feelings. It was like being in a hall of mirrors. Everywhere she looked, there were glimpses of people talking, shouting, laughing, crying. A dog running on a beach. A man and a woman arguing. Children throwing snowballs at each other. Then it was gone. She was back in the street and Aleph was grinning at her.

“Careless,” he said. “You just stepped in someone’s soul. You should mind where you put your feet.”

Kate turned. There was an old man walking down the street, oblivious to what had happened.

“Don’t let them dump their memories and emotional shit on you,” said Cory. “Get in there first and express some feelings of your own. It’s more fun.”

So Kate did. A young businesswoman, power-dressed and with a mobile phone at her ear, was coming their way. Kate walked deliberately into her. She lost herself, just for a moment - the feeling of being inside a physical body again was disorienting - but then steadied herself. She thought of all the pain, the anger she’d felt before she died and tried to channel it outwards. The woman slipped from her grasp and pulled away. The mobile clattered to the floor. The woman was crouched beside it, hands over her face, sobbing hysterically.

Kate felt Cory’s arms around her waist. “Well done,” she whispered. “Now go back in there.”

Kate hesitated, but only for a moment, and stepped back inside. She was surrounded by her host’s memories and thoughts, but it was easier to deal with this time. It was like browsing through a reference library; here was a section on a childhood spent in fear of bullies, here was her first sexual experience, and here was a bitter grudge against a builder who’d overcharged her more than a year ago. Mingled in were a mish-mash of feelings, a strange concoction. Most powerful was a sense of grief and shock. This is what Kate had left her with.

“What have you done, you naughty girl?” Cory had entered the woman and was beside her. There was no mistaking the lust in her voice. Kate felt power surging within her. She held Cory’s face, kissed her forcefully on the lips. “I want to fuck you. Right now. Right here.” Cory offered no resistance, and they sank down together among the confusion and pain of their host’s mind.

Aleph had returned to the cemetary and was waiting by Kate’s grave. It was no longer a mess of mud and flowers, instead stood a simple headstone with the inscription “Kate, we will always miss you”. A fresh wreath rested against it.

Kate and Cory appeared, hand in hand.

“You’ve been dead two years now, Kate,” said Aleph, “and still your parents put flowers on your grave. Maybe they did love you after all. It’s certainly more than I get.”

He sat down. “Well, while you two lovebirds were fucking in that poor woman’s mind, I was having some fun of my own -”

The baby had awoken, screaming, thrashing, in a vain attempt to fight Aleph off. The demon toyed with him, making him see monsters leaning over into the cot, then had the child hallucinate being aborted; he saw the inside of his mother’s womb, then blinding light, before being thrown into an incinerator by a leering surgeon. As Aleph leaves, he considers the effect this will have on the rest of the child’s life.

“What a mindfuck!” he laughed.

Kate looked at her grave and felt nothing but contentment. She felt more real - more, alive, even - than ever before. No longer in awe of Cory, just happy and comfortable with her. She had told Cory she loved her, and for the first time Kate had seen fear in the woman’s eyes, but she had stayed. At last, Kate was at peace.

In the early hours of the next morning, Kate sat on the steps outside the chapel looking at the stars. She could feel the cold, when she wanted to. There was a cat, skulking around on the far side of the cemetary. Kate passed through it and out again, for a few seconds feeling what it felt, seeing what it saw. She left it unharmed. She’d always had a soft spot for cats.

One of the stars burned more fiercely than the rest. It flickered like a candle, each time re-appearing closer than the last. Kate watched it get closer, realising eventually that it was a figure, a winged man flying down toward her. As he circled her, Kate recognised him as the angel who had turned her away from Heaven, aeons ago it seemed. She stood to meet him. When he spoke he sounded as self-righteous as ever.

“I have come to lead you to Heaven,” he said. “You are at peace with yourself now. You have earnt your place in Paradise at God’s side.”

Kate took a step back, towards the chapel. She knew this moment would come, and had been dreading it. After everything that had happened, everything she’d done, she was not going to just up and leave for a place she was not even sure she believed in. She was aware that her own power was growing, but what was the angel capable of? Could he take her by force? It didn’t sound as if he was giving her a choice.

“I’m not going. I’m not worthy, remember?”

“That was a long time ago. You have made peace with yourself, therefore you have made peace with God. The demons you have been consorting with are leading you astray. Now is your chance to escape them. Stay and you will be lost to God.”

“Is that a promise?”  Kate breathed a sigh of relief to find that Cory and Aleph were on either side of her.

The angel held out his hand. “Come, child,’ he cooed. “You will know eternal peace with me.”

Cory stroked Kate’s face, slowly and deliberately, with her finger. “Don’t you listen? She’s happy because she’s here, with us. Why ever do think she’d want to spend eternity with you?”

The angel rose to the provocation. He threw his arms open. “Come here now!” he demanded.

Kate lurched forward, towards the angel’s arms. Something was dragging her to him. Aleph stepped in front of her, blocking the angel’s influence.

The angel opened his mouth and screamed fire. Cory threw Kate back, into the chapel. “You can’t fight this, not yet. Wait for us in the catacombs.” Cory hesitated. “We shaln’t let him take you.” It was the closest Cory would ever get to a declaration of love, Kate knew. For now, it would have to be enough.

A wall of flame hid the angel from sight. Kate saw Cory and Aleph silhouetted against it. There was a confusion of shapes, then they were changing, transforming themselves into fantastic beasts, the stuff of mythology. They leapt through the flames. The angel, afraid now, rose up into the air, with the two demons tearing at his wings. Kate made for the narrow steps that wound down to the catacomb. She hid herself amongst the coffins, watched the flickering light at the top of the stairs, and swore that this would be the last time she ran from anything.

When the flames died down and the sun began to rise, Kate climbed cautiously back upstairs. The chapel was damaged. The fire had claimed some of the frontage, and there were deep furrows in the ground outside. There must have been quite a fight. The scorched grass was still smoking sulkily, but nothing else moved.

Kate spent the morning searching the cemetary. There were no bodies, no clues. At midday, with the sun blazing overhead, she returned to the chapel. If only she’d stayed and fought. It was so stupid - she hadn’t wanted to argue with Cory, or stop her feeling noble, or heroic, so she’d done as she was told, and hidden. As the hours wore on, and she paced the chapel and the catacombs, anger gave way to fear and then to faith, that Cory and Aleph would return, as soon as they could. She would have to make sure she was there for them.

She settled herself down, on the floor of the chapel. She was away from the sun, but could see outside. The days and nights began to pass. The chapel was repaired. People came and went: visitors to the catacombs, couples to be married, those paying their last respects to the dead. Some would stop, and stare at the place Kate sat, thinking that perhaps they’d seen something there, before dismissing it as a trick of the light. A few would refuse to stay for more than a few moments, saying they had a ‘bad feeling’ about the place. In time, the chapel would get a name, a reputation, as a haunted place. But for now  the days and nights became months, and years. Time was passing, flowing like a river, unstoppable. Kate waited, alone, as she had been in life, but having known real happiness, in hope, unable to leave.

And Kate didn’t worry. After all, she had forever.

[Originally published in Kimota 6, Summer 1997]

GAME OVER

by Stuart Young

As Jason stood waiting for his tube to arrive he fretted over his forthcoming job interview. He was terrified that he would actually get the job.

For most of his twenty years he had managed to avoid full-time employment, apart from a six month period immediately after leaving school when his Saturday job at the local supermarket had somehow metamorphosed into a nine to five. He had absolutely loathed working there and, after being given the push, had resolved never to work anywhere unless he was certain that it was the kind of work he wanted to do.

Unfortunately he had been unable to get any work in his chosen field as a games designer. His ideas were always too innovative, too ground-breaking. Or, as he had been told at one interview, too crap.

Jason knew this was rubbish, he knew how games worked. He had played with every game he could get his hands on. Whenever he visited any of his younger relatives he always played with them, carefully studying their latest toys and, if it was a particularly good one, hijacking it for himself, leaving his young cousins sulking in the corner. Yet despite his expertise in the psychology of games his career was being blocked by other people’s lack of vision.

And now, the ultimate indignity, he was being forced to apply for jobs outside of the game industry.

His girlfriend, Emma, had been the first to suggest it.

“But I’ve only ever wanted to work with games,” protested Jason.  “Anything else would just be a waste of time.”

“You’re wasting your time now,” Emma pointed out. “You could be doing something productive with your life.”

“Jobs aren’t productive. They’re just a way of killing time until we die. When you get down to it one activity is as pointless as any other, it’s just that people don’t want to admit that they’re wasting their lives.”

“So your reluctance to get a job is due to a profound understanding of the human condition?”

“S’right.”

“It’s not because you’re a lazy bastard then?”

“That’s just a coincidence.”

It had been worse when his parents worked out how much money it was costing them to keep him at home.  “You’ve got to start paying your own way,” his dad had said. “Or you’re out on your ear.”

Jason hadn’t been able to find a philosophical argument to that one.

Reluctantly he had sent off a few applications and had been horrified when he was accepted for an interview.

Glancing at the clock on the information board he saw that he was late for his interview. His tardiness would probably count against him. At least he hoped it would.

But even without the need to get somewhere quickly waiting for a tube was still a frustrating experience and Jason soon wore the same exasperated expression as the other commuters. He fidgeted with his collar, his suit was becoming hot and sticky. He almost wished that the train would arrive so he could be cooled by the breeze its movement would bring.

Bored, Jason did all the things that people do whilst waiting for trains. He shuffled his feet aimlessly; checked the other commuters for anyone fanciable enough to fantasise about; stared at the tracks, wondering what it would feel like to throw himself upon the third rail. That was the problem with waiting for trains, it induced a sense of despair, the time to wallow in it and the means by which to end the suffering. Jason wondered why there weren’t more suicides at tube stations. Probably because most people never really thought about the futility of their journey; to rush from one place to another so they could do the same things as in the place they had just left, if they did they would surely hurl themselves onto the tracks.

Jason smiled to himself. He could think up some right old bollocks when he started daydreaming.

The train still hadn’t arrived and he was toying with the idea of just giving up the interview when he noticed the noughts and crosses grid on the wall. Someone had drawn it in the tiles with a felt-tip pen. The grid was full apart from one square that would allow the crosses to win.

Jason sidled over to the grid and traced the final cross on the wall with his finger. Then, with mixed feelings of childishness and elation, he drew a line through the crosses to finalise his victory.

He was about to turn away when lights started flashing before his eyes. Fearing that he was about to faint from the heat he put a hand to his head. Only his head wasn’t there any more. His whole body had vanished, yet still he existed in some other form of being. Around him the tube station dissolved, everything swirling together in a whirlpool effect to vanish at the central point, like water running down a plug-hole.

Jason was left floating in limbo, a tiny dot in a vast plain of emptiness. He tried calling for help but he had no mouth, even if he had he wasn’t sure if sound existed in this strange dimension in which he found himself. Just as he began to fear that he had gone mad the world slowly re-materialized about him.

But it wasn’t the same world.

Now he stood in a huge room, the ceiling far above his head and the walls at least one hundred metres in each direction.

The room was full of games. Board games were stacked high on shelves; a computer had a demo of a shoot-’em-up game running across its screen; there was a football goal and a basketball hoop at one end of the room; two sets of virtual reality gear lay on a table. There was also the ugliest monster doll that Jason had ever seen. Easily two metres tall, the beast was heavily muscled with veins popping out of its arms; vicious looking claws sprouted from each finger, the skull was all jaw and brow, the former housing fangs, the latter resembling a rock formation, with four beady eyes, arranged in a diamond pattern, set well back in the wall of bone. Jason was glad that he had never had such a doll when he was a child, it would surely have given him nightmares.

The doll moved.

Its body lowered into an attacking posture; shoulders curved, legs bent, ready to spring forwards in an instant; arms at shoulder height, claws pointing forward. Its eyes burned into Jason, identifying him as its prey. The sight was terrifying to behold but then the monster made it worse. It smiled.

Jason lost control of his bladder. Warm piss ran down his trouser-leg and out over his left shoe, forming a small puddle at his feet.

The monster took a step forward, its massive foot making a sharp booming noise on the floor that could easily be mistaken for thunder. The sudden noise made Jason jump back a step.

With a savage roar the monster leapt at him, its claws outstretched. It landed just in front of him, skidded in the pool of piss and fell on its face.

Jason turned and fled. Regaining its feet the monster ran after him. Jason started for the far wall but changed direction when he realised there was no door. Nor was there one in the next wall. He stared frantically about the room to see where the exit was.

There wasn’t one.

The room was completely sealed off. There were no doors or windows of any sort. Even the ceiling, which was too far away to reach, had no skylight. He was trapped.

With a sob of despair Jason ran past a nearby pile of toys and games, knocking them onto the floor behind him in an attempt to slow the monster down. So far he had managed to keep out of range of its claws but it was only a matter of time before it boxed him into a corner. The monster snatched up a skipping rope and started swinging it round its head as it chased after Jason. As he dodged to one side the monster lassoed his leg with the skipping rope. Jason fell heavily to the floor.

The monster started to haul him in on the rope. Desperately Jason tried to kick his leg free but the rope held fast. He clawed at it with his fingers and it fell away. But too late. The monster stood above him, talons raised.

The claws tapped him lightly on the shoulder.  “You’re it,” said the monster.

Jason stared up at the beast in disbelief.  “W-what?”

“You’re it,” repeated the monster. It started skipping about lightly on its toes, taunting him. “Bet you can’t catch me.”

Jason stayed where he was, trying to control the trembling that ran through his body.

At his lack of response the monster stopped dancing and eyed him curiously. “You do know what’s going on here, don’t you?’

Jason shook his head. 

The monster sighed.  “Sorry, I thought you’d been told.”

“Told what?”

The monster sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.  “You’re here to compete in  a challenge with me.”

Jason didn’t like the sound of that.  “What sort of challenge?”

“Games, of course! Every five hundred years the Elders of the Universe choose a challenger, that’s you, to compete in a tournament of games against Ty’rek the Gamesmaster, that’s me.”

“Why?”

Ty’rek shrugged.  “That’s just the kind of thing that cosmic beings do.”

Jason looked about the room. He knew he was pretty good at most of the games he could recognise but there were several that he had never seen before.  “Do we play all the games?”

Ty’rek nodded. “Until we have a clear winner.”

“And then what happens?”

“One of us is rewarded and one of us is punished.”

“What if I refuse to play?”

“Nobody’s ever refused the Elders of the Universe.”

“Maybe it’s about time someone did,” said Jason defiantly.  “How do I talk to the bastards?”

Ty’rek coughed.  “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that no one’s ever refused them and lived.”

Jason paled.  “So we’re playing tag first are we?”

The game was a disaster. Ty’rek was far faster and more agile than Jason, after ten minutes he had still hadn’t tagged him even once.

“Didn’t do too good there,” grinned Ty’rek. “Let’s try something else.” He pulled out a box of Battleships.

This time Jason kicked his arse. Ty’rek obviously wasn’t used to the game, by the time he started to get the hang of it Jason was too far ahead for him to catch up. Afterwards they played a game from Ty’rek’s home world which resembled Swingball but instead of a ball it used a solid light hologram which projected decoy holograms of itself so you didn’t know which to hit. Jason couldn’t make head nor tail of the game and finished the match tired, frustrated and utterly defeated.

So it went, Ty’rek would have the advantage in one game, Jason in another. Slowly the score started to tip in Ty’rek’s favour as he won more and more games. Jason was terrified, he didn’t want to face the wrath of the Elders of the Universe. He fought back desperately until they were tied. There was only game left to play.

Noughts and crosses.

“This’ll be the decider,” said Ty’rek as they sat down to play.

“But no one ever loses at noughts and crosses,” protested Jason.

“We’ll just have to keep on playing until one of us does.”

Three hours later they were still playing. They had used up eight large pads plus the entire surface of the table drawing their grids. After that they had started scribbling on the walls, pretty soon they would have to use the floor. Jason hoped that he could win before they had to resort to finding a way of drawing on the ceiling.

Jason fought to keep his eyes open as he drew his next nought. He was drained, physically and mentally, all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep, it was an effort just to remain standing. “Can’t we stop yet?” he yawned.

“No.” Ty’rek drew a cross.

“How much longer does this have to go on?”

Ty’rek shrugged. “I had one match go on for over two thousand years.”

Jason drew a nought, only missing the grid they were playing on by a few inches. “Christ, would have thought one of you would’ve won before that. Or died of old age.”

“This room is surrounded by a time bubble, prevents anyone inside it from aging.”

The thought of spending eternity locked in an endless game of noughts and crosses galvanised Jason’s weary brain cells into searching for a means of escape.

“If the match is declared a draw the Elders can’t do anything to us can they?”

“The Elders won’t be satisfied until there’s a winner.”

“But if we play really badly, fake exhaustion or something-”

“They can tell if someone is playing to their full ability, if you hold back they sentence you to a slow and painful death.”

“So we’re stuck?”

“I’d say so.” Ty’rek drew another cross.

Jason stared at the grid. His next move would let him win. Ty’rek was so tired that he had overlooked the two noughts Jason had lined up. He blinked and shook his head, wanting to ensure that his fatigued brain wasn’t playing tricks on him. But there could be no mistake, Ty’rek had definitely lost. Jason drew the final nought and put a line through it. The pen kept going off the end of the grid and down the wall as Jason slumped to the floor, exhausted.

Ty’rek’s twin sets of eyes gazed at the paper sleepily. “Shit.”

“Sorry about that me old son,’ said Jason.  “But it was you or me.”

Ty’rek continued staring at the grid, unable to believe what had happened.  “I haven’t lost a game of noughts and crosses in over three thousand years.”

“First time for everything,” said Jason. He knew he sounded like a smug bastard but he couldn’t help it, he had won, they were going to set him free!

“Well, I suppose I’d better be going then,” said Ty’rek. He patted Jason on the shoulder.  “I hope you’re very happy here.”

Jason sat up sharply. “Fuck you talking about? I won! I’m going home!”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? It’s the loser that gets sent home. The winner becomes the new Gamesmaster and gets to stay here.”

“But - but -”

“Don’t worry, in five hundred years time the Elders of the Universe will send someone to challenge you. Who knows? They might even win.”

Jason leapt off the floor, suddenly no longer tired. “You bastard! That wasn’t fair! I didn’t know the rules!”

Ty’rek shrugged. “Should’ve asked.”

A door appeared in the far wall. Ty’rek walked over and opened it. He paused with his claw on the handle and looked at Jason. “I’m sorry it had to be this way but like you said, it was you or me.”

He stepped through the door. As he closed it Jason rushed over and flung himself at the handle. The handle instantly turned red-hot, singeing his flesh. Screaming in pain Jason leapt back and blew on his hands. He expected to see livid burns on his palms but the skin was unmarred. Staring at his hands in amazement he realised that the pain had vanished. He turned to tackle the door again but that too had gone. 

He started screaming at the top of his voice. He knew the Elders of the Universe had to be watching, they would want to see who had won the contest.

“Let me go, you bastards! You can’t keep me here! It’s not fair! You’ve got to let me go!”

There was no answer.

Slowly Jason calmed down. There was no getting away from it, he was trapped here.

He looked round at all the games that filled the room. At least he wouldn’t get bored for awhile. He sat down at the computer and loaded a game.

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000

NOVIE’S ARK

by David O’Neill

Novie knew it was time to retire when they were stopped by customs.  They were old hands at the run, perhaps getting a little careless, but this was the first time they had had anything but a cursory once over. A particularly worrying consideration given the security sweep had occurred way before they even docked.

Once the security avatar had vanished and Novie was alone on the bridge of her ship, the “Forest”, the ship reversed the mind-wipe, implanted memories were cleared and Novie's own reinstated. She dropped back into her chair swearing loudly, in good old-fashioned audio.

“Fuck.  Why the hell did they do that?”  She rubbed her temple, her head felt distinctly fuzzy.  The Consensus took a dim view of pilots and ship’s who were willing to muck around with their own minds like that.

“It could have been a random check…” the ship suggested.

“It’s a bit of a coincidence though, isn’t it,” she said.  “I mean, how many times have we done this run and had nothing more than a sweep on docking?  That was the full works…” She looked thoughtfully out the window at the featureless space beyond.

“It did seem excessive,” the ship agreed.  Novie nodded then straightened herself.

“We’ve got to get out of this, it’s getting too dangerous.”

“But what about the cash, it pays well…” the ship countered.  She shrugged.

“Well enough for the pair of us to lose our wings?”  All Novie had ever wanted to do was fly – being grounded with nothing but the memories of being a pilot would be enough to end it all.

“Fair point,” it replied.  She closed her eyes and listened to the distant clusters of voices, feeling the glowing bundles of humanity close by; Jupiter system, a whirling collection of small points, ditto Saturn, Mars and the asteroids brighter, but shining like a nova in the distance the collective mind of Earth space.  Real home.  Much brighter and much more real for being close to and not the other end of a quantum communications fissure.

“I’m going to spend a few hours in the Consensus, I’ll make the calls and resign.  Take us home…”

Novie settled back into the chair, feeling her body drift away, linking into the human Consensus.  Her last few trips were well out of normal space and well away from transmitters with anything like the bandwidth necessary for full immersion.  Most people were driven mad by the isolation, being trapped in their own heads with virtually no one to talk to.

It was this more than anything else which was killing space travel.

Novie didn’t mind it, but had to admit it was comforting to swirl effortlessly through space joining the ever-present hum.  An entrance lobby materialised around her and she opened her account, entering her personal workspace. The room resembled an office from sometime in the industrial revolution.  She had always liked the retro-look, and even knowing the room was full of anachronisms, she still loved it.  

Outside the window, horse drawn carriages mingled with stuffily dressed Victorian businessmen.  She sat at the red leather topped desk and checked her info-stacks.  They were overflowing with notes and reminders from old friends. She detached a portion of her personality to check over them, whilst she made a couple of calls of her own.

Her employers were always hard to reach – neither of her contacts existed inside the Consensus, relying instead on mail protocols almost as old as Information space itself.  She told them when she would arrive and that she wanted to see them and left the ball firmly in their court.  She tried her family next, but seemingly there was a glitch in the communications lines and she couldn’t find them.  There was no listing of any deaths or accidents, so they had to be around somewhere.  She worried for a moment, but decided that she would be home in a day and could let them know of the fault then – she left a standard mail message.  She was tempted to upload the latest news fax but decided it would be more fun to find out through asking around.  She’d been away for months; another few hours wouldn’t matter.

She re-integrated the mail sorter and found there were no particularly important messages, except a recent one from her family saying they were looking forward to her return and that the lines might be down when she returned, and not to worry. Well, that at least explained that, she thought.

Finally, she loaded her buddy list and skimmed the lists of her friends.  She smiled - Vance was in port. Cancelling all the remaining procedures she dumped herself straight to his location.

He was in a bar off the main news service spaces.  She appeared in a displacement terminal in the adjoining hall, obviously she could have just appeared in the bar, but that, of course, was the ultimate in bad manners - or at least it had been before she left.  Customs changed fast in here, but it was better to be safe than sorry.  The bar was decked out in the manner of a late twentieth / early twenty-first century bar lounge, America.  Booths and tables cluttered the interior, Vance himself sitting on a stool at the high chrome topped bar. She approached, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Buy a girl a drink sailor?”  He jumped, his eyes focusing slowly – he’d obviously been having a Share, it was something Novie herself had never had the knack for – it was strange giving yourself into a group mind and sharing everything – besides she had too many secrets.  He snapped back into the bar and his face split into a huge grin, he’d grown a beard, but still looked roughly the same - not that it meant a thing in here, of course.  He leapt down from his stool, picked her up and whirled her small body around.

“Novie!”  He kissed her enthusiastically.  She pulled away, grimacing.

“Ugh, Vance what is that on your face,” she chided, part seriously, part playfully.  He put her down, he stood at least a half metre taller, and stroked the beard.

“You don’t like it?” he said eventually, sounding almost like a little boy, crestfallen.  She put her hands on her hips looking up at him.

“I hate beards, you know that…” she winked.

“Oh, well, in that case,” he clicked his fingers and the beard morphed back into his face, vanishing.  “Better?”

“Yes,” she laughed.  “I have a thing for clean shaven men…” she reached up on tiptoe to run her hand down the side of his face.

“And I for Asian women…” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing her to collapse into a helpless fit of giggles.  He tapped the end of her nose playfully and turned to the bar ordering more drinks.  

“So?” he asked when they had calmed down enough to talk.  “What have you been up to, I haven’t seen you and that ancient ship of yours for ages…” She had a sub-protocol loaded for awkward questions which overrode her natural features ensuring she didn’t give anything away sub-consciously.

“Nothing much, I’ve been out of the link for a while, delivering survey kits, almost too far for anything but old fashioned two-dee images.”  She took a sip of her drink, carefully maintaining her detachment.  He shrugged.

“I didn’t think we were still doing any surveys,” he said quietly, looking distant for a moment.  Novie felt a twinge of uncertainty but knew she was safe – the survey cover story was carefully constructed by her employers and would hold true.

“Towards the Galactic core, and there’s a station sending probes out to the Magalenic clouds…” Vance looked unimpressed. Strange she found herself thinking, he used be interested in this sort of thing.

“I don’t know why they bother,” he said distantly.

“You know,” she said cheerfully, trying to move the conversation onwards.  “New worlds, that sort of thing, for when the colonisation effort starts again…”

Vance rolled his eyes saying nothing. It was an awkward moment, then he smiled dazzlingly and cracked another of his ever-present stock of jokes and they carried on in a lighter vein. Eventually, after a few hours of gentle non-specific chit-chat, they were holding each other, kissing passionately and deciding that the obvious next stage was to consummate their reunion with some good old fashioned sex, or at least as old-fashioned as cyberspace allowed.

Vance created a room for them, the walls appeared seemingly ten metres or so away, and then rose from the floor upwards.  Any furniture or avatars closer than that were eye-wrenchingly removed as the partition moved upwards.  The room remained white for an instant before turning into Vance’s apartment on O’Neill 19, out at the L3 point.  Novie cast a critical eye around.

“Don’t you ever redecorate?”  She crossed to the window; the apartment was set a little way up the slope of the end cap with a view the length of the entire habitat.  Three stunning terraformed panels illuminated by opposing windows greeted her. Vance came up behind her.

“Does it matter?” he asked, she turned and they kissed tenderly.

A minute later they were on the bed, struggling to take off their clothes – they could, of course, have willed them away in an instant, but that would have taken away a lot of the fun.  They tussled and rolled for a while, exploring each other and getting used to themselves again, before Vance finally entered her.  She gasped, it had been a long time, and sharing this with a real human partner other than the ship or a blue-sim was incredible.  She lay back, her mind reeling, the feeling of closeness unbearably intense as they…

She locked her eyes onto his.

He was Sharing.

“What the fuck?” she demanded.  The first traces of her orgasm washed away as she shut down the pathways in her head.  Vance gave a guilty shudder, falling to one side as she struggled out from under him.  “How dare you!”  She pulled herself into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, flicking her hair out of her face in a single motion.

“Sorry?” Vance said quietly, looking pained.

“You were SHARING us!” she said.  Vance looked confused.

“Of course, everyone shares…” he trailed off, frowning slightly.

“Not without permission!” Novie told him indignantly.  “How many?”

“A few hundreds, maybe a million…” Novie reeled, he’d been sharing with hundreds of thousands…  Before she had left it had been considered impractical and unpleasant to share with more than a few tens of others.  She knew the move towards a group mind was accelerating, but even so…

“You were sharing us with that many, and you didn’t even think to ask!”  Vance struggled up to a kneeling position looking hurt.

“We didn’t think you’d mind – we thought you’d have understood about the Unity… it’s coming, soon…” Novie stared in disgust, he’d said we, not I.  It was once considered to be akin to mental illness, losing yourself in the group.  But something had changed.  She looked at him with concern for a moment, then sent an instruction back to her office for a NewsBot to dump a potted version of the past few month's advances into her mind.

The necessary information arrived an instant later; it was almost as if ice had been placed the length of her spine.  The Singularity was coming…

She got up, struggling to find her clothing, and instead resorted to dumping them onto her body.  Vance was getting to his feet.

“I’m sorry, don’t be like this…” he walked towards her, entirely naked but with that same slightly lost look on his face.  He was still doing it.

“You’re still with them,” she said, anger welling up inside her, she somehow felt soiled by the process.  Illogical really, for she had often argued the case for the Unity with Neanderthals herself – a Neanderthal being a derogatory term for those who refused to take part in the mind enhancement of the Consensus.

“Of course, everyone always does – you know how important this is… I thought you wouldn’t mind.  Come back to us…” he held out his hand.  Novie muttered a slight curse she had once heard her grandfather use and swung her fist up in a punch – she slightly altered the specifications on the room and her fist; the blow picked up the larger man hurling him across the bed.  He tumbled over it, appearing a moment later, rubbing his chin.

“That hurt!” he said.

“Good!”

She logged out, straight back to the bridge of the Forest.

She opened her eyes, addressing the ship.

“Have you read the news?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” it told her.  “I’ve changed our flight plan.  I thought we ought to get in as quickly as possible…”

“Good,” she called up a window in her mind, reviewing the details of the news reports on the Unity.  Not only was the singularity coming, but also the exodus of people to the refugee world of Haven had been deemed a threat by the Consensus; a threat to be met with deadly force.

“Good job we’ve retired,” the ship remarked.  

The Earthring looked its usual spectacular self as they approached - a glittering band of diamond filling Earth’s equatorial orbit.  It was only when they fell inside the orbit of the moon and started to resolve details, that it became apparent the ring was decaying.  At least half the docking points had been dismantled or were dismantling themselves as they closed in.  Spires and platforms vanished as they watched, as the whole huge structure seemed to be stripping itself back to its barest components.

“It’s being dismantled,” the ship remarked.

“Well, where we’re going I suppose we won’t need ships – just brains…” The autonomous docking systems guided them into a cradle on the upper surface of the ring, thirty six thousand kilometres over the pacific ocean.

“Be careful, I’ll get us ready in case we have to leave in a hurry,” the ship said as she hurried through the spartan corridors to the docking port.  An adapter had already been mated and was waiting open for her.

“I will, I need to get to my family…” she touched the wall of her ship affectionately.  Not sure if she would ever see it again.

“Get going…”

She moved into the transverse corridor, usually a bustling thoroughfare a quarter of a million kilometres long, today it seemed deserted, shops and galleries closed and silent.  The whole process seemed to be accelerating. There was a public square a hundred kilometres away where she had arranged to meet with her employers, briefly, and she caught a tram.  Sliding along the frictionless track, in an empty compartment she realised how far from the norm she herself had drifted.  She still wanted to be a part of the Unity process whatever that turned out to be, but also she was terrified at the changes in everything around her.

A few hundred people had gathered in the square, milling around looking lost and confused. Such a small number of people for such a large area.  She tried the Consensus bands but got little response from those around her – most of them had actually reverted and had their implants removed.  They’d become Neanderthals.

“Captain Pulice!” someone shouted from the distance.  She turned to the voice, seeing Bracespear elbowing his thin angular frame through the knot of people.  Pollin was a few steps behind him.  The two men were effectively her employers, the pair of them ran a sort of underground railway out to worlds beyond the Consensus.  Initially, people had found it amusing, a place for misfits to hide out, grubbing in the soil and building things without the benefit of nanotek.    Over the last few years the Consensus had become openly hostile, not able to comprehend why people would want to mutilate themselves by having their implants removed, and then sentencing themselves to eternity and an early and permanent death on a barren rock.

The Consensus had changed its opinion, rather than letting them go it was detaining Neanderthals, sending them on mass for ‘re-education’.  After all, it was for their own good.  Novie had made a good living the last few years smuggling people out to Haven.  Only now, it was illegal.  Bracespear stuck out his hand in greeting, Novie ignored it - acutely aware of the sensing inputs which went straight to the Consensus info piles.

“It’s good to see you again Captain,” he said quietly, lowering his hand.

“I wish it was likewise – I only called you to say I’m quitting – I’m not doing anymore runs…” Bracespear and Pollin exchanged worried glances.

“But Captain,” Pollin started, his face ashen.  “We need you and your ship, virtually every transport is full, and still the refugees keep coming…” He swept his arm around the square.

Novie’s eyes followed the sweep incredulously. 

“All of these are looking to leave?”

“There isn’t long left, and nobody here wants to be made a part of the Consensus’s Unity, we need to get them out!” 

Bracespear was pleading.  She hated that and moved close to him in a threatening manner.

“Listen, they might not want to take part but I do,” she emphasised this, jabbing a thumb towards her chest.  “I’m going to be with my family – find another ship.  Goodbye.”  She turned walking away.

“We need you!”  Pollin called.

“Tough!”

She was gone, stalking towards the Li-Ho displacer in the far corner.  There was no operator and it took her several minutes to dial the displacement station near to her parent’s villa on the moon.  She encoded the sequence and stepped into the spherical chamber.  She felt dizzy and suddenly she was much lighter, bouncing forwards onto the platform surrounding the pod.  It was early evening, and the dome was fading in a mock sunset.  Beyond it, the stars of lunar were just becoming visible through the trees, hanging above the view a crescent earth was appearing.  She stood for a moment, relishing the sight and finding the weather warm she decided to walk rather than take a cab.

An ancient path wound its way from the village, passing as it did, a few metres from a squat crystal dome housing one of the old lunar memorials. She had played on it as a child and on a whim took the slight detour to look at it now.   The dome was unchanging, ten metres across and three high, the mossy dark peat of the forest floor changing abruptly into the grey dust of the unchanged moon.  She stood for while looking at the faded beetle-like shape.  It was frankly incredulous to think it could ever have formed a part of a spacecraft.  She reached out and touched the slightly cold surface of the dome, then turned cutting through the undergrowth towards her parent’s house.

The trees gave way suddenly to lawn and beyond that the wide sprawl of the family home.  She crossed the trim grass, arriving finally at the patio around the pool.  The place seemed a little quiet, but the house recognised her, turning up the lights and ensuring the doors were open.  Novie crossed the threshold into the split-level living room and stopped.

Her family were waiting for her, in the corner a small collection of bags. She stared at them confused, opening a family Consensus band – the house carrier was there, echoing sadness but it was as if the people standing in front of her were gone.

They were Neanderthals.

Her sister handed her a drink, which she took numbly, sipping the harsh liquid in the tumbler.  She was sitting on one couch, her parents were on the other facing her, looking apologetic.

“We took the decision some months ago,” her mother said finally.  Novie forced some more of the drink down her throat, listening carefully, using some wetware enhancements she normally used for negotiations to maintain her composure.

“And you didn’t think of telling me?”

“We didn’t think it would help you if you knew…” her father replied.  “We had hoped to get a normal flight to Haven, but then they stopped them.  There’s only the underground left now – so we thought we’d wait until you got back with the ship…”

The ship although hers was technically family property.

Morally, she would have to help them.

“You want me to take you don’t you?”  She looked into their open, simple faces.

“You are the family pilot, Novie,” her grandfather said from a chair towards the back of the room.  “It is a duty we need you to discharge.  If you wish to join them, then so be it… we, however, choose not to…”

Duty.  Novie winced at his use of the word.  He knew exactly how to get what he wanted and when it came to her, he always had.  She downed the drink and summoned up a newsrep from the Consensus – events were accelerating.  There had already been a pitched battle between pro Unity ships and a fleeing transport.

“We’d better go then,” she said.

She called ahead to get the ship ready.

The main square had filled up in the few hours since she had left.  She stepped from the hollowed shell of the LiHo displacement equipment and waited for her family to appear.  Her grandfather materialising last, stumbled forward looking displeased.  He waved away offers of assistance and took a long hard look around the plaza.  The few hundred had swelled to thousands, and the chimes from surrounding displacers and the tram terminals suggested more arriving by the minute.

Her small group forced its way towards the tram terminal in the far corner.  The assembled people seemed to be leaderless, without purpose, just hoping that there was a ship here that would take them away from it all.  A small but angry mob had gathered near the tram terminal, at the front of which Pollin and Brakespear were remonstrating with the crowd.  She caught odd words drifting over the background noise, one of them, she couldn’t tell which, was attempting to placate them.  The other was having a quiet hushed conversation with a hulking defence-drone which was hovering close to the tram port.  She pushed herself sideways, aiming for the tram terminal, trying to avoid the pair of them – but felt a restraining hand on her shoulder.

It was her grandfather.

“We have to help them,” he said simply.  Novie opened her mouth to reply, but instead found herself looking out over the small sea of faces.

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

He was right.

The Forest’s bridge was only designed to hold two people, but with her family camped in there and in the approach corridor, it was impossible to move.  The ship was half way through its pre-flight diagnostics, but kept stopping to complain about the mass they were taking on.  Novie was concerned about it too but was trying to hide it.  The last thing she needed on this flight was to overstress the engines and kill the people she was meant to be saving.

Each person who entered the vessel took them a few kilogrammes closer.  She caught herself trying to link to her father who was overseeing the loading.

~How close are we getting?

She linked instead to the ship.  An image of the cargo bay and loading dock formed in her head.

~it's going to be close 

A mass distribution graphic occupied a chunk of her consciousness.  In real-life she nibbled her lip distractedly.

~Are your flight checks complete?

~almost… we can finish the rest underway… but there are still people turning up. [consternation] I don't want us to leave anyone but we are getting very heavy

Novie accessed the mass diagram again. The semi-sentient part of the system tried to estimate their probability of successful FTL transfer – it had dropped below 99.5%, and whatever happened next they were in violation of flight regulations.  As she pondered it dropped another point.

~It’s your choice.  Where do you want to call it?

~I'm feeling lucky.  [wry humour] but not too lucky – if you’re willing to run the risk I can take us down to 90%.  That’s another dozen people, after that, its anybody’s guess.

~[smiles] 90% then.

“Novie!”  It was her father’s voice calling.  “We’ve got trouble…”

~What is it?

The ship responded for her, showing the loading bay, where, a crowd of people were blocking the ramps.  They were not refugees; these were representatives of the Consensus.

Novie swore and snapped out of her link with the ship.

“I’m coming Father.”

She ran for the exit, dodging the sleeping rolls on the floor.  

~Ship, start turning out some sort of weapons… we may need them.

~They'll be waiting for you, I've already started making them –security procedures are in force [seccam overlay with graphics]

Novie was off the bridge running for the liftwell.

~But we can’t get refugees aboard with the measures in place, can we…

~no.

The cargo bays were packed with people trying to get as comfortable as possible on the flooring panels.  What meagre possessions Novie had allowed on board were piled in untidy heaps, already the life support systems were straining to deal with the increased demand, and, flicking up an internal graphic unconsciously she could see the ship manufacturing almost a dozen more air-units.  The jump problems aside, it would be a miracle to get this many people safely to Haven.  She reached the far side and the gaping hold doors.  The flat approach of the loading bay was busy. People, obviously refugees, were crammed into a terrified huddle near the entrance.  A solid knot standing in the middle area were obviously the Consensus representatives.  Her father was standing before them on the edge of the ship’s influence.

She skidded to a halt, surveying the scene – taking in as much information as the ship could download to her about the exchange she had just missed.  The Consensus people were moving as a cohesive unit, with one goal; that of preventing the ship’s departure.  As she walked towards them she checked the external proximity scans – there were ships moving on their location, none were close – yet.  She could have just ripped away from the dock, running for it, but that would kill the refugees at the rear of the loading bay.  As for the Consensus representative, she was starting to have serious doubts about their humanity anyway – they were almost certainly just using the bodies for convenience. Based on the way in which they had spoken to her father, most of their processing was being done elsewhere.

The vacuum hatch of the nearest nanofarm dilated, revealing a pair of guns.  She stopped next to it, her eyes not leaving the scene ahead as she took the weapons. 

~Make a few more, we may need them…

With a hiss the hatch folded back into place and the operating light came back on.  She walked towards the protected lip of the hold.  Her father stood legs slightly apart, arms behind his back staring defiantly at the group.

Novie pressed the gun into one of his hands, leaning close to him.

“I’m going to talk to them,” she whispered, and stepped forward, the gun hung at her side. She linked herself into it’s targeting block; designating a number of the group before her as targets – if she required it, the gun would aim, target and shoot for itself now.

She stopped at the edge of the ship’s influence, opening a Consensus channel.

~this could be dangerous

The ship remarked, overlaying her communications lines.

~Just monitor everything that comes into me, I want it filtered first…

~understood

Real-life faded to a mere blur as she entered the Consensus, sounds around her from the ship and the people in it slowed dramatically as her processing speeds first doubled then quadrupled, then…  She stepped towards the group from the Consensus.  In here, with the real structure of the loading bay just a shadow, the ranks of those sent to stop her stretched away in all directions.  It was almost as if the lights had been turned off and she was in darkness illuminated by a solitary spot lamp.  Dimly, she was aware of the pressure of the minds before her, as if every person in local space was trying to stop her doing this.

~they're trying direct control…

~I noticed, you’re blocking it then…

She eyed the immense crowd.

~I've turned down the bandwith into your head, you'll notice a slight drop in interface quality but it’s preferable to having your brains turned to jelly.  Bear in mind that they are more than capable of doing that too…

She smiled sweetly at those in the front of the group.

“Come to say goodbye?” she asked sweetly.

Only one spoke, but the nuances shocked her, it was one voice speaking for literally billions, all seemingly pissed off with her.  She was suddenly glad of the ship around her – knowing that this would be affecting it in the same way.

“Don’t do this Novie, you know it’s wrong…  these people are ill, they need our help…” Using her real world eyes and links she saw the small group of refugees on the far side of the dock.  It was too late for those who had not reached the ship, but she would be damned if she would give up on those inside – she counted nearly a hundred – it would make the jump interesting if nothing else.

“And what makes it wrong?”  She brought the gun up, waving it in the real world hoping it would distract the attention of the bodies that were being used.  It did.  Regardless of the location of the actual brains, the bodies were not keen on getting shot.  Interesting, if she could make use of it.

The leader stepped forward.

“They mutilate themselves!  Then run away to grub like savages in the dirt, and you want to help them?  We can see inside you, you agree with us. We can help them…” He smiled, another heftier attack came, the interface faded down to almost alphanumerics and then came back again. 

~ouch [dry humour, overlayed with concern, big concern] I can’t fend off many more like that, they'll sequestrate me too, unless we take them off line.  If you have a plan… now would be a good time to implement it

“See,” the leader said.  “You can’t fight us – join…” he held out a virtual hand – floating before it was a processing matrix – a little something to help convince her, she was sure.

“Sorry.” 

In an instant she dumped an idea to the ship, who started talking quietly to her father.

“We won’t let you leave you know - the mind must protect itself…”

She walked down into the docking bay, the gun swinging up under its own power and firing - four of the bodies exploded under the attack.  A roar came up from the Consensus and then snapped off – she was alone again, the ship had cut off their links.  Normally this would wipe out a person inducing severe shock, but for her it was no different to a jump.  She looked at the refugees.

“Run!  Onto the ship!”  They moved quickly whilst the Consensus group were trying to come to a decision.  She was almost back onboard when they acted, moving forward as a mass – her gun fired again, as did her fathers but the bodies kept coming, jerking along under external control.

~we're out of here

She virtually fell backwards over the edge of the docking lip as the whole structure shuddered.  Hands lunged for her, taking hold and for a moment she was caught between the grasp of the refugees in the hold and the zombie like hands beyond.  Then the doors closed and the ship wrenched itself away from the dock.

Novie discarded the gun, running for the bridge.

Her grandfather was on the bridge, but vacated the seat as she approached.  She dropped into the chair, slipping her hands into the control gloves and closing her eyes.

~You alright?

~been better [damage diagramatic of hull] picked up a few knocks, they didn't want us to go…

~I noticed… Show me those ships… 

~[navigation diagrams, overlaid converging vectors] they're not close but some of them are trying…

~Keep plotting an FTL track for Haven and keep us moving…

~about that FTL… [jump status – probability of success 82%]

~Fine… anymore good news?

~none that I can think of…

The ship went back to its own business and Novie slipped herself back to the bridge.  She turned the seat, looking at her family.  Her grandfather was perched on one of the flat ledges running around the chamber.  His, and the eyes of the rest of her family were on a display showing the Earthring.  The structure was collapsing inwards, the diamond losing its sheen and turning dull.  They swept across the terminator showing the night of Earth. Normally the entire planet would be long daisy chains of light, the cities glowing, road and skyways brilliant strings.  Instead of all that, the light of a million fires burnt on the surface.

“It’s starting,” Novie’s grandfather remarked.

The Earthring gave a shudder, then tilted by an impossible degree.  Below it a ribbon of fire was racing through the night, one of the orbital towers had been released and was falling, burning, into the ocean.

Novie turned her face away from them and the screen, not wanting them to see tears in her eyes.

“There’s a signal coming in – a ship’s appeared from L5 under massive acceleration…” Novie accessed the vector diagram.

Vance.

His ship was a courier, designed for speed and agility in comparison to her severely overloaded freighter.  

Her cargo was fragile too - the ship’s crewed compartments, such as they were, could be shielded from the effects of inertia and acceleration but not so the rest of the ship.  Any serious manoeuvring would kill the refugees.

She slipped into the control seat and opened a channel to his ship.

Vance was alone.  The ship slipped their minds into synch, allowing her to seem to appear on his bridge.  He smiled and stood in greeting, a display on one wall of the cramped compartment showing the distance until her ship was in range of his weapons.  He looked perfectly normal, as if nothing was happening. Only if you looked closely and thought about it, was it apparent that there was the tiniest of delays before he acted or spoke, as if his body was being manipulated from afar.

Novie recognised body swapping, she had even indulged herself once or twice, but there was something chilling about this.  Something she could not put her finger on, but it was somehow wrong.

“Novie, why are you running?” he asked.

“I’m not running, I’m taking my family to Haven – they asked me, I take them.  It’s my job, remember, I pilot a freighter.”

“Piloted,” he remarked.  “We don’t need ships where we’re going.”

“And just where is that?” she asked, trying to think of a way out.  His ship out-gunned hers and always had.  Vance looked distant for an even longer period than usual, then looked straight at her.

“Let me show you,” and he took her hand…

Instinctively she flinched backwards, but it was too late, she felt a whole series of instructions zinging straight through the protective barriers her ship had erected, peeling her mind open.

It was…

Novie could always remember the difference between the Consensus and normal time – like a deep mission a long way out from Consensus space at the wrong end of a low bandwidth link – joining this was a similar feeling.  It was as if everything she had previously experienced had been just a shadow of what this existence actually was.

Her normal senses were next to useless, the usual reference of your body or avatar irrelevant, just the shear bulk of knowledge and people and the recognition that everything that went before was a trial run.  Everything was converging, a part of her sensing the routines being woven which would once and for all remove the corporeal needs of the masses, fusing everyone together into… 

Her mind could not grasp the concepts even now, but she knew that as time progressed she was becoming more intelligent, her mind amplified by those around her.

That was, after all, the point of the singularity.  Even at this stage of her involvement, trying to comprehend it would be like explaining a starship to a goldfish.  She stopped then; there was a last nagging doubt.  Vance was with her, his consciousness drawing her further in.  But she sensed something wrong.

Something holding her back.

~give it up Novie, let go – we can download you now… we have you… it’s safe…

She looked at him, or rather his representation and tried to make sense of the people around her – this was wrong.  Her duty was to her ship and the passengers she carried.  Without her enhancements it was improbable her family and the ship alone could make the journey.

She started to pull back, perceiving the cabins of both her ship, Vance’s, the space around them and, of course, the information space of the Unified Consensus.  Images impinged on her as she moved backwards: Vance looking saddened but oddly disinterested - his body collapsing like a discarded wrapper onto the deck of his bridge - then dissolving under the attack of a host of atom-sized nanobots, feeding on him and transmitting the information into the consensus. Her family crowded around her on the ship, watching - the incredible light suffusing the whole of Consensus grid, getting brighter seemingly every instant.

It was happening.

Right now, this instant.

The light kept increasing in brightness, only she knew it was not light, it was just the way her mind was handling the information.

Then nothing.

The whole grid of the Consensus was empty, black and cold as the depths of space.  Shut down forever.

Novie teetered on the brink, feeling like she had stepped into the lift shaft only to find the lift missing.  In a blink, she could tumble forward and lose herself forever in the infinite darkness.

The voices in her head were all silent now.  Everybody else had left, and she, like the Neanderthals in the cargo bays, had been left behind…

She felt herself start to fall and with a shudder allowed it, her avatar tumbling silently into the deep information space, sobs tearing her body.  The dreadful sense of loss too much to bear.

An indefinable amount of time later, Novie sat on a beach under a warm orange sun watching the surf break around the legs of her shuttle.  The air was crisp with the tang of ozone, and bird-analogues wheeled in the skies above her head.

Haven.

The name said it all really.  The planet was a huge distance away from virtually everywhere, a lone main sequence star orbiting at the very edge of the galactic arm – the night sky burning with the ribbon of the Milky Way.  A low axial tilt gave it little in the way of seasons and the single huge continent was tectonically stable.

It was a paradise.

They had only just made it.  By the time Novie had returned to them, waking in the ship’s sick bay surrounded by anxious family members, the ship was out beyond Mars.  They had limped onwards to Haven, arriving, life support barely functioning, Novie herself only keeping her head clear with a filter mask permanently attached to her face. 

What other refugee ships there had been had arrived weeks ahead of them, but in an effort not to tax the ship they had proceeded in small stages, crawling a few dozen light years at a time, it had taken longer but at least they made it.

It was only now.  Now, that all the passengers were unloaded and being found homes on Haven that she had to decide her future.  As far as she knew she was the only person left alive in the conventional sense, to have refused godhood.  She had made her peace with her family, and left with the intention of… well, even now, with the shuttle before her she was unsure.  It was too late to join the others, that much she knew, it was also hard to think about leaving this island of humanity.

The sand behind her shifted and she sensed a presence.  She didn’t have to look around, instead choosing to take a look through the camera on the nose of the shuttle.  Ken Terrel was a man of medium height, grey hair, his skin tanned almost to the colour of hers.  For several years he had been the defacto leader of Haven.  A post, she soon discovered, he only filled with reluctance.

“I came to find out what your plans were,” he said, dropping to the sand next to her.  Her fingers grubbed around, found a pebble and tossed it into the water.  It vanished into a white-topped breaker.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Terrel nodded, and found a stone himself, pitching it towards the waves.

“There’s room for you here, I wanted to emphasise that.”  Novie stopped, turning to look at him.

“But is there anything for me here?”

He flinched from her gaze and looked away.  She would have to be careful of that; people found her penetrating stare hard to cope with now.  Her father had remarked that even her eyes seemed strange.

She averted them, instantly feeling sorry.

“I must be honest and say probably not.  You came back from the edge of the singularity – in terms of consciousness I doubt if you could share your experience nor really relate to us,” he stopped, then smiled, “that’s being brutally honest of course.”

Novie laughed.

“I have another suggestion though,” he looked at her face again, this time ready for it, he met her stare.

“Which is?”

“Find out if we are alone.”  He glanced up at the sky.  “Somewhere out there, there are others who didn’t join in.  Maybe even some like yourself.”

“It’s unlikely,” she said quickly.

“True, but it’s a chance.  Alternatively it’s a life here.”  He looked across at her shuttle and then upwards, meaningfully.  “But, I would have to insist on the destruction of the ship – we can’t go back out there, we must come to terms with life here…”

Novie had known this and for a moment considered his words carefully, blending it with her own needs.  Then she got to her feet, flexing her toes, feeling the sand scrunching through them, the air on her face, and above all her need to fly again.

“I’ll call,” she told him, throwing her shoes over her shoulder and brushing sand from her bare legs.

“Good luck,” he said simply.

She half turned, opened her mouth to say something but instead just nodded, then tramped out into the water and her waiting shuttle.

[Originally published in Kimota 11, Autumn 1999]

ALWAYS THE PAST

by Paul Edwards

I resigned from my post as a recruitment officer in an employment agency, bored and disillusioned with the fast and useless pace of office life.

Instead, I spent time writing down by the brook or the park or the churchyard. Locksley’s a small but thriving town on the periphery of the city. The council are planning major renovations to boost commerce in the area. They want to drain the brook and bulldoze some woodland to make way for houses and construction sites. I devoted afternoons picketing with concerned members of the community, staging a peaceful demonstration near East Knell. But the businessmen and property developers will have the renovators in before the year is out. The centre of the city is a depressing place at the best of times. The roads are dirty and over-used. There are rows of derelict houses and slatted windows, vandalised churches and ugly car parks encircled with razor-wire. It’s sad to think Locksley will probably go the same way in five, ten years time.

My dole helps pay the rent on my apartment. I live above a dusty antique shop. The old man who owns it is friendly and quiet but is having extensive treatment for bone cancer, so he is in and out of hospital. I don't know what will happen to me once he dies. The back window overlooks the rear of Locksley Church and the cemetery. It is quite eerie at night to look out of the window and see gravestones projecting out of the darkness.

It was in the churchyard that I saw Kieran for the first time. He was wading through the wild nettles and creepers, a camera hanging from a cord around his neck. I pressed close to the window. The long, fine hairline crack in the glass distorted his body as he wove between the slate tombstones jutting at angles from the earth. He seemed to be captivated by a memorial sculpture of an angel, which stood beneath the twisted limbs of some long dead willow trees. He’d touch her face, tracing his fingers across the smooth, cold marble. The angel stared at the ground with infinitely sad eyes. From the window she appeared to gleam faintly behind the tangle of wild growth and rotting clapboard fencing.

Kieran fascinated me for days. During early evening, just as the sun began to melt behind the sullen church, I’d watch him from the window. Without fail he’d be there, standing in the foliage, encircled by pale memorials and tombstones.

Then one evening he caught me watching him.

My heart skipped a beat. I froze. He stared long and hard at me, then shrugged his shoulders and kicked his way through the creepers. I watched him disappear behind the church. I breathed easy again and shrunk into the long shadows of the room.

That night I dreamed I was at a party in somebody’s flat. I thought I recognised the flat at the time, but when I woke I knew I’d never been there before. Loud hip-hop crackled and spat from invisible speakers. I could hear couples laughing as they danced and groped in the living room and in the kitchen. When I looked up all I could see were their knotted and tangled shadows flickering over the walls. I walked to the kitchen to search for alcohol but somebody was standing in the doorway, blocking the way. He was short and strange-looking with pointed ears and the blackest eyes. I wondered whether those eyes reflected everything, or absolutely nothing at all. He was wearing thick red lipstick and mascara. He grinned at me.

“I know you,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. I tried to squeeze past him but his pale hand was on my shoulder.

“Yes, yes I do. We’ve met before.”

“No.” My head was swimming with music and empty, dark shapes. I threw off his hand and slipped past him into the kitchen.

I found a bottle of vodka on a table and I unscrewed the top. I breathed in its sharp fumes, then raised the bottle to my lips.

The strange-looking man was standing behind me. He put a hand on my hip. His breath was hot on my neck.

“You must remember me.”

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“We know each other inside out.”

His long, wet tongue was in my ear. I pushed him away. He stood frozen against the wall, a monstrous, painted grin over his face. I realised we were alone. All the couples had gone.

“Hi,” I said. He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me. The sky was bleached and shot with black cloud.

“Hi. Are you the person who lives over there? I thought I saw you in the window yesterday.”

“Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“That’s okay. You don’t mind me traipsing around here?”

“No. No, of course not. Why should I mind?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve got somebody buried here, a relation, a friend perhaps.”

“No.”

“Some people don’t take too kindly to others trampling across graveyards, taking photographs.” He laughed. “My name’s Kieran.”

“I’m Alice.”

He extended a hand. I shook it. I noticed his eyes were like fine black glass. I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. The wind moaned through the cemetery, sweeping dead leaves between tombstones.

“I guess it is kind of disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful?” I was miles away.

“Walking over graves. Taking photographs. Disturbing the dead.” He spoke in a mock Bela Lugosi accent. We both laughed.

“So... why do you?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth.”

He edged towards the angel under the willows. He raised the camera and took a photograph.

“I guess I’m fascinated by death. God, you must think I’m morbid. Well you’re right, I suppose. I am.”

“Are you a professional photographer?”

“No. I do this because I want to.”

He lined up another picture, squatting in the tall reeds and purple nettles.

“She’s beautiful.” I nodded to the angel. Then Kieran said a very strange thing. I thought he was joking, but there was a peculiar light in his eyes that convinced me otherwise.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. The wind rattled the trees. “I really believe she’s alive.” Just as he took the photograph, and as the flash danced on her body, I noticed some stone flake away from the statue.

Kieran didn’t have a job. He lived in a bedsit in Wickham, close to the multi-complex cinema and TGI Friday. He earned money busking in the shopping precinct. He played popular songs to shoppers with a beat-up acoustic guitar. Occasionally he modelled for sixth-form art students at Wickham College. He caught buses to different suburbs in the city, taking pictures of cemeteries and churches, sometimes dead birds and road-kills decomposing in the asphalt of major roads.

I guess I kind of latched onto him. There was nothing else to do. I scanned The Locksley Chronicle and read the council was already pulling down trees on East Knell common. Everything that mattered seemed to be dissolving around me. I didn’t even like my apartment. There was nothing between the damp, rotting walls except my own languishing impression. My writing deteriorated. It was as if words no longer made sense. I read and re-read my poems and stories but found them meaningless, so I tore them to shreds. Kieran didn’t mind me hanging around. I’d wait until the evening, then sit in the cemetery. He’d arrive just as the chocolate sun melted behind the old church spires.

One night I dreamt I was in a room I vaguely recognised. The night built up like a wall around me. Outside the window, the streetlights gleamed and the moon grinned between houses like a cracked skull. I knew somebody was in the room with me. I could hear breathing. I sat up and for a second saw the form of a man in the corner of the room struggling to tear a plastic bag from off his face. He was thrashing his limbs but the bag just sucked in tighter and I knew he was going to suffocate. I wanted to do something, but I couldn’t move. I felt like I was under water.

The strange-looking man was standing at the end of the bed. He smiled at me. His eyes were smudged with make-up and his lips were dark, dark crimson.

“Do something,” I said.

The strange-looking man laughed. It sounded like a pig squealing.

“You are mine,” he said. “I made you. You belong to me. You always will belong to me.”

One dreary morning Kieran and I met in a café.

We sat in the corner, under a print of Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Arles. Like all of Van Gogh’s work, it burned with feverish, otherworldly life. When we weren’t talking, the violent hiss of the rain filled the void.

“Why do you take all these weird pictures?” I asked.

Kieran stared at me, then stirred his coffee with a plastic spoon.

“Alice,” he whispered across the table, “some people can’t face the darker things in life. They pretend that bad things don’t exist. They shut them out.”

He discerned the puzzled look on my face. He gazed at me with his black glass eyes.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took me to his bedsit. It was a five-minute walk to Wickham. We cut across the old disused railway bridge and the rain-swept park. As he struggled with the key in the lock, I turned and caught a black cat watching me from underneath a gutted Escort. Overhead, in the direction of the multi-complex cinema, came the low rumble of thunder. The rain made hypnotic circles in puddles. He pushed open the door, turned, and smiled at me.

“Come in. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

The room was bare and so dark, furnished only by a couple of chairs placed close to the sink. There was no television, no ornaments, no books, no table. The walls were dirty and yellow. I noticed apparatus for developing photographs in the corner. Photographs hung from pegs on a clothesline that stretched across the length of the room; I identified pictures of tombstones and memorial sculptures from Locksley Cemetery. There were photographs of half-lit streets and ancient, shuttered houses. A dead bird. A long distance photograph of a child crying. I recognised the places but Kieran had created a mood through lighting and detail to make them different somehow.

“They’re brilliant,” I whispered. “You should be professional.”

“It’s something I want to do for me. Nobody else.”

“But that’s such a waste.”

“It’s the way I want it to be.”

“Do you have a job? Friends? Family?”

“No. I’ve never worked. I’m not close to anybody really. I can’t fit in. Out there.”

“Why?”

I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. Perhaps I was being silly and immature; perhaps I was a sixteen-year old girl again, but it felt as if I had found a soul mate. Someone who thought and felt like me.

“I’m not sure. I like to be on the outside of things. To live around what we see and know. It’s not that I don’t want to connect with society. It’s just that I can’t. I can’t do it.”

He stared out of the window. The rain obscured his reflection. I walked to the furthest corner of the room. There were hundreds of photographs of Locksley Cemetery. It didn’t look like the same place. The otherworldly lighting made me think of spirit planes and places I had only walked in dreams.

Kieran opened a bottle of wine.

“Why are you so intrigued by me, Alice?” he asked.

“You’re interesting, I guess. Different. I think I’d like to know you better.”

“I’m not interesting.” He took two glasses from the sideboard. “There’s nothing profound about me.” He laughed and leaned back against the wall. “People need anchors in life. Just to keep them sane. People need truth and certainty to give their lives happiness…and stability. I can’t offer any of those things, Alice. I can’t believe in anything that I see around me so I kind of create my own worlds.”

I wondered what had made him this way.

“Why are you so fascinated by death?” I looked back at his photographs. “Is this a way of confronting your demons?”

He looked uncomfortable. He stared down at his hands. I felt embarrassed, and frightened that I’d grieved him with my question.

“I don’t know,” he replied with a slow shrug of his shoulders. “Perhaps someday you’ll be able to tell me. What frightens you, Alice?”

“The Spook,” I answered. He narrowed his eyes.

“Who?”

“He’s this strange-looking guy who appears in my dreams. I call him The Spook. I think he knows everything about me.”

“Everything?”

“It’s like he can open up my soul just by looking at me. I think he knows more about me than I’ll ever know about myself.”

We were silent. There was just the rain.

After we’d finished his bottle of wine, we made love in his bed.

That night I was wandering a street that I almost recognised. I climbed an iron-cast staircase and disappeared into the shadows of a building that smelt of long lost days and dead things. There was a mirror on a wall and I caught my own petrified reflection floating in the darkness. I could hear laughing. It sounded like a pig squealing.

Somebody flicked a switch and a lurid crimson light illuminated the room. The bulb flickered and hissed above me. I noticed that somebody was bound to a chair in the corner of the room. He had a plastic bag stretched over his head. Gnarled tree limbs scratched against a windowpane, but I couldn’t remember there being trees outside. The squealing was louder now, and I could hear metal scraping against the dried-up old bones of the building. The plastic bag was clotted with thick dark blood and vomit.

I woke in the morning to find Kieran had gone. I got dressed and watched the rain sweep across the common. It felt like I’d been alone all along. The thought of returning to my apartment overwhelmed me with dread. Kieran had left a note tacked to the door. It read: Alice, see you soon. Kieran.

We were reunited that evening, in the cemetery.

Kieran stood staring at the angel under the willows. I leaned against some railings and wondered why I felt so jealous. He took several pictures of her, then hung his camera around his neck and walked away.

I pulled away a curtain of sharp branches and gazed into her eyes. Her face seemed different somehow; the lines of her features less defined. I pressed my hand to her face. Slowly, softly, some more stone flaked away beneath my fingertips.

“Kieran, when will I see you again?” I asked.

He paused at the cemetery gates. He looked tired and so pale. Nettles and twigs clung to his coat and hair.

“Can I come back with you?”

“Sorry Alice. I want to be alone this evening. I’m not in the mood for company tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” I felt crushed. He smiled and stroked my face. “You’ll be back here tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

It began to drizzle. I wrapped my white cardigan around me.

“I like you, Alice. You remind me of somebody I once knew. You’re a special person and I like you very much.” The rain came down harder, tearing through the trees. “It’s that… it’s harder for me to get close to people these days. I find it hard to give pieces of myself away.”

“It’s okay. We can take our time.” My voice trembled. He stooped and kissed me, running a hand through my hair. Then he was gone, into the rain.

I sat on my bed, staring at the four walls. Slowly, the shadows lengthened across the ceiling and floor. I began to see things in the half-light. Transient images of shapes and faces distorted like fleeting reflections in a broken mirror. I lay my head down on the pillow.

The street was utterly empty. The night’s sky reflected back the lurid light of the city, masking the moon and stars. I saw no signs of life in the buildings around me, heard no traffic, no voices. There was a phone box on the corner. I had to call Kieran and warn him about the danger he was in. I opened the door and squeezed into the cubicle. The light above my head flickered on and off. Every time I gazed at the smooth black glass of the booth I saw my pale, translucent reflection disappear then reappear, disappear then reappear. I picked up the receiver.

“Kieran?” I whispered down the phone. There was no answer. Just an empty, mind-numbing hiss. Then the voice.

“I’ll be here for you, Alice.”

“Who?”

“Stop playing games.”

The laugh. I saw a flash of disjointed images. A door opening. The darkness spilling into a silent room. Kieran trying to free his hands and the polythene bag over his head. A painted grin. The glint of a knife.

“Have you ever felt slighted, Alice? Do you think sometimes that you’re just walking one long, dark corridor for the whole of eternity?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m with you now, Alice.”

I slammed down the phone. I ran a trembling hand through my hair. Then I saw him standing outside the booth and I screamed. He was staring at me with those dark, monstrous eyes and his lipstick was smudged over his face. He was hissing like a cat.

Something sparkled in the night and I saw he was holding a coin between his fingers. He began to scratch it against the booth.

“It’s always the past with you, isn’t it, Alice.” He scratched harder, peeling away black slivers of glass. “Always the fucking past.”

“Don’t come in,” I cried, grabbing the door with white-knuckled hands. “Don’t you come in.”

Then I was awake, staring at the night pouring through the window. I crossed the room to fetch a glass of water. I turned on all the lights to chase away the shadows, half expecting The Spook to be waiting, but I was quite alone. When I looked into the mirror minutes from dawn, I saw a laceration across my neck. I touched it with my fingers and it opened like a wide red mouth.

I waited patiently at the window for Kieran to show. The afternoon dragged into evening.

He never appeared.

It was eight o’clock and night transformed gnarled trees and shuttered houses into grotesque silhouettes. I walked down the narrow staircase. I could hear the cough of the old man in the antique shop. I scrambled over clapboard fencing and kicked my way through the creepers. I saw The Spook standing under the shadow of the church. He was watching me intently, rubbing his pale hands together. When I looked again, he metamorphosed into a stone gargoyle right in front of my eyes. The lips were curled up in an eternal and abhorrent sneer. I shivered and pressed on.

I searched the cemetery, stooping to look behind and between tombstones. I couldn’t find him.

I stumbled upon the angel, brooding under those old willows. I gazed at her for a while. Then, as I turned right around, I saw a memorial sculpture I had never noticed before staring at me from tall yellow grass.

Recognition clicked as I met his dark eyes.

I stepped back and felt cold stone against my hands and realised he wasn’t looking at me at all.

I returned to my apartment and dug through some boxes under my bed. I found a Polaroid amongst my old clothes and books.

I crossed the cemetery. The moon was full and the stars were scattered like chips of glass. Behind the railings, the willows were thick and silent. I brushed away some dirt and twigs with the back of my hand. I knelt before my angel and raised the camera. As my fingertip poised over the switch, I wondered whether my pictures could ever be half as good as one of Kieran’s.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

CONCENTING ADULTS

by Hugh Cook

Burton Hurst saw Matilda at the Electronic Grandmother launch. Her fluroescent pink name tag proclaimed her corporate handle, but her real name, of course, was unknown to him. A woman of phosphorescent beauty, the light gleaming from her white, white teeth.

“And you’re Paul,” she said, reading his corporate tag.

“Burton, actually,” he said, using his real name,

A mistake. In one fingersnap instant, he was blanked out of the launch. He found himself in a corporate lecture theatre, empty but for the cartoon figure of a Vigilant.

“You know the rules, Paul,” said the Vigilant.

“Sure,”  said Burton. “Mea culpa. It won’t happen again.”

The rules of Business-Business were simple. Business is business, and leave your personal life out of it.

However, a month later Burton saw Matilda again at the Pyongyang condominium launch. (Pyongyang? Sometime capital of North Korea. Available for development now that there were no more North Koreans. And, once you’ve made your house into a cheery home by installing an electronic grandmother, you’re going to want somewhere to put the real one, and what better place than an all-care automated condominium in Pyongyang? Right?)

“I’m going to be expert-systemed next month,” she said, all matter-of-fact.

Expert-systemed. That meant she would appear no more in the vitual world Business-Business. Instead, a computer would be doing her job. A computer model of the real woman would perform all the woman’s business functions, and any chance of ever meeting the real-and-truly flesh-in-the-flesh Matilda would be lost to Burton forever.

He petitioned Dave Glingor, his boss.

“I’m in love,” said Burton.

“In love!” said Dave. “What a nonsense! You’ve only seen her twice! Besides, you know how it is.”

Burton knew. Ever since the virtual T-Rex had eaten the kid in the Dinosaur Wonderland, initiating the virtual malpractice lawsuit, virtual corporations had turned mother-nanny cautious. Virtual rape lawsuits, virtual sexual harrassment lawsuits, molestation lawsuits - it had got to the point where the hard-hit corporations had no option but to compel their employees to behave like robots in suits.

“You know how it is,” said Dave. “If I so much as give you permission to ask her real name, that lays us wide open to a sexual harrassment suit.”

Checkmate. Or was it? No! There was one more thing to try. So Burton did it. Masquerading as the cockroach control man, he penetrated the headquarters of Business-Business, and burgled Matilda’s personal details.

Tuesday was her day off. And so, the next Tuesday, Burton headed out to her personal residence. The landscape through which he travelled was desolate, deserted but for pizza delivery vans. In a world of virtual work, virtual holidays and virtual education, hardly anyone was on the move during the day except the pizza delivery guys and the relocation trucks which handled the grandmothers.

Bing-bong. Anyone home? Maybe she’s still in her hook-up suite, doing a virtual day in virtual Hawaii. And maybe, too, she’s not like her Business-Business image. Maybe the real Matilda is 56 years old with hair like the Medussa. Then the door opened and - hey. There she was.

“Burton,” she said.

“You remember!” he said.

  “Of course I remember,” she said. “I was sure you’d get here. I’m... I’m attractive to men.”

Such confidence! It suggested - in a way that Burton did not entirely like - that Matilda had done this before.

“Who knows you’re here?” she said.

“Nobody,” said Burton. And then: “Matilda! I’ve waited for this moment for so long! Tell me - what’s your real name?”

“People like me don’t have real names,” said Matilda. “Come on in.”

She didn’t waste time. She dragged him inside and flung him on the floor. He grinned. So quick? This right-down-to-it stuff was amazing!

Then she bit him. Her long sharp fangs sliced into his neck. More surprised than shocked, he just lay there, listening to the vacuuming guzzle and suck of her hunger. By the time he was ready to start fighting, he was already too weak to fight back. Then she handcuffed him so he couldn’t fight any longer.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said. “Dave will figure it out.”

“Dave?” said Matilda. “Who is Dave?”

“I don’t think I want to tell you that,” said Burton, realising he might have made a mistake

“Share a woman’s privilege,” she said, putting some water on to boil. “Change your mind.”

After he talked, she used the last of the water to make a cup of coffee.

“Coffee,” she said, grinning at him as she lowered her mouth to his neck, “is very good for the digestion.”

A long while later, she finally raised her head again. He was very weak by then, and realised he was not far from passing out.

“So,” he said. “Will I become a vampire like you?”

“Somehow, I don’t think so,” she said, walking to the corner where she kept the chainsaw and the rubber sheets.

And she was right - he didn’t.

The next day, Dave Glingor saw a woman of phosphorescent beauty smiling at him at the Bubble of Joy design-a-baby conference. Her corporate handle was a bit clunky - Matilda - but the gleaming enthusiasm of her long-toothed smile more than compensated for the name.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

ON THE EDGE OF REALITY

by Davina Marsland

Have a corner I sit in. Corner of Mind. Almost free from madness and fear. Can explore every inch but day to day it shrinks. Darkness creeps in and gobbles up more space. Then when return to reality, am in little corner. This has a bed, a locker, a wardrobe, a door. Locked door. To keep me safe they say. Keep them safe they mean. Have no keys to the room. None for mind either. Push against gaping holes where the memories leak out. Fill them with something. Have this pen, this paper, can write. This way have right for something. Control pen. Don’t control life.

Would like to scream, cry, shout but this would only result in a needle. For my safety. When needle comes, I go. Into the dark. Where voices wail, hands stretch out for flesh. Can’t cry. For my safety, mustn’t make a sound. Instead I tell you a story, my story. Pretend it’s Oprah Winfrey. Pretend you can see me. Some can. Watching me. Mustn’t make a sound. Write story for you. Used to be like you. Had job, home, family, children. Katy and Peter and husband John. Happy. Played Happy Families. Then changed. Not like you now. Not happy. Have nothing except room in head. Live there. Edge of reality. Reality fading. One touch and it turns to dust. Katy and Peter dust. Killed. Dead. Waiting in dark. Not right they said. Not normal. Have to die. John said yes. Yes kill them and let him live. But killed too. Took me...

Want to know my story? Want to see my mind? Only blackness. Dust shrouds memories. Remember though, was coming. Not just guns. Chemicals to kill. In cans like hairspray. Not hairspray. Deathspray. Not us, our village safe from spray. But not water. Drink to survive. Drink to change. Not like you anymore. Contaminated. Flesh grey and all hair gone. Am thing, not person. Have changed, not for better. Change is not always for best. After war, cleansing. Had to be cleansed. Cleansed village. Everybody dead. Not me. Study me. Poke, probe, lift skin. ? Find out truth. Why I’m like this. Don’t talk to me much though. Scared of me. Touch with plastic gloves and cold eyes. Could catch my disease. Like to lock door and throw away key. Curiosity is the key, so keep turning lock. Can’t write now. Must go to my room. Pretend I am normal. Pretend I am like you.

4

Could call this day Tuesday, Monday. Anyday. Now all the same day. Have to keep writing. Writing keeps me sane. Every letter I form, makes me real. Room in head so small now. Scrunch into little ball and squeeze inside. Room like museum. Store faces and times. Dusty. Do the watchers see me writing? Is this an experiment? Give me tools to see if I can write still? Can write. Can feel too. Want to die. Think about John. He wanted life. See children dead for his life. Daddy. Daddy was scared. Daddies are meant to be brave. Not bargain with babies. Did they understand? Please God, let them not have understood. Only three and five. Not normal, they said. Normal to me. Beautiful to me. Mummy’s little bundles of joy. Not normal enough for this world. Did anybody escape? Friends, neighbours with their grey flesh and hairless bodies. Do they live in secret? Perform in a circus act as freaks? Are there reports on T.V. about monsters? About my friends? Or are they all dead? Ticked off the list, one by one. Stop now. Door opening.

3

Frightened. Frightened when hair started falling. Didn’t know what was happening. Couldn’t find out. War was everywhere. Had to keep in Village. Katy’s hair first. Baby hair. Then skin. Rough like sandpaper. Grey. Knew it was bad water. But needed water. Had to drink. Ugly. Became so ugly. Shocked when saw neighbours. Shocked when saw self. Broke mirror. Seven years bad luck. Bad luck happens in threes. Bad luck just happens... To anybody. Left alone at first. Months of wondering. Then came. Wearing clothes to protect. With guns. Came to help they said. One soldier too scared. Peter’s friend ran towards him. Shot him. Then we knew. Too late. Rounded up like cattle. Screams. Blood. Not red blood anymore. Yellow blood. Spewing over the ground. Took me. Who else? Is this place full of us? Or is there just me left.

2

HAVE TO LIVE. CAN’T DIE. IF DIE THEY CAN PRETEND. PRETEND NOTHING IS WRONG. CRAWL INTO HOLE AND THINK. CAN’T THINK NOW. HAVE TO LIVE. AM HERE TO TELL STORY. WHEN I WAS CHILD, LIVED WITH MOTHER. SHE SAID I COULD DO ANYTHING. BELIEVED. BELIEVED IN GOOD. GOT BIG. GOT JOB. DID WHAT WANTED. TAUGHT. TAUGHT ENGLISH. TAUGHT GOOD THINGS, NOT VIOLENCE. TAUGHT LOVE. SOLDIER KILLED PETER’S FRIEND, MY PUPIL. BEST MARKS IN CLASS. NICE BOY. DID HE KNOW ME? DID HE SEE HIS TEACHER? OR DID HE SEE MONSTER? AM MONSTER. STILL BELIEVE. SOMETIMES. STILL THINK THAT THERE IS GOOD. SOMETIMES. NOT REALITY. ONLY PRETEND. LIKE CHILD WHO MAKES BELIEVE. THIS IS END. SICK OF LIFE. SICK OF PEOPLE WHO LOOK AT ME. LIKE YOU. AM LIKE YOU. COULD HAVE BEEN YOU. FEEL. THINK. CRY. LIKE YOU. DIFFERENT BUT SAME. STOP NOW. THINK NOW. MOURN LOSS.

1

LOOKED FOR ROOM. ROOM GONE. CRY FOR ROOM. MUSTN’T CRY. BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY. FOR MY SAFETY. MUSTN’T CRY. MUSTN’T MAKE SOUND. CAN’T SEE FACES NOW. CAN’T REMEMBER FACE FROM BEFORE. ONLY GREY FACE. FALL DOWN. MUSTN’T CRY. FALL DOWN AND STAY DOWN. MUSTN’T CRY. TEETER ON EDGE. THEN FALL. CAN’T TELL WHAT IS TRUTH. AM I MAD? CAN’T TELL. ONLY TELL THIS STORY. YOU DECIDE.

[Originally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]

HORIZON

by Caroline Dunford

The horizon was cool and blue and distant: a thick band between the sea and the sky barely visible to the eye; a place of mystery, a sign of romance, somewhere that no human eye could see beyond; a special place outside of time. Sarah stretched out her fingers to touch it, her eyes half closed beneath her tangled fringe, giving her the illusion of closeness. As she watched the sun dimmed and the sky turned a pale purple, as delicate and beautiful as a lover’s dream. Sarah shivered with cold, shuffled by feet and prayed for a bus.

Gathering fresh mussels had seemed a gloriously romantic idea. However she had no one to share them with and due to a slight mishap with a rockpool her feet were rapidly becoming blocks of ice. The bus-stop was on a bend and Sarah could see quite clearly that there was no traffic coming in either direction for a least two miles. Actually there was no-one in sight. She looked down at the bucket.

“Just you and I guys,” she said and then felt remarkably foolish.

The hue of the sky was darkening rapidly and Sarah began to wish she had checked the bus times more carefully. This was a wonderfully romantic place, but it was also very isolated. Sarah began to be afraid.

Think of something else, she told herself. This is a remote seaside. No madman in search of a victim would some here. Did anyone come here? A slight sea breeze rose and litter tumbled across the beach and up onto the pavement. Obviously people did come here.

Then with surprise she saw a wallet skid along the ground past her. Abandoning the muscles to their own devices, she chased it down the road. The wallet skipped and weaved as if it were alive.

“Stay still! Won’t you?” cried Sarah struggling with her own scarf and hat, which seemed envious of the wallet’s freedom.

It caught under a bush. Sarah fished it out and headed back to the bus-stop. The leather was whitened by salt, but the pouch was dry. Feeling like a thief, she opened it. The edge of a blue note peeked up in front of a folded paper. There were no credit cards or bank cards. Sarah pulled her left hand glove off with her teeth and picked out the paper. It was a birth certificate. It read Sarah Mary Swan, born 12th June 1960, Cliffton Memorial Hospital, Brighton, Mother Helen Swan, Father Unknown.

Sarah Mary Swan dropped the wallet and sat down suddenly. The wind whirled the wallet and the paper away. Sarah sank her hands deep in the soft embankment, clutching the sank, trying to feel the real world.

“Oh my God,” she breathed softly. “He’s alive.”

The last time she had seen her own birth certificate had been in court. It had been stolen from her house the night before her mother had died.

The day she went to court came rushing back. The bitter bile in her memory made her gag. It had been a sweltering August day, a confusing day. All she could remember clearly was the deep bell-like voice of the judge.

“You have been found guilty of the murder of Helen Swan.”

And then she had fainted, slipped into blessed oblivion, but not before she had seen the expression on his face.

“Dear God,” she breathed. “He’s here. He’s here.”

She lay flat on the sand and raked the beach with her eyes. There was no-one in sight. She breathed again and rolled onto her back.

Her father, the man she had met at fifteen, was no longer in jail. Mentally she began to add up the money she had, the things she could sell. How far she could get away on the money.

“Oh God! Oh God!.”

She began to weep quietly. He had said such terrible things about her mother.

“Your mother, your sweet loving mother, she was my wife. Do you know why she left me. She left me because she wanted to be a hooker. That’s right girl your mother wanted to be a high class call-girl. But there were never nothin’ classy about your mother. She was justa common tart, same as when I met her. Only when she left me she didn’t realise she was carrying you. It wasn’t so easy to get terminations then, or that’s what would have happened to you girl. Then of course she wanted to keep you for the benefit money and the cover. Ever wonder why your mother had so many men-friends?.”

Her stomach had given a sick heave as she had remembered finding a sixth form, Tim Hasson, in the living room one day after school. He’d given her a flash grin and asked her if she played the game too. She hadn’t understood.

Her mother had been so clever. To let your daughter get to fifteen, to see her grow into a woman and still keep it secret from her. But that had been the great advantage her mother had brought her up on lies so she had never questioned her. She never imagined men paid her mother for sex. It was no something that happened.

And then he leered at her and asked, “Has she asked you to go in with her yet? She will you know.”

And Sarah had fled from him, not wanting to hear what he might suggest next.

From the moment she walked through the door, her mother had known something was wrong.

“I met my father,” she had said and her mother’s face had drained of colour.

“That isn’t possible.”

“Why? Why?” Sarah had screamed, “Don’t you even know who it is?”

The shock and horror on her mother’s face had told her more than a single word from her father. She had raced up the stairs to her bedroom, flung herself on the bed and cried until she made herself vomit. Her mother had hammered on the bedroom door, pleading, begging, trying to explain, but Sarah could think was that her whole life was a lie.

What she might have done next, she’d never have known. But he’d followed her home and three weeks later he forced his way into the house. She’d heard the shouts from the bedroom and then the crashes. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs her mother was bruised, battered and semi-conscious. Her father had thrown her one look of loathing and flung out the door. He had dropped the knife, he hadn’t had the courage to use.

Sarah had got the gloves from the kitchen quite calmly. Slipped the soft plastic over her hands and....

Finally the bus came around the corner. Fourteen years ago.... how long is life?

The bus was warm, friendly and vibrant with a familiar reality. As Sarah tucked her ticket in her pocket a voice behind her said, “Hello Daughter, I’ve been doing time for you.”

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE OR MINERAL?

by William Meikle

The cracked black leather of the bible felt rough and cold in his hands as he took it from his satchel and placed it on the stone floor in front of them.

He looked around at the three pale faces, the wide dark eyes staring blankly back at him. The silence lay heavy around them and he toyed with the idea of letting out a scream - at least one of them was sure to faint in fright. But that would spoil his big scene, and he couldn’t have that. He’d promised them a ghost and a ghost was what they were going to get.

He needed this to work. The three boys around him represented the figures of power in the school and, as a new boy, they knew that Jim would have to gain their approval if he was to fit in. Which was why they’d let him bring them here, to the ruins of Cameron Castle on a cold winters day. One mistake now and he would be ostracised for months to come.

“Are you ready?” he whispered, and was dismayed to find that his voice trembled, a childish quaver which echoed around the confines of the cramped dank chamber.

“Yeah. Just get on with it. I’m freezing my balls off here.” Bob Kerr shuffled his bottom, trying to find a more comfortable spot. He was the one that would need most watching, being the oldest of the three and also the biggest. Jim had seen him in action against some of the smaller boys and had no desire to fall prey to the bullying and the kicking and the gouging.

The other two would be easier. “Camp followers,” his dad had told him when they discussed their plan, “cut them off from the leader and you’ll be able to manipulate them.” Dad was big on manipulation and Jim didn’t intend letting him down.

Bob Kerr took a single cigarette from his jacket pocket and made a big show of lighting it up. His eyes screwed up tight in pain as the smoke got to them but Jim managed to control the giggle which had grown in his throat - it wouldn’t do to antagonise Bob. Not yet anyway.

“I told you already what happens.” He said, and was pleased to notice that his voice had now steadied. “I’ll put a pencil on the bible and then you can ask your questions. The pencil will move left if the answer is no, right if the answer is yes. Do you understand?”

He wasn’t really sure that any of them knew their left from their right but they all nodded anyway, seemingly afraid to speak, afraid to break the spell. The atmosphere was definitely building up and Jim smiled, but only inwardly. The plan was right on schedule.

He opened the Bible, laying it side on. As he did so he noticed that it had opened at the Book of Job. He smiled to himself, thinking of the plagues and pestilences he would like to visit on the three boys opposite. He took the pencil from the top pocket of his shirt and laid it cross-ways across the bible pointing directly at Bob Kerr.

The air in the room seemed to have chilled and from the corner of his eye he could see the dancing shadows cavorting on the rough stone walls. He pushed them from his thoughts - Dad had told him that there would be no problems, no need to fear, and he always trusted Dad’s judgement.

“I’ll ask first,” he said. “Just to show you how it works.” He didn’t wait for a response. He held out his arms, palms down over the bible, and he could feel the tingle, the power, as it built up and his breath condensed in the air.

“Is Edinburgh the capital of Scotland?”

He heard the gasps from across the chamber as the pencil rolled across the pages, coming to rest right at the edge of the bible.

Bob Kerr was unimpressed.

“Is that it? Not much of a question, was it?”

Jim was unperturbed. This too was part of the plan. “Give them enough rope and they will hang themselves.” Dad had said. He put his hands back to his side and stared across at Bob.

“Okay big shot, you do it.” He said, grinning widely. Bob looked at the other two, shrugged his shoulders and ground out the cigarette. That was when Jim knew that he had them - right where he wanted them. He waited for the boy to shuffle over towards the bible then he held Bob’s arms over the book and turned the palms down.

He spoke as he replaced the pencil at its starting point.

“You must concentrate,” he said, secretly delighted at the fear he could see twinkling in Bob Kerr’s eyes. He sat back on his haunches. From now on he could leave them to it and the end would be just as Dad had foreseen.

“I feel like a right divvy.” Bob Kerr said and his two companions giggled until silenced by a quick angry glance. “Okay,” he asked, “what should I say?”

“Anything you want.” Jim replied. “Just remember to ask a question that can be answered with a yes or a no.”

He could almost hear the cogs and wheels as he watched the boy try to come up with an idea. The other two boys were shuffling around noisily, already getting bored with the proceedings, but Jim didn’t think they would be bored for very much longer.

“Is my name Robert Justin Kerr?” He finally asked.

The other two giggled again but soon stopped as the pencil rolled across to the right.

“All right.” Bob whispered. “Now for the hard ones.”

Jim noticed that all three of the boys were completely engrossed in the movement of the pencil - so much so that they had failed to notice the gathering of the shadows in the far corner of the room, the deeper blackness which was even now creeping slowly towards them.

Bob Kerr looked as if he was pondering one of life’s big questions and Jim was not in the least surprised at his next statement.

“Are you a ghost?” The boy asked.

The pencil didn’t roll - it raised up an inch off the pages and floated in the air. The candle flickered wildly as a breeze wafted through the small room but the pencil didn’t waver - not moving until Bob lowered one of his hands to place it back in the middle of the bible.

All was now deathly quiet, the only noise the soft breathing from the four young bodies and, a noise which Jim could barely hear, a dry wheezing from the far corner, a corner which was now completely consumed in shadow.

The time was getting close and Jim tried to hide the smiles which were waiting to burst from his face. He tried to look serious as Bob brought the end nearer.

“Are you a man?”

Jim didn’t need to watch the pencil. He knew that Bob meant to go through the old twenty questions routine, trying to track down the identity of the ghost. He wouldn’t get far enough, Jim knew that. He also knew that they wouldn’t believe the answer if they ever found it. He wasn’t really listening as Bob rattled through the rest of the questions.

“Did you live in this castle?”

“Did you die violently?”

“Were you an old man?”

Jim smiled inwardly at that one. He could tell from Bob’s tone that he was getting frustrated. It was only a matter of time now. The blackness was drawing closer and the cold was biting into the lower half of his body but none of them moved, intent on Bob, intent on the floating pencil.

“Were you married?”

“Did you have black hair?”

The questions were getting more inane and Jim’s muscles tensed. It was very close now.

And then Bob did it. The frustration got too much for him and he asked the wrong question.

“Who are you?”

And all hell broke loose.

The blackness surged forward - a wall of cold which froze all four into immobility as the pencil snapped in two pieces and the candle flickered twice before finally going out. Bob was the first to scream as something grabbed his hands, something cold and dead and ugly.

Jim pressed himself backwards against the wall and listened as the screaming got louder and Bob was lifted into the air. Within the blackness he could just see the eyes, the fiery red embers which grew brighter with each scream.

Bob was dropped to the floor where he cringed and wept like a baby as the blackness reached for the other two. It never got that far. As one the boys managed to push themselves upright and Jim could hear them, screaming still as they raced off down the hill. It was nearly time for the final act.

The blackness loomed over Bob as Jim moved towards it. “Back!” He shouted. “Go back to your own place.” The blackness seemed to shrink in on itself and the red embers dimmed. Jim bent down and helped Bob to his feet, noticing with a grimace that the boy had fouled his pants. He turned the boy round to face the blackness.

“Look at this thing,” he said to Bob. “Look at it and remember that I am the one who can control it.” He held the boy’s head steady, making sure that he was looking straight at the “ghost” before he continued.

“Remember. Anytime you feel like hurting me, anytime you feel like doing a little damage - just remember. Anything happens to me - this will be back.”

As if on cue the blackness raised itself, filling the room as its eyes blazed like two golden suns and a cold wind ruffled the boy’s hair.

Jim released the other boy. “Go now.” He said and gave the boy a shove towards the entrance.

He listened until he was sure that Bob Kerr had gone before he moved forward to embrace his Dad, Dad who had died two years ago, Dad who still always looked after him.

[Originally published in Kimota 2, Summer 1995]

THE SHOE BOX

by Suzanne J. Barbieri

Daniel Forrester woke with a start. Sweat coursed down his temples and his heart pounded. There was a weight pressing down on his chest, and a scent of vanilla in the air. His eyes scanned the room nervously, but could find nothing in the darkness.

The weight was shifting now, moving down his body and coming to rest on his hips where it rocked back and forth, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. He reached down and laid a hand against the invisible form. It felt like warm flesh. There was a sigh, followed by a throaty giggle.

As Daniel stroked the smooth skin, it began to materialise: appearing like mist, slowly solidifying into the soft glowing flesh of a woman’s thighs, calves, ankles and feet. Daniel slid his hands up her body, giving her form with his touch; shaping her torso, shoulders and arms.

The unfinished woman leaned forward, allowing him to reach her neck and face. His fingers traced the outline of her chin and mouth, slipping between her lips to brush her warm, wet tongue. She smiled and bit him, hard enough to offer as much pain as pleasure. He winced, and pulled his fingers away, running them over the rest of her face. Cheeks, eyes and forehead followed in their wake. He stroked the back of her head causing hair to sprout; thick and red as a copper beech. She grinned at him, teeth glinting like knives, then vanished.

It all began with the book. If only he hadn’t bought it. But it had looked so inviting on the market stall, its leather binding frayed and worn, its gold lettering faded. Most inviting of all was its title: “A Bestiary of Lesser Demons”.

Daniel knew it was his own fault, he’d always been the same. Why was he so impressionable? Every horror film he’d seen had had him searching through cupboards and under the bed before he could sleep. He only had to flick through a medical dictionary and he’d start developing symptoms of diseases he couldn’t possibly have. And now this book had him convinced he was under the spell of a demon.

On the first page of the book was a picture of a woman with long thin fingers and a bush of red hair. Below the picture was the legend: “Lilith, Queen of Succubi.” He’d studied the picture, thinking how nice she looked for a demon, and then forgotten about it; until that night a fortnight ago, when he’d dreamed her into being and now couldn’t get rid of her.

The first few nights were a pleasant enough distraction. She’d always appear around midnight, purring at the foot of his bed, then she’d climb onto him, and hold him down with her thighs. She was fun, if a little demanding. But now he was behind with his work. His report had been due in a week ago, and his boss was growing weary of his excuses.

Daniel did try to work, but the woman wouldn’t let him. No sooner had he put pen to paper, the sighing would begin; softly at first, like a breeze through autumn leaves, then more urgent, until finally he’d find himself thrown to the floor, pinned down by an unshiftable weight while the ghostly body of his demon lover took shape beneath his hands. Resistance was useless; she had the strength of ten men, and the appetite of a puma on heat.

By morning, Daniel was a shadow of himself; covered in scratches, unable to rise from wherever she’d left him the night before. A large part of him rather liked having her around, but another part realised if he didn’t do something about it soon, he’d be out of a job and in no fit state to look for a new one.

Help came in the form of a postcard in the news agent’s window: “Jack Rudiger - Psychic Consultant, Tarot and Palm.” Daniel made a note of the telephone number and resolved to call and make an appointment.

The psychic lived a few streets away from Daniel in a dilapidated Victorian terraced house. Though deeply unsure whether this was the right thing to do, Daniel rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a tiny, hunched man in his late fifties with frizzy iron-grey hair and small horn-rimmed glasses.

“Mr Rudiger?” Daniel said

“Mr...” Jack Rudiger had a nervous stammer which manifested itself as a wide open mouth and incessant blinking, “Mr Fo...” Rudiger clenched his eyes closed, “...rrester? C...ome in.”

He led Daniel into a dark parlour and sat him down on an uncomfortable chair in front of a small table.

“What can I do for you? Shall I read your c...ards?”

“Okay.”

The psychic handed him a pack of Tarot cards.

“Shuffle, and cut once with your left hand.”

Daniel did as instructed and placed the deck on the table. Mr Rudiger turned up three cards, reading aloud their titles.

“The Lovers, The Devil, The Tower.” he thought for a moment, then continued, “You’re a young man with troubles of the female kind, am I right?”

“You could say that.”

“Bit of a h... bit of a handful, is she?”

“She is.”

Rudiger nodded sagely.

“Now, I don’t like to be the one to tell you this,” he said, “But she could be more trouble than you bargained for. You’re going to have to make a choice of some kind, and if you choose the young lady, then you’ll have to be prepared for a bit of a rough ride.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Well...” Daniel began, unsure of how to proceed.

“I can see you are deeply troubled by this person, and judging by your appearance, I think I know why. But I would prefer that you tell me yourself.”

“I don’t think you’d believe me.”

“You’d be s...urprised. There’s a cloud over you, young Sir, and it’s sapping your vital energy. I’ve seen its like before.”

“What is it?”

“What do you think it is?” Rudiger peered over his spectacles at Daniel.

“I bought this book...” Daniel began.

“Go on,”

“ ‘A Bestiary of Lesser Demons’, I think... I think I’ve got a succubus.”

“You mean a succubus has got you, you poor, poor fellow. Is she hideous? Matted hair, weeping sores?”

“No,” Daniel said, “No, she’s...” a smile broke across his face, “...very nice actually.”

“Oh, d...ear.” Rudiger removed his glasses and ran a hand through his brillo pad hair, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. The pretty ones are the worst of all.”

“She says her name’s Lilith.”

“They all say that. All claim to be the queen herself. This one isn’t Lilith - you wouldn’t have lasted a night.”

“What can I do to get rid of her?”

“Now there I can help. My grandfather had the self same problem. Nasty thing she was too: dripping fangs, and c...overed in coconut matting.”

“Then I’m obviously one of the lucky ones.”

“If you say so. Now listen,” Rudiger leaned forward, “Dear old Gramps found his own solution to the problem, which he passed on to me. What you need are the Sensible Shoes.”

“The what?”

“Wait here.”

Rudiger wandered into another room, returning moments later carrying a cardboard shoe box.

“Here you are.”

He lifted the lid of the box and produced a pair shoes made from wrinkled brown leather. On the toe of the right shoe was a small gold-coloured cross.

“Gramps made these shoes out of his Bible, and very effective they are too. Put them on.”

Daniel took off his boots and slid his feet into the Sensible Shoes.

“They’re a bit small.” he complained.

“B...unions are a small price to pay for your immortal soul.”

“What happens now?”

“You must wear them always. Put the box under your bed. When the Lady appears, the shoes will release you from her spell. She will shrink to the size of a vole. Put her in the box and secure the lid with white ribbon.”

“Then I can take the shoes off?”

“No! You can never take the shoes off. If you do, you will succumb to her.”

“But they’re so tight.” Daniel protested.

“The choice is o...bviously yours. But let me tell you this: better a pinched toe than a soul lost to the Devil.”

The walk home from the psychic’s house was agony. Daniel could hardly believe he was doing this. For the sake of his over-active imagination, he had let a crazy old man talk him into wearing a pair of hideous shoes, two sizes too small. There must be a lesson in this somewhere.

On he trudged, cursing Jack Rudiger, and himself, for being such a soft touch. Home was less than five minutes away now, but five minutes spent walking on broken glass was an eternity. He thought about sitting down on the pavement for a while until the pain subsided, but what was the point? The Sensible Shoes had hurt even before he’d started walking. Best get the journey over as soon as possible.

Home at last. Daniel slammed the door behind him and threw himself onto the sofa. Just as he was beginning to relax, the doorbell rang. He staggered to the door and opened it to his neighbour, Tim.

“What do you want?” Daniel said.

“Nice welcome to your oldest friend, I must say.” Tim pushed past Daniel and sat down.

“Hey, love the shoes,” he laughed, “New fashion?”

“Just tell me what it is you want and go.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just a bit busy at the moment.”

“Are they comfortable? I wouldn’t wear anything like that unless they were really comfortable. Are they?”

“No they bloody aren’t!” Daniel shouted, “Sorry, it’s just that I’m... expecting someone.”

“A female someone?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Say no more, I’ll come back later.”

“Much later, if you don’t mind.”

“Have a nice time.”

“Thanks.” Daniel said miserably.

“Oh. Bit of a dog, is she?”

“No. She’s just a bit of a handful.”

“Well, if you need any help, I’m your man.”

“I can manage, thanks.” Daniel smiled.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.”

Daniel went to bed early that night, in the hope that Lilith would turn up sooner rather than later, and he could have the whole thing over and done with.

He hadn’t been in bed more than a few minutes, when he caught her familiar vanilla scent.

“Daniel,” she sighed, as she gradually appeared.

She had just begun to trace the outline of his mouth with her tongue, when she glanced down and noticed the Sensible Shoes. She gasped, a hurt expression crossed her face, and she began to shrink, sobbing as her body diminished.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said, “But it’s for the best.”

He picked up the tiny woman and dropped her into Mr Rudiger’s shoe box.

“I can’t pretend I won’t miss you,” he said, struggling to make a decent bow of the white ribbon, “But frankly, my Dear, you’re wearing me out.”

Daniel woke early the next morning, having slept like a baby. The box was safely under the bed, and his strength was returning bit by bit. Apart from the excruciating agony of the Sensible Shoes, he felt better than he had in a long time. He made himself some breakfast, and set about finishing that long awaited report.

By noon, his work was done, and the day was his own. If it wasn’t for the shoes, he would have gone out, but standing in them was bad enough, let alone walking.

By two p.m., Daniel was bored. Against his better judgement, he took the box from its hiding place and sat with it on his lap.

“I am truly sorry,” he said, lifting the box to his face to savour Lilith’s delicious scent.

She was crying, tiny vole-sized sobs, interspersed with sighing his name.

“Don’t cry,” he pleaded, “It isn’t that I don’t like you, it’s just that you’re not good for me.”

“I’ll be good,” she whispered, her scent becoming stronger, “Let me out, and I’ll kiss your poor feet better.”

It was a very tempting offer. The Sensible Shoes had caused him more pain in two days than Lilith had caused him in two weeks.

“You don’t have to let me out,” she said, “Just take off the Shoes, you’ll feel so much better.”

Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea...

Daniel eased off the Sensible Shoes. His feet almost wept with relief. He laid the box down on the sofa beside him, and massaged his stinging toes. The box jiggled with excitement.

“Now, you be good.” he told Lilith.

“I’ll be good.” she crooned, “I’ll be very good. Just lift the lid a little bit, I can’t breathe.”

“You won’t try anything?”

“I won’t.” she promised, “Put the shoes outside the door, they make me feel ill.”

Daniel hesitated. Lilith began to cry again.

“Okay, you win.” he sighed, taking the Sensible Shoes and depositing them outside the front door. It felt so good without them.

“Better now?” he said.

“Yes,” she spoke so softly, Daniel had to hold the box very close to hear her.

“Daniel,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too. But you have to stay there for the sake of my sanity.”

“I’ll be gone soon,” she said, “Did he tell you that?”

“Tell me what?”

“Seven days in the box, and I’ll be dead. I’m sorry that you want me dead.”

“I don’t want you dead, of course I don’t. How can you think that?”

“You wore the Sensible Shoes, you put me in the box to make me go.”

“Yes, but I don’t want you dead.”

“He said I’d kill you, didn’t he? He said your soul would burn in Hell. But it isn’t true. I wouldn’t hurt you...” she began to cry again, “...I love you.”

“You aren’t real.”

“You could make me real.”

“How?”

“If you loved me back, I’d be real.”

“Are you telling me the truth?” Daniel said suspiciously, “You lied about your name; you said you were Lilith, and you aren’t.”

“I don’t have a name. Only real things have names. Give me a name, Daniel.”

“Okay,” he said, “How about Rebecca? That’s a nice name.”

“Call me by it, then open the box.” she said.

Daniel thought hard for a moment.

“Rebecca.” he said, pulling at the white bow.

The lid flew open, and a blanket of mist filled the room. For an instant Daniel regretted his action, closing his eyes tightly. By the time he opened them, the fog had cleared, and Rebecca was sitting beside him. She was full-sized, and no longer naked, but wearing a patterned summer dress, the kind you could buy in any high street store.

Rebecca looked at herself and laughed.

“I’m real.” she said, as if she didn’t quite believe it.

She kissed Daniel: a real woman’s kiss; soft and teasing.

“Do you want a coffee?” she said, heading for the kitchen as if she’d lived in the house all her life.

“Later,” he said, “I want you to come and meet my oldest friend. His name’s Tim.”

Daniel took Rebecca’s hand, and led her out of the house. As they stepped over the threshold, they noticed that the Sensible Shoes were gone.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” Rebecca said.

“I’m not sorry,” Daniel smiled,“Sometimes you have to take chances.”

[Originally published in Kimota 9, Autumn 1998]

THE ABRIDGED NOSTRADAMUS

by Peter Tennant

Jerry had decided that nobody was home and was on the point of leaving when the door swung open. Standing in front of him was an elderly man dressed in a grey cardigan and grey flannel trousers, his face as dreary and washed out as the clothes he wore.

“Sandford Milligan?”

The man nodded, reluctantly it seemed to Jerry.

“Mr Milligan, my name is Jerry Perlmann. I’m a journalist.” He flashed his press card and offered a hand which was pointedly ignored. “I’ve come about the book.”

Sandford Milligan winced, as if he’d developed a sudden stomach pain. “I see.”

“Could we talk?”

Milligan hesitated for a moment and then stepped aside, his body language conveying a weary resignation. “You’d better come in.”

Jerry stepped into a hallway that was badly in need of decoration, paper curling away from the wall and threadbare carpet underfoot. The smell of boiled cabbage hung heavy in the air. Obviously his writing hadn’t made Sandford Milligan a wealthy man.

“How’d you know about the book?” asked Milligan. “It’s been out of print for over forty years.”

“I’m an SF nut. I collect pulp novels from the fifties and early sixties. I found a copy in a second-hand bookshop a couple of years ago. When recent events started I made the connection and decided to look you up.”

“I’m surprised you found me.”

“Your publishers still had your address on file.”

Milligan shrugged. “I couldn’t afford to move.”

He ushered Jerry into a sitting room that looked no less shabby than the hallway. The furniture seemed very much the worse for wear, chair legs crisscrossed with scratch marks, the material faded and worn. A tray bearing a plate encrusted with grease lay on the floor in front of a desultory coal fire. At the older man’s invitation they sat on a badly sagging settee, its floral pattern adorned with unsightly stains.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” said Milligan. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

In the corner stood a television set, its screen aglow, the sound turned down so that it was barely audible. Every TV set in the world would be turned on today. It was the most important day in mankind’s history.

The screen was filled with an image of the vast alien craft that had hovered over New York for three days now, its underside bristling with weapons’ arrays. In the United Nations building directly underneath the alien warlord Gartok was relaying his people’s demands to the governments of the world, Those demands would be rejected. Before the end of the week mankind would be at war with the Munktare. All of these events had been foretold in Millennium Mayhem, a pulp SF novel written by Sandford Milligan and published in 1951.

Of course alien invasion had been a staple of the genre ever since SF’s early days. What made Millennium Mayhem so remarkable was the number of correspondences between events in the book and what was now taking place in reality. Milligan’s description of the alien Munktare, their spacecraft and weaponry, the actions they took, all tallied perfectly with what was happening now, Even the words of Gartok’s public pronouncements were the same as in the book. Only the names of the people involved were different. It was impossible to believe that all this was simply coincidence.

“Perhaps you could explain to me how the book came to be written?”

“It was all so long ago.” said Milligan. “I really don’t want to talk about it”

Jerry gestured at the television screen. “With respect Mr Milligan, I think that you have to talk about it.”

Milligan sighed. “When I was a young man back in the fifties I used to have vivid dreams about things that were going to happen, premonitions of disaster. Usually they meant nothing, but sometimes they turned out to be accurate.

“The events in Millennium Mayhem came to me in a series of dreams over a period of six weeks. I saw no point in going public at the time. I’d been ridiculed in the past and the alien invasion was so far in the future I didn’t expect to be vindicated. Instead I decided I might as well make some money out of my talent, so I wrote the book. That’s all there is to it.”

He waved a dismissive hand at his surroundings. “I didn’t make much money, as you can see.”

Jerry grinned. Somebody was going to make money now, money by the truckload. He could see all sorts of angles, The first thing was to get Milligan to sign a contract.

He pointed at the television screen. “But now that you’ve been proved right there’ll be opportunities for...”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll all soon be dead.”

Jerry frowned. Given what he knew Milligan had less reason to feel pessimistic than anyone. Millions were going to die but mankind would win through in the end, as it always did. Life would go on.

“After the war...” he began.

“You don’t understand,” said Milligan. “The book is a lie. My publishers had me rewrite the last three chapters. They wanted a more upbeat ending.”

He reached down by the side of the settee and retrieved a stack of yellowing sheets of paper filled with black type.

“If you want to know what really happens…”

The television screen was suffused with a red glow.  

[Originally published in Kimota 11, Autumn 1999]

EDITORIAL

by Graeme Hurry

Way back in the ninties The Preston SF Group was host to numerous guests and had a newsletter called Kimota to provide attendees information about the guests and future events. There had been various editors (Lawrence Dean, Dave Windett, Andy Greenwood and Dave Young) before I took over. At the end of the year there was a bumper issue with stories, articles and quizzes.

Then in 1994 I took it one step further as a magazine and made it into a small press venture inviting external writers and selling to anyone who would buy a copy. The main aim was to publicise the PSFG. Well, there were 16 bi-annual editions before the pressure of work and the need to read through piles of stories got too much for me.

The main reason for ending the magazine was the amount of money required up-front for the printing and then the inevitable storage of unused copies in the attic - still many copies of many issues if anyone is interested.

So when I bought a Kindle for my mother's Christmas and played about on it I hatched a plan to carry on Kimota on the Kindle. The initial costs would be far less and the contributors could be paid in royalties after I was paid. This ebook is the first part of the plan. Many of the old Kimota stories have been reproduced in Kindle format. The next stage is a magazine - Kzine containing crime, science fiction, horror and fantasy stories (and mixtures of these genres hopefully).

Hopefully you can get an idea of the type of story I'll be putting into Kzine from this selection. Have a look at the Kzine website (www.Kzine.co.uk) and look out for the magazine on Amazon.

Thanks for your time.

Graeme Hurry

APPENDIX A

List Of All Kimota Stories per issue

ISSUE 1

The Bone Garden by Conrad Williams

Mick by Caroline Dunford

A Room Of My Own by Kevin Rattan

Deep Blue by Stephen Laws

ISSUE 2

Video Nasty by Caroline Dunford

Stretch of the Imagination by D.F. Lewis

Johnny Never by Suzanne J. Barbieri

Animal, Vegetable or Mineral by William Meikle

ISSUE 3

Eating Out With Mr. Benn by Caroline Dunford

Tell Me Where The Lost Years Are by David Longhorn

Blizzard by Suzanne J. Barbieri

Remember, Remember by Kevin Rattan

The Grateful Dead by Kim Padgett-Clarke

Fallen Angel by Peter Crowther

The Murder Mystery by Peter Tennant

The Flute And The Glen by William Meikle

ISSUE 4

War Story by Caroline Dunford

The Closing Hand by Chris Kenworthy

Singing Rock by Gary Kilworth

Oggy by Linda Markley

The Pond in the Woods by Martin Owton

Command Performance by Paul Finch

The Fortune Teller by Peter Tennant

Expressed From The Wood by Simon Clark

ISSUE 5

Odd Man Out by Alan Frackelton

Views From Two Windows by Anthony Cawood

On the Edge of Reality by Davina Marsland

Andy by Jason Conway

Breaking The Surface by Joel Lane

Cold Comfort by Mark Chadbourn

Lethal Infatuation by Mark Gale

The Death Of A Man by Peter Tennant

Hobyahs by Stephen Bowkett

The Idiot Stick by Steve Dean 

Trouble Dolls by Suzanne J. Barbieri

ISSUE 6

Liam Brown's Amazing Story by Caroline Dunford

Last Supper by Dave O'Neill

Teddington by David Longhorn

God's Favorite Creatures by Julie Travis

Joe by Kim Padgett-Clarke

A Matter of Blood by Martin Owton

Eugene by Paul Finch

The Earthly Paradise by Peter Tennant

ISSUE 7

God's Children by Anthony Barker

Horizon by Caroline Dunford

Foreign Parts by Conrad Williams

The Star Stallion by Katherine Roberts

Simple Balet by Nick Royle

July by Paul Finch

Phlon Xi by Paul Pinn

Alice Through The VDU by Peter Smith

The Book Of Forbidden Knowledge by Peter Tennant

The Fires of Summer by Steve Lockley

ISSUE 8

The Queening of Proxy D by Mark Asheton

True Love, Once Removed by Debbie Moon 

Concenting Adults by Hugh Cook

The Last Train in the Station by Joel Lane

Breathless by Mark Gale

A Time To Work by Michael O'Connor

Walking The Web by Cherith Baldry

Alternative Hospital by Neal Asher

Where There's Life by Paul Finch

The Green Belt by Steve Dean 

Wee Robbie by William Meikle

ISSUE 9

A Pool of Ants by Christine Goody

Beyond The Help Of Mortals by D.F. Lewis

Amygdala by Dave Sutton

Sira (or Through A Window) by Derek M. Fox

Malatesta by Dom Dulley

Different by Jason Conway

Kid's Stuff by Kim Padgett-Clarke

Preacherman by Mark Gale

Dare Devil by Paul Finch

Home Comforts by Peter Crowther

The Geller Effect by Peter Tennant

The Healer by Stephen Bowkett

Meek by Steve Savile

The Shoe Box by Suzanne J. Barbieri

The Stranger by Trevor Mendham

ISSUE 10

Time's Change by Barbara Davies

Stuck in the Middle by Craig Jones

Picture His Horror by James A Tucker

The Lover by Jason Rogerson

Foaming at the Mouth by Jill McGroarty

His Masters Voice by Joel Lane

The Gurnard by Neal Asher

The Haircut From Hell by Paul Finch

The Invaders by Peter Tennant

The Bones by Peter Tennant

Juju by Peter Tennant

Salems Parking Lot by Peter Tennant

Hell Queen by Rafael Kimberly-Bowen

Fast Food by Stuart Young

ISSUE 11

When Nature Ceases to Smile by Cathrine J. Gardner

Novie's Ark by Dave O'Neill

Party Girl by David J. Howe

A Church with no Windows by Holly Day

The Butterflies of Sanity by Jason Gould

The Slave Game by Jenny Barber

The Grass is always Greener by Martin Owton

The Fly Dumpers (aka Tower of Babel) by Pamela Jorgenson

Corporeal by Paul Finch

Scrapings by Paul Joyce

The Abridged Nostradamus by Peter Tennant

The Venom Sucker by Riaz Hussain

What I Done For the Devil by Simon Woodward

The Angel's Kiss by Steve Lockley

ISSUE 12

Dream Syphon by Dee Delamere

So Deep in my Heart by Geoffrey Warburton

Visions Of The Fall by Joe Rattigan

Idle Hands by John Travis

Fly on the Wall Documentaries by Jonathan Taylor

Ring of Doom by Mark Gale

Vincent's Last Picture by Martin Owton

The Simulator by Paul Finch

The Last Room Down The Hall by Paul McAvoy

Collision by Peter Tennant

Rosmary's Afterbirth by Peter Tennant

How The Stone Was Moved by Peter Tennant

Love Eternal by Peter Tennant

Good Vibrations by Simon Kewin

Game Over by Stuart Young

ISSUE 13

The Fungus Communion by Alexander Glass

Agnes in Wonderland by Annemarie Allen

The Stranger In the Garden by Cherith Baldry

Way Back When by David Price

Phone Home by Debbie Moon 

Boxes by Hugh Cook

Despair Fish by Iain Darby

Triple Glazing by John Travis

The Torbeast's Prison by Neal Asher

Stasis by Nicola Caines

Turn on the Taps by Pamela Stuart

Always The Past by Paul Edwards

ISSUE 14

A Hollow Footstep by Catherine Gardner

Downsizing by Chris Bauer

Claws to Rend, Teeth to Tear by Craig Jones

The Lazarus Factory by David Hudson

Limbo Larry by Hugh Cook

The House In The Woods by Joel Lane

Crumple Zone by Mark Jones

The Necromancer's Tale by Peter Tennant

The Keening of Tabitha Sunday by Sean Russell Friend

Deep Inside by Steve Dean

Spectacle of Nothing by Stuart Carter

ISSUE 15

A Totally Ordinary Young Woman by Hugh Cook

The Terror and the Tortoiseshell by John Travis

The Happy Clapper by Jonathan Taylor

Tiger Tiger by Neal Asher

Ordeal by Bistro by Paul Finch

Burning Angels Down by Paul Joyce

The Wedding Job by Paul McAvoy

Blade by Phil Emery

Still Lives In Motion by Simon Woodward

ISSUE 16

Invaders by Catherine Gardner

Lines by Christopher Harman

Seven Minutes by Christopher Mennell

Canopic Nights by Jill McGroarty

Curtain Call by Joel Lane

Perpetual Motion by Julie Travis

Eleanora by Paul Edwards

The Chattering by Steve Mosby

The Nine Billion Shares of God by Stuart Carter

Long Distance Call by Stuart Young

Tsunami by Tim Groome

Beholders by Trevor Mendham

Table of Contents

DEEP BLUE by Stephen Laws

POISONED by Stephen Gallagher

COLD COMFORT by Mark Chadbourn

WEE ROBBIE by William Meikle

AMYGDALA by David A. Sutton

SIMPLE BALLET by Nicholas Royle

WAY BACK WHEN by David Price

ALTERNATIVE HOSPITAL by Neal Asher

THE CLOSING HAND by Christopher Kenworthy

VIDEO NASTY by Caroline Dunford

THE FUNGUS COMMUNION by Alexander Glass

IDLE HANDS by John Travis

BOXES by Hugh Cook

EUGENE by Paul Finch

EATING OUT WITH MR BENN by Caroline Dunford

GOOD VIBRATIONS by Simon Kewin

THE GREEN BELT by Steve Dean

VINCENT'S LAST PICTURE by Martin Owton

AGAINST THE SKIN by Mark Morris

HOME COMFORTS by Peter Crowther

THE FIRES OF SUMMER by Steve Lockley

TIME'S CHANGE by Barbara Davies

A ROOM OF MY OWN by Kevin K. Rattan

DEEP INSIDE by Steve Dean

AGNES IN WONDERLAND by Annemarie Allen

THE TERROR AND THE TORTOISESHELL by John Travis

LIMBO LARRY by Hugh Cook

THE MURDER MYSTERY by Peter Tennant

THE LAST DOOR DOWN THE HALL by Paul McAvoy

JULY by Paul Finch

TREADING THE REGOLITH by Cate Gardner

SIRA by Derek M. Fox

FLY ON THE WALL DOCUMENTARIES by Jonathan Taylor

BEHOLDERS by Trevor Mendham

TRIPLE GLAZING by John Travis

WAR STORY by Caroline Dunford

A TOTALLY ORDINARY YOUNG WOMAN by Hugh Cook

PERPETUAL MOTION by Julie Travis

THE HAPPY CLAPPER by Jonathan Taylor

REMEMBER, REMEMBER by Kevin K. Rattan

THE SIMULATOR by Paul Finch

THE WEDDING JOB by Paul McAvoy

THE IDIOT STICK by Steve Dean

TROUBLE DOLLS by Suzanne J. Barbieri

THE EARTHLY PARADISE by Peter Tennant

THE STRANGER by Trevor Mendham

BEYOND THE HELP OF MORTALS by D.F. Lewis

A MATTER OF BLOOD by Martin Owton

GOD'S FAVOURITE CREATURES by Julie Travis

GAME OVER by Stuart Young

NOVIE'S ARK by David O'Neill

ALWAYS THE PAST by Paul Edwards

CONCENTING ADULTS by Hugh Cook

ON THE EDGE OF REALITY by Davina Marsland

HORIZON by Caroline Dunford

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE OR MINERAL? by William Meikle

THE SHOE BOX by Suzanne J. Barbieri

THE ABRIDGED NOSTRADAMUS by Peter Tennant

EDITORIAL by Graeme Hurry

APPENDIX A - List of all Kimota Stories