 
Fifty-Two

### Alex Kidman

Copyright 2017 Alex Kidman

Published by Alex Kidman at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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# Table of contents:

Thanks to

Introduction

1 Dave

2 Just Plane Annoying

3 The Date

4 The Steak

5 Ken And The Turnips

6 There's Only Me

7 Remembering

8 Life Lessons

9 Decisions

10 Stupid Diary

11 Dreams 101

12 Guess

13 Remember

14 It's Like...

15 Lane

16 O'Malley's Cat

17 Anxiety

18 Downsides

19 Boris

20 Go Fish!

21 Mean

22 Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?

23 The Zone

24 Harold

25 Lucid

26 Flip-Flop

27 Why Do We Need Maths, Miss?

28 Hunting

29 Judgement

30 The Beach

31 If God Had Wanted Us To Fly

32 I Do Like Teddy Bears

33 Thinking Time

34 I Hate Teddy Bears

35 Contraband

36 The End

37 Clown Bees

38 In The Future There Will Be...?

39 The Work

40 Inked

41 Killing Time

42 Scream

43 Old shame

44 Tired

45 The Weekly Grind

46 Refuse

47 Cut

48 The Legion

49 Has Bean

50 What Happens In...

51 Lessons

52 Remember Dave?

About The Author

Connect With Alex Kidman

Thanks to:

My lovely wife Diana: For giving me time, encouragement, hugs, brownies and unconditional support for so many years now.

Everyone who read the original stories: For reading them, commenting on them and encouraging me along the way. And you, for reading this now, because hopefully that means you bought a copy. I'd like that.

****

# Introduction:

The fifty two stories in this volume, with one exception, were all written in the span of a year, one story per week. It's actually the fault of a journalist friend of mine who I should also thank, Jeanne-Vida Douglas. JV commented on Facebook at one point that she wanted a challenge, "like writing a story a week or something", and I thought that sounded like an interesting idea. So I grabbed that as a concept (I did tell her, though it's not an entirely original idea) and set to writing.

Writing one short story isn't actually all that hard. We've all probably got an idea, or an anecdote, or a half-remembered joke that we could spin out into a passable enough story if given enough time. Writing fifty two of them, and to a deadline was an entirely different matter. I had a few stories "in the bank" before I started that I vowed I could use if I totally couldn't write a story in a given week, and I did end up using both of them, but then these stories were written in 2015 and early 2016. A span of 12 months that was genuinely stressful and difficult for me on multiple levels. Had I known quite how difficult, I never would have started writing short stories, but then you wouldn't have this collection in front of you.

I have slightly re-ordered the stories for a neater reading flow, I hope, although I would encourage you to merely sip at the stories. I have my favourites, and others I'm not quite so sure hold as well together as they might, but I'm aware that my interpretations of the meanings of these tales could vary quite widely from yours. However, reading them all at once might dull the impact of some of the later tales, and I've tried to sprinkle a selection of my favourites throughout, as well as my more obvious runs at genre writing. I'm consistently online these days, so if you have any feedback for the stories you liked, the stories that touched you and yes, even the stories you didn't like, reach out and let me know.

Also, if you do like the stories, look up my other novel, "Sharksplosion". It's exactly what you might think it is, except that the hero is an Australian secret agent and there isn't an action trope left unused by the time it's all done.

****

# 1 Dave

Everyone's got a mate like Dave. At least, I think everyone's got a mate like Dave. Big fella, shock of bright red hair, tattoo showing his love for the Bulldogs on his right bicep. I'm sure you know the type. Maybe not every Dave has that tattoo, but fully one hundred per cent of my mates called Dave do.

Anyway, Dave's been having a bit of a rough time of it of late. He was telling me about down the pub after work... well, that's after my work, what with the parts factory closing down and Dave being laid off last month. The bigwigs told those TV people that everybody would be looked after, and everyone would get opportunities to be employed elsewhere, and what does Dave get? He gets told that if he wants a job, he'll have to pull up stumps and relocate to Townsville. Bloody Townsville! You can imagine what Dave told them when they said that. Apparently things got a bit uncomfortable after that, so besides being handed what Dave called a "rusty golden handshake", he's been out of work ever since.

It's been driving his missus, Katrina, mad. She's never worked since Kevin and Sharon came along, but she keeps herself busy volunteering down the Salvos and organising bake sales for the school club, not to mention keeping the house nice and neat.

Dave's not what you call a neat kind of fella, but then that didn't matter when he was working. He'd be out the door by seven, back by six to have his dinner on the table and some family time. All except Fridays, of course, when we'd see him down the pub for a few drinks. Dave can certainly put them away, but that's always the way with Daves, don't you find?

Anyway, Katrina's been on his case, because apparently having him around the house just watching the footy and working on his car isn't her idea of domestic bliss. It's not really Dave's fault, you know, but then I guess it's not really Katrina's fault either. Dave got a job at the factory back in... must have been... '92, I suppose, back when he could leave school, 'cause he hated that place. We all did. Not as much as Dave, but then he had his plans well sorted right from the start. His Dad worked down the factory, and Dave never wanted to do anything else but that. That factory was alright by Dave, or at least it had been for the longest time. That job let him get that mortgage on the block right next to his Mum and Dad, so it was easy for Katrina to get help when the babies were little and Dave was out at work.

That changed a fair bit when Dave's mum died, mind you. Dave's dad, well, see, he did love his grandkids. Just not quite enough to change a nappy, or as Dave told me he put it, "I never bloody changed Dave's nappy, and I'm not about to change one now!". Apparently Dave then looked at his Dad and told him that this was OK – he didn't need a nappy change any more, but Sharon was stinkin' to high hell, and she probably did.

He's such a crackup, Dave. You'd like him. I'm sure you would.

Even once Kevin and Sharon got past the nappy stage, Dave's dad wasn't a whole lot of help, but by then his hip was going out on him, and then that bad cough started up. Mesolo... Mezlo... that nasty bloody coughin' disease that lots of blokes in the factory got. Dave's dad went downhill pretty bloody fast, not that any of us saw much of it. We could just tell when Dave would hit the pub with a glum look on his face and order a scotch to go with his beer that things were bad.

Mind you, Dave always found a way to have a laugh. His dad was on those drugs that make you lose your hair, so Dave went out and got him a big boofy clown wig to wear. By that stage, Dave's dad was pretty much out of it, so Dave dropped it on his head and took some photos while he was snoozin'. We all had a pretty good laugh at that one, and no-one more than Dave.

Then his Dad passed away the next day, and Dave wasn't so happy any more. Life just kept on kicking Dave, because apparently his Dad had put up a couple of mortgages on the house in order to have a few sly bets down the track. Once those were sorted out, the house, car and contents were gone, baby, gone, and all Dave had left of his Dad was the picture of him in the clown wig.

Dave's been trying for jobs ever since the factory closed, or at least he says he's trying. But that fast food place only hires teenagers or mums who worked there back when they were teenagers, and the security firm took one look at Dave's record, and that business with the stolen car back in '94, and he was out the door. It's so bloody unfair. Dave was only driving around in that car because Shane loaned it to him, and Shane didn't tell anyone he'd nicked it from the Woolies carpark just that afternoon.

Judges don't have much of a sense of humour, although Dave only got a suspended sentence. Shane got out in '97 and left town. Last I heard, he was livin' in a commune up somewhere near Nimbin, fixing combis and getting' it on with those hippie chicks. I wonder what that's like?

Anyway, I was talking about Dave, wasn't I? Dave's not had much luck with jobs, but that's because, as he says, he's just too highly trained. Too clever in ways that people don't appreciate, or won't appreciate, or can't, or something like that.

The problem, according to Dave, is that these new-fangled cars don't need a quality loading bracket the way that Dave can make them. They've all gone over to plastic loading brackets on a number 27 frame, so says Dave. I don't have the foggiest what that actually is, but I learned years ago that it's not wise to question Dave's wisdom when it comes to factory matters. Everyone remembers the big blue he had with Frank over those quality assurance reports, and I'm sure Dave remembers being barred from the pub for a month after he broke that chair over Frank's back.

Frank was fine. I mean, he got up and laughed while the blood ran down his nose and over his mo', but then Frank's a tough bugger.

That's probably why he and Dave's missus, Katrina, are... nah, I'd better not say. Dave's due to turn up any minute now for the fishin' trip. I can't stand fish, but it's good for Dave to be out and about, and we never catch anything anyway. Gives us time to think, sink a few beers, and gets me off the hook with Frank after I lost that bet, because it keeps Dave out of the house.

****

# 2 Just Plane Annoying

Right now, places please everybody! Places! PLACES!

Do I have your attention?

Good. He'll be boarding soon, and we absolutely must make sure that the flight is as unpleasant as possible for him. Now that might just happen randomly, but we can't rely on luck.

We've already primed the pump; he was promised a Business upgrade at the check in desk that we're downgrading to Economy at the gate for "operational reasons", and the computer will be down so they can't check why. Always helps when the ground crew are on target with the mission.

That's what I want from all of you as well. The only thing that's going to make a successful flight certain is if we all pull together as a team. That means no dozing off, no forgetting your assignments and under no circumstances whatsoever do you offer to help them with anything in any way.

Oh, yes, very well Keith; you are meant to be the friendly old man who seems to help with the suitcase but spills the contents all over the cabin floor. That's still not helping ultimately, is it dear? No, it's not. Again, team effort, people.

Now, where is Gladys? Gladys, put your hand up, love, so I can see where you are. Ah, there you are Gladys. Got the babies ready, Glad? Good, good. So, what have we got today? One screamer, one wriggler, and one intermittent cougher that will require mum to walk up and down the aisle in the middle of the sleep cycle, randomly hitting him in the shoulder with the nappy bag. Yes, that seems to be the full allotment.

Now, have we prepared the food? Good, good, so what do we have?

A delicately crumbed chicken meal with fresh garden vegetables, a small saucer of gravy and raspberry yoghurt dessert? Sounds lovely Jocelyn. Lovely indeed. And the other meal is?

Ah, the fish. Always a classic.

Unidentified fish, swimming in some kind of salty white sauce, served scalding hot underneath a hard to remove foil lid, served with a stale rock solid bap, not quite enough margarine somehow already semi-melted and fruit that appears to have been glazed in solid sugar. Yes, yes, that sounds perfectly insipid. Now, out of the two hundred meals on board we have? Ah, yes, three of the chicken and the rest fish, to be served from the front. Which row are they in? 67. Perfect my lovelies, just perfect.

Now, who have we got sitting next to them? Kerrie and... Wilbur. Now, Wilbur my love, I know you put a lot of effort into spilling over into his seat as much as you can, but remember pet, the art is in not seeming so obvious. Fall asleep, fart as much as you can, but don't make it clear that you're doing it deliberately. We nearly had one on the last flight peg as to what was going on. Had to drop the LSD into his beer to encourage a sky rage "incident" to cover it all up. Messy business. Messy. I don't like messy, Wilbur. Do I make myself clear? Excellent, top notch.

Do we have the Rugby supporters on this flight? No? Are you certain? Oh. Ah well, a pity. Always a good rollocking bit of fun once they've had too much to drink and start kicking the back of his seat while singing foul sporting songs. Maybe next time.

David, where are you David? Ah yes, that's it, get the Captain's badge on. You must look the part.

Naturally, chuckles, don't actually touch the plane controls. Yes, that's right, still handled by the plane itself, far too complicated for you to understand. All you need to do David is look the part and watch that little camera over his head that he thinks is the broken air conditioning vent. Now, whenever he seems to be nodding off, or if he goes to get up to the toilet, or when he's struggling with the lid to the fish container, just hit that big green button. That will put the seatbelt light on, and force him to be stuck in his seat, panicking, as the gyros shift the plane up and down for a bit.

Now David, this is important: Don't overdo it. Yes, it is all good fun, but it's only really scary if he doesn't grow to expect it. We had a chap the other day on here who just figured the weather outside "was really bad" and decided to have a "stiff upper lip" position on it. Just terrible, it was! So bad for team morale.

Ooh, yes, and before I forget, there's one other time you must hit that big green button, and that's during drinks service. He's going to be thirsty, what with having scalded his tongue on the salty fish, and so he'll be waiting for the drinks trolley to approach him. All puppy eyed they get. It's so adorable, and so much fun for all the team when the turbulence starts just before Sarah or Holly get to his seat.

Holly my love, you will remember to press the button on the side of the trolley as you're approaching 67 so that David knows to start the turbulence this time, won't you dear? Good, good. If we get this right, it's drinks all round in the galley as a little reward for everyone. Added bonus, team: Drinks all round practically ensures that we're out of whatever his profile suggests he wants to drink most when we do get back to him.

Still, he will get a drink of whatever flat beer is left over, and that means he'll need to go to the bathroom eventually.

Drinkies always means bathrooms, and that means vigilance. Gladys, Bruce, Keith and Denise — you know your positions, right? Bruce, you've got to make sure that you spend as long as possible in there so that a decent queue can build up. That's when you strike Gladys; make sure you're doing that uncomfortable bladder dance... actually, can we see that Gladys, just to be sure?

Hmm.

I'm not sure about that Gladys.

You're definitely in need of a pee, but you're not looking urgent enough by far. Can you go a bit more red in the face, and step up the twitching of your feet?

Yes, yes, that's MUCH better. He won't be able to say no when you ask if you can jump ahead because you're "bursting" if you put that much effort into it.

Now remember everyone, the plastic cover cloths are in the secret cupboard on the right hand side, just behind the baby change table. Once you're in, place those over your head and then let rip. Walls, floor, toilet seat, even the ceiling if you're feeling limber. Everything in fair game once you're inside. Once you're done, wipe yourself down with the supplied towels, don't forget to shove a load of unnecessary paper in the waste disposal and then squeeze most of the soap out of the hand dispenser all over the sink. Just like in rehearsals.

Now then, entertainment. Ralph... Ralph, where are you Ralph? Ah, tinkering with the entertainment system. Good, I like a man who thinks ahead. Just make sure that whatever he wants to watch randomly switches to Japanese with Thai subtitles obscuring the bottom half of the screen, but only for twenty minutes before requiring a reboot of the entire system. That will ensure he can't actually pass the time except by looking at the map of the route and the time left to go. Now, what actual speed have we set the clock to for maximum disorientation? Three minutes to each flight minute. Perfect, lovely, sounds like that's all coming along nicely Ralph.

There, team, is a real professional. I never have to check in on Ralph, because I can always be assured that he gives 110 percent, each and every time.

Now, flight crew, a little word if I may about smiling.

Naturally, we despise them all quite equally, but we can't let them know that. The secret is smiling. Smiling so hard it hurts, because it imbues this silly idea they get in their heads that you like them, but at the same time with that nagging doubt that perhaps you're not quite sincere.

If anyone needs any training in smiling hard, talk to Sarah. She's from Las Vegas, where they invented insincere smiles, and the plastic surgery to go with it. No Sarah, don't try to frown at that. You'll only break something again.

Now, here he comes, down the walkway. I'll handle the greetings, and the rest of you handle it from there. Remember, there is no I in team... and I know where the emergency parachutes are

.

"Ah, good evening sir, may I see your boarding pass? Row 67? Lovely, Sir, just down the corridor to the right there. Please do have an especially pleasant flight."

****

# 3 The Date

The music wafted out of the disco, lazy pop synthesiser beats followed by tepid computerised drums in the way that those kind of songs always did, Alan figured. The Crystal Palace Disco always played songs loud, no matter what type, because once you were in the doors and on the dance floor, it was all about being eternally young and dancing your cares away. Being able to actually hear anybody was entirely secondary, which often led to very mixed drink orders at the bar. As long as the music was flowing the drinks kept flowing and that kept the owners happy.

Always the same songs, about love, or love lost, or love eternal. Nothing Alan really cared about, but some of it was OK to dance to, he guessed. He'd much rather be in there dancing, or perhaps trying out his ID in the hopes of buying a sneaky beer, than waiting out here in the growing cold and dark.

He'd been standing outside the disco, waiting for... how long was it now? Nervously, Alan checked his watch. He didn't want her to turn up and find him looking at his watch, because surely the point of looking cool was not to be seen stressing out about time.

Stress was not cool. Cool was hard to define, but you knew right away which things weren't cool. Flared jeans, anything recorded before 1978, anything that was brown, those things were not cool. Being stressed also wasn't cool, because, hey, Alan thought, it showed how much you were losing your cool.

Being cool was about looking cool, too. Alan was certain he looked cool. Bright white trainers over tight black leather pants, denim shirt over the top with a thin white tie, and a delicately brushed mullet with light streaks through it, just like his idols wore. Alan figured if he looked any cooler, people could store beer in him.

Heh, Alan thought. I've got to remember that one the next time I see Craig. But first... where was she?

Ah, bugger it, Alan thought, I'm going to look at my watch anyway.

The bright red LED of his wristwatch told Alan that it was 10:27, exactly two minutes since he'd last glanced down at his watch, and nearly an hour after they'd agreed to meet at the disco. There was fashionably late, Alan knew — hey, everybody knew about fashionably late — and then there was just plain not showing up.

Alan knew that staring in a stressed fashion at his watch wasn't cool, but neither was just not turning up. For the seventeenth time, he adjusted his razor-thin tie to make sure it ran perfectly down the centre of his shirt without kinking outwards.

Alan liked looking good, and tonight, he figured, he looked good.

Over the road, the Opal cinema opened up its doors, letting the patrons of the 8:30 showing out into the cool night air. Most of them were chattering, or making exclamations about how Ghostbusters was the best movie they'd ever seen.

Alan had already seen Ghostbusters twice already; once at the Pavilion, which was a much better cinema in Alan's estimation that the Opal, and once on a pirate videotape that Craig had bought down at the markets.

It had been a bit fuzzy compared to the cinema, and there were weird scribbles — Craig reckoned they were Japanese, but Alan figured they were probably Chinese — at the bottom of the screen. Still, it was a lot cheaper than going to the Pavilion again, or even the Opal.

The couples emerging from the Opal seemed very happy, Alan thought. He watched one couple walking arm in arm with each other, sharing laughs and cuddles as they slowly made their way down the street. That could be me, he thought, except that it isn't. I'm more like that sad, lonely, balding guy walking out of the cinema all on his own.

Except I'll never be that sad and lonely, or that old. Alan knew this, because in the future they were going to eliminate getting old with science, or drugs or something. He'd seen something about it on the telly the other night. You can keep being old for the old people, Alan figured, and he'd stay young and having fun forever.

Alan hadn't thought of asking Carol out to the cinema, mainly because the only other movie showing was that Gremlins thing, and Alan didn't reckon any scary movie was a good date movie. Sure, it was nice if they got a little spooked and wanted a cuddle, but not if they got grossed out by something and stormed off in a huff.

Suzanne had lasted through The Temple Of Doom right up until that cool bit where the bald guy ripped out someone else's heart before running out of the cinema. That was a mistake that Alan was keen to avoid in the future.

Where was she?

Alan was starting to get angry. He'd have to work tomorrow, driving the old man's cab because he was always way too drunk on a Sunday morning to steer properly. He'd have to keep to the back roads like always, because it wasn't like he had a licence to speak of, but the agreement was that if he drove on Sundays, he could keep all of the tips.

Sundays meant ferrying the old ladies to and from the Church, and they always made certain to give him generous tips along with the requisite Bible verses. Alan didn't much care for the Bible verses until he figured out that being able to quote them back generally led to a much larger tip, and a much happier customer. Yes, you didn't have to do much to keep the Church ladies happy.

Well, except for that Mrs Sanders and her wandering hands, but that was a lesson that Alan picked up very quickly.

Never let them ride in the front seat, Dad had warned, and it wasn't until Mrs Sanders that Alan worked out why that was sound advice.

Working Sundays meant getting up early on Sundays, however, which was why Saturday nights were so important.

Much later than this and he'd have to call it a night altogether, and a missed opportunity at that. He could have gone round early to Chris' place for the regular poker game. Alan knew he wasn't a great poker player, but the game and the chat were fun, and if they were careful and bided their time, Chris' dad would fall asleep and they could sneak some beers in while he snoozed.

Problem is, Alan thought, if I turn up now they'll either already be deep in the betting and way beyond his means, or beyond interested in listening to his tale of unrequited love, or at least unfulfilled lust.

Or he'd wake up Chris' dad, and then Craig and Chris would both be angry at him.

10:33, his watch winked at him.

Two more minutes, and he'd have to start walking home.

Not a long walk, but a long walk if you were by yourself and lonely. Alan didn't like feeling lonely; it left him feeling hollow inside, as if something were missing. All the songs and the books and the movies and.. and... everything said that the missing bit was probably love, and Alan reckoned that if he could just work out how to fall in love, everything else would fall into place. He'd sort out what he was going to do with his life, or if it was worth going back to school, or where he might decide to live if he could afford to move out of home. It's just a matter of getting the pieces into place, Alan figured.

That's why he'd asked Carol out last night when he'd met up with Craig and Chris and Suzy and Liz and Erin. Suzy was already seeing Craig, and he could see that Liz was eyeing up Chris, which left only Erin and Carol, but Erin seemed out of his league at the time. It wasn't that Carol wasn't as pretty, but Erin had that weird but cool air about her that made all the guys a little apprehensive about asking her out.

So instead he'd offered to buy Carol a Coke as an excuse to pull her aside and, well, try to pull.

Mission accomplished, he'd thought last night, but now he wasn't so sure.

Maybe, he thought, if I'd bought Erin a drink instead of Carol, she would have turned up. Or maybe just laughed in my face when I'd asked, and taken her laughter all the way back to the group.

Carol had at least seemed flattered by the suggestion of having a late night snack and then hitting the Crystal Palace Disco on Saturday night.

9:30. I did say 9:30, thought Alan. I'm sure I did.

It's getting cold, he realised. She's not turning up, he thought.

"Hey!" said Carol, appearing in front of him as if by magic. "Sorry I'm late, got tied up in traffic. Look, I know it's late, so why don't we just go inside right away before they close and maybe find a snack afterwards?"

"Not a problem at all! I barely noticed you were late — I've only just got here myself."

****

# 4 The Steak

It's been an odd day. I'm tired, and I'm on the wrong side of the planet, and I woke up to the news that my grandfather passed away overnight. Overnight to me, that is. Again, wrong side of the planet, relative to the normal side of the planet that I happen to live in most of the time.

Nothing wrong with this side of the planet per se; it has some very nice features but at a time like this there's something to be said for being able to go to whichever place you happen to call "home", and I can't do that right now.

One minor blessing is that I'm exceptionally busy right now, which meant that the day was filled with meetings, writing, testing, demonstrations, more writing, travel, more writing and just a little bit more writing to top the day off. By any normal stretch of the imagination, I would normally just be a little bit exhausted, and a little bit burnt out from all that writing.

But I'm in an unfamiliar city, by myself, and I haven't really processed my grandfather's passing just yet. If I'm honest, I'm not certain whether I processed it this morning in any way at all. Perhaps that was a good thing, and perhaps it wasn't. I don't really know.

What I do know is that at 7pm I realise that, aside from a can of coke and a single mildly unpleasant cheese biscuit, I haven't actually eaten anything that could be described as a proper meal today.

I should rectify this in some way, if only to keep myself fuelled up.

That's when I remember.

The thing to know about my grandfather — well, one of the things, because human beings are complex creatures — is that I can't rightly claim to have ever been particularly "close" to him.

In some ways that was part of his character, and maybe it was a failing on my side as a child and teenager, because that was when I had the most contact with him. As an adult, very little contact at all, save for a visit to Perth (where he'd lived for a very long time indeed) for his hundredth birthday last year. That was nice, and thinking about it makes me smile.

The problem with not having any kind of huge relationship, however, is that I find it hard to think through the "happy" memories. Teenagers tend to be very self-involved, and I was no different on that score. That would have been my best chance to get to know my grandfather, but I really didn't do so. More fool me.

Being hungry, and it being late, however, one particular event comes to mind.

An event that happened nearly thirty years ago, as it happened.

As a teenager, I lived in London with my father, a French lecturer. Having a French lecturer for a father (and a French teacher for a step-mother... which reminds me. Guess which language I'm not very good at? Go on... have a try. You're probably right.)

I got side-tracked. Live with it. Anyway, having a French lecturer for a father meant that a trip to France (a few, in fact) was inevitable at some point. It just so happened that my grandfather was visiting London at the time, which meant he came along as well.

I recall eating some cheese. Nothing spectacular about that. Good, solid stuff, cheese, especially in France, but in this case I was eating rather heavily processed little cubes of flavoured cheese, because I was a teenager, and they have sweet, unrefined tastes.

Or at least I did at the time, but it's all good calcium, you know?

Anyway, my grandfather got it into his head that this wasn't cheese, but instead some kind of sweet thing, and he was quite furious at this. I wouldn't be quite so thin, he proclaimed, if I'd just eat something solid instead. I remember him being quite furious with me about this particular thing, and complaining long and loud to anyone who would listen to him, which was everyone present. I should eat something solid, he proclaimed, like a steak.

Like a steak.

A steak.

That's when the thought hits me. I'm in Spain, and rightly, I should go out and find something clichéd, like Paella or Tapas to eat. That's what any sane tourist would do, right?

Instead, I think, I'll go and find a steak, and eat that.

Not for me. For my grandfather.

So I set out walking, and in doing so, walk past the Sagrada Familia. It's quite spectacular at night, too, even with the cranes. I wonder as I walk past whether in the future, people will take it for granted, because it's "finished"... but no time for such idle thoughts.

I must find a steak!

One advantage of being this close to a major tourist attraction is that my lousy language skills don't matter so much, because there's a fair amount of acceptance, especially if you do try to mix in the small amount of words you do know.

Which in my case isn't much, but I figure a quick bistec and cerveza shouldn't be too hard. I find a place, and it couldn't have been much more of a cliché if it tried. A small, slightly grimy Spanish bar.

No, that has nothing whatsoever to do with my grandfather, or at least as far as I know, it doesn't. Unless he had a very secret life of which I knew nothing.

Anyhow, I head in, having seen a picture of a steak and salad meal in the window. I order my meal with a fair amount of pointing, and sit down to my repast.

It's not up to much. The steak in the menu picture was rich and thick and tasty looking, and I'm instead served a thin, grey minute steak with almost no flavour to it.

The side salad is passable, and there are chips, because of course there are. It was at least massive, which I'd like to think my grandfather would have approved of. Scale, if not quantity in my protein, and all that.

I'm not even really in the mood for steak, but this isn't a steak for me. It's a steak for him, because it seems right. I pick up a knife and a fork, and start to eat, and start to think about my grandfather while I do so.

About halfway through the steak, the hiccups start.

Not just small hiccups, but large ones. I'm kind of used to these hiccups, because they usually act as a sign of stress. It's worth knowing, however, that the curious arrangement of my lungs means that I don't do subtle hiccups.

At all.

Most people hiccup in short staccato bursts, but mine are... well, they're complex.

There's a short hiccupy bit to them, but that's just the start.

Imagine the noise a badly played clarinet makes. Then match that noise with a sound that's best described as the kind of sound you'd get if you tried to strangle a swan mid-squawk while it was eating a sandwich.

That sound you've got in your head right now from that description? That's me with the hiccups having eaten half a mediocre Spanish steak for reasons I don't quite understand relating to my grandfather, and what's worse, I CANNOT STOP IT.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I do know how to stop it. It's just that stopping it involves rapidly drinking water in such a way that it causes an anti-hiccup. The old thing of drinking backwards out of the back of a glass won't do it, but sculling down some water will shock my system out of its swan-throttling ways.

The problem there is that I know from bitter experience that this is often also accompanied by my system involuntarily bringing up whatever else is in my throat and stomach at the same time.

From the look of the place, I wouldn't be the first to have upchucked here, but at the same time I don't really fancy the conversation that follows in my own unique brand of broken Spanish, possibly followed by broken bones.

So I stand up, and I try all the other tricks that are meant to work. In my heart, I know they won't, but maybe I can bring it down a bit, so it just sounds like I'm gently strangling a small mallard while badly playing a violin instead.

No dice. These hiccups are here, and they're here to stay. What's more, standing up means that I'm broadcasting them to the entire bar. More than a few of them don't look impressed with my hiccups. I'm not exactly fond of them myself, but then I'm not doing this out of choice.

Then something curious happens. The waitress behind the bar, who again could have been cast by any Hollywood agent as "stereotypical Spanish barmaid" in, perhaps, a rowdy and slightly raunchy comedy flick, takes pity on me.

She brings over a glass of water, quite without me asking.

"Dreenk", she says.

(yes, I know, horrible stereotypical way to represent the rich and diverse Spanish accent. Forgive me.)

So I do, half expecting to see the dark and grimy walls quickly spattered with half a badly cooked steak. A quick chug of water, because I may as well get it all over with, whatever happens next...

Which is nothing.

At all.

The water goes down, and I don't even get the reverse spasm wave I was expecting. The hiccups just stop.

Just like that.

There's still half a meal of steak to finish back at my table.

I stare at the steak, and the lettuce, and the quarter tomato, and the single, sad, solitary olive.

I seriously consider not finishing it.

Then I remember my grandfather. My sometimes irascible, often stubborn grandfather.

This is for him, so I sit down, and I resume eating.

The five minutes I've spent scaring everyone in the bar with my assortment of asphyxiating avian noises hasn't improved it any. It's a grim steak by now, and it's a grim task, too.

The beer does help, in that it masks the taste of the steak, but still, I must finish it, so I do.

I pay for my steak and beer, and walk out of the bar, feeling somehow relieved.

The bells on the Sagrada Familia start to chime, and that's when the tears start to flow.

****

# 5 Ken and the Turnips

It was a cold, wet grey day as Ken made his way over to the allotment. It had been his grandfather's allotment during the war. Grandad had proudly grown food for the troops and served in the Home Guard at the same time.

Grandad's service badge still hung, a little rusty after all these years, on the board inside the allotment hut. Every time Ken looked at it while sorting out the tools, he'd think of Grandad; his heavy woollen coat, wispy white moustache and the ever-present smell of rolling tobacco that, even now seemed to linger inside the hut. Ken didn't smoke, mostly because he could still picture Grandad, thin as a rake, lying on his deathbed choking out his last request.

It had been, Ken could keenly remember, for just one more smoke.

After Grandad passed away, the allotment passed onto Ken's dad, Arthur. Arthur had never really cared for the allotment, or for that matter used it to any great deal, except when he wanted to get away from Alice, Ken's mum. If they'd had a row, or if Arthur had a particularly heavy hangover, he'd vanish for a while saying he had to "tend" to the allotment. He never so much turned a single stone over. Instead, Arthur had chosen to sit in the shed on the stool and read the paper while either his wife or his head calmed down.

Alice had never cared about the allotment, so when Dad had passed away, she'd told Ken to do as he liked with it. After years of neglect at Arthur's hands, it had been work enough just to clear away the rubble, waste, assorted needles and junk from the ground, but it was a task Ken had taken to with gusto.

Ken had always loved fresh vegetables, so, despite the cold weather and lumpy, rock strewn ground, he'd worked hard to start growing his own crop. Nothing fancy, just a few carrots, lettuces, sprouts and turnips. Enough, he'd always say, to liven up a Sunday roast, but not too much that his back would give out digging them out of the ground in the spring.

At the allotment, Ken jangled around the keys in his hands, found the lock key and undid the padlock to the shed. There wasn't much of value in the shed, but he'd learned pretty quickly that he needed to keep it locked up to stop the vagrants and drug addicts using it as a temporary home, or, in one case, a temporary toilet.

Having found the spade and the small gardening fork, Ken left the allotment. He found Dave waiting outside for him, as he so often did.

"Them turnips are up to something."

"You are a silly sod, Dave. What do you mean, the turnips are up to something? They're turnips! They're up to growing, or sometimes not growing, or, if we're really lucky, growing in comedy nobbly shapes that look a bit like rude bits. That's it. That's all they're bloody up to!"

"Nah, s'more than that. They're planning. Lurking."

"Lurking? LURKING? How the blinkin' flip does a turnip lurk? Does it turn up its jacket collar and lurk near the entrance to a cinema, quietly sucking on a cigarette? No, it doesn't. You're just being stupid."

"Nah, really. Serious, like. Them Turnips over there. Look at 'em. I mean, just bloody look at 'em!"

Ken cast an eye over the turnips. As far as he could tell, they were just sprouting out from the ground, in the exact same way that last year's turnip crop had been.

Ken had been lucky last year with an especially mild winter leading to a bumper crop of really fine root vegetables. Almost too many to handle, although it's funny how many folks down the pub suddenly wanted fresh turnips when he announced he had a few spares.

This year had been more grim, and Ken's hopes weren't high for any exceptional vegetables at all. No folks buying him pints in the hopes of a free box of veg. He would barely have enough to keep himself happy, let alone make any new pub friends. Pity, that.

"What is it I'm meant to be seeing, Dave?"

"Turnips, right?"

"Yeah, there are turnips. Or there will be, if I dig them out. Small ones, mind. It's been a rough year, you know?"

"Oh, we've all felt that, mate. All felt it, right down deep in our bellies."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So what is it I'm mean to be seeing in these turnips?"

"Sedition."

"Se-what?"

"Sedition. It means to revolt against the king, which in this case would be you."

"Hang on a minute. What?"

"What?"

"Yeah, what?"

"What what? What are you on about?"

"Since when was I a king?"

"A king? You? Never. Ain't never going to happen mate."

"But you just said I was, Dave!"

"What? When?"

"Just then. You said that the turnips were being all... whatchamacallit... sedition..ey towards the king. Apparently me."

"Oh, that. Yeah, that. Well, yeah."

"Yeah? Yeah what?"

"Yeah, to the turnips, you'd be the king. The head honcho. The lord almighty. Of turnips, mind. I wouldn't really let it go to your head if I were you. Not much of a coronation when you're the king of turnips, and the palace ain't much to talk about neither."

"I'd be.. King of the Turnips?"

"Absolutely. Without a shadow of a doubt. Again, that's not some fancy title to speak of, but for a turnip in this allotment, who else is going to fit that role? Nobody, would, that's who. But still. Turnips. Don't trust 'em, Ken. Don't turn your back on them."

"What?"

"I'm serious. Really. Really serious, like. You know how it's been a weird year, with the weather being all off and that?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, I reckon it's done something to these turnips. Made 'em all shifty like. Look at them. Every other vegetable is good and proper and straight in their furrows, like they should be. But not them turnips. Shifty, like, them turnips."

"Shifty? Turnips? How's that, then?"

"Like I said, look at them. They're not straight in their rows. Not properly, anyway. They've shifted around, and as they've done that, they've formed ideas. Dangerous things, ideas. Them turnips are fomenting something. Dissent, I reckons. Sedition, like I said."

Ken cast an eye over the turnips. Dave was right. They weren't aligned straight, the way that Ken liked to lay out his vegetables.

"Hang on, though. Those turnips aren't straight because I never planted them straight. Look, every couple of years I like to mix up where I plant my veggies. I heard on the radio once that's it's good for the soil to have different veggies in it from time to time. Some boffin had a fancy term for it and everything. Crop rotation. Yeah, that was it. I'm rotating the crops, and I planted them out of line a little this year."

"That's crop rotation, is it? Just turning some turnips a little off centre?"

"No, that's not it, you idiot. You see where the lettuces are? Two years ago, that was the sprout crop, and two years before that, the turnips. Each vegetable has its turn in each bit of soil."

"What's that got to do with them being all out of order, what with them being anarchists?"

"That patch was where the sprouts were last year, and I noticed when I got them out that the ground there is really rocky. Thin soil, so I can't do much with it, and it makes it hard to run a straight farrow. That's why those turnips are a little out of order. It was easier to plant around some of the bigger rocks than smash them up and bring in new soil was all."

"Ah, well then, that proves it, don't it?"

"Proves what?"

"Well, you put them Turnips, shifty fellas, never did trust them at all, into hard soil, and that's what you're going to get."

"What? What am I going to get?"

"Hard turnips. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Hard, seditious, angry turnips, just like you've got there."

"Dave, what would you know, really? You're all the same, you bloody carrots."

****

# 6 There's only me

My mind is a total blank space. That's probably the lack of sleep, or maybe it was those pills I took. Getting hard to say.

The ground sure does look comfortable, though. Maybe I'll just lie down for a while and rest, and look up at the stars. All those... whatchamacallits... oh yeah, constellations, whirling and swirling around. Making my head spin. My head, and my stomach.

Maybe lying down on the ground wasn't such a great idea after all. I'm dizzier down here than I was standing up. Plus, it's cold and the rocks are sharp.

Up I get. Onwards I go. Don't know why I bother, though.

How many days has it been? Twelve? Thirteen? Got to think. Hard to think through the haze.

It was definitely a Thursday. Had to be a Thursday, because I'd gone out on the town on Wednesday night. I wouldn't have normally gone out, but Dave and the guys wanted to watch the wrestling that was on that night, so I went along, because, hey, hump day and all that. It had been ages since I'd been out with Dave, and he likes that stupid stuff for some reason, so I went.

That was a great night. Beers, friends and even that stupid "sport" to watch. Pretty lady wrestlers, mind. I remember finishing up around 11, because there was still going to be work to do the next day, and getting a cab home.

Not drunk then. Not like now, anyway. Just happy-drunk, a little bit wobbly drunk maybe at worst. Good night out, not epic-night-out-drunk.

So it must have been Thursday morning when my alarm woke me at 6, like usual. I remember my head thumping a bit more than normal so I decided to skip hitting the road for a run and just ease myself into the day with some coffee and toast.

That's when I noticed that the power was out. At the time I pegged it as a blackout, although they're pretty rare around here. Were pretty rare, I suppose. Anyway, I just had some cold milk coffee and a biscuit instead, and went to check my email... but no power.

That's when I realised it was quiet. At first I thought, of course it's quiet, there's no power, so nobody else has a TV blaring or a mixer mixing or any of the other gadgets that rely on electricity to operate. But still, I should hear the cars on the road outside, or the few birds that hang around that tree in the front courtyard, intermittently crapping on the mail.

But no. Nothing. So I went outside, and that's when I discovered it.

Not that I know what it is, or why it is. There's nobody to explain it to me.

Nobody at all.

At first I was confused, as though somebody had declared a big national holiday and I'd somehow forgotten about it. So I went for a walk, and everywhere it was the same.

Nobody. Anywhere.

Not even the faintest sign of where they had gone.

No big accidents, no obvious destroying-all-of-humanity-earthquakes, or even a single crashed car to indicate what had happened. Everything was neat and orderly and as though the rightful owners of... everything... would be back any moment now.

Totally quiet, though. Nobody out walking a dog, or picking up a trash can, or doing anything.

Not a bird in the sky, or even a worm on the ground.

All gone. Gone.

I found it hard to take in. Still do. Where is everyone? Where did they go? Why didn't I go? Where did the birds go? And the dogs, and the cats, and the elephants?

I walked all the way to work, although I can't think why I bothered. The office was locked, and with no power the key card entry wouldn't work. There was nobody there to notice I would have been there anyway. The coffee cart outside was locked down too.

It was the same story with the burger place, the shopping mall and Anderson's bar. The window of the pet store had empty cages, some with indents in the shredded paper bedding where their occupants must have been right up until the... something... happened.

I think I've had too much to drink right now. Had to, though, really. What else passes the time?

But that must have been, what, twelve, thirteen days ago? Hard to say. I never was much of one for watches, so once my phone went flat I only had the sun and moon to judge time by.

I did try calling everyone on my contact list, but there was no signal to be had. I even tried knocking on doors, most of which were locked.

So I went home, because it was mine, and ate some more biscuits, and tried to figure out what was going on.

But who can figure out what's going on by themselves? How do you do that?

Not much else on the old to-do list.

I'm glad I worked out that the back entry dock for the shopping mall was open, because it means I can get to the supermarket. I should probably start hefting more stuff out of there.

The cans are fine, but the produce and the meat is getting pretty strong, and I can only be in there for a couple of hours during the day, because it's way too dark in there otherwise.

Shit. I'm an idiot. They have torches in the supermarket. Battery powered torches. Why didn't I think of that? I could go whenever I need to.

Weird though. Every time I walk in there, I feel kind of shady, as though I'm stealing things.

I guess I totally am stealing things, but you know, it's strange, because with nobody around, there's nobody to bust me for anything. At first I was really scared to do anything, or take anything, but I've got to eat and drink. Can't pay for anything with my credit card, because the machines are all down. Still worries me that I'm going to all of a sudden get busted for it.

Stupid, really. I should be doing something with my life, or what's left of it. My alone, sad, lonely life, where I drink and eat cold beans from a can, and then drink some more.

Fire. I could cook the beans on a fire.

How do I start a fire? Why didn't I think of that, rather than huddling under a cold blanket back in my apartment at night, taking hits from a Scotch bottle to keep myself warm.

That much drinking. Must be addling my brain cells. That's all kinds of sad.

So sad.

Makes me feel like I need a drink.

God, I'm lonely. I used to say, back when there were people to say it to, that I didn't believe in God, but right now, I'd believe in God, Jesus, Buddha, Ganesha and any other deity you'd care to create, if only they'd talk to me. You know. Like the crazy people do.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Perhaps that's it. You know that song, the one that moans on and on and on about how you don't know what it is that you've got until you lose it? Something about trees, and yellow cars. Can't recall the name right now.

Anyway, I'd give just about anything for a conversation right now.

Hang on... who am I talking to right now?

Oh.

There's only me.

****

# 7 Remembering

My mind is going. Slowly fading away, day after day.

It's been a subtle process, but I can feel it happening. No, wait, not feel it, but I'm aware of it. Some of the time anyway. If I concentrate.

It's a terrible thing. I feel like I'm fading away faster than I'm slipping away.

Just losing what makes me into me, one simple memory at a time, which is why I wanted to talk to you about it.

No, no, I've seen Doctor Wilson about it. Went to see him weeks ago when I first noticed it.

I don't like that new surgery of his. Horrible rough carpet, and that TV is always on too loud. What ever happened to having a friendly surgery with just a few magazines to browse and everyone keeping quiet?

I used to have a chair that I would sit in and wait, and I didn't mind because I could read the golfing magazines or chat to Maggie the receptionist about the Cricket scores. That new receptionist just sits there tapping at her computer all day, never a minute to spare for the patients waiting to see Doctor Wilson while we sit on horrid cold plastic benches while other people's children run riot around the waiting room

I think that receptionist hates us old folk. You get that a lot. Real honest friendly customer service is a dying art. It's a relic from a bygone age.

Age. It's a word that describes something, but we always think of it in terms of old age. If something is aged, it's automatically less useful, less worthwhile. Even cheese gets to a point where it's no longer aged, but just bad.

That's how I feel most of the time these days. Where was I? Oh yes, going to see Doctor Wilson about my blood pressure tablets and that other thing... the forgetting, yes, that was it.

It's just old age, Doctor Wilson says. I'm lucky to be my age, he says, and it's normal and natural that the... what did he call them?

Faculties! That was it. Faculties. Where was I? Oh, yes, Doctor Wilson. Said my faculties were bound to get a little foggy over time, but there wasn't much that medicine could do for me that it wasn't already doing.

Rest of the checkup went fine. Good, solid responsible man, Doctor Wilson. I don't mind waiting to see only him, even if one of those younger doctors doesn't have a queue, because Doctor Wilson knows me. Has done for years, prescribed me everything I need to take to keep on being me. All the injections, all the tablets.

Taking too many tablets anyway, I reckon. No, those I've taken, I'm sure. Wait, no, I should check the packet. I've got them organised along with all my other pills in that box you gave me to sort out the days and the pills.

Where is it? Ah, here we go, now...

Monday, Monday, Mondaaay. Wait, let me get my spectacles on properly so I can read it clearly.

Yes, Monday. There we go.

Yes, see, the pill counter is empty, which means I've taken them today. Yes, and the ones for the leg, and the thinners, and those little red ones. All of them for Monday, all of them taken on time.

It is Monday, right?

Oh, good.

You know that thing where you walk into a room and you forget what you came in for and you laugh and think of what a silly, doddering old fool you've become?

I only realised yesterday that I no longer do that.

No, I don't do it at all.

Not the forgetting, because that happens, but the laughter, because I don't feel like it's funny any more. Just a bit inevitable. I think I'm getting old.

It's no fun getting old. You get creaky in the bones, and slow in the blood, and that I expected, because while I forget current things, I remember my Grandad going that way. He would slowly shuffle in from outside and announce he was back from work when he was ninety-three and had only been out in the garden to water the petunias.

Did I water the petunias yesterday? It was awfully hot. I'm sure I must have. I must have! Always try to water the front garden when it's really hot so that the flowers don't dry out and the apple tree will fruit properly.

We planted that tree when we first moved here. Must have been, what, thirty years ago now. Or was it longer?

Damn, but this is annoying. Makes me angry sometimes.

Hungry, too, when I forget.

I'll get up to make myself a sandwich, go into the kitchen, ready the knife and the bread and then simply and suddenly forget to eat.

It's only later when I'm busy doing the gardening that I'll suddenly think "I should put some sandwich spread on that bread", and realise that lunch should have been hours ago and that's probably why my tummy is growling at me.

Either that, or it's next door's dog, Rover.

No, wait, Rover was... Sarah's dog? Or was that Kevin? No, Kevin was Amanda's dog. Sarah had a cat. Black thing, used to slink between my legs when I'd visit the grandkids over Christmas.

Later on, she had a dog, though. Bruce, I think. Yes, Bruce. Black curly haired thing, terrible breath, used to eat only my left slipper if I left it on the floor after I'd spent the night there. Always used to howl at the back door if you left it ajar, even a tiny bit, but wouldn't actually go out himself unless somebody put the leash on him. Stupid animal.

Next door's dog is... is... Emily? Emily, I think.

No, can't be Emily. Emily wouldn't like it if next door's dog was named after her.

Actually, you know what, I don't think I do know what next door's dog is called. They do like shouting at it, though. Maybe it's called "You bloody mongrel thing". That would make a certain amount of sense.

Ah, Emily. Just the other day, I ran into someone at the shops who had known Emily at school, they said, and wanted to know how she was. I started telling them about how she was busy organising the Church bake sale. They asked which Church, and I told them, and they looked at me in a very confused way.

It was only the next day that I realised that I was talking about the church we went to back when we were first married over in Swansea, which wouldn't have made much sense to them. I mean, there isn't a Cathedral here. Not likely to be, too small you see, which was part of the reason we moved here for the peace and quiet.

Anyway, they looked at me strangely, and asked after Emily again, and do you know what?

I couldn't recall who they were talking about, or why I was talking to them, so I bade them good day, and walked away swiftly. You can't trust people these days, you know. Always hearing those dreadful stories on the news of old people being swindled, but not me. Oh no. Sharp as a tack, I am.

Also, I can't seem to find Emily around. Just photos of her on the mantle, and they're old, along with a heavy jar for some reason.

Where is she? Did she go down to the shops, or to visit her mother?

Anyway, if you see her, can you tell her the petunias need watering?

****

# 8 Life lessons

"Git back here you little rascal!"

I could hear Uncle Tim shouting behind me as I ran. Uncle Tim was a good runner, so I knew I had to keep moving, otherwise he'd grab me and give me a solid beating, which I didn't much fancy.

Sure, he had reason to be angry with me, what with the flour bag I'd placed above the door.

Ma had said it was being thrown out, 'cause the weevils had gotten into it, and asked me to get rid of it. I was bored, and the day was hot, and Uncle Tim always smelled kind of funny. A bit like tobacco, but kind of like fruit too. I figured a flour shower might do him some good, or at least make for a great joke.

Anyway, he looked seriously funny covered in all that flour. Totally worth it, even if I was going to catch a hiding for it.

"Why, if I catch you... no, WHEN I catch you I'm going to drown you in a bucket of fetid water!"

The shock of such a silly sounding statement caught me off guard, and before I knew it, I was roaring with laughter.

The laughter robbed me of my breath, and I collapsed next to the water tower, shaking with the shock of it all. Uncle Tim rounded the corner, saw me and glared. I reckoned he was extra angry what with me laughing so hard.

"What's so funny, boy? You know you're going to get a beating, right?" he said.

"Just... just.... the fetid water. Why fetid water?" I replied, through fits of giggles.

"Ain't you got no sense, boy? Don't you know nothing?"

"About fetid water? No" I said. "Why would you drown anyone with fetid water?"

"What do you mean by that boy? Why would you drown anyone, or why would you drown anyone in fetid water?"

"Both, I reckon. Why?"

"You do like questions, boy" said Uncle Tim.

He paused, and a curious look came over his face, like he was weighing up some big decision, or maybe just hiding a fart. Uncle Tim often dropped silent, deadly emissions at the dinner table, but I'd learned not to raise that point unless I wanted extra chores and a beatin' after dinner was done.

"I reckon your mamma's not going to be too happy with what I'm going to tell you, but then again, I reckon you're old enough to be knowing." he said.

"Knowing what, Uncle Tim?" I asked.

"Hush up and listen, and I'll tell you! Now, as for your first question, there's all kinds of reasons why you might decide that the only thing to do was kill a man.

Maybe he did you wrong over a matter with a woman. Maybe he stole something from you that wasn't his, or maybe his daddy killed your daddy. Plenty of reasons."

"Nobody's killed my daddy, far as I know. He went off to work this morning..."

"Oh, do be quiet. I was giving reasons why someone might, not reasons why you might right this minute now. Anyhow, there's all kinds of reasons why people kill each other, and drowning, if you've really a mind to kill someone, is as solid as any other."

"Solid, Uncle Tim? Why drown a fella? Why not stab him, or shoot him, or run over him or such? Ain't that a whole lot easier than drowning?"

"Too quick, boy. Too quick. Life is precious and often harsh to us, but it's precious first and foremost.

If you're going to take a life, you'd best be ready to do it, but moreover, if there's a reason good enough to do it, you should be willing to make it last. If you're going to take a man's greatest treasure, doing it fast ain't no good. Why, he might not even know why you'd done it if you shot or stabbed him, and running him over could always be an accident anyhows."

"So why drown him, then?"

"Because it takes time and effort. You shove his head into a bucket, he ain't drowned for a good couple of minutes, which means you've got to put some force into it, and you've got to really mean it. What's more, as he drowns, he's going to have no doubts at all that you really mean it, because you're holding his head down. It's personal. Intimate, nearly."

"But... why fetid water?"

"Because that's stuff's nasty. It ain't nice to be drowned, for sure, but being drowned in filthy, mucky standing water is going to be even worse, because it's going to be the very last thing he ever does taste, smell or see. Not the rising of the dawn, or the comfort of a good meal, or the sweet scent of a woman. Just wet, cold filth until the darkness takes him."

"If you're being mean to him, why not... I don't know... drown him in the piss bucket then? That'd be even worse, wouldn't it?"

"Sure and that'd be a terrible way to go, but fetid water would be worse."

"Worse? How?"

"Well now, if you fills up a bucket with your leavings and then drowns him in it, it shows that you think he's worth the trouble and effort of pissing in a bucket for to get it done."

"Well, ain't he?"

"That's the beauty of the fetid bucket. The beauty of it, see, is that you're showing him that he ain't even worth a bucket of piss. You're showing him disdain. See, by doing it, as the water fills his lungs, he's going to know that he's not even worth pure, fresh water for drowning in, or even piss. Water the horses wouldn't even drink is all you care to drown him in, and that's enough. Then of course, there's the judges."

"The judges?" I asked.

"Sure enough, and the judges, boy! You drown a man in fetid water, you'd best be planning for what happens when the law catches up to you, because the odds is pretty good that they will. Drowning a man in fetid water gives you all sorts of options."

"It does?" I queried.

"Stop interrupting me boy! Sure it does. Look, you've just drowned a man in your bucket, and he's lying there, still and bloated and stinky. There are things you can do. For a start, if there's a pond or a river nearby, you can haul him down there and throw him in, especially if it's a pond. Don't weigh him down or nothing, because that'll show that somebody wanted him drowned and not found, but let him float away freely.

That way, when they find him, they're sure to figure that he drowned somehow, and the water in his lungs is just part of the pond water, and you're home free. Do you see?"

"I think so. But what if you're caught with the body?"

"Well now, that's a thing that maybe could happen. I'll give you that. You're not as stupid as you look, boy. If you're going to kill a man, that's always a risk you're going to take. Still and above, if you do drown a man in a bucket of fetid water, you've got more options."

"More options? You've just drowned a man in a bucket of fetid water, you've been caught with the bucket and the corpse — what options do you really have beyond a-waitin' for the gallows?"

"It's what the judges call temporary insanity, boy. Temporary insanity. See, if you drown a man in a bucket of fresh water, you clearly done planned it, because you had to fill the bucket. Same as if you filled it with piss, or any such thing, which is another reason why it's a bad choice.

But a bucket of fetid water's clearly been there for some time. You didn't know what you was doing, that's what you'd tell the judge, boy.

You was overcome with grief, or anger, or whatever caused the ruckus in the first place between you and the recently departed. Remember too, that unless there was witnesses, you're the only one that gets to tell what happened, because it ain't like he's going to rise up and suddenly start telling folks what really happened. So you get to tell the story the way you want to, and you'd best make it a good one.

So you say to the judge that you're overcome with grief for it, and you don't rightly know how you're going to live with yourself, that's what you say. But clearly, it ain't like nobody prepares a bucket of water months in advance, lets it get all foul and then heads out to drown nobody. Stands to reason, that does. So you can't have planned it. It just happened, and maybe, just maybe, the judge sees it that way and doesn't send you to the rope."

"Uncle Tim?"

"Yes, boy?"

"Have you ever used that argument against a judge?"

"Sometimes, boy, you ask too many questions."

****

# 9 Decisions

2am. My phone tells me it's 2am through the gloom of the early morning, and just like I was at 1am, I'm unable to sleep. Instead, all I can do is stare at the ceiling and try, and fail, and fail again to sleep.

Not that I don't know why I can't sleep. Tomorrow's a busy day. I've got to get Tim to school, I've got to drop the car in for a service, I've got to peel the spuds for the potato bake, because if it doesn't have spuds in it, Tim won't eat it, and his nutritionist says that he has to eat... and all of that pales next to the decision I've got to make.

I've got nobody but myself to blame. Nick and I were an item before I went on holiday, and he has every right to think that we're still an item. I mean, we are. We've been out a few more times, and away last weekend while Mum looked after Tim for me. We're an item. An item.

Problem is, I think I might be two items.

Shit, it's not tomorrow I've got to get everything done. It's today. Today. I've got to get up in four hours. Some sleep would be nice.

Get realistic, girl. It isn't going to happen, not while you've got visions of Nick and Patrick rushing around in your head.

Ah, Patrick. He's so much fun, and such a good kisser, and so generous. Then again, compared to Nick he can afford to be, what with the lawyer's salary. Deputy assistant council planners just don't earn that kind of money, even though Nick is sweet.

That shouldn't be a factor, of course, but it is. I've got to make this decision not just for me, but for Tim as well. Tim deserves a proper dad, and there's no doubt that Patrick could provide a lot more for Tim than Nick could.

Then again, I've got to introduce Patrick to the concept of Tim. As far as Patrick's concerned, I'm just an office administrator who likes holidaying in Italy during the summer, white wines, and summer flings. I hope he likes kids, or at least likes singles who turn out to be single mums. Maybe he could learn to like Tim even if he doesn't immediately like the concept of Tim? Patrick does like chips, so at least they've got that in common.

I guess I've got to decide whether or not I believe in fate. If it was fate that brought us back together in that wine bar, then I should go with Patrick. Fate drew us together in a city of millions because we were meant to be together. Star crossed lovers and all of that, the music swells, the waves crash on to the beach and everything fades to a passionate black.

But if fate and destiny and star crossed lovers is all a load of bollocks and it was just random luck, then I forget Patrick, ignore that he ever happened, and push forwards with Nick. Nick's good with Tim, and Tim thinks he's funny. Nick will never be rich, and I think I can see a bald patch forming, but he's a good, solid bloke.

Sloppy kisser though, and I've no ide what he's like in bed, unlike Patrick. Didn't mean to end up in bed with Patrick, but the cheap Italian whites had other ideas.

God, I could go for a nice glass of white right now.

Good job nobody can read my mind, otherwise I'd sound like an alcoholic, thinking like that.

Then again, alcoholics can probably sleep, or at least pass out drunk.

I need to call one of them. OK, OK, I have to call both of them, but I need to call one of them first, and it has to be the one that I want to be with. I'll do that... shit... I guess I'll have to do it at midday, when I go properly on my lunch break. That bitch Brenda will go ballistic if she catches me making a personal call, let alone two, on company time.

So that's what I'll do. But what will I do?

This would be easier with some sleep.

Some sleep would be nice.

It's 2am according to my wristwatch, and can't sleep. I've always been a light sleeper. Mother always said so, and as she used to say, Mothers are always right.

I know why I can't sleep. Tomorrow — no, wait, it's today, isn't it? — is going to be the big day.

The big day. The big one. The important one. The decision.

I've checked the weather forecast, and there's almost no chance of rain, which means that lunch in the park should be just perfect. Some sandwiches, a bottle of non-alcoholic wine — it is a workday — and a little surprise for her.

God, I hope she likes surprises. She seems like the calm rational type. What if she doesn't like surprises, but prefers certainty? She's a mother, and she has to do so much planning around Tim, so certainty is probably sexy to her. She's certainly a sexy lady.

Then again, this would present a strong degree of certainty, along with just a smidge of romance.

Everything has to be just right. At midday, I leave the office, catch the tube three stops down to where Katherine's office is and "surprise" her with an offer of lunch. Lunch, and naturally, the ring.

She's the one. She has to be the one. We fit so well together. She came back from that holiday in Italy so light and happy, and seemed genuinely impressed that I'd looked in on Tim while he was staying with her mother. He's a cute kid, and I reckon I'd be an OK step-dad. I think he likes me, but does she?

Don't want to be bleary eyed and weird though.

Some sleep would be nice.

It's 2am, and my Fitbit's going to have terrible sleep patterns on it tomorrow, or stupidly today, or however it counts my sleep because of this daft insomnia.

Pull yourself together lad. It's not like it's life or death. It's just the big decision, that's all.

You've got to be direct with this stuff. Direct, to the point. Go for what you want to get, visualise it, and it will happen.

It will happen.

IT. WILL. HAPPEN.

It needs to happen.

I mean, it was wonderful to run into Katherine at that wine bar. A big surprise and a bit of a shock. One of those genuine moments of synchronicity that after Italy we should run into each other in London. Like that film... oh, what's it called? Bugger it, I'll look it up on my phone.

Oh yeah, Casablanca. Meant to be a classic, that one. I should get around to watching it, but who has time for old slow boring black and white movies besides making yourself look smart?

But that wine bar. My regular, and she walks in to get a drink "after work" because she works just down the road from there. What were the odds? Must have been a genuine, legitimate, real million to one shot.

There I was, drowning my sorrows after the firm had let me go, pondering how I was going to pay my rent, let alone the base payment on the credit cards, and there she was.

Sure, it did cheer me up, although that was probably also the bottle of wine we shared, along with the shock at having to explain why I getting seriously drunk. What was it... oh yeah, I'd just finished "a big case". She seemed to buy that without digging any further. I like that in her — she doesn't ask difficult questions. That, and those hips. Those swivelling, intoxicating hips.

Mmm.. hips. That woman can grind.

Still, direct would be best. I need to know if she's serious, and if she's serious, I'll ask her to move in with me. I'll have to clean the flat up a bit, maybe clear a few things out of the second bedroom to enable her to move whatever her stuff is in there.

Can't be too much, can it? I wouldn't have thought so on the kind of salary an office administrator's going to be pulling down, but you never know. Maybe Daddy's rich and she's just working to get a feel for it. That'd be handy, really — I could get the rent paid and maybe get some help with the cards at the same time.

So I'll try to get a little sleep, and then tidy the flat up a bit before wandering down around lunchtime to "surprise" her with the question, quick as can be. Sweep her off her feet, make her decide before she even really has a chance to think about it, and I'll be away. This has to work. It has to.

But some sleep would be nice.

****

# 10 Stupid Diary

January 1st

Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen, because it's stupid January 1st and all the shops are shut and all the adults have headaches from drinking too much, which is why I have to go to my room and write in this stupid diary that Auntie Sarah gave me for Christmas.

I wanted a Science kit for making poisons, and she gave me a book. I've never liked Auntie Sarah.

Actually, that's not true. She did give me that excellent Lego set for my birthday, so I guess I liked her then. But not now. Stupid diary.

January 20th

Stupid Diary. Mum says I have to do more writing because my handwriting is "shocking", apparently. I tried to argue with her that in the future computers will do all the writing for us, and we will be able to lie around in pool chairs doing nothing much, just like it is in the films, and she told me I was being silly.

I'm serious! I've seen it in the films, and Mark says that his Dad's working on a robot that can climb stairs like that ED-209 can.

There. Maybe that will get her off my back. I've written two things in you now, so you've served your purpose.

January 21st

Stupid Diary. Apparently "writing nasty things about Auntie Sarah and stupid things about robots" doesn't count as proper writing.

Proper writing is about people, and love stories, and really boring stuff like that, mum says. She doesn't call it boring, but it is unless you happen to be my mum. She's always reading rotten stuff like that, not interesting stuff about science or robots or spaceships.

Maybe you change when you get older, and those stupid books with fireplaces and men with really long golden hair become "good" to you.

Maybe it's a brain disease that you get after becoming a mum! Yeah, maybe.

Not much of a chance of me being a mum, like, ever. Not me. Closest I ever came was when Lakitu the Cat had her kittens, and mum made me pick them up. They were soooooooo cute!

But then one of them bit me, and I dropped it, and apparently that made me a "bad mum" to Lakitu, so we had to give all the kittens away.

I cried for days, but I was only a kid back then.

January 26th

Stupid national holiday. Nothing to do.

January 28th

Stupid day.

Back to school.

Despite telling everyone he was "moving to America" because "his dad was becoming a Hollywood lawyer", Kevin was back in class, because he's such a stupid liar.

Nice hair, though.

This year I've got to do Maths and English and Science (yay!) and Music and Geography. No history, which is great, because Mr Morris always has that creepy way of standing right behind you while you're working on something and breathing heavily. Gloria told me that one of the girls in year 9 complained properly to the principal and everything, but nobody did nothing because he's a teacher and she was just a student. It's so unfair when things like that happen!

I hate Mr Morris, and I hate history. Old people are either long dead, or they'll soon be dead, so who really cares?

Anyway, I've got to go, because I've got all these maths problems to do and Mum says I have to finish my homework before I can have any of what she calls "fun time". Nothing much to do for fun but watch telly, but at least that's better than maths problems.

January 29th

Stupid maths. I used to be good at maths, but then it got hard right when Miss Cartwright went off to have her baby. Kevin says it was Mr Wilson, the sports teacher who knocked her up, because she used to get a lift home with him every day in his car, and then she started looking daggers at him right before she went off to have the baby.

When Miss Cartwright came back, she was Mrs Lewis, so Kevin must have been wrong. She never gets a lift off Mr Wilson any more anyway.

It must have been Mr Lewis, otherwise she wouldn't be Mrs Lewis, would she? She'd be Mrs Wilson, except I think there already is a Mrs Wilson anyway.

Kevin's so dim sometimes.

February 14th

Stupid "romance". I don't get it. Dad rushed around this afternoon after picking me up from school because he had to buy some red roses. $20 he spent on them, and they looked half dead already. $20! We could have bought something cool with them, but no, apparently we "had" to buy roses because he "always buys Mum roses on Valentine's day".

She only looked at them once and then dropped them in a vase. So stupid.

Maybe next year I'll convince Dad to buy her plastic flowers from the service station. They've got them for $2, so he'd save $18, which he could give to me, and make two people happy.

Everyone got a Valentine's card, even me. I only got one, though.

I thought maybe I might get one from Kevin, but he wasn't at school today. Don't know why.

So I only got one card, and it, like, totally doesn't count.

I know it doesn't count, because I know what Mum's handwriting looks like. She's so dumb.

February 17th

Stupid diary.

I'd forgotten all about you, but then Mum caught me after school looking through Dad's desk. I was only looking for a pen so I could do my maths homework, but she went absolutely berko, screaming and roaring at me about privacy.

Hah! Privacy! As though I ever have any, I told her, because she's always going through my things.

Like the other day, when she found that gum wrapper in my pants pocket. She said she'd only found it when she was doing the clothes washing, but that means she'd been in my room, and that means she was, like, totally invading my privacy.

Mum didn't see it that way, and so I'm stuck in here with no telly and no telephone and only a diary and this stupid pencil.

Also, I have to do my clothes washing and drying for all of this week, which is totally unfair. By the time I get that done, I won't have any time for myself, because stupid Mrs Lewis keeps on giving us really hard problems to do for the next day's class, and they always take all afternoon to do.

Maybe I should just stick this pencil in my eye. That would show them.

Then again, maybe not. It would hurt.

February 22nd

We went away for the weekend, which meant five hours sitting in the car trying not to feel sick and hearing Mum's stories about how she used to go on much longer trips and never got sick and maybe if I just didn't think about being sick I wouldn't be sick so often.

That was right about when I had my first spew, right over the back of her seat. I felt better for the being sick, and for proving Mum wrong. I sort of hoped we'd turn around, but instead Mum just wiped it all up with my beach towel!

Unfair. I didn't ask to go away for the weekend, or to sit in the car for so long. They know I get sick. Maybe they do it on purpose.

Anyway, with no towel, I couldn't go for a swim, so all I could do was sit on the beach. Mum said I should make a sandcastle, but am I a four year old? No, I'm not, so I just sat on the beach and sulked.

And now I have sunburn all over my legs, which really hurts. Stupid beach.

March 3rd

KEVIN'S SHAVED HIS BEAUTIFUL HAIR OFF!

I can't believe it! I gave him such a dirty look, and told him that it made him look really ugly and pale and weird.

He ran off crying. Good. He deserves that if he's going to make himself all uggo like that.

March 5th

Kevin told me he has cancer.

At first I thought he meant like the star signs, but that wouldn't make sense. His birthday is on November 17th, the day after mine, which means that he's a Scorpio, like me. Pair of Scorpions, we are.

So I looked at him like he was making some kind of silly joke, because who really believes in that star sign rubbish? Mrs Robinson, the school librarian does, because she's always reading that stuff when we have research lessons, but then she also believes that having her hair tinted blue doesn't make her look like a crazy witch, which it totally does.

Then his eyes welled up, and he started crying, and I realised what he'd really said.

I'm so stupid sometimes.

July 7th

Kevin's last day at school was today. He's so thin now.

He's finally off to the United States, but not to Hollywood, just to some special hospital there which might have a cure for him.

At lunchtime, we sat, and held hands, and I showed him the picture that Mum took of the two of us holding hands at my last birthday party. He was so happy that day, his long beautiful brown frizzy hair hiding one half of his face. I used to tease him about that hair, but now he has none, just a bandana.

He took off the bandana, and his head looked thin too, but then he tied it up backwards and put it on, so it looked just like his hair did in the photo, covering up half his face. Just like it, but multicoloured and flat, he said.

We laughed a little at that, and then he started coughing, so we just sat quietly.

Stupid cancer.

****

# 11 Dreams 101

Now listen up class, and pay attention. Open your textbooks to page one, and look at diagram one.

No, stop giggling in the back there. Yes, alright, it is quite unusual looking. I'll grant you that. Not a pleasant thing to look at, but this is what you are here to learn, and what I am here to teach.

This is what we call a human being. The male of the species, although if you tap on button D, it will display the alternate human female form. The biological functions aren't within our scope.

Enough tittering! Stop it, and put your tentacles down, Chizzt. We will get to questions shortly.

Human beings are inhabitants of the planet Earth. They enjoy a rough life cycle of 80 planetary rotations around the local sun, with variance depending on environmental and a small number of biological factors. Only around 200,000,000 DNA factors, which shows you how incredibly simple they are compared to our own superior biological structures.

We seeded the basic human stock 200,000 rotations or so ago, along with the typical fossil evidence in case they developed past their operating parameters and started posing difficult questions.

Right now, according to the research, the humans are all rather busy arguing over whether or not the fossils are real.

Of course they're real. They're not from Earth, but what else where we going to do with the dinosaur bones from Gygax-12? Recycling is everyone's job, as I'm sure you know. A pity about the dinosaurs. I really thought they were going to make it.

Anyway, getting back on track, as a species the human race has performed quite admirably over that time. However, as with most introduced species on terraformed worlds, we still have to perform regular maintenance on each population unit on a roughly 24 hour cycle to keep them in essential working order.

There are a multitude of faults that can develop in an individual human being, although some of those relate to simple entropy or accidental damage. Stock unit numbers are such that the entropic and accidental damage functions are well within operating parameters for spoilage, so we don't modify the regular biological functions at an individual level.

There was a single instance of species-wide modification when we realised that giving them wings led to an unacceptable level of mid-air fatalities early on in the species' evolutionary cycle. That only took a couple of generations to breed out in any case, although apparently the desire to fly remains with many human creatures to this day.

That aside, as noted, you won't be maintaining biological functions but instead regular software maintenance on your allotment of human creatures. Your key role going forward, presuming you pass the exams – and I'll remind you that only one out of every five candidates passes the exam and is awarded the degree – is to reinstall the personality of each human on a daily basis.

This isn't a topic we've covered previously, so do pay attention.

Your basic human comes in one of two genders from a strictly biological standpoint, although in accordance with Glepho's principle, the actual sexuality function is subsumed along multiple different strands. That's a topic more suitable for a PhD candidate, however.

What we're going to deep dive into is basic personality maintenance, which is handled by a periodic fatigue function allowing us offline personality time to develop the software and restore from backup the basic personality principles that you would have covered in the earlier ethics module. As a refresher, without those personality principles, the humans would be too busy biting each other's faces off to get on with the important planetary work we have for them. That's why we put the resources into rewriting and developing their individual code on a regular basis.

Humans are built with this fatigue function broadly tied to the solar cycle, although in recent times they have started experimenting with various chemical and physiological small scale adjustments to extend the time in between fatigue refresh periods.

These never work, because we designed them that way. Eventually, the subject falls into what the humans deem "sleep", and that's when we can go to work refreshing the underlying code to deliver optimal individual performance.

Insertion into the cranial cavity is a matter of personal preference; you may enter via the auditory or nasal cavities with your standardised toolkit. Remember that it's important to leave no traces of your work, otherwise typically the creature has to be regrettably destroyed. We can't have them finding out what we're doing.

No, Chizzt, I will take questions at the end of the.... oh, what is it? What do you want to know?

Ah, good question. For those of you not paying attention, young Chizzt here just asked what the humans observe our changes as. It's a complex question to answer, but broadly, when the human creature is asleep, our code rewrites are interpreted as what they call "dreams", or sometimes "visions".

It's a necessary side effect of the neuron rewriting process that has the added advantage of often covering our tracks, because while we may have slightly misfired an individual neuron, the creature itself often just has a vision of wandering around with insufficient clothing on in a large social group – this seems to worry most human creatures – or that they're experiencing some kind of extreme sub-orbital gravity event. Or something more surreal than that.

Bear in mind that while the dream state is a side effect of the broader personality rewrite, there is substantial scope at an individual level to inspire particular thought patterns or developmental pathways. There's an excellent study by Forbonn that I recommend you look up if this interests you... now, what was it called again... Leo-something... Ahhh... Yes, that was it.

" _Leonardo Da Vinci and the role of dream suggestion in the development of human aesthetic development"_. Shouldn't

take you more than a cycle to read, but it's fascinating stuff. Haven't really had the resources to do the kind of work that Forbonn pioneered so many cycles ago since the humans started multiplying their population so rapidly, but then again, there's so many more of them to work on. I believe some of this cycle's doctorate candidates are working up something based on Forbonn's work, but relating to mass group hallucinogens instead... but I'm getting away from the syllabus. Ahem.

In some extreme cases, an individual human creature will go for an extended period without entering the sleep cycle, although the reasons for that vary. At that time, we've observed some critical software and hardware failures.

Typically the hardware failures are self-correcting, as the creature either falls asleep or ceases to function, but the software failures can be increasingly unpredictable, as the neural pathways try to rewrite themselves in what the human creatures refer to as "hallucinations"

Hallucinations deliver the dream style rewrites directly to the auditory, olfactory and optical subsystems, but without the actual rewrites taking place, which is highly disturbing and often damaging to the human creature itself. In some cases it's possible to modify the personality after an hallucination event has taken place, but again in many instances the creature's core functionality is irrevocably compromised.

What is it now, Chizzt?

How do they what?

How do the humans feel about all this?

I've no idea.

Why would we care?

As a species they're a lot of work for very little real reward so far. We're not even sure if they're going to make it through the nuclear cycle without destroying themselves.

Now, if you turn to page two in your textbooks, we'll start examining neural chemical pathways, and how to modify them in very young humans.

****

# 12 Guess

Let me tell you a story. A specific story, in this case, of how we ended up with three cats in the house, rather than two.

Our cats were housewarming presents. Sure, some people get a toaster or a welcome mat, but one of the big reasons for signing that big scary mortgage document back in 1999 was so that we could properly have pets of our own.

We'd rather illicitly had mice in the flat we were living in, but they were no substitute for what we really wanted, which was at least one cat. Preferably two, however. Two seemed like a "good" number of cats. They could keep each other company while we were out at work, it gave us variety, and at that time there were two of us, so it was sort of like having one cat "each".

Not that, to borrow the old gag, you ever really own cats. They own you.

Anyway, with the house move having gone well, some friends of ours offered to pay for us to have cats as a housewarming gift, if only to shut us up about how much we wanted to have cats.

We wanted to get rescue kittens, so we headed out to the RSPCA shelter at Yagoona, a not-insignificant hike from where we live. On the way we talked about what we wanted in our cats.

While there's no "choice" when you're talking rescue animals, because you're limited by whatever animals happen to be available at a given time, we both had preferences, the most clear between us being that we'd rather get animals that actually liked us as people, rather than just "pretty" cats that also happened to be yowling, biting and scratching maniacs.

We'd both known cats like that growing up, and while kittens can change as they grow, commencing from a poor starting point seemed like a bad choice.

The RSPCA cat shelter at Yagoona was (and probably still is — it's been sixteen years since I've been out there) a two stage affair, where you walk around the outside of the cat enclosure to look in on the kittens before making some preliminary "choices" and going inside to actually meet the animals.

There were, as memory serves, around six smaller cages within on each side, with a small corridor in the middle. Girls on the left, boys on the right, and wandering around the outside, I was rather taken with a couple of the tabby boys on the right hand side, although my better half had her eye on a particularly striking pair of cats in the girl's enclosure.

The wander stage out of the way, a staff member guided us inside, locking the cage behind us. That's because, as they told us, it was astonishingly common for the kittens to run out of their cages when the doors were opened, but if the only place they could go was the corridor, this wasn't a big issue.

So we checked the tabby boys first, but they were either sleepy and grumpy, or just anti-social, because they hissed at me the moment the cage was open.

So we turned to the girl's enclosure, and specifically one slightly larger tricolour female, and one with a split orange/black pattern on her face. They were across two cages, and as we were told, the slightly larger kitten had been hand reared before it came to the shelter, and was very people-centric. She purred when my better half picked her up, and it was, as they say in the cliched classics, love at first sight.

Opening the second cage saw a cavalcade of kittens escape. Laughing, we helped scoop them up and return them to the cage. I picked up the split faced kitten, and she squeaked and purred at me, gently kneading her tiny kitten claws into my palm.

Yes, it hurt, but that's cat ownership for you. She was still totally adorable.

So that was our two cats, right?

Not quite. Fate had a slightly different plan that day.

We had returned all the other escapees to their cage, and at the same time, somebody else came around the outside portion of the cages, tapping on the bars to grab the attention of the kittens within. Sensing food (or maybe just attention) they all rushed to the outside of the cage, away from us.

Except for one kitten.

One tiny, obvious runt-of-the-litter white kitten, who looked directly at me from the ground, way below.

She squeaked at me mournfully, and I apologised. We'd said two kittens, and two kittens were plenty.

It turns out that she was quite stubborn once she'd decided on a path of action. This two-cat-decision wasn't going to wash with her.

She miaowed plaintively again and began to climb the cage. Bear in mind that she was about the size of a cricket ball. That didn't stop her climbing directly up to be level with my head, where she once again began crying for me to pick her up out of this nasty cage... please?

You know those huge crying eyes that anime artists particularly adore? Yeah, those eyes were staring directly at me from a kitten that had climbed, to its potential peril, directly up to my own eye level.

How could we ignore that?

Obviously, we couldn't, and in that instant, we decided that maybe three cats were in our future. That was how Guess came into our lives.

Why call a cat after a mystery — or as some folks have put it to me, a jeans brand?

The answer it that it's actually neither.

Once we'd filled out the paperwork and our three kittens had been looked over again by the resident vet, we popped them into a cardboard cat carrier we picked up from the RSPCA. I'd driven to Yagoona, so it was decided my better half would drive back, and I'd carefully have our new tiny charges in the carrier on my lap.

All three had plenty of space in the carrier, because they were tiny kittens after all. The little split-faced kitten (later "Harriet", because for some reason my head decided she looked like a Harriet) hid in the back corner. She does that to this day if she has to be taken to the vet. The larger kitten ("Lita") cried a lot, but she's never ever liked being in the car at all under any circumstances. Both of those names were to come once we got them home, however.

Just as she'd chosen us to be her providers of food, water and warm furry cuddles, however, Guess wasn't going to wait around for a name.

Every minute or so, this tiny white paw would snake out of the side of the carrier and tap a tiny claw onto my better half's leg. Not enough to be dangerous for driving, but enough to be noticeable.

" _Ow! Which one was that?"_

" _The little white one."_

(I feel I should point out that the size and orientation of the carrier meant that I couldn't easily shift it around to put legs out of reach and keep an eye on our new charges.)

" _Ow! Which one was that?"_

" _The little white one. Again."_

" _Ow! Which one was that?"_

" _The little white one. Yet again."_

" _Ow! Which one was that?"_

" _Guess..."_

****

# 13 Remember

You know how they say that there are those moments in time that everyone remembers? Where they were when that famous person was found dead, or when man first walked on the moon or such. Those spotlights in time when everyone has a story to tell, whether they were actually present on the scene or simply reading about it the next day from the comfort of a web browser.

The shock of reading bad news is one thing, but the impact of being in the middle of it is something else again.

Yeah, I was there on that day. I'll never forget it, and everyone always asks me about it.

What I usually talk about is the panic, and the chaos, and the noise, and how lucky I was to make it out of there in one piece.

That's usually enough to satisfy their curiosity, and the conversation can shift to other topics, because while people are curious, they're also not happy stepping outside their comfort zones, and nothing about that day was comfortable.

What I don't talk about, ever, not even to my therapist, is her.

I can still picture that moment, crystal clear. When I close my eyes at night, she is there, still and perfect, never moving, never changing. Right up until it happens.

It had been a busy week, and Christmas was fast approaching.

You know how it is. Every year you tell yourself that you'll get "properly" organised, whatever that means, and get your present shopping out of the way early.

Yet somehow, come Christmas Eve, there's always a couple of things still on the to-buy list. It's far too late to organise anything online, which means that your only option, notwithstanding the option of being a social pariah with no presents to your name, is to brave the shops along with every other poor soul stuck with the same relatively grim chore.

Make no mistake, it is a grim chore. Grim for a very simple reason.

That reason is people.

People are grim in these situations, because while we're all happily swept up in images of loving families and log fires, the reality is that we'd all just like to get the last minute gift shopping out of the way, and the presence of several thousand time-poor shoppers between us and the things we'd just like to buy and then move on from quickly goes from eye catching to annoying.

There are always those special few people who seem to deliberately dither in front of your path. Those who don't know that you should stand on one side of the escalator so that people who want to walk up can do so. The very special types who spend the same ten minutes queuing for a register only to suddenly realise that maybe in order to pay for something it would be wise to have their credit cards ready.

That's not even mentioning the overworked store staff with their painfully forced grimaces wishing you a happy non-denominational festive break. It doesn't take much reading of body language to realise that all they want to do is finish their shifts, and, in most cases, go off and get drunk enough to forget that Christmas is even a thing.

I usually mention to people that I was out buying Christmas presents, because what else would you be doing at a shopping mall on Christmas Eve?

I remember that was just after I'd purchased a particularly heavy coffee table book about the life cycle of Canadian Otters that I felt Uncle Greg would particularly cherish that I headed outdoors for a breather and a cup of coffee. I didn't want to hang around the mall to speak of, but my legs were aching and I badly needed to get away from the endless crush towards the cash registers, at least for a little while.

Naturally, the time of year being what it was, I had to queue for the coffee as well. Having procured my cappuccino with festive ginger nut biscuit, I crunched up against the window on a stool, and sipped away while I watched the world go by.

I was first put onto the great sport of people watching by my ex-wife Dorothy. Dot was a great people watcher, never happier than to sit outside a cafe or pub and observe the world going by. She would rapidly start building entire biographies of people going by based purely on what they were wearing and what they were doing. That one with the slightly bedraggled beard was the manager of a major touring rock act, she'd say, while the woman in the bright pink blouse was on a secret assignation with her lover during her lunch break.

At first I thought it was all rather silly, but before long I was hooked, and every time I sat down, whether it was on a bus, train or restaurant, my idle mind would cook up reasons why everyone else was there.

I had already decided that the barista was a university student who was three shifts away from quitting to dedicate all his time to his thesis that would prove string theory once and for all. The long haired guy in the green jacket reading a paperback novel was clearly a frustrated lawyer winding down after a particularly gruelling divorce case hadn't gone his client's way.

The family bickering over cookies was secretly so stressed because they were faced with the first Christmas without the overly controlling mother-in-law they'd all disliked, but felt lost without. She'd been killed by an escaped Rhino after floods had devastated their town. The woman scowling at her laptop over a chai latte was clearly a third century Persian magician who had fallen into a time vortex, as they so often do.

It was all coming together, and then I spotted her.

She was different. She was stunning. She didn't so much take my breath away as make me sharply inhale just at the sight of her.

She was dressed in pure white blouse, over which she was wearing a tiny black jacket. A dark purple skirt over heavy black boots completed her ensemble. Her hair was jet black, cropped short, and she was wearing dark purple lipstick that matched her skirt.

Normally, a vision that incongruous in a suburban shopping mall would have been enough for me to tell her story, but somehow I couldn't. No witty tale about her being some kind of northern hemisphere refugee who'd packed the wrong clothes, or a manic pixie dream girl who only appeared to lonely shoppers in their most dire hour of need.

None of that. It was confusing, and alluring, and more than a little bit scary that she so totally wiped my mind simply by walking towards me. She was idly swinging her handbag around, seemingly unfettered by the chores of Christmas shopping or the pressures of having anything particular to do in that moment in time.

The moment our eyes met was the precise moment that he opened fire.

I never mention her when people ask, because to this day, what happened next haunts my dreams, both waking and asleep.

At first, I thought it was firecrackers. I think everyone did, because we all looked around trying to work out where they were being let off, and why anyone would waste firecrackers in the middle of the day.

Then, to her right, a teenager in a hoodie crumpled to the ground as everyone registered what was really going on. People screamed, and dived for cover. I tried to move, but my legs betrayed me, and my back locked up, and I froze in place, staring out into the mall courtyard as she ran towards me.

Run, I thought, my own body unable to move through sheer terror. Run, run, please, just run!

Sometimes, when I'm asleep and dreaming, not that I sleep or dream for long these days, she sometimes does make it as far as the door of the cafe.

Never any further.

Most of the time, my mind plays through what really happened, which I can recite to myself with depressing accuracy.

Two and a half steps. That's all she got. Two and a half steps, and a tiny red dot appears on her jacket pocket, as though a child was pointing a laser pointer her way. A split second later, the red dot becomes a carmine explosion as the noise breaks through the crowd panicking and she becomes just the second victim of the Christmas Eve Killer, as the papers later dubbed him.

She says nothing, but her eyes widen as she is thrown backwards by the force of the bullet. The grip on her boots isn't enough to stop her entire body flying backwards, her delicate handbag crashing to the ground just before she does.

All I could do was watch.

She was different, but she was perfect.

Now she is perfectly dead, and I wake, screaming every time.

****

# 14 It's Like...

"It's like... Reservoir Dogs."

"Reservoir Dogs?"

"Yeah, you know. Reservoir Dogs. Everyone loves Reservoir Dogs, don't they? I mean, you have to. You just have to. It's. So. Damned. Cool. It just is. How do they make that? Who thinks of that? Only a genius, that's who. I mean, does somebody sit down and just think 'I'll put these guys in suits here, and I'll have this cool music playing, and they'll just walk towards camera in slow motion. How do you come up with that?'

"That's Reservoir Dogs to you, is it?"

"It most certainly is."

"Just that sequence? Nothing else? No scenes that might make some folk squeamish, or clever dialogue, or anything else?"

"Oh sure, that's there. Of course it's there, mate. Of course. It's just... it's like... it's like the icing on the cake. Not the cake itself."

"And the cake is...?"

"That shot. Walking. Slowly. The music. It's beyond awesome. That shot, by itself and without anything else at all, should have won Oscars that year and every year since."

"You do realise that's just the start of the film, right?"

"Sure. What's your point?"

"There's a whole rest of the damned film in there to sort out. Nobody in their right minds gives out one Oscar, let alone years of them, for just one shot!"

"Doesn't matter, mate. Doesn't matter. It's like I already said. Icing on the cake. Greatest film ever made. No question."

"Ummm... yeah. OK. Whatever. Anyway, you were telling me about your meal last week."

"Right. Right! Yeah, I was. So I was there, by myself, which isn't my usual thing, you know? And I didn't really have any plan at all, but I didn't want to waste my time, and I was hungry. Properly hungry, you know? Not that kind of I could go a packet of crisps hungry, but that right down in your guts gnawing hungry where you can feel your stomach eating itself, right?"

"You paint a very clear picture."

"That's my plan. I'm going to go grab a beer. Want another?"

"Sure, why not?"

***

"So anyway, Reservoir Dogs. Greatest film ever made. You can't argue that, right? I mean, name me another film that's better."

"What about the classics? Citizen Kane? Casablanca? Star Wars? Maybe even The Princess Bride?"

"What? No. Not at all. Not even close. Some rich guy loses a sled, some other guy loses the girl, some fuzzy muppets blow up a space marble and that wrestler guy throws cardboard rocks around. How can they even compare?"

"Weren't you telling me about that meal?"

"Oh yeah, but I keep getting distracted. I think it's those meds. They don't sit well with the beer, but you know me. I'm not likely to give up a Friday night beer, now am I?"

"Probably not, no."

"Exactly. So, Reservoir Dogs..."

"No, we were talking about that meal you had last week. I think you've said everything you need to say about Reservior Dogs."

"Oh, right. Right. RIGHT. Yeah, so I was eating alone that night, 'cause you were... what were you doing that night, anyway?"

"I had a date."

"A date? You? Really? No, don't look like that, I'm only pulling your leg. Good for you, mate. Good for you. How did it go?"

"Pretty well, I think. Good. Yeah. Good. I don't know. I think so, anyway."

"Mate. What did you do wrong?"

"Nothing! I think. Maybe. Maybe nothing... I think it went well, all right? We had a nice meal at that Italian place. Real classy, candles in the wine bottles and everything, even had dessert. After that we went and looked at that art gallery showing down the road. Weird pictures and sculptures and that, but she seems to like that kind of thing, and she seemed to really like me too."

"All sounds good. Is she hot?"

"Yeah. I think so. Sharon. Works at the council doing.. I don't know what. Something in an office at the council, anyway."

"So how did you meet?"

"It turns out that Sharon..."

"Who's Sharon?"

"Sharon. Sharon. SHARON. The woman I went on the date with. I think you'd better perhaps cut down on those beers, mate."

"Nah, I'm good. I'm good. I can hold it. Do you want another?"

"Yeah, while you're up getting one. Same as before."

****

"Right, there you go. Now, you were talking about... what was her name, again?"

"Sharon."

"Right, right, Sharon. You met her... how?"

"You remember Dave, used to work down the abattoir?"

"Oh yeah, Dave. Top bloke, Dave. What about him?"

"Dave's now working for the council, doing gardening type stuff ever since he split with his missus last year."

"Oh yeah. Nasty business that."

"It was, but you know Dave. Nothing gets Dave down."

"That judge tried pretty hard."

"True. True. Anyway, about three weeks ago, I saw Dave out cutting up some tree branches while I was walking down to the corner shop to get the paper, and we got to talking. Just catching up, you know?

I mentioned how I was looking for work, and he said the council was hiring all types, so he suggested I head down there and see if there was any general work going."

"And was there?"

"Nah, not really. But the council's the council, so it took me being redirected to twenty different bloody departments, walking from office to office to find people who weren't at their desks that day anyway before I found that out. I must have walked past Sharon about a dozen times that day, and eventually she asked me what I was looking for. Sharon didn't have any jobs going, but she did have Friday night free, so that was that."

"So when's the second date?"

"Next Friday"

"Next Friday?"

"Yes, that's what I said. Why?"

"Mate. Mate. You can't go. You just can't!"

"What? Why can't I? What possible reason is there why I can't go out on a date with Sharon next Friday"

"We're going fishing on Saturday, remember?"

"Yeah, I know. Hell, of course I know! I reminded you to book the cabin this afternoon you idiot! What's the possible problem with me going on a date on Friday? We don't leave until Saturday morning anyway!"

"Yeah, but it's a second date, mate. A second date. A date of the second variety, second in order, the date after the first one... don't you get it?"

"Clearly I don't. What's the bloody problem?"

"It's the second..."

"Yeah, yeah, we've established that. I get it. It is indeed the second date. We have had a first date, which I just told you about. I'm not seeing any problem with the date that follows the first one being the second date."

"So you know what happens on the second date, right? You know what the score is?"

"What are you getting at? I've been on plenty of second dates, if that's what you're suggesting. I don't recall too many of my second dates suddenly becoming flame breathing dragons. Except maybe Melissa. Or Georgina. The less said there the better. What's the big problem that means I shouldn't see Sharon next Friday?"

"Mate, it's a second date."

"Yes, I think we've clearly established that. Are you sure those pills aren't reacting badly with the beer again?"

"No, mate, no. I'm fine. No need to call the ambulance again. I've never been clearer in the head."

"If you say so."

"I do say so, mate. I do. But look, it's like... the first date is the tryout, right, to make sure that you don't actively want to slit each other's throats, or discover that she supports the wrong footy team or something disgusting like that. No deal breakers. The second date, though... that's where the expectations come in."

"The expectations? Like what, that I expect I'm going to go on a date with Sharon next Friday?"

"No mate, no. No. Not like that. The expectations. You're much more likely to... to... to get lucky. Do I have to bloody spell it out for you? Birds. Bees. Is any of this getting through to you?"

"So what if I did? Got a problem with that? You've never even met Sharon. I mean, I never took you for a wowser or anything."

"So, you go on the date, right. You have a nice meal, maybe a few drinks, and then you end up back at her place for a nightcap, and maybe a little more, catch my drift."

"Yeah, you're not exactly being Captain Subtle here. Again, I'm not seeing the problem. I've been around that particular block a couple of times."

"So, you do the deed, or at least in your case try to..."

"Hey, watch it!"

"Only kidding mate, only kidding."

"You'd better be. So, what's the problem with that, exactly?"

"You fall asleep afterwards. I mean, we all do. We're meant to."

"Maybe. Maybe. Still not seeing the problem."

"You wake up, it's 9am, and she's making coffee, or cleaning the leftover pizza out of the back of the sofa, or whatever. "

"Maybe she is. Again, not seeing the problem, unless she's screaming at me or something. What's the problem with that?"

"Meanwhile, mate, I've been waiting since 3am to go fishing!"

****

# 15 Lane

Lane was angry.

Lane was often angry, something that his co-workers learned quickly whenever there was a problem at work. He was the first to explode in rage, swinging a socket wrench at a machine when it stopped working even when all that ultimately did was add a few dents to the paintwork rather than a solution. If nothing else, everyone let him do that to a machine rather than them. Everyone was scared of Lane, and Lane liked it that way.

It was late, and it was dark, and the rain was thumping a regular pattern down on the rusty front of his truck as he made his way through the night.

Lane hated dark, and he hated the rain. More than both, though, he hated driving in the rain, and yet here he was making his way through the gloom from the bar to home.

She had to call, didn't she? She just bloody had to.

It had been a pretty good night up until then, if you didn't count those cold cheese fries or the jukebox being out of action, or Lane getting angry as the Bills went down 37-3 against the Browns.

The Browns! Of all the teams to lose to, the Browns, especially when Kevin from work was such a big Browns fan. All week long during the lunch break Lane had been having some fun gently whispering the score line to Kevin, suggesting that the Browns might score more if they didn't turn out, or perhaps if they put the cheerleaders on the field instead, because they could grow better beards than the Browns.

It had all come crashing back down on him after that first touchdown. Then the second. Then the third, and by the time the halftime whistle was blown, Lane wanted to look anywhere but the TV, or Kevin's smirking face.

Lane, like his father before him, had been a Bills fan from birth, but every once in a while those morons in the coaching positions made him ponder his team loyalty. Not that he was going to suddenly become a Dolphins supporter, but really, if they kept on playing that badly. It was an embarrassment for the fans having to sit and watch the team collapse, year after year.

Still, a good beer helped to drown the loss away from his memories, as did talking to the guys from work. Nothing serious, of course. Guy stuff; that movie due out next week that looked really good, whether or not that waitress was actually old enough for Dave to try to take home (or whether her father owned more than one shotgun), or who was next in line for a promotion. Lane knew that it wouldn't be him, because he'd gotten that shift change lined up through the union, and those fuckers in management never forgot a grudge.

Still, the beer was good and cold, and flowed plenty, as it always did when he went for a drink or two.

Then she'd called. The kids were driving her nuts, but that was her job. Didn't she understand that? A man works hard, Lane had told her, and he deserves time to wind down. Still, she'd continued, he must have had enough by now, and they were doing that crackdown on drink drivers. If he got caught, that would be his licence, and his job, she'd said.

Damn woman. Sometimes she spoke sense, even if in his heart Lane didn't want to hear it. The bar was light and joy and fun and beer and youth, and while Lane had started noticing some salt and pepper coming through his beard, it was still very much his bar, and his Friday night. Friday nights were special to him, and always had been.

Still, she'd kept on, and Lane realised that while she'd done so, Dave, Kevin, Leroy and Harry had all somehow headed off, leaving him in a bar full of strangers. So he'd shouted yes. he was coming home to her, and then made a point of cutting the call off while she was still talking.

Lane knew that his Dad, three years dead now, would have stayed in the bar anyway. Dad never worried about drinking alone, or drinking and driving. Or giving Lane a Friday night beating, deserved or not.

Lane still shivered walking in through the front door of his house, half expecting to hear the sound of his father pulling the switch down off the rack that had been the first thing to go on the bonfire as soon as his dad was six feet under.

But now there was just the rain, and the road, and this idiot in his stupid little Japanese tin box of a car in front of him doing under twenty.

"Hey buddy, some of us are trying to get home!"

Of course, Lane realised, he couldn't be heard outside his truck, especially with the rain hammering down as it was. So he gently tapped on the horn to give the guy the hint he obviously needed while gently nudging the gas to push his headlights right into his car.

That sure got him speeding up, and just past the school he turned off to the left leaving the road ahead clear for Lane to get up to a proper speed, just over 50. Home was still a good half hour away, though, and that rain wasn't getting any lighter.

Molly's words still ran through his head about them checking for drunk drivers. Not that a few beers would really affect him, Lane figured. A real man can hold his drinks, he knew, but equally he knew that speeding was an easy way to get the bored local cops to check anyway.

What was that up ahead? Some kind of animal in the road. A cat maybe, or a raccoon.

Oh well, too bad, Rocky, Lane thought. I've got a wife to get back to, and you've just got rabies, and.... now a tyre pattern over your skull.

Lane chuckled to himself. That was a good one. Real witty. He'd have to remember to tell the guys at work about that one on Monday morning.

Lane drove on, listening to little more than the rain until he suddenly remembered that he could have the radio on. On nights like this the reception would get a little sketchy, but it beat listening to the sounds inside his head, all of which were pretty sour.

" _Y'antNuthingButAHooooowwwnnnnDawwwwggg..."_

Somebody, somewhere in the music industry, was doing the King a great disservice, and Lane wasn't having none of that.

With a resigned sigh, he flicked over to the other station, which sometimes played a few old hits. Tonight, though, all he got was static with the odd voice peeking through. Some kind of news program, maybe, but nothing he could tap his toes to.

Maybe there was still a tape or two in the glovebox? Lane popped it open with his right hand, and swore as assorted junk spilled out, including a couple of tapes. He leaned down to the footwell, and grabbed a random tape to jam into the player.

Looking back out to the road, Lane spotted something up in the road ahead. Oh, a deer. Yeah, that'd make a real mess of the truck, Lane figured. Better swerve out of the way of it. Easy now. Easy. Wouldn't want to skid on a road like this...

****

"Yeah, Sarge, it's a real mess. Metal everywhere, and I can smell gas, too."

"No, it looks like he just swerved clear off the side of the bridge and into the side of the gulch."

"No, no survivors. Somebody had better call his wife."

****

# 16 O'Malley's Cat

The bell above the door rang, as it always did at the Weavers Way to indicate somebody was coming or going. In this case, coming, as Dave Johnson, the butcher from the high street entered the pub, a gust of cold snowy wind following him in.

The cold and the noise caught O'Malley's Cat's attention, and she looked up from her self-cleaning duties for a second.

"Evening Josie. A pint of my regular my darling, if you would. And how could I forget, evening, O'Malley's Cat", said Dave, as he took up his regular spot at the bar. He winked at O'Malley's Cat, because that was his way, and O'Malley's Cat was satisfied with this, and went back to licking at her paw to help clean her head.

As she did every night, O'Malley's Cat sat in her box, watching the patrons with a lazy eye, ever vigilant for a spilled drink (for she hated the sound of shattering glass, and would run and hide behind the kitchen fridge whenever a glass was broken) or a dropped crisp, because the ones with bacon flavouring were delicious, as long as she could get to them before the vacuum cleaner sucked them up. The ladies book reading club that came in early on Friday nights tended to deliberately drop a few just so they could pat and coo at O'Malley's Cat, and this was perfectly fine by her as long as they didn't drop only small crisp fragments. A few 'accidental' claws in stockings had the ladies well trained.

O'Malley's Cat was generally well pleased with her lot, and with the regular pub patrons.

None of the regulars could remember a time when O'Malley's Cat hadn't sat in the bar every night, although inevitably any newcomer would ask the question about whose cat it was, why it was there, and whether any health and safety rules were being broken due to its presence.

Not that too many strangers came into a small country pub at this time of year, with winter biting in hard and the roads dark and dangerous. Sometimes there would be an influx of tourists in the summer months, heading down towards the coast, but in summer O'Malley's Cat preferred to spend her time dozing on the upstairs windowsill, where stray breezes collected and kept her cool.

Still, from time to time new folk would join the pub regulars, and once the questions of sporting loyalty were asked, it inevitably came about that the newcomers would ask the same standard questions about O'Malley's Cat.

O'Malley's Cat was well aware why it was there ('to catch mice') and whose cat it was ('O'Malley's, even though the sign on the door said that the pub was the Weaver's Way; O'Malley had been the previous publican, but some names stick, and it never answered simply to either 'O'Malley' or 'Cat'.

O'Malley's family had owned the pub for generations, and for generations there had been a cat behind the bar, dating back, so the stories went, to the days of the black plague, when having a cat in your drinking den meant that rats were kept to a minimum. But O'Malley had been the last of his line, and when old age and infirm joints, not to mention a lifetime of matching his regular patrons drink for drink had taken its toll, and he'd reluctantly retired and sold the pub on.

Some had protested that the Weaver's Way wouldn't be the same pub without an O'Malley pulling pints behind the bar, they said, until it was pointed out that without a sale, there wouldn't be a pub at all, and the best they could do would be to buy cheap lager from the supermarket and drink it at home. In any case, while she did move to the town from the city, Josie had worked hard to weave herself into the local social fabric, sponsoring children's trips for the local school and keeping pub prices as low as she could afford to in order to ensure steady custom.

Josie never thought of herself as a cat person, but she was a pragmatic enough businessperson to understand that, like the horse brasses and slightly wonky stools, O'Malley's Cat was a part of the fixtures of the pub that the regulars expected and liked. O'Malley's Cat was generally healthy and lived mostly on pub scraps, so Josie simply regarded her as a promotional expense that also doubled as a warm footrest on her bed in the cold winter months.

Some jokers had started calling her 'Josie's Cat' when she'd took over the pub, but she'd hissed and snarled at the very suggestion, and they soon took the hint. O'Malley's Cat she was, and O'Malley's Cat she would stay.

As for the health and safety issue, inevitably one or more of the local health inspectors would pipe up at the end of the bar, commenting that it was a well-kept clean animal in fine health that was doing a public good by keeping the rodent population down while maintaining good public spirits at the same time. They would always laugh at the "spirits" line, as though it were the very first time it had ever occurred to them to say such a thing in a pub, and the regular laugh would silence most queries at that point.

The fact that O'Malley's Cat had never particularly cared for chasing mice, or that there weren't any mice around anyway was entirely irrelevant. Every once in a while, there might be a cockroach or two scuttling through the kitchen, and O'Malley's cat would pounce on those, but only long enough to stun them so that cook could safely fling them into the bin.

Once, many years ago, when O'Malley's Cat was much younger, she'd decided to eat one of the cockroaches she had caught. It was big and fat, and it looked kind of juicy, and for some reason there had been no crunchies left in her bowl that morning, so she was particularly hungry.

The dry, papery taste of the cockroach stayed with her for months, and she had vowed never to make that mistake again.

That was long ago, and the night was getting on, with the regular drinkers in their regular spots. It wasn't Trivia Tuesday or Sports Quiz Thursday, but a lazy Wednesday night when there wasn't even a good game on to entice the good folk into the pub for some communal drinking. O'Malley's Cat could tell that Josie was stressed by this, as a quiet pub was a poor pub, and it had been a long and harsh winter that hadn't made folks keen to head out and drop coin in return for ales.

That was when the stranger walked into the pub.

O'Malley's Cat knew all the regulars, of course, because they wouldn't be regulars otherwise, but it had also seen every new and strange face as it had entered the pub over the last dozen years. Every single one had entered the same way, looking a little bewildered, sometimes a little wet or cold depending on the weather outside, but never terribly confident, because while any pub has its set staples, how they're laid out and even where the bar staff tends to stand while waiting for drink orders varies from venue to venue.

The stranger was neither bewildered nor befuddled, but instead instantly in command of the room simply due to his presence. Shaking a little light snow off his shoulders, he strode confidently to the middle of the bar, as though he'd known that Josie would be standing there drying glasses, and ordered a "a pint of the best local brew" as though he'd been drinking for years.

O'Malley's Cat didn't like this. She didn't like it one bit. Yes, new drinkers often became regulars if they had moved to the town recently, because with only one pub where else would they drink, but there was a routine to such things. The nervous entry. The quiet drinking alone, or perhaps as a couple. Maybe turning up to Trivia Tuesday, or joining in one of the seasonal events and becoming part of the community.

And always, always, ALWAYS, greeting O'Malley's Cat when they entered the pub.

The stranger ignored O'Malley's Cat, not even particularly turning towards her to even take notice of her existence.

This would never do. But it was late, and O'Malley's Cat could see from the clock that Josie would be calling time in the next half hour, at which point the stranger would have to leave. Hopefully somebody else would leave beforehand, bidding both Josie and O'Malley's Cat goodnight in the traditional way, and the stranger would get the hint.

But he didn't. He was the last to leave, and he simply finished his drink, said goodnight to Josie and left.

The next night, O'Malley's Cat was still slightly fuming at the slight, but putting it to the back of her mind. The salmon at dinner had been a little salty, so she'd been drinking heavily from the bowl beneath the bar to the point where it was dry, but despite the slow level of clientele, Josie wasn't taking the hint that it needed refilling.

O'Malley's Cat was just twirling around Josie's legs to protest her thirst when the bell rang, indicating a new patron.

The voice betrayed the stranger, and O'Malley's Cat abandoned its thirst in favour of some attention. The back of the bar was set up with a small stack of old ginger beer bottles to allow O'Malley's Cat to easily climb up to her box, but O'Malley's Cat decided to make the jump in one, simply to show off what she could do.

She hunched down, readied her legs and pounced up to the bar in one leap, directly in front of the stranger.

Infuriatingly, his back was turned, watching the TV news.

Dejected, O'Malley's Cat slunk to her box.

It was the same the next night, and the next. Every night, the stranger would come in, and every night, he would pay no attention to O'Malley's Cat. The regulars still nodded, and sometimes scritched O'Malley's Cat's chin in order to try to raise her spirits, but that didn't matter while this... this... infuriating stranger wouldn't even acknowledge her existence!

Nothing worked. Not wrapping herself around the stranger's legs, or 'accidentally' flicking a bar mat at his lap, or even deliberately spilling Dave's pint in a direct arc to slop over onto his chair.

He even had the nerve to apologise to Dave and buy him another drink when that happened, all the time ignoring O'Malley's Cat as though she just wasn't there!

So a week after he'd first started coming to the Weaver's Way, which was usually when the crowd shifted to regarding someone as a 'regular', O'Malley's Cat decided that a more direct approach was needed.

She waited until the stranger appeared, and then snuck out the upstairs window right after dinner was served, and waited out the evening shift in the carpark, watching the patrons come and go. Even the flight of a nearby flock of geese couldn't keep her attention away from the door.

At last, the final patron had left, but for the stranger. The door opened, and O'Malley's Cat walked directly into the path of the stranger.

" _Ah, O'Malley's Cat."_

O'Malley's Cat was taken aback. The stranger stared directly at her, with pitch black eyes glinting against the carpark lights.

" _Now, let me see. Oh, yes. Yes. But... no."_

O'Malley's Cat was dumbfounded. Usually if people saw her outside, they presumed she was lost and carried her inside, or at least called to Josie to bring her in. But just as he'd done the first night he'd walked into the bar, the Stranger took charge, as though he had known O'Malley's Cat her whole life.

O'Malley's Cat meowed experimentally. Maybe that might warrant a pat?

" _Oh, very good, O'Malley's Cat. But still no. Not now. Go back inside, before Josie realises you're missing."_

" _You'll have my attention_ , all in due time."

****

# 17 Anxiety

The room is full of them.

People, I mean. People I work with, some people I should probably work with, some people whose names I've forgotten but whose faces ring a bell, and inevitably more than a few people who have that kind of forgettable face and forgettable name that will instantly recognise me, walk over to me and start chatting as though I'm meant to know who the hell they are.

God, but this is hell. I've got to walk through this room, and make idle chit-chat, and pretend to give one single solitary damn about how Russia's third-largest Vodka brand is making yet another tilt at the local market in an effort to sell its wares to somebody besides the lowest of the low meths drinkers. Apparently that's done by wrapping up some blonde bimbo in a fur rug that only just hides her nature strip and photoshopping away all her blemishes, which is why I'm faced with that particular image on banners, posters and even inexplicably balloons that litter the hall. But before the senior vice president for global expansion can come up and mangle a perfectly good speech I've spent weeks writing for him, people have to be schmoozed, which means free booze, terrible food and idle chit-chat.

I hate idle chit-chat. Hate it with every single fibre of my soul, because I'm so spectacularly rubbish at it. I have a rare and special skill of always saying the absolute wrong thing at the wrong time, like asking a very fat woman when she's expecting, or talking about how the food is just to die for in front of somebody who's just lost a family member, or simply spilling wine on the suit of somebody very rich and powerful.

It's more than that, though. I look at them, chatting and laughing and clinking glasses in groups, and wish so very painfully that I could join them. Wish that I could move as fluidly as, say, Sam does.

I hate Sam. I loathe him. I despise him.

No, I don't really hate Sam.

How could you hate Sam, with his award winning smile, and his ability to pick just the right pocket square for the occasion, and the ease with which he ingratiates himself into every single social situation he's ever been faced with?

Actually, when I put it like that, I can see exactly what the problem is. I don't hate Sam.

I envy Sam.

Bastard. He's not having a problem here, far from it. He's over there, surrounded with half the office laughing at him, and the other half lusting after him. You could drop Sam into the middle of the Arctic, and within ten minutes he'd be laughing around with the polar bear population before taking the most attractive of the local penguin population home to an igloo he'd easily build for the night. Meanwhile, I'd be frozen to death, not even worth having the bears gnaw on my frozen corpse.

Oh no. She's seen me, and she's walking over. Quick, what's her name, what's her name, no, don't look down at her dress, she'll think you're having a sly perve.

Wait, I totally am having a sly perve, because it's impossible not to. This is NOT helping me remember her name and she's nearly here think you stupid insecure git, THINK!

Sarah? No, she's not a Sarah. Mabel? No, nobody's been called Mabel since around 1930, and she's not in her seventies unless she knows some very good plastic surgeons.

Anna? She looks like an Anna. Maybe... no, not Anna. Felicity? Sharon? Emma? CarolSusanBeatriceWilmaElizabethAnneChristieJenna NONONONONO!

Oh, bugger it, I just don't know. I'm going to have to wing it. Try not to look nervous, try not to do the stupid nervous laugh.

So of course, the stupid nervous laugh is here.

Oh, it is Sarah. Of course it's Sarah you blithering dolt. God, you're useless, you really are. And she's still talking, and asking how we are, and the nervous laugh just wants to escape over and over again, because I don't even know how to exchange simple pleasantries with somebody, think of something to say, think, think, think, think!

Where did that come from? Oh, yes, very clever, showed off that we've been reading the big newspapers, but she's just here to help run the event and doesn't really want to discuss the plight of Eritrean refugees right now. It's not really "on brand" for a Vodka launch, is it.

You twerp. And now she's looking at me like I've got a large splodge of dog dung stuck to my forehead.

I don't, do I? No, resist the urge to wipe your forehead you idiot. DON'T...

Oh, I did. How do I get out of this conversation, how do I escape, god, I feel like I can't breathe, and yet my bladder... AHA!

That's it. Toilet break time. Sorry, got to dash to the toilets.

Got away. Except now because I thought it, I really DO have to dash to the toilets, and I've no idea where they are in this stupid tent. Maybe I can ask the bar staff, no, I don't want you to pour me a shot, oh, damn, a shot.

Do I have to drink it? What's the etiquette when you interrupt someone mid-shot-pour to ask where the lavatories are? Is there an etiquette?

Never mind. There's nowhere to put a full shot down anyway except my throat. May as well see what all the fuss and hype is about.

GOD, BUT THAT BURNS.

Must... maintain composure. Yes, that's it, smile, like you just enjoyed pouring what felt like lit kerosene down your throat. Maybe it was kerosene. Maybe they're trying to poison you.

No time to collapse down dead, though, what with this bursting bladder. Must find the bathrooms. He said they were "over there", but of course the stupid suit wearing git was already pouring another shot so he couldn't actually point any way at all.

Maybe it's behind this... oh yes, of course it is. Kommisars and Tsarinas. How very bloody witty.

Bit wobbly on my feet now. That Vodka's clearly hitting the spot. Didn't have much for lunch, either, and these do's never have much in the way of real food. Something vaguely burnt on a stick carried around on a tray to serve a hall of four hundred people, so almost everyone goes hungry almost all of the time.

To the Kommisars, Komrade.

Oh no. There's a queue. Which means yet more chit-chat while I wait to void my bladder, which makes it even harder to idly talk. That's if you're meant to idly talk, because there's always that spot, somewhere around the door to any gentleman's room where ALL TALK MUST CEASE.

That's always the point where I've just come to the point of the conversation where I've got something particularly clever to say, but of course I can't say it, and then when I do come out having done the ablutions, they're always gone. Or I keep on talking, break the social contract, and then nobody will talk to me.

I wonder if the ladies' room is like that? Do the Tsarinas all cease conversation, or do they chat while they shit? How would you find a thing like that out, anyway? That's not exactly idle chatter, is it?

"'Scuse me love, do you natter away while you're squeezing one out?"

No, that would never do. Although it's exactly the kind of thing that Sam could get away with saying in a way that made it seem like the world's funniest joke, whereas if I said it, everyone would assume I'm some kind of scatological sicko before I'd even finished the question.

Bastard.

Right, the door looms, so I can stop smiling weakly as though I'm listening in to the discussion of the intricacies of last night's game. Always good to nod your head and make murmuring noises whenever the sports obsessives are talking, I find.

Ah, that's better. Shake once, shake twice, but not too many times otherwise you're playing with yourself. Clean up, and exit before the smell becomes overpowering...

and I'm right back to where I started, because Sarah's right there, and what's worse SHE'S TALKING TO SAM!

AND THEY'RE BOTH COMING RIGHT AT ME ASKING QUESTIONS!

I can't handle this. I really, truly can't handle this. It's too much. My head is spinning and my legs are jelly and it feels like I've forgotten to zip up my fly and now I HAVE to check down there to see if I have, and I can't move my head and I can't even smile.

I can't even breathe.

I can't even breathe.

I can't breathe.

Breathe.

No.

I really can't breathe, and all I want to do is shrivel up and hide behind this potted plant that smells a hell of a lot like about twenty unwanted shots of Vodka for some reason.

It's all going... kind of purple? Why is it going purple, and dark around the fringes? Why is the room spinning, and oh look, here comes the floor...

****

# 18 Downsides

I have a secret. Quite a big secret, but I do try quite hard to keep it to myself. I'm not embarrassed or anything; it's just that when I do reveal my secret to people, they tend to freak out.

Quite a bit, actually. Most people aren't actively outraged or frightened. It's more like curious, verging on the obsessive, and most of them just plain don't get that my secret is a real pain in the backside.

I usually start out by relating how it all happened. The dark stormy night, the lab, the chemicals, the particle accelerator.

I was working late, I was tired. The coffee wasn't really hitting its mark that night, so my concentration was a little bit off.

Not that what I was doing was notably dangerous, you know. Anyway, the worst that could have gone wrong would have been a small lab fire. Nothing you'd even read about in the paper the next day. But combine that with those terrorists letting that suitcase nuke off in the subway directly underneath my building, and I went from a very small lab fire to the worst day of my life.

Worst day of a lot of other people's lives too. I get that. I survived, and they didn't, and I know what superheated light tastes like. Kind of like burnt chocolate, as it happens.

Like most, I do put out a yellow daffodil to mark the day that New York became a smoking crater, but I never mention the fact that I was at the centre of it that fateful night.

Not that I let off the nuke, or anything anyway, but some people will always put two and two together and somehow make that turn into a screaming pit of it all being my fault. Which it very much isn't.

They are always interested in how I survived, however. The folks I don't know so well get the amnesia-I'm-not-really-sure-but-I-thank-God-that-I-did story. When they think that you don't know, the topic usually shifts to the game last night, or the latest hot reality TV show, and we can move on.

The people who have known me for a while, or who I choose to let know me know always seem to end up prying, however, and that's when I reveal that I was changed.

Yeah, you've guessed it by now. I have what are usually called super powers. You know, to distinguish from those regular powers that people don't have either. Even so, yeah, I guess it is remarkable to be remarkable, so maybe some folks could call them super powers.

But not me. Oh no. I wouldn't call them super powers. They're a real pain in the ass, you know?

No, you don't. Everyone always assumes that having super powers would be the golden ticket to a magical life of riches, fame, superbabes and the talk show circuit, but it's totally not like that. Not like that at all.

I didn't even realise I had superpowers at first. I've really just pieced it together bit by painful bit.

Painful? Oh yeah. These abilities are muy painful, my friend.

Take super-strength. Yes, I can lift a bus if I have to, because for whatever crazy reason, my muscles now allow me to do that.

Bus lifting isn't a skill you can put on your resume to speak of, because who ever put a wanted ad up for bus lifters? Nobody, that's who.

I could probably punch through a brick wall as well, but I never really want to find out. The problem, you see, is that while I've got these crazy strong muscles, that's all I got. Just the muscles. Under the muscles, I'm just the same old me I always was. Standard human skeleton, standard human blood pressure. So if I do hit something in anger, sure, it does enter the stratosphere and most likely take out a satellite or two.

Down here on planet earth, though, I'm looking at a fistful of broken bones. You know that whole thing about every action having an equal and opposite reaction? Newton came up with that. If I ever met him, I'd punch him so hard... except, no, I wouldn't, 'cause the equal and opposite reaction in this case means that while he'd fly back several centuries, my whole arm would shatter.

Again.

Yeah, that was one learned the hard way. Human bones are remarkably strong for what they are, but when you punch something with super force at super speed, they rush way past their tensile strength limits and remember that time when their calcium was just a quivering heap of sand.

It's also stupidly hard to convince rehab nurses that you're not perfectly OK when your muscles can easily lift test weights, but the bones underneath are creaking and cracking because they haven't set properly yet.

Yeah, I'm not invulnerable. Why does everyone always think that being super strong means you can deflect bullets with your nipples? I mean, how realistic would that be? Underneath the muscles that you can't see are super because I've still got the physique of a man who dedicated his life to science rather than the sporting field, I've still got an ordinary human anatomy, including a heart that races every time I do use my strength, deliberately or not.

My sister's a cardiologist, and she says every time I do something "super" with my strength, it's like having a tiny heart attack and running a marathon simultaneously. You try doing that and not collapsing, puking your guts out. Not that there's any food in there, because all that exertion also burns through way more calories than your regular joe.

Yeah, it's why I'm always chowing down on a chocolate bar or a burger but never seem to put on weight. That is a plus I guess, but the downside there are my dentist's bills. And whatever all those sugars and fats are doing to my vascular system.

The X-Ray vision? Yeah, I've got that too. Again, not so cool as you might think.

No, really. Stop looking at me like that. No, it's not on at the moment. Wouldn't matter you putting your hands over yourself if it was, by the way, but it's not.

Yes, OK, when I first realised I had X-Ray vision, I did what any hot-blooded American male would do, and I checked out everything with curves and pulse that walked on by me.

Hey, I'm only human. Well, mostly human, anyway. And Los Angeles has some seriously fine women.

X-Ray vision isn't selective, though, so I'd always end up looking at a whole street full of folk completely stark naked. That's one hell of an eye opener, not to mention a great way to lose your appetite for lunch. Turns out, most folk could use some real world photoshopping before they take up inadvertent mass nudity.

I've also got to be super careful with the X-Ray vision anyway.

Heh. Super.

Back after the accident, while I was sorting all of it out, I figured I could at least use the X-Ray vision to help in the lab, if only I could bring it under control. So every night, I'd practice on my cat, just picking out the skin under the fur, then the nerves under the skin, and all the way down to the bones. Mr Fluffles didn't seem to mind, because it warmed him up on those cold winter nights. At least for a while.

I'm still paying off the vet bills for all those tumours they had to cut out of Mr Fluffles, and he still hisses at me except when I'm offering him food, or a blanket to keep him warm now that he no longer has any fur at all.

I know, I know, you saw me flying. Another curse that's mine to bear.

I actually don't do that all that much any more, though. I just had to get that frisbee off my roof, and I thought everyone would still be asleep at 6am on a Sunday morning.

No, it doesn't mean I can "stick it to those lousy airlines". Far from it.

Two words for you, friend: Bird strike.

A big V formation of ducks might look cute as hell when you're looking at them from down on the ground, but when you meet them face to face coming out of a cloud, they hit hard. This nose didn't break itself, you know.

I took to wearing a motorbike helmet for a while but those things seriously impact on your peripheral vision, and flying isn't just a matter of a straight line ahead.

More like "up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-dammit-dead-magpie-now-oh-crap-that's-a-747-upupupupupupUP-forwards-down-forwards-up-avoid-storm-stupid-mountains-stupid-powerlines-starting-to-rain-getting-cold-up-here-downdowndowndowndown-land-before-I-freeze."

Frankly, I'm happy to pay a couple of hundred bucks to sit in a lousy small metal seat in a plane compared to that.

Telekinesis ain't no walk in the park neither. It's not like there's a manual to this stuff, so the first inkling I got was when I was walking through that electronics store checking out laptops, and they all started hovering towards me. I freaked, and the telekinesis failed.

Thirty laptops suddenly dropping onto a polished wood floor make one hell of a noise, let me tell you. How do you explain that to the store staff afterwards? You can't, and I couldn't rush out of there super-fast without setting my clothes on fire, because even when you run real fast, friction will still set your buttons on fire. At some point you've got to stop before your skin burns, and then you're naked and blistered at best, and under a truck at worst.

Telekinesis is a stupid, stupid power to have. One nightmare, and your girlfriend ends up on top of the wardrobe upside down, pinned there by several clothes baskets and the remains of your bathroom cupboard. It's tough to maintain a relationship under that kind of stress, which is why I'm single.

Don't even get me started on what that combination of powers does to your love life.

You know what super power I don't have that I would like? Time travel.

That way, I could travel back in time and travel back to New York.

No, not to stop the suitcase bomb, because then I'd still be stuck being stupid super powered me back in time. No, I'd buy myself a plane ticket out of New York a week before the bomb went off.

Sure, it's a little greedy, but it would get me away from these damned powers.

****

# 19 Boris

Boris' neck was itchy.

It was the suit, which was just a little too tight today. Maybe he should cut down on the cheeseburgers and beer after work, but a guy's got to do something to wind down after a hard day. He could go a cheeseburger and a cold one from Marty's right now. Maybe a game of pool, too, but there was no time for that, at least not tonight. Maybe Friday. Fridays were a good night at Marty's, with a big crowd at the bar. Not that crowds ever bothered Boris, or got in his way for long. But Friday would have to wait.

All he could do right now was stand guard, just like the boss had told him to. "Something is up, Boris", he'd said, and while he never had said what the "something" was, it must have been serious, because Boris was due to do the collections, like on any Tuesday. Instead here he was, standing guard in the office instead, feeling itchy in his suit and thinking about cheeseburgers.

The boss used to say that Boris looked like a concrete block wrapped in Armani, and Boris didn't really understand what that meant, but then understanding things wasn't ever Boris' job. Boris just did things the boss wanted done, preferably quickly, quietly, and leaving those he interacted with in no doubt whatsoever as to the strength he could apply if it came to that.

Quite often it didn't come to that, because the mere presence of Boris' shadow across their desks was enough to make the most belligerent "respected businessman" comply with whatever it was the boss actually wanted while simultaneously increasing the cost of their next trouser dry cleaning bill.

Boris' dry cleaning bills were covered by the boss, although he never did see the boss actually paying for any of the cleaning of Boris' suit jackets or cuffs if they did end up being a little blood spattered.

Mostly, the folks at the dry cleaning place just did a lot of dry gulping whenever Boris' frame filled their door with another rack of suits. Within the day they'd be cleaned and collected, no questions asked and no money changing hands that Boris could see. Oh well, Boris figured. That must be someone else's problem.

Boris didn't like problems, because problems were hard. More than once, though, Boris had heard the boss describe him as "the best problem solver he had", which didn't make much sense to Boris. He couldn't add up, or package the goods, or even drive the trucks all that well. Boris knew he could scare people, but how that made a difference escaped him.

Boris never spent much time thinking too deeply about stuff. Stuff was complicated, and stuff was understood by other folks. Boris knew that they mostly just wanted him around because he was big.

Boris had been big ever since he'd blown up in height somewhere around the eighth grade, taller than any of his fellow students, or rapidly any of his teachers. Since that time he'd always been "big" Boris, until even referring to him as "big" was viewed as redundant, and then he was just Boris.

Boris the guy none of the girls had wanted, because he was taller than their fathers. Boris the guy that got kicked off the football team because too many coaches complained that he was "clearly" a twenty five year old when he was only sixteen. Mind you, that guy with the fractured back and the lawsuit after the first game of the season might have had something to do with that too. Boris the kid who always got kicked out of class for breaking chairs just by sitting down in them. Stupid teachers. It wasn't his fault they bought stupid cheap crappy plastic chairs that broke whenever you leaned back on them.

After high school, Boris had failed his way through every simple job he'd ever held, from burning the fries at the fast food place to breaking the timber at the lumber yard to losing his way as a taxi driver stuck behind the wheel of a car about half the size it needed to be just to take in Boris' frame. For some reason, a lot of prospective fares shrank away and declared that they'd rather walk whenever Boris pulled up at the kerb, too.

It was only when he got that job as the night security guard and one of the boss' other guys — Boris couldn't quite remember, but he thought he might have been called Tony — had boldly walked up to the guard hut and struck up a conversation that Boris found his true vocation.

Boris wasn't what you'd call bright, but when Tony had suggested that for quite a bit more than the fifteen dollars fifty that he was earning per hour he should turn his back while a truck backed up to the warehouse, Boris had enthusiastically agreed.

Sure, he'd been fired the next day when that shipment of suits couldn't be found and there was that big gap in the security camera footage, but from then on, Boris had a steady, well paying job to go to anyway. The hours were a little irregular, but the pay was good and he didn't have to fill out any tax forms or worry about any health insurance either.

Tony... or was it Frank? Yeah, Frank. Frank had a thin, crisp moustache that he always kept waxed down and cut real fine. Boris didn't like moustaches, or beards, because he'd tried to grow one when he finished high school, and the itching it gave his face was something fierce. Anyone who could stand that kind of itching, Boris thought, had something to hide.

Boris could still picture Frank's face as the concrete had poured down over him in the basement of that building down on 75th. Frank had been "seeing" the boss' wife Linda, and not in the sense of seeing her picture in magazines, so the Boss said.

Boris didn't really understand what the boss meant by that, because he was pretty sure he'd never seen Linda's face in magazines either. The kind of figure she had was something that Boris was familiar with, because Boris' favourite kinds of magazines were heavy on the pictures and not so heavy on the words, or the clothes in the pictures next to the words either, but even there Boris was pretty sure he'd never seen Linda's particular face.

Linda was quite pretty, or had been until she was lying face down next to Frank in that basement. She'd begged Boris, and even torn open her purple blouse to reveal her already eye catching cleavage, but the boss' orders were the boss' orders, and he'd screamed at Boris' face, his complexion turning purple, as to exactly what Boris was to do with Frank and Linda that night.

Boris knew who was paying the bills, and it wasn't Linda and her pretty cleavage, or Frank and his waxed moustache. Sometimes he'd think of them, mostly when he drove past the place on 75th, which was now a warehouse for pet supplies. They were doing a special on frozen mice by the kilo that Boris kept meaning to drop in and take advantage of in order to keep his pet python fed. For now, Patrice would have to make do with whatever she could find in the crawlspace she mostly lived in while Boris was out working.

Maybe he should check on the boss again, see if his orders had changed after that crashing sound. Boris hadn't moved when he'd heard the sound, because the boss had been quite clear. Boris was to guard the door, and nothing but the door, because he was the big dummy and the boss was the boss. The boss gave the orders. That was exactly what the boss had said, and Boris didn't want to end up being an extra-large lump in nobody's concrete floor.

Still, maybe the boss had changed his mind. So Boris turned around, because even backwards he figured he was still guarding the door, and looked into the office.

The boss was still sat at his desk, his fedora tilted back on his head. The noise must have been from the office window, which looked out onto the intersection of 23rd and Calloway. There was some glass on the floor, but it didn't seem to be bothering the boss, so Boris figured he shouldn't fuss about it either.

The boss wasn't doing much. Just staring at the wall, his eyes wide and a red spot on his forehead that seemed to be getting bigger. Boris wasn't going to risk the boss' wrath tonight by offering to go get him some spot remover or nothing.

The last thing that the Boss had told Boris to do was stand guard, though, and so that's what he decided he would keep on doing, just like the boss wanted.

His neck was itchy, though.

****

# 20 Go Fish!

It's not true what they say about us, you know.

We don't really have a five second memory. Not at all. I can remember everything, from the moment I hatched, wriggling around with several hundred of my brothers and sisters.

There was Carrie, and Simon, and Chester, and Tyrell, and Wilfred, and Diana, and Ruth, and Marlon, and Mark, and Billy and Wilfred (II) and Susannah and Sarah... and at that point in the introductions and naming, I was picked up by the net and put into a holding tank with only Sarah, Tyrell and Mark to grow up with. I can still remember the store, with the flaky fluorescent light and poorly cleaned fish tanks, and even the day when Doctor Leung came in to adopt me. All of it, crystal clear in the mental safe that is my prodigious brain.

Five second memory? Pfft! As if.

It's just that you get bored, you know? There's only so many ways you can swim around a small plastic castle pretending to be a knight in shining scale armour before you get bored with it.

Don't even get me started on that stupid plastic plant. You're not fooling anybody, plastic plant. You're not even tasty unless some flakes get stuck in your plastic fronds, and even then, it's hell passing the tiny fragments of green paint that you can't help but suck up along with the flakes.

I did try for a while to write out amusing slogans in the rock floor using only my own poop to alleviate the boredom. Nothing trashy. Real quality quips, like "All this swimming in circles is giving me a haddock" or "What do you call a fish with no eyes? Fsh!"

Quality material, you know, and it did allow me to practise my cursive script over the long, boring Sundays, but every Monday, but Janice — she's the receptionist here on Mondays and Wednesdays through Saturdays — kept on cleaning out the tank and adding that blue water filter stuff more aggressively when I did so. I hate the taste of that stuff.

Nobody appreciates fine comedy like that, so I had to do something to pass the time.

So naturally, I started listening in on Janice on a day to day basis, because if she's going to spoil my fun, I figure she's got to fill the gap somehow.

Problem is, Janice isn't actually that interesting, despite taking her Tuesdays off for her "self actualisation workshop" that's meant to "realise her inner soul" somehow. Based on the smell of gin on her breath every Wednesday morning, I suspect she's finding more solace in the spirits than the spirit world.

She's probably got a worse memory than I do, especially on Wednesdays.

Mrs Robertson is in again with her kids. Probably Kevin's ripped out the side of his braces again, which would explain why she's looking so glum. They'll be here a while, and the replacement cost will come to $757.90 less her insurance deductable. I overheard Dr Leung telling Janice that if Kevin loses them one more time, the insurance is going to stop paying up for replacements. Good. That would alleviate my problem with the Roberston clan considerably, because by the look of that frock, there's no way that Mrs Robertson can afford the full cost of those braces.

She never watches the kids while she flicks through that same copy of Woman's Complaint from 2004 that's been here since 2009, which means that inevitably...

Yep, here they come.

Oof! Lay off, bratling! How would you like it if I came around to your house and thumped on the walls so hard the whole home shook? Would ya like that? Would ya?

Yeah, you bet I'm giving you the stink-eye.

Barry says I should ignore the kids that come in, and that it's all part and parcel of the sweet gig we've got here, but he's old and fat and lazy.

He just sits inside the castle all day, only swimming to the surface when it's 5:15 and it's time for Janice (or Karen, who subs in on Tuesdays and has a terrible wispy moustache she tries way too hard to hide with concealer) to drop the food flakes in. That's when Barry gets passionate about anything at all.

Barry's passion for food is why we had to declare tank zones back at the last general tank meeting, because otherwise he'd be eating everything in sight, possibly including me. Barry is very passionate about his meals, and very particular as well.

I remember (see, no five second memory here) when Karen accidentally bought a different brand of fish food than the regular flakes when we were running low. Overnight, we went from tasty flakes of goodness to these weird round orange ball things that didn't really taste of anything, but were hell to pass through your lower tract. We ate them, because there's little else to do, but those were not a pleasant few days.

Barry was so depressed about it that he didn't come out of the castle for the entire time, not even when the Robertson kids tried "fishing" for him with the complimentary dental floss, which is usually enough for him to get his involuntary snapping reflex going.

Even Janice didn't seem to care until Larissa passed away. Not that it was the food that led to her doing the upside down swim we all must face one day. She had a tumour on her lower left hand side. Been there for years. She used to moan and moan and moan about how that bloody tumour would take her up to the Great River (long and sweet may it flow) one day, until eventually it did.

Barry was in too much of a funk over the food to address it properly, so I went through the proper motions, waiting until they'd taken Larissa away for that long, final, swirly swim to eternal peace before saying the final rites and sweeping up her section of the rocks into a neutral pattern. I'd never have dared while she was alive, but maybe we'll have replacement company some day, and if so, why should they have to put up with somebody else's style? I don't expect that my own rock collection on the lower south side will be perfectly maintained when I'm gone, although I'd like to think that the next fish along will appreciate my subtle style touches.

Reminds me. See, no five second memory here, chum! I'd better check on them.

Well, would you look at that. The Robertson kids tapping on the tank's only gone and put the orangey rock on top of the less orangey rock. I can't be having with that, now can I?

'Scuse me, for a second. Bit of interior decorating to do. Hard work when you've only got fins, but that's why the great Sky Swimmer gave us mouths as well.

Ptui. Ptui. PTUI! BALANCE YOU STUPID LESS ORANGEY ROCK! PTUI!

Ah, that's better. A precise forty-seven-point-three angle, just right for seasonal river flows. You can't be sloppy about such things, according to page thirty-seven of Woman's Complaint (2004, October issue, cover story "What Will Julia Roberts Do Next?") where resident Feng Shui expert Dr Shin Tikiwawa explains cosmic harmony and managing bodily motions properly.

Someday, it is my dream that somebody will leave Woman's Complaint open at that page long enough for me to read the second column. I'm hoping it will have something on rock pattern arrangements for the long winter months, and how to best align them for improved cosmic harmony.

Anyway, where was I... haha! You're not getting me that easily. I just had to attend to some important home maintenance, was all. I was talking about Barry, and the round food problem.

When Larissa went on her final swim, Janice freaked out. Me and Barry always suspected that Larissa was her favourite, what with her always tipping the flake jar at least three point two five degrees closer to Larissa's side of the tank than either of ours. Her reaction to Larissa's passing proved it, because do you know what we had the very next day?

Not only a full cleaning of the tank, which usually only happens once a month and involves a few boring hours in the plastic jug, but also a full refresh of the food and the filter pad, which meant that the water no longer smelled of Barry's food farts. At least for a while.

The return of proper food cheered up Barry immensely, and he even put a few minutes into arranging the rocks in the castle moat into proper size order, the way he thinks they should be. He's wrong, as anyone with a fine eye for home and castle decor could tell you.

They should be sorted into colour order, ranging from that fully red one to the two orangey one, to the three less orangey ones, and then the light orange-ish set of four, before finally hiding that one grey one that Barry hasn't realised is actually a calcified piece of his own poop around the back. That would be sensible, but having a sensible conversation with Barry about home decoration is a pointless exercise.

Not only is he stupidly stubborn and horrendously obsessed with size order, but he's got the memory of a goldfish.

Five seconds, they say...

****

# 21 Mean

"That Mr Llewellyn is damned mean", I said, in-between mopping the floor following the lunch rush.

"Mean?" piped up old Harry the dishwasher. He didn't say much, but everyone knew that he'd been a real somebody in his youth, had Harry.

Harry "The Hammer" Hackenschmidt, to give him his full name, was once an up and coming boxer, before he hit his talent limit, then got hit a whole bunch, then a bunch more, before even the low-rent places wouldn't allow him to fight no more.

Now he washes dishes at Flamenco's Spanish restaurant to keep up his rent and pay for his booze. One of the first things they told me when I took on this job was to never loan Harry any money, unless I didn't want to never see it again. So I never did, but his stories were always worth listening to.

"DId you say that Llewellyn was mean, son?" he said again.

"Yeah, I did, Harry. He's always busting my chops about the floor not bein' clean enough, or the vegetable deliveries being unpacked on time, or somesuch. I'd like to see him lifting all them lettuces one time, and maybe he wouldn't be so mean."

"Llewellyn ain't mean" said Harry. "Not proper mean. He's just a man doing his job, same as you're a man doing your job, and I'm a man doing mine. Not real mean. Let me tell you, I've known proper mean folk. Real mean, solid mean, folk that would make Llewellyn seem like a fuzzy puppy dog by comparison."

"Was this back when you was boxing, Harry?" I asked.

"Yep. Let me tell you about... hmmm... oh yeah. Did you ever hear about a boxer called Bruce "Boom Boom" Powell?"

"I never did, Harry. Was he a good boxer?"

"A good boxer? No, he weren't a really good boxer. Not one of them guys that understands that it don't just come from your fists, but also your heart, and your brain, least until the boxing catches up with you and you don't got no brain no more.

But Bruce had promise back in the early days. We started out pretty much the same time, and quickly got attached to the famous Larry Eltwhistle. You've seen Eltwhistle's Gym down near the docks, right?"

"Sure, it's that run down place on 57th, right?"

"It is now, but back in the day it was the gym to go to if you wanted to learn yourself boxing. Larry was a legend, and he knew everything there was to know about training, eating right, and winning fights, which is why every young boxer wanted to be at Eltwhistle's Gym back then.

I worked hard in those days shifting containers at the docks from Monday to Friday, just so I could train at Eltwhistle's over the weekend and maybe someday get a fight.

Bruce was the same, except that I think he worked at sanitation instead. We both got taken on as juniors at Eltwhistle's around the same time, which meant we had plenty of time to get to know each other, or at least try to.

Bruce never made that easy, though. He was mean, see, and that meant that he saw everyone else he was boxing as a straight up enemy. That ain't right, son. Sure, you're in the game to win, and winning involves stopping the other guy, but after the final bell's rung, it don't matter any more, and it never matters at all before the bell rings either. I've fought plenty of friends fierce style once things started up, but once it was done, it was done.

Bruce could never understand that, but in the early days, he never had to."

"Why was that?" I asked. Anything to take me away from the boredom of sweeping the kitchen.

"Remember I said he was Bruce "Boom Boom" Powell? Well, the Boom Boom wasn't just some promoter's gimmick name for him. It was his finishing combo. First, he'd hit you with a low right hook. That was the first boom, because Bruce could hit really hard, like he'd just hit you with a bare fist instead of with gloves on. More than one referee checked that he wasn't putting weights in his gloves after just that first boom. Anyway, imagine it. Bruce has come in, and the first boom goes right into your ribs, maybe cracks a few, but always beats down your lung and takes away your breath and your mind. Quick as a flash, he'd switch to the left. Now, most guys when they switch hands they dial it down a bit, because they're stronger on one side or another.

Bruce was the same, but the thing was, he was a left hander — a southpaw, you know — who fought right handed. So when he hit you with the second boom, it was like getting belted with an anvil. Boom, Boom, and you crumpled down to your knees, or to the floor. Even if you didn't, you were prime game for an uppercut while you folded, and Bruce won plenty of early fights exactly like that."

"Sounds like a good boxer to me" I said.

"That just shows what you don't know, son" said Harry.

"Good boxing isn't just having one or two good punches you can throw, unless you can make them the first two punches of any fight, and even then it's limited. Eltwhistle taught us that the first week we started training, but Bruce wasn't really listening. He never listened to anyone's advice but his own, and he figured he'd do pretty well with just the old boom boom strategy."

"So he lost pretty quickly, then?"

"Nope. At least, not at first. When you're starting out, all you'll get is undercard scrub fights, because everyone on the undercard is a scrub, same as you. Most of those guys got hit with the boom boom, they went down, and Bruce started to build himself a name."

"So what happened to Bruce?"

"He was doing pretty good, working his way up the fight cards at the same time I was. From the five buck fights that were mostly like street brawls, to the middle of the card. We'd both started to get popular around the fight halls, because we were winning, and the sports bookies loved to have a few young winners around, at least for a while. Bruce had the Boom Boom, and I had the right hand Hammer, and after we'd been on the circuit about two years or so, we were placed on the midcard. It must have been late November back in '72. Terrible snowstorms, and it was bitter cold when I'd go out running to build up my lungs. Had to be ready for the Boom Boom, didn't I?

Anyway, we weren't top of the card, but anyone who knew anything knew that we were the star attraction of the night. Top of the card was... some guy, I can't remember. Must have been on the verge of contending for the belt, because that was when they used to put you top of the card. No, I don't have the name any more. Always wore bright green trunks, I remember. Anyway, he was top of the card but we was only mid, but all the interest, all the bets and all the eyes were on the meeting of the Hammer and the Boom Boom.

Most folks figured that the Boom Boom couldn't be stopped, and I was worried myself. Bruce wasn't just tough, but he was mean too, and I'd seen him step in and whale on some guy he'd already beaten, just because he could and no referee was likely to stop him. One guy ended up in a wheelchair drooling into his wheaties after a Friday night bout with Boom Boom.

I didn't want to end up that way, which was why I trained up and ate right and crunched my abs till they ached, all to try to limit the boom boom if I couldn't avoid it. I was never the fast type of fighter that could have danced around it, the way them modern boys do. Wish I'd been trained like that, but then I never really had the feet for it. Big, solid feet I've got. See?"

"So what happened at the fight?"

"What fight?"

"The fight between you and Boom Boom, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, that fight. Right. Well, I warmed up as usual, and waited for the preliminary bouts to finish. Danny "Divebomb" Finnegan fought in in the first fight. Good friend of mine, Danny. Haven't seen him for a while. Anyway, we go out to the ring, and Boom Boom won't even look me in the eye. Just stares away into the distance, muttering "boom" under his breath, real mean like. Like I said, that's bad business, because a fight's just a fight, you know?

So into round one we go, and it's on right away. I get in some good shots, and take some too, but we're just getting warmed up, and the crowd can tell. At the end of the first, I couldn't tell you if I was winning or not, just that I was hurting, but so was he.

Second round was like a repeat of the first, and the crowd started to get angry. We was midcard, so we only had three rounds, and the guys in the crowd had all bet on knockouts. The bookies woulda been happy, because they'd keep the bet if it went to a score. I wouldn't have been, though, because a KO paid double back in those days, and the midcard purse weren't nothing to sneeze at, either.

So round three, and the time was right for the hammer to fall, if only I could get into place for it. I started up, and feinted to the right, tapped him with a few straights, and then.."

"That's when you hit him with the hammer?"

"Nope. That's when he hit me with the Boom, and I felt my ribs crack under the pressure. I won't go down, I thought. Not going down. Boom, quick as lightning, the left hits me even harder, and another rib on the other side folds right in. Hurt like hell, son, but I didn't go down.

I just smiled at Boom Boom, and his eyes went wide. He'd never seen anyone smile at this point, and THAT was when I hit him with the hammer, right between the eyes. He went down, and stayed down, and that fight money was mine.

Now, after that, Boom Boom lost some of his shine, because he wasn't so feared no more. So he got mean. Real mean. He'd take on total scrubs for a pittance, not because he needed a warmup fight or nothin, just because he could beat them to a pulp and send them right out of boxing.

Then he got greedy, or at least his manager did. Got him a real good fight against an up and coming kid called Jackie "Flyboy" Bush. You ever hear of him?"

"No, Harry, I haven't never heard of no Jackie "Flyboy" Bush."

"Flyboy was great. I mean, I wasn't no scrub, but Flyboy had the total package. Great body, great fighter's brain, looked good for the ladies, and he could move in the ring in a way that nobody even thought of until at least twenty years later. I was due to fight Flyboy, but somehow Boom Boom's manager got him the fight before me, even though I was due. Flyboy was probably my talent level, but you never know until you get in the ring and stare that man in the eyes, you know? I had to know, or at least, I wanted to know.

But first, there was Boom Boom to contend with. Really, Flyboy had nothing to worry about with old Boom Boom. He could have danced around the Booms all night long until Boom Boom basically beat himself up if he'd wanted to, and Boom Boom knew this too."

"So what did he do?"

"Night of the fight, Boom Boom gets properly worried once he works out that he ain't got no chance against Flyboy.

So what he does, is during the midcard match — Flyboy was that good that he was already top of the card by then — he goes into Flyboy's private locker room. A big no-no right there, but Boom Boom's got a plan. He talks to Flyboy like they're best friends, and then, when Flyboy turns around to hang up a towel, he grabs Flyboy's arm, slams it up against the wall, and hits it with a hammer he'd been hiding behind his back.

Totally crushed Flyboy's right hand, he did. Boom Boom walks out of there, laughing his head off.

See, a boxer's got heart, and a boxer might have brains, but above all, what you've got to have is hands. Without hands, you can't fight at all, and Boom Boom hit him so hard with that hammer that Flyboy's career was done right there. It's the meanest thing any boxer could have done to another boxer.

Boom Boom might have been scared, but he knew what he was doing that night, and he knew why he was doing it. It was calculated, and it was mean, and it was meant to stop a man he knew was better than he could ever be.

The fight was called off, and Boom Boom couldn't get a fight with anybody anywhere after that. Most folks wouldn't even go near him for fear of him doing the same to them."

"So what did he do after that?"

"In boxing? Nothing, son. Like I said, he couldn't even get work with the carnies beating up rubes for pennies after something like that. The police didn't chase him up, 'cause they were scared of him too, but the mob liked what they saw. It wasn't long before Boom Boom moved from the boxing ring to enforcing for them, at least for a while. Again, though, his mean side showed up pretty quick."

"What did he do?"

"Don't rightly know, to be honest. Didn't exactly stay away from those folks, because I was still boxing in those days, and there's always going to be the mob in boxing. But he must have crossed some pretty mean people himself, because they went to town on him. As I heard it, most of him is under the West Side bridge, except for his hands, which got sent to his old manager."

"To his manager? Why?"

"To prove a point, son to any ex-boxer they might take on after that. No matter how mean you might think you are, there's always someone meaner, and they stay mean by showing how mean they can be.

Compared to that, being asked to sweep up some bits of carrot and kale don't even count."

****

# 22 Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?

"Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?"

If this is one more operating system reinstall, I swear I'm going to pull out an Uzi from underneath my desk and spray bullets all over this open plan office, not stopping until there are fires starting from all the bullets clanging off each other.

Or at least until I get that "hang in there" kitten poster.

Right between the eyes. It's coming, kitty. Be ready.

"Oh, that sounds like it's quite serious, sir. We may have to reinstall your operating system."

Mental note: Buy Uzi. Bring Uzi to work.

"Yes, I do understand how important your work is to you sir. Before we start, have you backed up your important files on the computer?"

No, of course you haven't, have you?

"Backing up, sir. Making a copy, in case something goes wrong."

Here we go...

"No, sir, not the copy you have on your computer desktop. Stored on something. An external drive, or a flash drive, or maybe even burnt to a disk or stored in the cloud. Somewhere that isn't your computer. Oh, you haven't done that yet? Right, well, can you do that, and then call us back and I'll step you through the process of reinstalling once you're certain that your own data is safe.

No, you don't need to back up Office. Really."

Dodged a bullet there. For now. Whoever gets that call is going to want to kill me, but hey, we've all done it, and I've had the tail end of more than my fair share of those calls. Oh well. The lines are still blinking, which means I'd better get back to it.

"Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?"

NotAnotherOSReinstallNotAnotherOSReinstallNotAnotherOSReinstallNotAnotherOSReinstallCmonGodYouOweMe.

"Hello Mr Wilson. What seems to be the problem... today?"

Thanks God. An OS reinstall would have been better than this.

"Oh, it's your speakers today is it? They're on right now, aren't they? Actually, could you possibly find a way to turn them down ever so slightly? We all love classical music, don't we, but I can't quite hear you over the music. Yes, that's right, the little knob on the side."

As distinct from the knob I'm talking to right now.

"Yes, that's better. Much better. Now, what was the problem this time exactly, Mr Wilson? Oh, it's the speakers. That's right, you did say. They certainly sound loud and clear over the phone line, Mr Wilson. That's not the problem, you say? So what is the problem, then?"

Apart from the PEBKAC problem.

"They click, you say? When you switch them off? Yes, they're meant to do that, Mr Wilson. It indicates that the power has been cut off, because once you turn that volume knob down low enough, it cuts the power to the speakers. It's part of the design. What's that? You called about this yesterday? Let me just check your file, Mr Wilson. Would you mind being placed on hold? Lovely, thankyou. Won't be a minute."

COFFEE TIME!

"Right, Mr Wilson, my apologies for the delay there. I was just checking through your file and talking to my colleague who you spoke to yesterday. Yes, the "Indian sounding" gentleman, he's one of our level two technical specialists."

We did talk about that Star Wars trailer over coffee, so I'm not *technically* lying.

"Yes Mr Wilson, from looking at your file, you've called a number of times over this issue. I can see that we've sent you two... no, wait, three new sets of speakers, all of which had the same issue for you. As I explained, that's because that's how they're meant to work."

Could you perhaps make this easier on all of us and just go deaf?

"You wish to speak to my manager? Just hold for a second, and I'll see if she's around. Yes, Mr Wilson, she. Both of my line managers are women."

We do employ them outside the kitchen now, you know. Been a thing for quite some time. Surprised you hadn't heard of it.

"Please hold."

Now, where is Jane? Probably in another of her endless meetings, debating over whether I've done five hours and twenty nine minutes of logged call time as an average over the last quarter rather than the five hours and thirty minutes I'm meant to even though we're all doing about seven hours on call anyway. Stupid time logging software *always* breaks on a Monday and loses data.

"I'm terribly sorry Mr Wilson, but my line manager is in a meeting right now. I've left her an email indicating that you'd like to discuss the matter with her. No, I can't put you through to her male boss. Mostly because her boss is also another her. You'd prefer to hold, Mr Wilson? I do have other calls I have to take, Mr Wilson, and I'm not entirely certain when her meeting will conclude, Mr Wilson. Yes, I know it's frustrating Mr Wilson. As I said before, the speakers really are just doing what they're meant to be doing. What's that, Mr Wilson? I'm a... "

GOTCHA!

"Mr Wilson, I don't have to take that kind of abuse from you. I've informed my line manager, and she will be in touch."

CLICK! Thankyou, Mr Wilson. Sure, that hangup will count against my stats, but if I log in the file right now that you swore at me, it'll be wiped against it straight away. When's lunchtime?

"Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?"

NotTheOSNotTheOSNOTTHEOS!

"A monitor problem, you say? Have you tried checking the cables around the back to make sure that nothing is loose back... oh, not that kind of monitor problem?"

I bet it's the graphics card. Those NX3000s are a pile of crap, and I don't know why we ship them. Oh yeah, that's right. We're horribly cheap and we sell crappy computers. That's why!

"It's... WHAT?"

She didn't just say that... did she?

"Umm.. how did it...? Oh, I see. You're a wildlife vet, and the 'Roo just... please hold!"

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! MUST... BREATHE.... OH DAMN, EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT ME. MUST.. COMPOSE... SELF. MUST GET BACK ON THE CALL. MUST NOT THINK ABOUT. SO GROSS.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

OH, THAT'S BETTER. NOW. GAME FACE. GAME FACE.

"Terribly sorry for the delay there, Ms Chapman. Just checking the specifications for that monitor. Yes, it's an unusual situation. The monitor isn't particularly waterproof either. I can imagine that's quite a... HOLD IN THE LAUGH YOU MORON... sticky substance. Shot right out, you say? I see. Does that happen often? Up to three metres? That I did not know. BREATHE! Unfortunately, our warranty doesn't cover that kind of damage. Perhaps a very soft application of a damp cloth might help to remove it? No, I'm pretty sure that won't harm the monitor, although as I said, we really can't offer warranty support if something goes wrong. Yes, definitely, you should unplug it from the power before you start cleaning it. No, not a worry at all. My pleasure. Have a good day."

BEST. CALL. EVER.

"Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?"

NotAnOSReinstallNotAnOSReinstall...

"Ah, yes, I do recall. You were backing up your files, sir. You've done that now? Just to be on the safe side, how have you done that? To an online service or to a USB flash drive or... oh, you've printed them out. Well, that does provide you with a backup, sir. Do you have a scanner?"

If you do, you might want to try scanning for some signs of a brain.

"Because while you can read your files, your computer won't be able to, sir. You could scan them back in from there, but it might be easier to save your work to the cloud. The cloud, sir. Online storage. It's quite the neat thing, because your work is saved online and you can access it from any computer. Yes, you only have one, sir, but if, say, your house burned down..."

BURN IT ALL!

"... you'd then be able to refresh your files immediately. Yes, that's right — that whole OneDrive thing that Office keeps trying to get you to use. Could you perhaps save your files there. and then we'll start the reinstall process from there? Lovely. I'm certain we'll be able to proceed from there. No, I'm sorry, but we can't call out from here, so you may get a different technical support operative helping you, but I've noted your details down on your file, so they should all be able to help. Yes, even the "Indian" sounding one."

Sigh. Another bloody one. Never realised how many racist jerks there were before I took this job.

"Welcome To TechTronic, How May I Help You?"

Level two, men's fragrances and dinner jackets. Level three, lingerie and gardening implements...

"Do you have your customer number? Yes, that's right, the six digit code on the side of the box? Lovely, let me just check your details. Please hold."

Stretch. Yawn. Going to be a long day.

"Now, it appears that we sent you out a new graphics card to replace a faulty part, sir. The previous technical support specialist put on your file... yes, that's right, sir, the Indian sounding gentleman... no, we're based in Sydney, sir... anyway, he noted that you decided you'd install it yourself. I presume you've done that, so what is the problem?"

I bet it's the drivers. Only thing worse than the NX3000 are those driver files.

"Could you repeat that?"

What? No. No. Surely not.

"You couldn't get it to fit... so you took an angle grinder to it?"

Correction. Going to be a VERY long day.

****

# 23 The Zone

The playground is overgrown with weeds and moss and long, meandering strands of grass that sprout yellow and green from the cracks in the stained concrete below, winding their way across the ground in thick, matted groups. My feet make a crunching noise as I step across the playground, although I'm unsure if that's old dry crunchy grass or the thousands of cockroaches that infest every inch of this wasteland.

"Remember, the cockroaches will survive anything — even a nuclear war!"

I can't remember where I first heard that, but it's common knowledge I think that cockroaches can survive just about anything. They can certainly survive here, although it wasn't quite the site of a nuclear war.

I'd better keep moving. It's not likely that they'll chase me here, into the zone, for fear of their own health.

It's not going to be good for me, either. I've seen what happened to those who defiantly told the authorities to get stuffed. They were their homes, they said, and they were going to die there.

They probably didn't own the homes — who did, in those days? — but they were at least right about the dying in their homes. Die they did, some quite quickly, while others lingered on, hunting the wild animals as they descended to that level over the months, and in some rare cases, years after the accident that they managed to tenaciously cling on to life as their own bodies slowly betrayed them.

You'd see them on the fringes of the town, trying to sell fox pelts while trying to hide the sores and scabs that always marked them out. Very few people would buy, but every once in a while they'd come across one of those very stupid thrill seeking tourists who'd throw them a few rubles for a fox pelt, only to find the authorities confiscating their newly purchased prize the second the transaction was done. They'd never chase the hunters back into the zone.

Hang on. They were selling for real rubles, coin and paper, but where were they spending the money? I guess I never thought about it. Somebody must have been making good coin from them, because there's plenty that wouldn't allow them into their stores either.

I can't say I understand the science, but I used to give them a wide berth when they wandered into town. Usually, the guards from the checkpoint would turn up in their dark green truck and take the hunter or hunters away. Nobody asked too many questions, because everyone knew that questions would only draw suspicion. It had been that way since the days of Stalin, and old habits do die hard around these parts.

Crunch. Crunch. Squelch.

Yep, it was cockroaches. I can make them out now, scattering away from my footsteps as I make my way across the concrete. You'd think they'd be huge, or talking, or something after all that exposure, but no. These are just regular cockroaches. Thousands of them. There must still be some remnants of decades-old food around for them to breed quite so gregariously.

Must keep moving. Girgo used to say that you wouldn't get hit with the sickness so bad if you kept on moving. Don't know if that's true or not, but moving might also keep me safe from them. Better to get a dose of the sickness than end up swinging for a rope, which I'll surely do if they capture me and take me back.

That's if they even work out that I've gone into the zone in the first place. I think Samor went south afterwards, and maybe they'll follow him thinking that we're still together. I might make it out of this place after all. One step at a time, and the cockroaches be damned.

Damn. A fence, still standing. Rusted solid, but at least two metres high, which means I'll have to climb it, which means I've got to touch it.

How can I... ah, I know. I'll wrap my jacket around my hands, and that way I won't have to touch it while I climb up. If I drop the jacket on the other side, I should be fine.

***

Gods, but it is cold. Biting cold, thanks to the rain and the falling of night. No lights here, of course, save for around the old plant, and I'm not stupid enough to go anywhere near there.

I wish I still had my jacket. Anything to keep me warm while I'm

hunkered down in this building, surrounded by fallen roof tiles and the smell of damp concrete and rust, listening to the scurrying of the roaches and the dripping of a million leaks, all unattended.

Sleep, I think, will not be easy.

***

That light... so bright... they must have found me!

No... no.. that's not it. It's the sun. The sun, and a curious crust over my eyes that resists being blinked away. I must have slept for some time, because the sun is peeking in over the broken side of the room, nearly at its apex.

I should keep moving. My arms and legs ache, and my back throbs thanks to my concrete bed. My clothes are seeped in the dripping rainwater that fell on me while I rested, which means that yesterday's effort with the jacket was wasted. I still don't want to drink the water, though.

***

I'd kill for a drink. Samor used to say that every Thursday. And every Tuesday. Most Wednesdays, Fridays and Mondays as well, thinking it the most amusing thing he could possibly say.

Right now, though, I'd kill for just a cup of water that I could trust. There are puddles everywhere, but equally, there are the signs that are quite fresh, warning the eco-tourists not to touch anything, eat anything or drink anything within the zone. I saw a group of them sat solemnly within a jeep passing by about half an hour ago, snapping photos of the Ferris wheel and the ruined buildings. I don't think they spotted me, however.

***

Four more blocks, and I should be at the other side of the zone. Beyond that, the forest and the checkpoint if I stick to the road. I can't stick to the road, obviously, so I shall have to make my way through the forest and try to work out some way past the fence that circles around the entire zone.

It was so much easier on the other side; everyone knew that if you wanted in, all you needed was either a bribe for the guards, or a pair of bolt cutters and about five minutes. Once a year, the authorities would patch up whatever holes the bored teenagers cut in the fence, although many of them were just for show. To demonstrate to their friends that they could go through to the zone, but right now, there was liquor to drink and girls to chase, and that would be much more fun.

I used to be one of them. Used to be. No going back now. Just forwards, three and a half more blocks.

There's a car. Not too overgrown with weeds. Back from the old days, when the cars were simple and they ran forever on fuel that made the eyes water but cost very little. I wonder if it would start again?

Got to be worth a try. The doors are locked, but the windows are long gone, shattered no doubt in the explosion like every other pane of glass around here.

No keys, but I'm willing to bet... yes, there they are. In the glovebox, right hand side next to the owner's manual, just like the lessons used to teach. It meant conformity, and being able to use any car because you'd know where the keys were.

Now, with a bit of luck...

Astonishing. It's coughing into life, rumbling, trying to find gear... and there it is!

I laugh, a deep hearty laugh. The car will make it easy to crash through the forest and beyond that, to freedom!

Oh. No... wait, I didn't think. The engine is loud, decades of rust and decay adding to its vibrations, and I can hear alarms that only started sounding when I started the car up.

I've led them right to where I am. I can hear the trucks approaching even now.

There is no escaping my fate, even within the zone.

****

# 24 Harold

Harold was a spider.

Not that he introduced himself as a spider. Insects tended to get all judgemental, or screamy, or flap their wings in a huff if you introduced yourself as a spider.

Introductions were so important, Harold felt, especially as most of the insects he met didn't have time to count his legs before he was busily engaged in wrapping them up in a web. Best not to panic the evening meal, that's what his mum had taught him right before trying to eat him.

That's why, on Harold's business card, instead of having "SPIDER" printed under his name and web site address, he listed himself as an "Advanced Insect Securing Specialist (B.Sc)" instead.

Harold didn't get too many chances to hand out his business card, but in many ways that was for the best. The site of his web had floated on the wind several times since he'd had them printed. He hadn't been in that nook on the side of the nightclub neon light for months. Now the council library was where he spent most of his time, nibbling on moths, flies and even sometimes the occasional bookworm.

Still, Harold reasoned, even if you were wrapping up a moth, or if you were lucky, a tasty, tasty cricket in paralysing sticky webs, it was the right and proper thing to do to let them know that they were being consumed by a professional, and not just some cowboy spider who'd leave their legs to rot in the breeze. That was so unsightly.

One day — Harold noted on the library wall clock that it was 3 NOV where yesterday it had been 2 NOV — Harold was busy repairing the west wing of the web. It had broken when the librarian had opened the window he had built his current web upon. The window was a great site for his web, because the breeze and sunlight brought in a lot of passing — but never departing — insects, but it did require a lot of maintenance.

Suddenly, he felt a familiar tingle in his back two legs.

Aha, he thought. I have company in the east wing. I'm not hungry right now, having just that morning finished off the last tiny morsels of that midge family that landed in his web last week, but it never hurts to have a little something in the pantry. It never hurts me, anyway, he mentally corrected himself.

Scurrying across, but not so fast as to alert the librarian who even now was rearranging the dusty volumes of the World Book just below that nobody ever touched, Harold checked the east wing of the web.

There, tangled by a single leg on just the side of the web, was a fly. Flies were pretty boring as meals. Lots of juice, obviously, but a rather bland taste. Still, better not to go hungry. Harold knew he'd have to tread carefully, because he only had the fly trapped by one leg on one strand of web. A little careful negotiation should wind this one in, he thought.

"Hello Fly. I'm Harold, and I'll be your Advanced Insect Securing Specialist today" he said, moving in to make the pretence of handing over his card. Trust was vital in securing meal insects.

"Umm.. Hello, Harold", said the Fly, still trying to free her leg from the web she'd accidentally landed in while trying to fly out of the partially open window. She could smell some rotting fruit in the bin that sat just outside the library, and it had driven her wild with desire.

"Look, I know what you're thinking" said Harold. "I've been here many times before. You're trying to escape, and thinking that you can outsmart me. Trust me. It can't be done. Look at my card. Note the B.Sc. They don't just hand those things out, you know. I had to study for that, and take exams, and everything."

This was a lie.

None of Harold's meals ever lasted long enough to realise that Harold's B.Sc was an invention born of the fact that he'd spent four hungry days waiting in a web just above the newspaper section, with nothing to do but read the education section.

Still, the lie worked often enough to impress his meals, and that was usually enough to keep them placid. It was a useful lie, and Harold figured that a useful lie was probably as good as the truth. Possibly even more useful when you're hungry.

"No, no no no no" said the Fly.

"Denial is a river in Egypt", joked Harold "But you're not going to swim away from me today."

"Oh, very witty" said the Fly. "Find that in the kid's joke book section, did you?"

"You've read books?" said Harold. "I've never met a fly who's read books before."

Harold had never met or talked to a fly for more than about a minute, so it wasn't a topic he'd ever broached before, but he figured that didn't really matter.

"Oh yes" said the Fly. "I'm very well read. I'm sure I know something you don't know."

"Ohhhh" said Harold "I very much doubt that."

"It's true!" said the Fly. "Ask me anything, and I'll bet I can answer it, and prove that I'm smarter than you are!"

"Anything?" said Harold.

"Anything" said the Fly.

"You're not just playing for time?" said Harold.

"Oh no" said the Fly. "I do know something you don't know. Go on. Ask me!"

"Very well" said Harold.

He thought hard for a second or two. He didn't want to seem foolish in front of his dinner.

"What, then, Miss Fly, what, then, is the world's northernmost capital city?"

"Umm..." said the Fly.

"Come on, come on. You said you were smarter than me. Prove it! What's the world's northernmost capital city?"

"Err... don't know!"

"HA! I knew it! I bloody KNEW it! For your information, it's Reykjavik, Iceland."

"OK, so geography isn't my strong suit. Ask me another. I bet I know it." said the Fly.

"Very well" said Harold, his confidence growing.

"Who is the current Prime Minister of India?"

"Oh" said the Fly. "That's a tricky one. Let me think. Let me think."

"I'm going to have to hurry you for an answer" said Harold.

"Nope. Sorry. Mind's gone blank. Probably this trapped leg, you know. Don't suppose you could see fit to releasing it so I could think more clearly?"

"Oh ho ho ho ho ho, NO. Now, answer the question. Who is the current Prime Minister Of India?"

"I don't know. I can't think. This is always so much easier when you're not trapped in a web, you know!"

"Again, I'm smarter than you! It's Narendra Modi, you fool!"

"Alright, so Indian politics isn't my thing. Ask me something about... something about... what's on the telly!" said the Fly.

"Very well" said Harold "But my patience for this game is growing thin."

Harold figured he'd set a trap. Harold liked traps. They were very much in his nature.

"Which British Sitcom featured Adrian Edmonson, Rik Mayall, Dawn French, Stephen Fry and Una Stubbs, with writing by Ben Elton?"

"Easy" said the Fly. "It's got to be The Young Ones, doesn't it?"

"BZZZT!" said Harold. "I'm sorry, that was incorrect. The correct answer was the little known sitcom Happy Families, which aired in 1985, well after the success of The Young Ones."

"Oh" said the Fly. "Didn't know that one."

"I think we've said all we need to say" said Harold. "Clearly, you don't know anywhere near as much as I do about anything. Not geography, not politics, not British sitcoms, nothing. It was a bluff, wasn't it? I mean, I'm going to eat you either way, so it was just playing for time, am I right?"

"No, no" said the Fly. "I really do know something that you don't know."

"Oh, REALLY?" said Harold. "So tell me, Miss So-Called-Clever-Fly, what is it that you know that I don't know?"

"I know there's a hungry looking magpie on the window sill right behind you."

"Oh."

****

# 25 Lucid

"Come in, come in. Yes, that's right, sit down. Now, where were we last time we met?"

"We were discussing my dreams. My extraordinary dreams"

"Oh yes, that's right, your dreams. They've been worrying you for some time if I recall..."

"About the last six months, although it's really a dream I've been having for years"

"Just one dream, over many years? Remarkable! Tell me about your dream."

"It all starts off quite normal. I'm in a hotel room, doing some work. Sometimes it's in Singapore, and other times Berlin or London."

"Is there anything special about those places to you?"

"Not Berlin, no. I don't think I've ever done anything except transit through Berlin airport"

"What about the other places? Singapore or..."

"London, yeah. I grew up there, went to school there. Lots of memories there. Good times, bad times, the whole thing."

"Lots of time in hotels?"

"Not particularly, or at least not when I lived there. Most of the time London's just somewhere I land en route to somewhere else in Europe, or further afield. Wet, dreary place. Don't really know anyone in London, for business or otherwise."

"What about Singapore?

"Maybe three, four times a year I'm in Singapore, mostly for conferences and the like."

"So in lots of hotel rooms in Singapore then?"

"Yes, definitely. I don't have any reason to be in Singapore except on business. I've always found it too hot in Singapore for anything except when I have to be there, don't you find?"

"I've never actually been there, but I do understand it's quite tropically warm. But tell me more about this dream. You're working away in this hotel room, and then what happens?"

"I put down my pen. That's weird for a start."

"Why is that, as you put it, weird?"

"I don't work with a pen. It's all laptops, everything typed, double verified and saved online. I don't write anything down in a work sense, not even signing anything. It's all entirely digital."

"And yet in the dream you're working with a pen... and presumably paper?"

"Yes, I'm using hotel stationery. That's how I can tell which city I'm in. If I'm in London, Berlin or Singapore, then I know right then that I'm having the dream."

"So in the dream, you're aware that you're in a dream?"

"Yes, but only for a second or two. Then I just return to working away, writing down figures."

"You work with numbers, then?"

"Yes, quite a lot. Anyway, I finish a column of figures, check that it's correct, and then stand up and open the balcony door."

"Then what happens?"

"I walk out onto the balcony, and take off my shoes. Always the same shoes. A pair of dark purple business shoes with bright yellow laces."

"Is that the kind of shoe you normally wear?"

"Oh, God no. Never. Do you think that means something?"

"Often in dreams we imagine ourselves doing fantastical things we'd never try in the real world. Do those colours mean anything to you?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh. So, tell me, what happens after that?"

"I take off the shoes, and hurl them as hard as I can over the balcony. I watch as they tumble in the breeze — I'm always quite high up, at least twenty five stories or so — on their way down. They always strike the same white sedan car, shattering its windscreen and sending it careening into a palm tree."

"A palm tree, you say?"

"Yes. Even in London or Berlin, it's always the same white sedan car and the same palm tree."

"Fascinating! Do go on."

"So the car crashes. I don't seem to care, but then nobody else does either. Other cars just wind their way around it, and nobody appears to get out of the car."

"Are they dead?"

"No, there's just nobody in the car at all."

"Unusual. What happens then?"

"Then I climb up onto the balcony rail."

"Goodness me. Do you have a reason why?"

"No, I don't. Just this drive that tells me, over and over again, that I should jump down into the pool at the ground floor below."

"And do you?"

"Do I jump? Oh yes, every single time."

"Every time?"

"Yes, it's all part of the dream. I have to jump. I absolutely have to jump. I must jump."

"You feel compelled to jump? Is this sudden, on the balcony, or an urging throughout the dream?"

"It's always there,when I'm having the dream, anyway. So I jump, and the wind blows me around as I tumble down towards the pool. I'm falling, fast, down towards the pool. There's a stack of balconies, and sometimes I hit them"

"Doesn't that mean that you stop falling?"

"Usually, yeah. The wind blows me back into someone's balcony, and I land on their balcony furniture. Sometimes I just stumble forward again, and again, crashing into concrete balconies, pot plants, even sometimes people."

"Do you ever recognise the people?"

"They're often work colleagues, but sometimes they're just faceless people, like mannequins. They just stand there, pointing downwards. I try to resist, but something pulls me onwards, and I rush towards their balconies and leap off anew. It's a compulsion, but not just in my head. Like some giant hand is pushing behind my back, making me run forward and leap."

"What about your work colleagues? Do they ever say or do anything in this dream?"

"Sometimes they do. Usually they just laugh and say that it's so typically me, before helping me to my feet and guiding me towards the balcony rail. Some of them wave me goodbye from time to time."

"Is it always the same work colleagues?"

"No, it's usually quite varied. I've crashed down on everyone from the CEO of my bank to a girl who was at the same fast food place I worked at as a teenager."

"And still, you must keep on jumping? Are you at all hurt by the fall?"

"Oh yes, quite badly. Often I break legs, arms or my neck. Somehow, I just wobble on, back towards the edge and over again."

"Do you register those breaks as pain?"

"No, not really. I'm never worried about them, except when they stop me from being able to jump again."

"What happens then?"

"That's usually when my work colleagues help me over the edge."

"Then what happens"

"Eventually, I stop hitting balconies and simply rush downwards towards the pool. It's as though I can see the pool rushing towards me as I fall, as though it's in slow motion. People are looking up, and some are screaming but it's slowed down, like an old record played at the wrong speed. I can always see this one blond woman with her hair moving through the breeze very slowly indeed. I can always see each strand of her hair, as though I was suddenly wearing binoculars and peering right at her."

"This woman — do you know her? Is she a friend, a relative, a lover?"

"No, no I don't. I've never met her, except in my dream."

"Is she young? old? Pretty, or plain?"

"She's gorgeous. Shining golden hair, bright red lipstick, bright red polka dot bikini, ample bosom, curvy hips. Utterly stunning."

"I think I get the picture. So your attraction to her is a sexual one, then?"

"It probably would be, if she existed."

"So what happens then?"

"Then I hit the water. The dead centre of the pool, every single time, with a huge splash. That's when I wake up."

"I see. Well, Simon, I think we've made some very solid progress. Your dream, I think, revolves around your own sexual urges. This beautiful woman, this 'gorgeous' woman, as you put it. You long for her. I suspect that we're getting to the root of the problem. Your dream is an expression of your own sexual longings, with the crashing down on the balcony your failures, and the woman the ideal that you're always trying to attain."

"That's not the problem, though. I mean, it would be nice to know who the woman is, if she actually exists, or even if she's just some figment of my imagination, sexual or otherwise."

"It's not the problem? Are you certain?"

"Oh yes, absolutely."

"Then what is the problem, in your view?"

"Why, when I wake up from the dream, am I always dripping wet and holding a towel?"

****

# 26 Flip-Flop

Flipsy Flopsy liked the walls. They were shiny and reflective, or at least Flipsy Flopsy thought that they were. Sometimes, when he could see other rabbits in them, he wondered momentarily if the walls were in fact clear, and what he could see was an endless procession of rabbits just like him in boxes just like his.

That was always possible, but Flipsy Flopsy would then get confused, because he couldn't smell the other rabbits. Just the strong scent of pine cones for some reason, along with the lingering scent of any leftover crumbs from the pellets.

The other thing that Flipsy Flopsy liked were the pellets.

They were excellent.

Just right for chewing without being either too soft or too hard. Pellets were great, and he didn't have to share the pellets with anybody else at all, because all those other rabbits seemed to get pellets at exactly the same time he did. They even seemed to eat them exactly as fast as he did.

At first, when Flipsy Flopsy had been placed in the box, the pellets had seemed scary, and he'd spent several hours hiding in a corner from the perfectly round pellet when it had dropped into the centre of the room.

***

SUBJECT 27 REACTS POSITIVELY TO THE STIMULI. MOVING TO PHASE TWO>CONTINUE RESEARCH

***

Flipsy Flopsy was waiting and growing anxious. He didn't really have a concept of time to speak of, save for when his bladder felt full or his stomach felt empty, and right now, his stomach was very empty. He tried for the third time to stave off the hunger by going and licking at the spigot that dripped the water into the room, but it wasn't the same. Water was interesting stuff, and best kept out of Flipsy Flopsy's eyes, he thought, but it wasn't a pellet.

***

SURGERY ON SUBJECT 27 WILL COMMENCE IN THIRTY MINUTES

***

Flipsy Flopsy felt sore and woozy. His left foot seemed wrong somehow. He tried experimentally hopping, only to find that while his right foot, which he'd always thought of as his favourite foot, because it had only one brown splotch on it rather than two, was as strong as ever, he didn't seem to be able to move his left foot without a lot of pain.

***

SUBJECT IS SHOWING SIGNS OF DISCOMFORT>CONTINUE RESEARCH

***

Flipsy Flopsy didn't like pain. It was nothing like pellets, and because his foot hurt, his attempts at hopping just led to him falling flat on his face. To make matters worse, it turned out that falling on the side of your face hurt even more, and every other rabbit seemed to be doing exactly the same thing.

Flipsy Flopsy was starting to hate those other rabbits. Then there was a pellet, and it would never do to not eat a pellet. There might be another long time before there was another pellet.

Those other rabbits might be jerks, but pellets were still excellent. This one was extra crunchy, and after eating it, Flipsy Flopsy suddenly felt very tired.

***

SUBJECT INJECTIONS CONTINUING AS PER PROTOCOL #57>CONTINUE RESEARCH

***

When Flipsy Flopsy awoke it was dark. Dark wasn't something Flipsy Flopsy was used to, because his large eyes were genetically predisposed to excellent night vision. Sudden dark scared Flipsy Flopsy, so he froze in place and hunched down, pooing frantically to create as much musky rabbit scent and scare off smaller predators if they were around.

Flipsy Flopsy stayed very very still for whole minutes, his nose the only thing twitching in the total darkness. After a while, Flipsy Flopsy decided he'd try to use his other senses to detect predators. But all he could smell was rabbit poo and fear.

***

SUBJECT HAS LOST BOWEL CONTROL AFTER 2% BIZOPHORMAPHOL INJECTION>CONTINUE RESEARCH

***

Very slowly, Flipsy Flopsy noticed that the dark appeared to be going away. Flipsy Flopsy wasn't sure what kind of creature dark was, but very slowly he could make out patches of glowing in his eyes that he was sure meant that the dark creature was going away. Flipsy Flopsy waited, sitting in a pile of his own poo until he could see the rest of the box quite clearly.

Flipsy Flopsy experimentally wriggled his strong right foot. All good there. His left foot was still tender, but it was a dull ache rather than the searing pain it had been, which meant that he could in theory hop out of the pile of his own droppings, as soon as he could be certain that the dark had run away and that it was now safe to examine the rest of the room and its many rabbits.

***

SUBJECT REMAINS UNMOVED AFTER FORTY FIVE MINUTES>CONTINUE RESEARCH

***

Flipsy Flopsy eventually felt brave enough to move, so he hopped over to the water feeder for a refreshing drink of water. It had a slight metallic taste that was new, but his throat welcomed the sudden hydration, and he greedily gulped at the water pipe, causing it to spill over his entire face. Instinctively, Flipsy Flopsy jumped back and flicked his head around to remove the droplets that cascaded down his face and fur.

***

WOOKIT HIS CUTE WIDDLE NOSE.

***

A noise behind Flipsy Flopsy made him freeze again with terror. Looking forwards, he could see something small and green behind him.

Joy of joys! It was a pellet of his very own. Flipsy Flopsy turned away from the water bottle and downed the pellet in three swift bites before looking up from where it must have fallen.

Flipsy Flopsy couldn't see where the pellets were coming from precisely, but on a whim, he decided to curl up directly under where this last pellet had appeared from. Maybe that might make the next pellet appear more quickly this time. Besides which, Flipsy Flopsy suddenly felt extremely tired indeed.

***

RAISE CONCENTRATION OF BIZOPHORMAPHOL TO 7 PER CENT

***

Flipsy Flopsy's left leg felt great and powerful.

He wouldn't tell his right leg this for fear of hurting its feelings, but he was starting to like his left leg even more, because it was constantly rippling with muscular power. Flipsy Flopsy felt like he could hop forever, and as high as he liked.

So he tried to, and when he did, all the other rabbits around him tried to as well. He'd show them, though, by hopping the highest any rabbit had ever hopped.

A sudden pain in his head was mitigated a little by the very silly sight of the other rabbits all crashing to the ground with suddenly flattened ears. Flipsy Flopsy's head was ringing, and it felt like the top of the world had suddenly come crashing down around him.

***

SUBJECT SHOWS SIGNS OF AGITATION. HEALING RATE INCREASED 73 PER CENT>CONTINUE RESEARCH

***

This would not do. Flipsy Flopsy had so much strength in his left leg that he couldn't hold it in. His leg wanted to hop, and he could only let it to do in isolation, because his right leg was getting tired, and if he hopped with both legs that pain in his head returned very quickly indeed. This meant that all he could do was side hop in circles around the room, watching the rabbits around him spin very rapidly indeed.

***

SUBJECT AGITATION REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS>CHECK HEART RATE AND MAJOR ORGANS

***

Flipsy Flopsy was so busy hopping around that he nearly missed the pellet dropping from the ceiling. He only noticed it because all the left-footed hopping was making him dizzy, and he had to stop and just let his left foot thump against the floor fruitlessly while he regained his composure.

Actually eating the delicious, tasty, compelling pellet proved difficult. It hadn't taken Flipsy Flopsy long to realise that pellets were not a prey that needed to be chased or even dug up out of the ground, but usually he'd just hop across to the pellet and eat it. With his left leg never stopping, it took a careful figure eight hopping pattern to line up the pellet and force it into his mouth. That meant dropping large chunks of it on the ground, which necessitated further loops to scoop up as much as possible without pounding it into dust with his paws. Finally sated, Flipsy Flopsy finally felt as though his left leg might be slowing down. His ears felt heavy, and he couldn't move his right leg at all as sleep descended upon him.

***

SUBJECT HEART RATE AND ORGANS NORMAL. SUGGEST MOVING TO A LARGER ENCLOSURE TO MEASURE MUSCLE GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT PARAMETERS

***

Flipsy Flopsy dreamed of pellets. Fields of pellets, although in his dream there were also pellets lying on the ground, growing out of it, and even flying through the sky. This wasn't a problem, however, as with his new powerful legs he could leap up and snatch the delicious chewy pellets out of the sky. As he did so, he spotted fields of rabbits leaping in sync with his movements. Being the leader of so many rabbits made Flipsy Flopsy proud.

***

REQUEST DENIED DUE TO FUNDING PRIORITY CHANGES>CANCEL RESEARCH>REASSIGN TO PROJECT JB

***

Jacky Boy loved to bite things, or to have things to bite. If he didn't have a chew toy available, he'd make one out of a rolled up bit of rag, a rock, or anything else that could fit into his jaws and be carried around, attacked and chased whenever he could get the really big dog creatures to throw it for him.

When he'd used the doll with the red sparkly dress that was just sitting in the box on the shelf as a chew toy, though, loud and harsh words were said, and Jacky Boy had gone and hidden behind the sofa with an old chunk of paver that he'd hidden behind there for special moments of stress, such as when a vet's visit was imminent.

Behind the sofa Jacky Boy was hidden and invisible and invincible, a mighty beast within his lair that nobody could defeat. The chunk of paver had magical powers that made Jacky Boy the very best doggie in the whole wide world, as long as he held it tight in his little jaws.

Jacky Boy thought this right up until the point that the sofa was lifted out of the way and he was put in the doggy box. To make matters worse, the paver piece was pulled out of his jaws and dropped in the bin, where clearly and obviously its superior magic powers would be drained away.

Jacky Boy whined and complained, because the doggy box meant the vet. The vet was always filled with other dogs and other creatures and the smells of stale urine and death.

Jacky Boy was surprised when he wasn't placed in the front seat of the jeep, but instead the back of a dusty white transit van that was waiting outside the back door, near the farm barn. This meant that he'd also miss out on barking at the big trucks that made their way along the highway to town, which was where the vet was. That was the only thing that made going to the vet in any way interesting. Jacky Boy decided he was going to bite the vet, because maybe that would make the vet go away.

They seemed to be spending a very long time indeed getting to the vet. Jacky Boy fell asleep a few times. Every time he woke up, he missed the paver a little bit more. The box was stupid. There was a small metal grille he could see out of, but the bars were too close together to bite something, and the box was too small for him to run around and bite his own tail to relieve the boredom.

Finally, the box was lifted up, and the door was opened. Jacky Boy slid out eagerly, ready to give the vet a serious and intent-filled biting.

But instead of the vet, he found himself in a small shiny room with a water pipe at one end, and a rabbit at the other.

Jacky Boy didn't feel thirsty, but he did feel exceptionally bitey.

This might be fun after all.

****

# 27 Why Do We Need Maths, Miss?

Damn. Maths with 8G again. OK, steel yourself. This is always a bit of a pain, but you can get through this. Try not to watch the clock.

Try not to watch the clock.

2:01pm. Damn. I've started already, and they haven't even made it into the classroom yet, though the class bell is still ringing around in my head. I swear, this hangover hasn't gotten any better, despite those painkillers I took at lunchtime. Kick in, damn you!

Also, if that bell wants to stop ringing at any time, it would be doing me a favour. Surprised it still works around here. Must be the only thing that that skinflint Broughton spends any actual school money on, keeping the school timetable running on time even as the classrooms freeze and we try to get by in the 21st century with teaching tools that were on the decrepit side by the start of the 20th.

Mental note: No more than one bottle of red on a school night, even if you're out on a date. He hasn't texted... I wonder what that means? Was I too flirty, or not flirty enough? Should I have worn the little red dress, rather than the longer black number?

Here they come, trudging in chattering with their school bags slung over their shoulders. As if 7G weren't trouble enough, having them directly after Drama when they've run around and shouted at each other for fifty solid minutes is just asking for trouble.

The keen ones are, as always, sitting up the front, the bored ones in the middle and the troublemakers mostly up the back. There's the gaggle of girls focusing in around Sarah Smith, as they apparently do in every lesson. Sarah's quite bright, but she's slacking, and she's attracting a crowd of kids who are keeping her chatting when she could be learning.

"Right, now, 8G, take your seats quickly and get your textbooks out. Come on now — no time for chatter. Denise, put that phone away, or I'll have to confiscate it. You know the rules!"

Oh yes, they know the rules, and they know exactly how far to push them, and when to complain if they get busted for breaking them. Denise's parents won't push her to do any homework, but if she's without that phone for even a single period they'll be fronting up to the principal, huffing and puffing at the outrage of their precious little flower being somehow "unsafe" because she can't post selfies of herself to the world whenever she needs to.

2:05. Fifty-five minutes to the bell. You can do this.

Stop watching the clock. It's only going to make your head pound worse. Best not to answer any questions about why you're wearing sunglasses, either.

"Now, open up to chapter seven. We went over these principles on Monday, so this should be simple enough for you. I want exercises 1-21 done during this lesson. If you have any problems or questions, I'm here to help, but you really shouldn't struggle with any of these."

Except for Kylie, Peter, Alex, Duncan and Richard, because none of you were even vaguely paying attention on Monday. You're not really paying attention now, which means that I've got maybe a minute before... yep, there we go. Duncan's got his hand up, because he's hit question one, and he hasn't got the foggiest as to what to do.

"Yes, Duncan?"

"How do I do question one, miss?"

Yep. Nailed it.

"It's very simple, Duncan. Bring your book up here, and I'll show you."

Duncan is at least bright, if not terribly focused, so this shouldn't take long, and then I can get back to convincing the synapses behind my right eye to stop throbbing quite so feverishly. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were still trying to match the beat to... whatever it was that was playing in that club last night. It was fun, but I'm paying for it now.

Sarah and her group are, predictably, chattering, and from the look of it, passing a phone around "secretly" so that I won't bust them.

I'll give them three more minutes, and then that phone, and whatever is on it, is mine until the end of the day. Please, please, don't make it be porn. Anything but more bloody porn.

2:15. Right. I'm not allowed to look up at that clock again until I figure at least half the class have made it to question 16. That's the only really curly one in the whole chapter, although Eric, Amanda and Jonathan should breeze past it. Sarah, too, if she actually applied herself for once.

Oh, the phone just clattered on the floor. I can't ignore it any more.

"RIGHT. That phone. Sarah, bring it to me NOW."

Did I just shout that? Yes. Yes I did, and my head is telling me exactly what a bad idea that was.

"What's on the phone, Sarah?"

"Nothing, Miss"

"Nothing? Oh good. So you won't mind leaving it on my desk for the rest of the day, then?"

She's smiling. Damn. That means it probably is porn, or something graphic and she's hoping to get a reaction out of me when she places it down on my desk. I will not give her the satisfaction. I will not give her the satisfaction.

Eh. I've seen bigger. He's got nothing to smile about, especially with that haircut.

Sarah looks slightly upset that I haven't flipped out. Maybe that was the plan.

"Right, Sarah, back to your desk. Which question are you on?"

"Question One, Miss"

"You'd better get working, then Sarah. It's 2:20 now, so you've only got 40 minutes to get them done. Less chatter, and finish up, and you can have your phone back at the end of the lesson."

Damn. Just realised that this means that Sarah's picture, and his endowment, is going to be staring at me until her phone switches the screen off. If anyone else comes into the classroom, this could be awkward. Do I pick up the phone, acknowledge what's on it, and get Sarah and her friends giggling, or do I wait it out?

2:22. STOP WATCHING THE CLOCK!

Oh, it's gone off now. One problem solved. Back to the headache, and back to 7G.

They're being very quiet, and mostly very busy. Maybe this is working. Maybe I can pull this off without any more problems.

2:35. Mustn't make it obvious that I'm staring at that clock.

"Miss, why do we have to do these sums? I'm not going to need maths when I finish school"

Oh blast. Darren's acting up again, asking cheeky stupid questions to try to derail the class.

I feel like screaming in his stupid face. So. Bloody. Tempting.

But no. I mean, for a start, he's probably right. In Darren's case, he probably won't need maths when he finishes school, but then, school for him is more a question of somewhat advanced babysitting than teaching him anything. Better teachers than me have tried, and all have failed.

The school psychiatrist has tried with Darren, tried to get inside his head, but even he told me after one particularly difficult session that if it wasn't a breach of ethics, he'd simply scrawl "Thick As" on Darren's file and leave it there.

Maybe it's genetic.

I remember being here with Darren's dad... what was his name?

Kevin. Oh, how could I forget Kevin and his obnoxious mates? 7G might be a bit of a headache on even a good day, but back in the day, when Kevin was in what was called 7S, things were much worse. Never seen one of these kids tear the leg off a chair and attack another student, and Kevin did that more than once.

Like father, like son, it seems. Darren's maybe not so rough as Kevin was, but the attitude to actually getting anything done in class is one hundred percent identical. Kevin and Darren both have the same line, and the same manner.

Kevin ended up working as a ditch digger on the highways. Doubt they think much about the volumes of the holes they're digging while they're doing it, or the optimal angle to thump in the spade as they go. About as hard as they think about maths would be working out how long it is until the next tea and fag break.

Kevin still winks at me whenever I see him at the supermarket, although predictably he's never here for parent teacher night. He hated school, and maybe it's genetic, because Darren does too. Still, as it seems I have to every couple of lessons with 7G, I launch into the speech. Thankfully, it comes to mind pretty easily these days.

"Darren, you need maths for the same reason we all need maths. Because maths opens up all sorts of opportunities for you later in life. Education is the bedrock of your future, and it's up to you to make the most of your life, which, right now, involves answering questions 1-21 in chapter seven."

"But I already know what I'm going to do, Miss"

"Oh, yes? What might that be, Darren?"

Why? WHY? WHY DID YOU ASK HIM THAT? NOTHING GOOD CAN COME OF THIS!

"I'm going to be a drug dealer, miss."

THINKTHINKTHINKTHINKDON'TSAYANYTHINGTHATWILLGETYOUFIREDTHINK

"How will you count your money without maths, Darren? Or measure your quantities?"

"Err... I'll have someone do that for me, Miss. I'll just be the one with the flash car and the guns and the ladies what don't wear knickers, Miss."

IMUSTSTOPTHISRIGHTNOWBEFOREITGOESANYFURTHER

"That's quite enough, Darren. Get back to your work, and stop disturbing the class."

"But I mean it, Miss. Why do I have to do these stupid sums? Why, Miss?"

"Darren, you have a choice, right now. You can do the work that's been assigned to you, or not. But you know what happens when you refuse to do work in class, don't you?"

Got him. I can see the worry in his eyes as he figures it out.

"I go to Mr Richardson, Miss"

"Yes, that's right. You go to Mr Richardson, and you take your maths book with you, and you finish off all the problems I've set you after school is finished."

"But MISS! I can't do that! I've got footy after school! I can't miss that!"

"Well get on with your work, then, Darren."

2:45. Head pounding. Some of them are starting to look up at the clock as well. Think they've worked out that I'm staring at it, rather than marking their assessment tasks.

Time to walk the class. That always gets them focused, and I can help out Eric, Amanda or Jonathan if they did indeed stumble on question 16. That will eat up some time, and might just get me through this.

Amanda and Jonathan are on question 20. Well done, you two. You were paying attention. That's nice. Eric is staring at question 16, his curly red hair drooping over his right eye and being flicked aside every couple of seconds. I can see he's struggling.

"Remember: You only have to solve for one side of the equation, Eric."

"What? Oh... Oh, I see. I see! Right. Thankyou, Miss."

"ANKYOU MISS! CAN I MARRY YOU, MISS!"

Oh, damn. That's Darren, again. Little turd. I'll show him.

Over to his desk, and... he's not even started on question one, but is instead playing a game on his phone, in deliberate and open defiance.

"Right, Darren, you've been warned enough. Off to Mr Richardson, right now!"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I SAID NO YOU STUPID BITCH. I AIN'T GOING!"

"DARREN WOOD! STAND UP!"

"NO!"

Got to calm this down, and get control of the class back.

"Right. Jonathan, can you pop next door and get Mr Richardson please? No, you can leave your work there, I can see that you're done anyway. Quickly, please!"

Darren is glaring at me from his chair, tapping at his phone.

"Darren, you are going to go with Mr Richardson when he gets here. You do understand that, right?"

He's standing up. This is progress, right?

***********************************************************

"Oh, my head. What happened?"

"It was Darren, Miss. He threw that chair at your head, and you fell over the table. Miss Holmes is calling the ambulance now. Darren's run out, Miss. Is he in trouble, Miss?"

****

# 28 Hunting

Just outside the tents, near the post where the animals are tied up for the night, he is moving. It is night time, and while the sky is clear and the moon shines bright, the creature is blacker still, all but impossible to make out save for dim yellow eyes that stand out against the dull grey sand dunes like tiny glittering diamonds.

The dogs are asleep, but the horses stir, suddenly aware that something is there. With their night hoods on, they cannot see much of anything, so it is only their sense of smell that gives them any warning of what is about to occur.

The creature knows that the horses are in their night hoods, and that the inhabitants of the tents are soundly sleeping. Quietly and slowly, it inches towards the horses, who have begun to shift around nervously, hooves digging into the sand as they try to figure out what it is that they have sensed. It could be the masters to wake them in the morning, or beat them, or possibly both.

By the time the horses figure out that they're in real danger, it is far too late.

*****

Ulth awoke to the sounds of screams. Not human screams, which he would ordinarily have slept through, being long accustomed to being the reason for the screams rather than the one making the shriek, but the noise of an animal in terror.

'The horses' he thought, and in an instant he was on his feet. Another second and he was armed with his axe, yet another he was out into the cool night air.

The sight that greeted him was of chaos. One of the four horses was galloping away over the dunes, its reins having been split away from the holding post. Two more horses are tangled in each other, night hoods still on their heads. From the look of it, at least one of them has broken a leg, which means that they will have less transport but more meat for tomorrow night's meal.

The remains of the final horse lay strewn across the dunes, a mess of gore and intestines staining deep into the grey sand. Ulth gripped his axe a little more tightly as he scanned the night horizon to catch sight of whatever foe had torn this horse asunder. His senses razor sharp, he sniffed at the air to catch a scent that wasn't of death, but there was nothing. No foe hiding amidst the sand, no tracks to be seen, no smoke from a torch or glint from steel against the cold moonlight.

"Arek! Kalista! Beorn! QUICKLY!" he cried.

*****

Beorn knew he would have to time this precisely. Firstly, the change, which was always draining, but less so when the blood of death was still pumping in his veins, and then the way he'd have to emerge from his tent. Too fast, and he'd only raise suspicions about why he was so ready to leap to his feet, but too slow and they might equally start to ask questions.

Questions were never good, and the group still thought of him as the simple minded one. A useful diversion, and one that Beorn often found also allowed him to find out things that you would only otherwise tell a simpleton.

He knew what was going on between Arek and Kalista behind Ulth's back, not because he'd caught the two of them at any time (though the stench of their combined sex was over everything they wore) but because Kalista fancied herself a mother figure, and had confided in the simple, childlike warrior that she believed Beorn to be.

First, he had to turn his golden eyes away from the moon to start the change.

*****

Kalista awoke with a start, hearing Ulth's shouts through the fog of her dreams.

She'd been down at the river, near where her people used to hunt the rich red flesh of the salmon. Her skin still burned from the passion of the dream, a frenzy of her own limbs and the arms of a much larger man. Not Ulth, of course, but curiously not Arek either, although most of her dreams were about him these days.

No, it had been Beorn in her dreams, suddenly intelligent. Such ridiculous fancies, Kalista thought. Beorn was but a child, and always would be. It was useful to them to have his bulk and muscle around, but he would never be a true man, with a true man's instincts and abilities. Not like Arek was, and that fool Urth used to be.

Kalista suddenly realised that Urth was shouting again, and a momentary panic enveloped her. Did he... know? They were only days from her people, days from when she would stride free from his control and regain control of her own life. She had to be careful, and bide her time.

*****

Ulth's shouting distracted Arek from sharpening his blade. Even in his darkened tent the stray moonbeams from the gap in his much rougher, older tent flowed over its silvery form, reminding him of its purpose, and why it needed to be especially sharp.

Arek knew that he was going to have to act soon if he was going to take Ulth by surprise. Ulth was older, stronger, and he possessed not only the standard hunting knife, but also a magnificent scimitar that had been looted from that travelling merchant they'd met months ago.

The merchant's food was long gone, the silks had been traded for the horses, but Ulth had kept the scimitar as the leader of the group. While he held the scimitar a direct attack was suicide, but a swift strike with a well sharpened blade at the right time would see Arek take his rightful place. That idiot Beorn would fall in line, and Kalista would be his unquestioning conquest.

Arek was tired, having spent the sleep time quietly sharpening his blade, but perhaps the time was now.

*****

Beorn slid under the edge of his tent, and quickly grabbed his shirt in his hands. No time for his pants, but then an advantage of being thought a simpleton was that nobody thought twice if he did something "stupid", so appearing suddenly half-dressed actively suited his needs. To complete the illusion, he made sure to run face-first into the thick leather straps that formed the sewn edge of his tent hide, making him stumble out into the moonlight.

"Beorn, you idiot!" shouted Ulth.

"Beorn sorry. What problem? Why shouting?"

"You really ARE an idiot! The horses, dolt! The horses!"

Beorn looked around, and saw the work he'd only just completed, noting that one of the horses had escaped while he was busy killing Kalista's ride. That was a pity, as he'd specifically chosen her horse in the hopes that she would be forced to ride with him. Ulth would never allow a woman onto his horse, but equally he'd never allow his woman onto the saddle of anyone he saw as a potential suitor's saddle either.

That's when Beorn noticed the other two horses, one with a broken leg pulsing delicious lifeblood onto the sand. He absentmindedly licked his lips.

"By Aknar's Mercy, Beorn! How can you think of food at a time like this!"

"Wha? Beorn No..." he said, realising that he'd been drooling unconsciously at the sight of the wounded horse.

"Oh, forget it, you idiot. See if you can raise up my horse from Arek's ride. We'll have to skin it here, and see what we can salvage from Kalista's as well"

Just then, Kalista emerged from her tent, trying her best to look innocent. Ulth was such an idiot, she thought, but it was best not to raise any suspicions just in case he was getting wise.

"What's going on? What have you... Ulth... why did you?"

"Me? ME? Why on the boundless plains would I slaughter our horses? How do you think I would?"

Perfect, Kalista thought. The sight of horses being slaughtered was nothing new to her, having come from a family of meatsmiths, but she could use this to her advantage to keep Ulth off-balance and her own position secure.

"Where is Arek?" Ulth asked.

"I'm here, Ulth" Arek replied, emerging from his own tent and taking in the scene. Kalista's horse torn apart, his own with a broken leg and Beorn's ride seemingly missing. That left only Ulth's horse to carry the tents and supplies for all of them, and as a warhorse this was a task it was ill-suited to.

"Why weren't you standing guard, Arek?"

"It wasn't my night for duty. You said you would" Arek lied, hoping to further enrage or at least confuse Ulth. He glanced towards Kalista as he did so, trying to catch her attention so as to get her to agree with his fabrication.

"What? No... Did I?" Ulth said, turning back towards the horses for a second. Had he told Arek he would stand guard? He couldn't recall.

Beorn could see what was about to happen, even if Ulth was his usual blithe and angry self. Arek would draw his dagger and pounce on Ulth, leaving Kalista frightened and alone, with only him to act as a mother figure.

Perfect. He had only gone hunting to assuage the hunger, but this night's work was unfolding the greater plan better than he could have imagined.

Arek leapt through the air, dagger poised to strike as Ulth turned around. The blow sunk deep into Ulth's chest, splitting his rib bones beneath the sheer force of Arek's strike. Ulth collapsed, his eyes rolling back before his head hit the sand.

Arek turned towards Kalista, and that's when she struck, hurling her own much shorter dagger directly between his eyes.

"Why..." was all he gurgled before hitting the cold grey sands himself.

Beorn was surprised, and more than a little impressed. He had sensed that Arek was ready to attack, but not that Kalista was about to. Usually his senses alerted him to all forms of danger, but this time they had not.

He would have to be careful around her. Her time would come.

****

# 29 Judgement

There was another one in the market today. Cold, he was. Face down just near the water trough for the horses. Ragged clothing, like the rest of them. Third this week, he was. A little boy, based on the hair, or at least what was left of it aside from the black boils. The night frost was forming on his little legs, so he'd been there a while.

I picked him up, and carried him over to the cart, being careful not to touch the skin. They say the skin can give you the plague. I reckon as how they're wrong, and I should know. Haven't I been taking them away on the cart for two... no, it must be three year now?

Sure as I don't like touching them, but sometimes, if they've died in an upstairs bed, and you've taken the copper from the widow or mum, you've got your job to do. The work comes first, because without the work you won't eat, and then you won't last any longer than those going on the cart.

That's what Master Wat taught me, and he were a good and knowin' master, he was. He didn't reckon it was the skin what does it, but for breathing in the humours from the corpses. Made sense, he said, because if you visit a house on a Tuesday to take one away, chances are good that you'll be back before Saturday for another. They're only sharing the air they breathe, he'd say, so it must be that what carries the death.

That's why he always wore a freshly cleaned neckerchief 'round his face when he was working. "A fresh neckerchief's a sign of a good and respectful carrier" he used to tell me if I so much as dared to turn up with yesterday's uncleaned neckerchief on.

Mind you, the plague got 'im in the end, as it did. He'd hidden it from me for a good long while, but I did notice how he was starting to move that much slower. Then one day, down Bethnal Green way, he stopped pulling his side of the cart all sudden like. He looked up towards the pub sign for the Old George public house. I thought he were contemplating his lunch, but then he just said "potatoes" and keeled over, stone dead.

I still don't know what he meant by that. The Old George don't even serve potatoes in their pub lunches. Anyway, that was the step from apprentice to master for me, once I'd taken his hat and coin purse.

It's tradition, it is. Old Master Wat taught it to me, he did, saying that his Master... what was it... Felder, I thinks... anyway, when Master Felder got taken by the Lord, Apprentice Wat became Master Wat that day.

At least little kids are light and easy to carry, not like the older folk.

Three years ago now, it was since I took up the Master's cap and I've certainly been busy since then, all throughout London town and everywhere else I've been needed. I still keep my neckerchief clean every day though, and I reckons people respect that, because while they still don't want to come anywhere near me or my apprentice, they do at least ring the bell in my pattern to indicate that it's my cart they wants their families taken away on.

It's not always just family homes, either. Quite often I'll head down the work districts. Take Pudding Lane, for example. Sometimes those bakers have apprentices who hide the marks with flour, right up to the point that they drop.

The apprentices don't want to be found out because they're fearing for their jobs. Mind you, the masters don't much care, 'cause there's always another apprentice awaitin to learn the bakery, and the cost of the copper to take 'em away is less than the coppers they'd have had to pay them anyway. I've heard it keeps the bread nice and cheap, and who don't like a bargain?

There's plenty that don't reckon pulling the cart is a good job, because of the risks of the plague, but if you're smart — not those words or learning smart, but wisdom smart, you know — then you learn the tricks to keeping the pox at bay. Like not touching the bodies, or breathing in their humours or doing... the other things. Those things that they say some of the fancy undertakers do to the bodies. It ain't natural, that's for certain. There's those that hiss at me for what I do, but doff their caps at the men in black without never knowing what really goes on. I know. Oh yes. I've heard the stories, when there's time after a long shift at the cart.

Also, you've got to go to Church regular. As often as you can, keeping in God's good graces, 'cause there's plenty that say the plague's a curse on all of us for our sins. I've kept that up regular, even trying to listen into the sermons, not that they're anything you can understand, what with the funny words and all. Still, maybe some of it will rub off on me. Can't be too holy with the death around.

My movements don't always keep me in the same parish, but I thinks that might be a good thing, because I see the inside of all kinds of churches, or at least the churches that'll have a carrier. Some of those bigger places won't see the likes of me on a Sunday, but they always know where there's a smaller church that will.

I asked one of the priests about why we had to have the plague. One of the younger fellas, because those older ones never seem to want to come near me, even if I'm in one of the lower churches anyway. This young bloke thought about it, and then he told me that God does sit in Judgement on us on high when the great day of revelation comes, but also that he sits in every corner.

Why, I asked, does he sit in corners? Isn't heaven all nice and that? Why wouldn't he be up there?

The priest told me that God works like those old blokes you see in public houses, sitting and waiting and watching the world. That confused me, not that I didn't know the type of fella he was talking about. My old man ended up that way, so I hear, not that I see the family all that much.

You see those fellas in every public house, usually there from when they open right up to when they're chucking out. Old blokes, broken blokes, some of them broken from the moment they took their first breath of God's sweet air. Funny fingers, or that droopy look on their face. Some says as how they're cursed because of something their dads did, or something their mothers didn't do, but just about nobody will employ them anyhow.

Most of them are just drinksops, hoping against hope that someone'll leave a pint unguarded for a second, because you can't get it back once they've swallowed it, and they don't care or think about the beatings. Lots of folk don't even want to go that far, because it's unlucky to even touch a cripple.

Still, it didn't seem to make sense that God might sit in corners like one of them.

God ain't no cripple, and while beer is one of life's sweet pleasures, I couldn't see myself taking a swing at God.

You can't thump God, I said to the priest, and what would he want with my pint dregs anyway?

Apparently that weren't right thinking, says the priest. God sits in corners, judging us all when we're not even thinking about him. That's why, the priest says, the pox turns up in the corners of the body, under the arms or around the knees. God's sitting in those corners too.

I don't know as how I agree with him, given I've had more than a few priests up on the cart over the year, and you'd think that there's nobody that spends more time thinking about God than a priest. If it were only thinking about God, they'd be employed in every great house to keep the plague at bay.

Mind you, the churches are always prompt with the bell to summon me to work, and never quibble over paying the coppers to take them away as quickly and quietly as possible.

Always the bodies are freshly washed, and I've never had the heart to point out that I don't just take one body on most days. By the time I'm clearing the cart, they're all fair oozing.

It was a priest who told me I should take in the orphans, though.

I argued at him, pointing out that an orphan's clothes weren't going to be worth much, and who would pay me my coppers if they're orphans?

God will, the priest told me. God will pay me for good work, just as he watches over the orphans.

Maybe there's something in that, because unlike Master Wat, I'm still here working away, three years after he passed, and that's at least a year more than he ever managed as a Master Carrier. He never took no orphans. Used to spit on them, he did, saying they got in the way of the cart whether alive or dead, and he's gone now. I can't do much for 'em when they're alive, but I figure I can at least make them comfortable when they're gone.

Rest well, little lad. This life weren't much for you, but maybe the next one will be.

****

# 30 The Beach

The sand feels warm beneath my toes. Warm, and slightly wet with a small sting as the salt water makes its way into the slightly cracked skin between each toe. It's a pleasant experience, despite the discomfort. Pleasant, comforting and familiar. I will have to make sure I have a careful bath tonight to avoid the salt making my feet hurt tomorrow, but for now, it's a comforting free massage.

I think I shall stop here a while and simply squidge my toes in the sand, letting the water trickle out and gently make its way back to the roaring sea. My head is covered with a hat, my body with a swimsuit and towel, and my belly is comfortably full.

Over to the right of me, a family is having a noisy day out. The dad is resting on a hastily constructed beach chair, his balding head slowly going red in the midday sun. He doesn't seem to care that the mum is all flustered trying to keep their youngest out of the waves that don't seem to fluster the other two, bigger kids.

The older kids are brave and forthright, laughing happily as they splash through the waves. It's pretty clear even to my eyes that the youngest badly wants to be with them, having the same adventures in the briny deep. I can't quite make out what they're playing over the constant crash of the waves. Something about a pirate and a princess, I think.

Mum seems busy trying to keep him paddling in a pool of water that she's dug out of the sand with her arms, but every time she turns her back, he's off again towards the waves. Every time it happens, she's onto him, a little more flustered and a little less happy with him.

They have their part of the beach, and I have mine, and for now, there's nobody else here.

Life is good.

At the height of summer I'd never get a quiet break like this. It's why I don't bother in the summer, leaving the beach to others between December and February. Head to the beach any time around Christmas, and it's always teeming with families, fishers, surfers and surfie girlfriends.

I was a surfie girlfriend once. My, that was a long time ago. I still wear a lot of the sunburn in the folds of my back, and just a few of the scars.

How long have I been coming here in the Spring? It must be... oh... no, that can't be right.

But I suppose it is.

Sixty years. Goodness me.

It's been sixty years since I first wandered onto the beach. I remember seeing the beach from afar when we first arrived, and waiting until Saturday, after I'd done my chores and expected the sand to be razor hot, like it was back home, back when home was up in Townsville.

Instead, just as it is today, the sand was warm but pleasant, soaked in seawater enough to be firm but not so much as to relentlessly stick to your feet once you were done. There was more seaweed in those days, but that was easy to just throw back into the waves if it annoyed you.

Esme had worn a bright red bikini, because she was always adventurous like that. I hadn't quite dared to follow her trend, and instead wore my standard blue one piece suit that I'd had since I got my school swimming certificate. It wasn't fancy, and it didn't show off my curves, but at the time, I liked it that way.

I would soon learn. Dad never approved, so I always shoved the bikini into the one piece and changed under my towel at the beach while the boys were busy waxing their boards. They never even glanced my way when they were busy setting up, because there was no way they could show off just by waxing a board.

The surfers still come here, and so do their girlfriends. The beach hasn't really changed in that time, apart from that concrete ramp the council put in back in '86 to allow the sports fishers to get right down to the water. The same shining sand, the same rock pools, even the same public bathrooms, which have only changed colour thanks to a paint job that gets refreshed once every five years or so.

The beach hasn't changed, but the surfers have, and so have their girlfriends. Their metal piercings and crazy blue hair isn't to my taste, but I do like the way that they grip their boards as they run into the surf. The surfie girlfriends, that is.

All we could do back in my day was wait and watch while the boys went out in the waves, smiling and waving as they rode around, trying to impress us.

Silly boys. None of them realised that we didn't know anything about surfing either. It didn't matter. It never mattered.

The sight of a seventeen year old male, muscles rippling in the sunshine and freshly drenched in seawater? That was one that I would get up early for every single Saturday of both Spring, Summer and, if the weather held, even early into Autumn for.

I know it's a cliché, but the summers really did seem to last forever back in those days. We'd only just moved down here from Townsville when I first started coming here, which meant that I only had a year left at high school.

Those summer holidays were my first taste of what I blithely thought adult life was all about. I'd get up early, head down to the beach to meet up with Esme, Clarissa and Bethany, and we'd sit on the beach painting nails and watching the boys crash into the water again and again. We'd chat, and we'd giggle, and we'd wait for the boys to get bored of their surfing before heading off to an evening party.

Eventually we all paired off. It was on the beach that I met my Doug.

It must have been around the same time that Esme and Clive paired up. I still see Clive every once a while, doddering around the supermarket buying his weekly supplies. He's mostly lost these days, rheumy eyes hiding what were once bright blue orbs you could easily get lost in. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but once he was easily the best catch on the beach, and it was always clear to everyone who was going to catch him. Everyone knew, except perhaps Clive himself.

Clive hasn't been the same since Esme passed away four years ago.

We came down to the beach that day too, in order to pay respects and reminisce. There weren't that many of the old crowd around, and the rain didn't really help matters either. Nobody could remember the name of Esme's Dad, but they could all remember the day he'd unexpectedly turned up on the beach to discover her in that scandalous red bikini and marched her, screaming, back home.

After that, we'd all quietened down. For a while, anyway. Esme simply waited until he fell asleep, usually drunk, each day, before heading out to the beach in the same red bikini. She was always a wild child, and she stayed wild to the very end. Clive must have known, or at least quietly tolerated it, because they were so very good when they were together.

I like to think that while she's gone, I can see her in these modern surfie chicks.

The surfie girls these days — I guess they're surfies too, now — do look good when they're out on the waves. Confident and poised, and full to the brim with that particular beauty of youth that you always figure you'll have right up until the day you wake up and realise that it's gone. The best you can hope to do is enjoy the ride while it lasts.

I certainly did.

****

# 31 If God Had Wanted Us To Fly

I thought I saw a plane in the sky today, gliding in to land somewhere around Gatwick.

A fanciful thought, naturally. There haven't been any planes at all since that day.

No Gatwick either, of course.

I went there once, afterwards, to try to piece together what had happened. The entire area is a crater of burnt metal, churned soil and random chunks of concrete splayed out like a bored child's play set. Nobody lives there, and there's no memorial. There's no time or spirit for any kind of remembrance at all for the few of us still left.

It must have hit Gatwick, and, I suppose, Heathrow before the rest of us. For me, it was Tuesday afternoon on October 21st, 2014. 3:14pm Greenwich Mean Time.

I'll never forget that day, or that hour or minute, even though there are plenty around now for whom it's just a memory, or even before they were born.

To them, it's just a story that gets in the way of bringing in the crops, or building a new barn, or any of the other matters that we had to learn once more to turn our hands to.

But October 21st, 2014, 3:14pm Greenwich Mean Time still burns a hole in my soul, because that was when the planes fell.

I was working in the office, sorting out some spreadsheets when the noise struck like a bomb going off. The windows rattled, as did the floor, and my first thought was to try to sort out which group might have been responsible.

Working in London, you've always got that thought in the back of your mind.

Between militant Islamics, pissed off Irishmen and just about anyone else with an axe to grind either against what was Western civilisation or what was the Great British Empire, I've never known a time when a terrorist threat wasn't likely to be announced for Oxford Street, clearing the tube stations and leaving us all either stuck in our offices or wandering the backstreets hoping to catch the few buses that were still running.

The prospect of the special squad being called in to run a controlled explosion was just part and parcel of living in the big city.

This was louder than any controlled explosion, though. I glanced up at my desk clock, noting it was 3:14, and rushed to the window in time to see a plane wing flip down Oxford street, collecting the number 73 bus as it went.

This can't be happening, my head said to me. It's a trick. It must be.

I know it happened. I was there. Still, in that moment and ever since, there's been part of my head that can't reconcile it, and thinks that it was all some kind of special effect or gimmick or... something.

It does stop my head from screaming, because I cannot wipe the mental image of that burning bus, those crashed taxis, and the faces of my fellow Londoners fleeing the debris from the skies.

At first, we thought it was another terrorist attack, albeit seemingly on a larger scale than 9/11 or anything else like it.

That was until when the second plane fell onto Holborn, and not in pieces, but nose first. The earth shook, and building works collapsed, and the burning of London began. That's when I started to run.

***

We still don't know why the planes fell. We just know that did, simultaneously, all over the world.

Every plane, from the smallest helicopter or prop plane, all the way up to the largest of the jumbo jets. The very limited few who survived the thousands of crashes reported that their planes simply seemed to switch off, with lights, air conditioning and every other aspect of a flight craft blinking off.

Sally once told me that she'd been working that day as cabin staff, and that "it were as though God himself had reached out a hand, flicked a light switch, and turned everything off".

Sally had been lucky, because they were coming in low over Dover, and the 777 she was in dived straight into the surf. Only a few had survived by being thrown straight to the back of the plane, which had split upon impact. I've never met or found a pilot who survived to see what happened to them. But in my mind's eye, I can picture the desperate struggle with controls that no longer responded as well as the attempts to make their big metal birds glide even if they could no longer fly.

Some did manage to land that way. Over in Basildon there's an entire community housed in the charred remains of a jumbo that slid down deep into a field, never to fly again. The crew didn't make it, but many of the passengers did.

***

Home in those days was in the East End of London, in a little flat in Stratford that had neatly dodged the attempted gentrification and cleanup of the Olympics, which meant that it had also dodged the worst of the rental hikes that hit the area around that time. As such, I'd been able to enjoy the massive new shopping mall without having to worry too much about making my rent on time each month. I was living the gentrified life at half the price, which suited me just fine.

I'd walked for hours from Oxford Street, dodging the burning buildings and just generally drifting East. I was far from alone, as Londoners simply took to the streets, partly in shock, and partly because it seemed as though nowhere was truly safe. Even after the last plane had fallen, fires erupted everywhere as gas lines ruptured, went up, caught on new buildings or collapsed down with no warning. Somewhere around Liverpool Street station, I narrowly avoided having a sandwich shop and pharmacy collapse onto me.

Maybe it would have been better if I had.

I remember seeing gangs quickly out looting electronics and jewellery stores. There was no law and order any more. Or at least, the few souls who still held to their jobs were so hopelessly swamped by the sheer scale of the chaos that unfolded that there was little they could do. I saw ambulances try fruitlessly to make their way around the crushed and burning cars and buildings to get to the injured.

It wouldn't have mattered, because most of the hospitals were burning, and the power was quickly going out all over the capital, and for the most part, all over the world.

Eventually, late at night I made my way back to Honour Lea Avenue. It was late, but by then my phone had gone flat, and I'd long since abandoned a wristwatch. The fires lit Stratford up regardless, thanks to the planes that had been due to land at City Airport. My apartment had been spared, which meant that I could at least grab some clothes and a little food before deciding what to do next.

***

Those first few months in Stratford were grim, as everyone waited to see who had survived, and what would happen next. Old Mrs Rosh from flat 27 kept firm in the faith that the government and the army would swoop in at any moment with food, supplies and power, but even she started nailing her door shut at night after a few weeks.

The looters had grabbed the stuff they thought was "valuable", but left a lot of the food behind, which was their error. I lasted just about as long as the supplies at the Marks & Spencer did before deciding it was time to quit the capital and head north, not that I got far. Travelling anywhere was tough back then, and it's not gotten a lot better in the decades since.

***

Mind you, we had a traveller through a few months back. Said he'd been over on the continent, and even further afield. Seems like everyone's still both struggling to survive and find out what actually happened on that day. Like me, he had a hunger to simply know.

Clive was his name, and he told me that he'd heard from the folk in Greece that some places now had power. Mostly the small island nations, maybe Australia, but nobody was really sailing any more anyway, because there really wasn't much in the way of a serviceable boat, or too many folk skilled in boat building.

So Clive reckoned, they'd been spared the worst thanks to the isolation of the ocean and the fact that it was the middle of the night with not too many planes flying in that part of the world.

You'd have to sail, Clive said, because when the planes fell on Russian soil, they took out several nuclear power stations. The Russian Steppes, Clive said, were a good place to go and die if you were simply too tired to live, and would be for thousands more years to come. That meant that getting to the South Pacific and whatever they call civilisation would involve sailing in the direction of America.

America, where the one thing that they'd kept up were the guns, and the hatred of foreigners. A pretty nasty mix in today's world.

***

Still, that's in the past. I can't have seen a plane coming in to land, because there aren't any planes any more. It must have been a large crow, or maybe just my old eyes playing tricks on me. I'd better get back to weaving this jumper if I want something to trade for tonight's meal.

****

# 32 I Do Like Teddy Bears

Aaron awoke, and something was not right.

He checked his bedspread. Nope. Still frog pattern, just like he liked.

He checked the line of toys on his window, ready for him to play with in the morning. All six army men and the jeep that had come out of that chocolate egg were standing at attention. All good.

Just for a second, Aaron worried that the bed was wet. A quick hand in the proper areas rested his worries on that score. All dry, all good. Aaron was big now, and big boys didn't wet their beds.

The light in Aaron's bedroom was only dim. It must be really early, Aaron thought. There was no clock in his room, ever since his alarm clock had broken, but he couldn't hear anyone else moving in the house. Aaron knew that meant he'd have to be very quiet indeed, otherwise he'd wake up mum and dad. Mum was mostly OK if she got woken up – usually, she worried that something was wrong with Aaron or his little sister Annabelle – but Dad always woke up grumpy. Every time, but especially grumpy if Aaron woke him up early.

Still, something wasn't quite right.

That's when Aaron realised. Mr Fluffles wasn't resting by his side, or, as sometimes happened, resting under his head as a pillow.

He wasn't on the floor of his room, and he wasn't in the cupboard. Gathering up his courage, Aaron gingerly lifted up the doona to check if Mr Fluffles had rolled under his bed, where the monsters gathered.

No Mr Fluffles; just a few loose plastic toys and the electric race set in its ratty cardboard box.

What about in the bookshelf with the messy array of books, comics and art projects? No, he wasn't there; Mr Fluffles was bigger than any of his books and would be quite obvious.

Aaron began to feel quite unwell.

Mr Fluffles wasn't to be found anywhere.

"MUUUUUUUUUM!"

***

The next day at school, Aaron couldn't concentrate. Not with Mr Fluffles missing. It was a Tuesday, which meant he had English, Maths, Religion and Sports.

Miss Creton noticed that Aaron seemed upset, but he couldn't tell her. Aaron couldn't tell anyone that Mr Fluffles was missing, because then he'd have to admit that he still had a teddy bear, and that he was upset that it was missing.

Still, it upset him, and that meant that he couldn't think. He couldn't do his maths properly in class, and at recess, he let three goals fly past him when he was playing soccer with Kevin, Darren and William. That just made things worse, because Aaron was a good goalie when his mind was put to it. He wasn't afraid to dive for the ball, or to jump into place to shut down an attacker.

But not today. All he could think about was Mr Fluffles. Kevin asked him if he was feeling sick, and he wanted to say yes, but he realised that he couldn't, because then he'd have to admit that he was sick with worry because Mr Fluffles was missing, and that would lead to him being teased. It was only a couple of weeks ago when that kindergarten kid had come to school with a teddy under his arm. In the end, he'd gone home in tears, and a special school assembly had been called in which they all had to be taught (again) that Bullying Wasn't Cool(tm). It wasn't, but Aaron knew that the kinds of bullying shown on a DVD in front of a teacher were quite different to what actually happened in the playground.

Aaron was miserable and sick through the rest of the day, not wanting to talk to anyone. All he wanted was Mr Fluffles so bad it burned inside his stomach and all the way up his throat.

Finally — FINALLY — the school bell rang and he could go home. The bus ride was bumpy and unpleasant, but that was nothing new, and the twenty minute journey home passed before Aaron even realised his stop was coming up.

There was nobody home when Aaron got there, because it was Tuesday, and both Mum and Dad were still at work. Annabelle had Netball on Tuesdays and tended to end up going round to her friend Kathy's house afterwards. Usually, that meant that Aaron had the living room TV to himself until Mum got home, but today he had to sweep out the driveway and garage. Dad said so, because he'd woken up Dad on an "important day when I had a big meeting", and while Dad wouldn't be home for a couple of hours, Aaron knew he'd better have all his extra chores done before Dad got back from work.

The garage was full of leaves from that storm last week, and it seemed to take ages to get every last red and brown leaf out of the way and into the green waste bin. It didn't help that it had rained overnight, so a lot of the leaves were still wet and soggy, tending to clump together in large muddy piles that resisted the broom. Aaron knew he'd catch hell if his school uniform got muddy, and that meant putting on the big dry gardening gloves that were too big for him. That made picking up the clumps of leaves tricky in anything but small handfuls.

Having cleared out the leaves from the driveway, Aaron set to sweeping the dust out of the garage, which was at least covered and dry.

It was dry and dusty in the garage, and Aaron kept sneezing whenever a fresh cloud of dust swirled up into the air. Once the leaves were clear, Aaron walked back into the garage to put the big blue broom back against the wall next to the rakes, just behind the lawnmower.

" _Hey Aaron!"_

The sudden shout made Aaron jump, and he dropped the broom with a clatter on the hard concrete of the garage floor.

" _Who... who's that?"_ he asked, barely concealing the nervousness in his voice. The voice had come from behind him... but that was a brick wall. It didn't make sense.

Aaron very slowly turned around to face a brick wall. Nothing special; the rakes, the old green fridge that Dad kept his homebrew in, and a few spider webs.

" _Hello?"_ Aaron called out.

With no response, and his heart rate returning to normal, Aaron leaned down to pick up the broom.

" _Hey, Aaron!"_

" _Yargh!"_

Aaron hadn't meant to scream, but the voice again caught him off-guard. He jumped up, and came face to face with Mr Fluffles.

Only... it wasn't Mr Fluffles, sort of. It had his single eye, and the hollow bit where the other eye had been. Aaron had been very young when he'd been given Mr Fluffles, and Mum said that "the eye was the first thing to go". She'd offered to give Mr Fluffles an eyepatch, or a button eye, but that had made Aaron very upset. Mr Fluffles wouldn't be Mr Fluffles if he had two eyes, or if his right eye socket was covered with a patch, would he? He'd be Pirate Mr Fluffles, or something like that, and Aaron didn't trust pirates. They stole things.

But this Mr Fluffles had the right number of eyes, and even that small purple patch on his side where Aaron had spilled some grape drink when he was three years old, and even the stitches that Mum had made in him when his yellow stuffing had started to come out just before his birthday last year. Aaron couldn't check right now, but he was certain that if Mr Fluffles lifted his right foot, he'd find the letters "AS" (for Aaron Smith, naturally) scrawled there in Aaron's own Kindergarten level writing, with the S mostly inverted.

But Mr Fluffles had been the size of a teddy bear, whereas the Mr Fluffles in front of Aaron was easily Aaron's Dad's size, much taller than Aaron himself. He'd seemed to walk right out of the brick wall, making the rakes and even the old green fridge shimmer as he did so.

" _Hey Aaron — Let's go have some FUN!"_ said Mr Fluffles, a sudden twinkle in his eye.

" _What? But... I've got... chores..."_ said Aaron.

" _And you're all done, aren't you?"_ said Mr Fluffles. His mouth didn't seem to move when he spoke, but his voice was exactly like Aaron had always imagined it would be. A little gravelly, with just a touch of a bear's roar, but comforting, deep and warm, like his Dad's voice, at least when Dad was in a good mood, anyway.

Aaron looked around the garage. Mr Fluffles had a point. The leaves were swept up and in the green waste bin, and the dust and cobwebs were gone from the garage entirely. The rest of the long summer afternoon was his, which meant it was time for a boy and his bear.

This was going to be AWESOME.

****

# 33 Thinking Time

They say it's bleak out the in the desert.

Just miles and miles and yet more miles of nothingness. Nothing to see, nothing to do. Most of the cars just burn through here at 55mph — sometimes a little more if they're feeling brave — without giving the desert more than a second's thought. It's all just dust under their tyres, and time on the road while they're getting from one place to another. Sometimes they stay in town, but usually it's just an inconvenient speed trap on a long road trip. There's desert on one side of town, and desert on the other, and it's all just sandy, dry and dull. Nobody could or would ever want to live out there, they'd say.

I think they're wrong. I like heading out into the desert every once in a while. The Australian Aboriginals have a word for it... what was it? I remember, when I was there on a holiday with my folks, we got told all about it...

Oh yeah. Walkabout. They'd go Walkabout. I remember being very impressed. Then again, I was only nine, and I was in an entirely different country, so just about everything was impressive, from the way the water swirled in the bathtub to the weird brown stuff they have on toast. Can't remember what it is. But walkabout stayed with me, because I've always enjoyed going for a walk.

Sure, to them it was a rite of passage for the young men, which means I'm the wrong gender for a start. Still, the concept of getting to a point, saying "No! Enough!" and being able to simply walk away from all of life's cares and worries has a lot of appeal. A hell of a lot of appeal.

That's why I like the desert. This isn't the first time I've found myself, out in the desert. I like the isolation, with just the sand lizards, the intermittent stunted trees trying their very best despite the heat and lack of moisture, and me.

I can find myself, not just in the sense that I'm in the middle of the desert, but, really, you know, find myself.

I first remember being out here right after I split up with Mark. I needed some time to get over him, and at first I'd hit a bar, and had a few drinks with Sarah. She's always been there for me, right from day one of college. But then her phone had rung, and she'd had to head off. Something to do with whichever boyfriend she had at the time. Miguel, I think. Something Spanish sounding, which drove her parents absolutely nuts. Knowing Sarah, that was probably pretty deliberate.

Miguel was a bit of a looker, though. Nice looking guy, although once Sarah broke up with him, he left town pretty quickly. Pity. I wouldn't have minded hooking up with Miguel, at least once.

So Sarah had headed off, and that left me and the waitress, staring at each other.

Maureen had run the bar ever since... well, for as long as I'd been allowed to go into the bar and order a drink, which was a little bit before my 21st birthday. Nobody really cares about that kind of rule in a small town like this, although the younger kids do get kicked out just to show that the law is still obeyed, at least a little bit. I'd never given Maureen any trouble, but at the same time I wouldn't have said we were friends or anything.

Maureen had that angry kind of stare on her face. that suggested to me that it was probably time for me to finish my drink and skedaddle out of there. I got the feeling that this was a stare that Maureen had perfected over years, taking it out of its little face-box only when truly necessary.

So while I had a fair amount of my Bud to finish, I downed it fast, just to stop the staring.

I mean, beyond the stare, Maureen is built like one of them wrestlers, only with more tattoos and an even worse attitude. The bar's never needed a bouncer, because everyone's seen Maureen chucking them out when it's time to go. She's not known for being gentle.

Problem was, I'd been drinking pretty heavily. My car was in the parking lot, and Sarah hadn't taken my keys or anything, but the bar was right over the road from the police station. Everyone knows somebody that's been busted coming out of the bar by a bored cop, and I was already pretty angry with the world, what with Mark and all. Damned if I was going to get ticketed, or even worse, spend the night in the drunk tank with God knows who.

So I took to walking. Can't arrest me if I'm walking. One step at a time, straight as possible, one foot after another, I walked.

The problem with walking in a small town like ours is that you don't have to walk very far before you run out of places to walk to. Once I'd cleared the parking lot, the garage and the general store, I was pretty much at the town limits, not that I noticed at the time. I just kept on walking, one step at a time.

I remember I woke up with a lizard climbing my hip and a headache that just wouldn't quit pounding at my temples.

I freaked.

I mean, you would, wouldn't you? The sun was beating down on me pretty hard, there's a lizard taking up residence on my side and all I could see for miles and miles was sand.

Luckily, as it happened, all I'd done was walk about three miles out of town before walking off the road towards Thunderman's Cave. Everyone goes to Thunderman's to drink when they're teenagers, and I think I'd hoped to find a few illicit hooch stashes to take the edge off my thirst. I must have taken only about a half dozen steps before deciding to rest my head on a rock, and that was it for the night.

The long walk back into town had given me plenty of time to think. Time to think about how much I could use a drink, time to think about how stupid those red shoes with the silver trim were, and time to think about how much I wanted to slap the stupid grin off Mark's face.

By the time I got home, I was sunburnt, parched, and all thought out.

It was awesome.

A bit less awesome when Sherriff Wilson showed up. Sarah had totally flipped and worried when my car was found "abandoned" in the parking lot, and nobody knew where I was. Apparently they'd pulled in some drifter wearing a shirt the same colour as mine, and started "interrogating" him some about what he'd done with me.

Me being all well and not in fact kidnapped, molested or otherwise interfered with meant that they'd had to let him go without charging him or nothing.

I didn't see what all the fuss was about, but I guess it's nice that people worry about me, you know?

So that's why now, whenever I feel the world's getting too much, whether it's a broken shoe or a broken heart, I just go for a walk into the desert. I just make sure that I leave a note at the general store, and a message on my phone's answering machine to tell people I'm out for a walk for a bit. So's they know, and don't worry, and I can have my thinking time to myself.

It's funny, but while the heat beats down on me pretty bad, it helps to cool my brain. The bottle of Jack doesn't hurt any either, mind you. The desert might be a bit empty, but a girl's got to be prepared, as my daddy used to say.

I can sit here, and just think. Just let my mind wander, and keep my fluids up, and every once in a while pull out a snack to keep me going.

I'm pretty low on snacks, which means I must have been out here... how long? Let's see, I had a twelve-pack of twinkies and those corn chips and the six pack of beer, and the bottle of Jack.

Jack's the only one that's still with me, although I'm sure the Twinkies are now down around my hips to stay. I find I don't need to eat much when I'm out here, though, and I've slept at least three times, so it must be three days.

Ah well. Enough time for me. Back to the real world.

****

# 34 I Hate Teddy Bears

The road stretches out before me, black and straight and empty. Right on to the horizon, nothing but black tar, the glistening mirages of what look like pools of water on the flat surface, and every once in a while, the form of an oncoming truck making its way through the desert, blowing up clouds of dust and grit all over my much smaller car. There can't be a square inch of this car that isn't covered with dust and grime. All I can see of the bonnet is thick grey dust, even though I know the car itself is quite bright green.

British Racing Green. That's right, "British" Racing Green, whatever the hell that means. I remember now, from that one time I had to go and get a pot of it so that he could paint out a tiny scratch that had ended up on the bonnet. It was "my fault", so I was the one who had to go buy the paint.

It feels like I've been driving forever, although it's only been... what time is it now?

A quick glance down at my wristwatch shows... that my wristwatch is broken. I wish I'd known that before I bothered putting it on.

The face is shattered, and there are traces of red across the cracks that run through the glass. Mickey isn't going to be pointing out the time to anyone any more.

Damn, but I must have caught him a good one with that backhand slap. Not that he failed to return the favour.

The sun isn't yet at its peak, so I guess it must be sometime before midday. Let's call it 11... ish. Maybe only ten.

It was quite dark when I left. The bedside clock was glaring at me with its harsh red digits, letting me know that it was only 5am. He was naked and asleep with the remnants of a beer can still clenched in his stupid fist.

I'd had enough, and it was scary, but it was time to go.

Dark and raining, and I crept out of the room, pausing only to slip some sneakers on my feet and grab the car keys and his wallet, as quietly as I could. It was raining outside, quite heavily, which gave me pause for thought, as even stepping out into the rain was enough to see me drenched.

The shock of the rain had made me stop, but only for a second. It was now or never, and it had to be now.

Anyway, the rain had nicely masked the sound of the car starting up as I reversed it out of the driveway.

As I had done hundreds of times before, I missed the apex of the driveway and noisily thumped the car down onto the street. That wasn't likely to wake him in any case, or at least I hoped not, even though it felt kind of good to give his car one last shock over the kerb as I left, like a final punishing blow to his stupid ego.

I can still feel the damp wet rain on the back of these stupid Teddy Bear pyjamas he'd "bought me" as a "birthday present".

I hate Teddy Bears. Never could stand them.

He knows I hate teddy bears with their creepy little black eyes and grasping paws. That's why it was "So fucking funny" and why I "had to wear them". Anything less wouldn't be "grateful".

Eugh... that's another dead kangaroo. That makes, what, seven of them so far, I think.

I must look a serious sight in teddy bear pyjamas, half-done hair and a pair of bright purple sneakers. At least there was still a pair of sunglasses in the glove box, so that by the time the sun rose, I wasn't blinded by it, and you couldn't see that bruise above my right eye. I can still just about see out of it. Mostly. Enough to drive, anyway.

The guy at the petrol station didn't even look up from his girlie mag when I filled the car up and bought that box of donuts. Women in fluffy pyjamas and sunglasses probably drive through there at a rate of fifty or more a day.

Fuck, but that's a depressing thought. Probably true, though.

The donuts were nice, though, or at least nice enough that all that's left of them is the box and a few stray sugar crumbs rattling around the brake pedal.

They were good donuts, but that was hours ago, and my stomach is letting me know that a diet of slightly crusty sugar donuts and even crustier coffee isn't going to keep me going all day.

That last gas station was, what, about a quarter of a tank ago, which means if I remember this road at all, I've got a few hours before I can next fill up the car. That's got to be my first priority with what little cash I've got left. If there's enough left over, maybe buy some stale chips and perhaps a can of soft drink. Credit cards at last resort, because I don't want to give him any clues as to where I've gone until I'm well and truly gone.

I remember this road from when Mum and Dad would take us on holidays. We'd all pile in the car; three kids, Mum and Dad and the dog and the cats, all of us off on what I used to think were going to be crazy wild adventures.

We'd count dead 'roos on those trips too.

And there's number eight. Looks like a truck's rolled right over poor Skippy, maybe more than once. I wonder if the truckies even slow down for them? Do they even notice after a while, or is it a sport to them, to see how many and how far they can fling them when they hit the front grille?

Any Roo hits the front of my car, and it's likely to be hopping away long before I do. Not the kind of adventure I'm looking for.

Mum always used to hype me up talking about the "adventures" we were going to have on our family holidays down the road. They were going to be wonderful, and exciting, and filled with all kinds of new foods and amazing things.

Somehow we always just ended up with the lot of us crammed into a tiny caravan looking down over a rain-drenched beach while we played Monopoly. Never any adventures, just endless rounds of buying property, collecting rent and going to jail every once in a while.

Always play as the thimble. My dad taught me that, and he was right. That thimble is lucky, he'd say, and then he'd go on and win, every single time.

It was years before we realised that every time anyone else got up to go for a snack, he'd filch a few lazy hundreds out of the bank.

We stopped playing Monopoly with Dad after that, although we kept on being bundled into the car for family holiday time. I'd just bury my head into Smash Hits and ignore the rest of the world for about a week until it was time to go home again. A few holidays like that, and Mum and Dad got the message.

And that one makes nine. I can see it right on the median strip, so I'd better swerve around it. At least I don't have to dodge traffic as well as semi-flattened wildlife.

But first, a little drink. There's still a bit of that coffee left, even though it must be stone cold by now. A little hit of caffeine and plenty of sugar to keep me going onwards, ever onwards.

Oh, that's bad coffee. Bad, cold, massively over-sugared coffee.

All that sugar's not good for me, but whatever. Today isn't good for me, but tomorrow might be.

God, I wish this stupid car had a GPS in it. I know where I'm going, but it would be damned useful to know how much further I've got to go.

On to the horizon, and then a bit further again.

****

# 35 Contraband

The judge hammered down on his gavel to bring the unruly court to order. He'd always hated Tuesdays, and waking up with a hangover after last night's dinner feast had done nothing to improve his mood.

"Approach the bench and state your name, guard"

The guard, dressed in the traditional red and black finery that denoted the city watch, nervously approached the court bench.

As he did, the Judge noticed the slightly worn edges on his dress tunic, matching the worn creases on his heavily sun worn face. This was, the judge surmised, a man who had spent significant time in the sun, in the same role. No social climber, or rapidly rising star of the military ranks, the judge figured. He fancied himself something of a student of the telling of a man by his dress style.

The guard before him told a somewhat sorry tale of limited ambition, many years of drowned sorrows in jugs of wine and little personal pride.

"I said, state your name for the court!"

"Sorry, your eminence. Grizini, your eminence."

"I see, Grizini..."

(Such a common name, the Judge thought. No wonder he'd never made anything of himself beyond simple security.)

"Now, tell the court exactly what happened on... when was it?"

"Four days ago, your eminence."

"Ah, yes, four days ago. You may proceed"

Grizini gulped. The judge was a severe looking man in the kind of purple robes that Grizini knew cost more than 300 shekels per square cubi. Grizini's father had been in the cloth trade, but only in common hemps and sometimes special orders for red fabric. Purple was rare, so Purple was the reserve of the upper classes.

Grizini briefly thought back to his own aborted apprenticeship for a second. Let's see, if he's wearing 2 cubis of Purple, and Purple is still around 300 shekels per square cubi, then his outfit would be worth... oh, damn, stupid numbers. Grizini had left the family business in disgrace after accidentally allowing 1,000 shekels of hemp out of the warehouse for only 100 shekels. He could still see his father's angry face when the accounts had come in. For once, purple hadn't been the sole province of the very wealthy.

"Grizini?"

"Yes, your eminence?"

"You are not in fact saying anything..."

"Ah... yes... well... right... um... so, it was four days ago, like I said, and I was on duty on the south gate, collecting the taxes."

"The taxes?"

"Yes, your eminence. All city guards are now obliged to keep the peace and collect the taxes on behalf of his most radiant majesty, blessed be his name."

At this, Grizini knelt down to perform the seven observances, as was customary, starting with the sign of the holy Raven.

"Oh, do get up. There's no time for that religious nonsense here, Grizini!"

"But I'll have to pay a fine and the monks will ban me from the chapel for seven weeks, your eminence!"

"Grizini, the monks have no jurisdiction here. However, you will find that I do have both jurisdiction and the will to punish those who waste my time. Have you spent much time in the public cells?"

"No, your eminence. Wall guards don't do the guarding of the prisoners in the public jails until they've been promoted to at least Sergeant."

"I wasn't talking about performing your guard duties, Grizini."

"Oh... OH. Oh, I see. I'm sorry, your eminence."

"Don't let it happen again. Now, continue your account."

"Very good, your eminence. It was after lunchtime, and there had been very few travellers and traders at the south gate. They do tend to slow down as the day gets warmer. That's when he appeared."

"He, Grizini?"

"The accused, your eminence. That man over there, in the foreign clothing. Funny looking bugger..."

"That is not, strictly speaking, a legal term, Grizini. For the benefit of the court, could you clearly point out the accused for the record?"

Grizini couldn't see why the judge wanted him to point. There was only the one foreigner in the court today. You could always tell foreigners. They never wore the right kinds of head dresses, never properly managed the religious observances and mixed colours on their clothes as though they were all free. Grizini's Dad had taught him all about foreigners when he was young.

"The ones from the North, the Aricis, they're alright lads" his Dad had said. Dad had fought in the fifteenth squadron at the famous battle of Teronica, when the Aricis had been soundly subdued and forced to pay taxes like honest decent folk. Since then, so the gossip said, they'd almost started approaching actual civilisation. Some of them had even joined the holy orders, although plenty of folk were wary of gaining absolution from some smelly Northern monk.

"But those buggers from the south... you can't trust them. They don't think right, they don't smell right, they don't eat right and they're not right. Never forget that, my boy", he'd always said.

Grizini had been through boot camp, same as any guard, and while the rules said that every trader was to be treated the same, even he knew that the traders from the South always got a little extra tax taken from them. It was only fair, and stood to reason. Everyone knew that the traders from the south would steal anything that wasn't nailed down, plus the nails if they weren't stopped. Taxing them extra at the gate was just getting back what they were going to nick anyway.

Grizini pointed at the bearded and stooped man in the brown, red, blue and purple robes. Ridiculous, Grizini thought. It was months before the festival of the radiant blossoms, when everyone wore blue. Some people just couldn't be taught proper civilised manners.

"That man over there... in the attire? Is that who you mean to point out, Grizini?"

"Yes, your eminence. That's the man. He approached the south gate with a donkey pulling on a cart."

"I see. Where is this Donkey now?"

"It's in the lockup, your eminence. We have an area for livestock. Mangy looking thing, your eminence, not even good for soup."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself there, Grizini"

"Sorry, your eminence. Anyway, I asks him, see, what's on the cart? And he says... wait, what was it... oh yeah... Own-ee-uns. Yeah. Own-ee-uns. Never heard of them before, so I had to take a look, didn't I?"

"Did you?"

"Oh yes, your honour. I had to. Part of my duties. See, like I was saying all us city guards are now obliged to keep the peace and collect the taxes on behalf of his most radiant majesty, blessed be his..."

"Don't, Grizini. Just don't. The public cells, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Anyway, we have to collect the taxes, and how can I work out what the taxes are when I don't know what an Own-ee-un is? It might be a cloth, which is taxed at ten bits to the hundred, or it could be food, what's taxed at nine bits to the hundred, or it could be an entertainment, and that's... umm... oh, I always forget that one, not that many of them Southerners bring in instruments or books or stuff like that. Thirteen to the hundred I think. Should I go get the rates book from the hut to check, your eminence?"

"I don't think that will be neccessary, Grizini. The rate for entertainments is fourteen bits to the hundred, and has been since last Spring. You should remember these things naturally."

"Sorry, your eminence."

"Go on, Grizini. What was in the cart?"

"So, I asked him to lift up the cover on the cart. He was real slow and cagey like, and at first I thought he might be one of those far south people what don't understand the common tongue. That's always a pain, because you can't just beat them like the old days and send them on their way. Now we've got to get one of them interpre... intypryryr.... talking-type-people who can understand their gibberish. It's not a proper language, is it? Anyway, he slowly hissed "Yessss" at me?"

"He actually hissed, did he?"

"Oh yes, your eminence. The cheek of it! So, I'd decided to add an extra three bits to the tax, just for the cheek alone. The extra tax all goes back to his most radiant majesty, blessed be..."

"GRIZINI!"

"Oh, right. I forgot. Sorry. Won't do it again. Well, anyway, the extra tax all goes back to... where it should, your eminence, not into my own pocket. I know the gossip says all us guards are on the take, but I'm not like that, never have been, you can ask anyone, well, almost anyone, probably not that little scrote Hesephus, he's a troublemaker and don't know what he's talking about most of the time, everyone knows he's only in the guards because his dad paid off that scandal last Spring when he..."

"Grizzini?"

"Yes, your eminence?"

"Think very carefully about what you say next. On the one hand, you could tell me what I need to hear, and we can proceed. On the other hand... let's just say you might envy that Donkey in the stew pot when I'm done. Now, what was in the cart?"

"Well, that's the thing, your eminence. They were these weird little round things. Looked a bit like Apples, your eminence, only not like any Apple I've ever seen. Brown they were, with flaky skin that had shed all over the back of the cart. Smelled downright funny. Foreign, like. A bit like he smelled. He said that was because he was one of them.. one of them Own-ee-un farmers, come here to the city to sell his Own-ee-uns. Said they was food.

Naturally, I was wary."

"Really, Grizini? How was it that you were being aware, if at all?"

"Oh, I was, your eminence. I mean, we can't have all these funny foreign foods coming in. We have to be careful to maintain our own foods and traditions, not to mention the public health. That's something else we're trained to protect; the public health and good, from the lowest dung shoveller all the way up to his most radi... that is to say, all the way to the top!"

"I see. So what did you do next?"

"Well, I figured I had to work out both how much tax he needed to pay — some foods are taxed by weight, but these didn't look very heavy, so I was going to apply the tax to each Own-ee-un, only that would mean counting them all, which would be hard and hot work. Then I realised that I hadn't made certain that they was safe to bring into the city in the first place.

So I reached into the cart, pulled out an Own-ee-un, and took a big healthy bite."

"I see. Remind me again, Grizzini, what is this man being held for?"

"Poisoning a city guard, your eminence."

****

# 36 The End

The rain is beating down on my head in a steady pattern.

Behind it, there's a steady throbbing thump, probably from one of those nightclubs nearby. It's low and hard and way beyond my ability to pick where it's coming from. Does sound like something I'd dance to if I was here with friends for a proper night out, instead of this stupid work trip and this stupid rain.

I don't care anyway, about the throbbing thump or the heavy rain.

I don't care. No, I don't.

It can run all the way from the top of my hair down into my shoes and flood the world for all I care. I never liked those shoes anyway.

It's cold, though, and that's not so nice. My mother always told me that I should wrap up nice and warm when it rains.

I think she'd probably be aghast looking at me now, rain running down my blouse, over my skirt and onto those damn $300 pumps that are now worth only nickels. I'd take them off, but I'd only end up colder and wetter.

I could seriously use one of these taxis to stop for me. Sure, I'm a bit of a sight with a dripping wet mop of red hair amongst all these salarymen with their 100 Yen Daiso umbrellas flapping in the wind and rain. If nothing else, it would be good to be out of the rain and somewhere warm.

But nobody will stop for me, so down the gaudily lit streets I trudge, cursing my luck.

Kevin had suggested I wear the pumps to "make myself look bigger" during the negotiations. That bit had worked, but really, I could have worn my gym shoes and still been taller than the Japanese delegation we were meeting. They never really looked at my shoes, or for that matter my eyes anyway.

Instead, we'd ended up signing contracts and heading out to some dive bar for drinks. Firstly a few beers, then some kind of clear liquor, then some more shots of the clear drink... and then more.

I don't drink, not because I'm any kind of puritan, but because my damned liver won't stand up to it, something I found out as a teenager. It's like a knockout juice for me, with added internal bleeding, so I just don't.

This didn't sit well with the delegates, but they grumpily accepted it and kept on drinking. As they drank, they loosened up their ties and their language.

I don't speak a word of Japanese, but some gestures, facial expressions and physical moves don't take much to comprehend.

I've probably screwed up that deal slapping Korishu-San like that.

Good. He can go to hell, wandering hands first.

So can all these damned salarymen in the rain. They really don't have to push past me with such force. I'm not that bloody scary.

Wait, what is that thing up ahead?

It's a tank. An actual tank. Big tank treads, big stupid gun at the front, surrounded by an army of... army guys, I guess. Maybe some army girls. It's hard to tell in that flattened grey uniform, even in the wet.

Hang on... I thought Japan didn't have an army. That's not just one tank either. That's... three, no, four tanks, all of which have lights down the side pulsing in a regular pattern.

Oh, I get it.

It's one of those stupid only-in-Japan promotional excercises for some dumb movie or seafood snack or washing powder or something. Tank Brand Soap gets your kimono whiter, or something like that.

Those uniforms do look good, though.

Here comes the sales spiel. In Japanese of course, which means they may as well be speaking cat for all of my ability to understand it.

Mind you, all the salarymen and women appear to have left. It's just me and the tanks, and the broadcast voice. The "soldiers" in their cute little outfits are looking at me like I'm crazy.

Then again, I wonder how many of them have ever seen a six foot four caucasian woman with drenched but frizzy wet hair wandering through a Tokyo suburb at three in the morning? Not many, I guess.

Oh.

They're ignoring me, and climbing into their cute little tanks.

Off they go, down the street, right past me.

Those tanks are very quiet. Must be electric. Nice of them to slightly veer out of my way, though.

No sign of any taxis, or any traffic at all. I'm pretty sure the hotel is down this way, but that ride here was lengthy, so I'm sure there's still a fair walk ahead of me. One leg at a time, and try not to trip in these stupid wet shoes.

I think it's getting colder and wetter.

Also a bit quieter.

Actually, everything's very quiet, except for that throbbing noise in the background.

The lights for the nightclubs are flickering at me. I've never seen Tokyo night lights so much as sputter once, but these are flashing on and off as though they're about to burst.

That thumping noise is getting louder.

I think these pumps are falling apart in the wet. Either that, or one of those stupid delegates threw something into my drink "for a laugh", because I'm finding it hard to stand up in them.

Must. Keep. My. Balance.

Down I go.

It's only as I fall to the ground on my backside that I realise that my shoes are fine. It's the ground that's shaking with a regular rhtyhm.

Earthquake?

I suppose it must be. Japan has lots of earthquakes, Kevin was telling me on the way over, so many that the locals simply don't notice them unless they're severe.

Fuck.

That means that the tanks and salary types were running from the earthquake. Wait. You can't do that, can you? Think, Debbie, THINK!

That thumping is getting louder, and more regular. Didn't think earthquakes could work that way.

Shelter. Yeah. Shelters. Japan's organised, and there must be shelters somewhere for this kind of thing.

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT NOISE?

Oh.

Wow.

OhWowOhWowOhWowOhNo.

That's... magnificent.

So green.

So scaly.

Just so absolutely HUGE.

That's a leg.

A leg.

Legs don't get made that big.

I kinda want to look up.

I'm scared.

Looking up... NOW!

Wow.

Right in front of me.

Right

In

Front

Of

ME.

Why aren't my legs moving? Why can't I stand up?

Stand up, Debbie.

STAND UP! You've got to... but what can I do?

He... umm... it... is huge, dwarfing over the buildings that it's leaving upright, which isn't many of them.

I really, really want to run away, but I can't gaze away from it. Immense just doesn't cover it. There's nowhere I could be to hide, no shelter large enough or solid enough that it wouldn't fall underneath his feet like paper.

So I sit, and watch Tokyo collapse around me.

I wish I could drink.

****

# 37 Clown Bees

Ben couldn't believe his luck.

A ticket to the world famous Clown Bees Circus, right there in his palm.

THE world famous Clown Bees Circus. He stared at it again, just to make sure that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

It was printed on thick card with a solid silver edge, although it had somehow been floating through the air as he'd idly cycled past the grove.

"ADMIT ONE" it read in fine red print at the top.

Ben had the whole day to himself, so he was flying solo, which meant he was definitely just "ONE" to "ADMIT".

It was summer, school was out, and all of his friends were away on holidays with their families. Well, "all", in the sense that Kevin was away, and that new kid, Owen something, who had seemed friendly in the last week of term was... somewhere. Ben hadn't seen him down by the swimming hole or any of the shops, so it was a fair guess that Owen's family had taken him somewhere.

Ben didn't really have any other "friends" at school to speak of. A lot of kids in his class who never really paid him attention, a few that he wished would stop paying him attention... and Oliver.

Everyone knew Oliver. Oliver's family was seriously wealthy. Ben didn't know what Oliver's family was doing over the summer holidays. Skiing in the Alps, maybe, or shopping in New York. Oliver's Mum liked turning up to school in the family limousine wearing a clutch of pearls that she wasted little time telling everyone came from a high fashion boutique in New York. New York must have some expensive shops, Ben figured, otherwise Oliver's Mum wouldn't be shopping there. Ben never saw Oliver's family down at the Shop-N-Rite when Mum dragged him along for the weekly food shop, although he had once seen her emerging looking grumpy from a shop nearby that declared itself a bookmakers. Ben wasn't entirely sure why books would make Oliver's mum so cranky looking.

Anyway, even if he was still around this boring old town, Oliver probably had front row tickets to the Clown Bees Circus. Oliver let everyone know that he had Clown Bees bedspreads, pyjamas, and even the new Clown Bees DVD every year to watch for his birthday party.

Nobody had ever been invited to one of Oliver's birthday parties, but the way Oliver described them, no expense was spared. Oliver even suggested that one of the classic Clown Bees stars had performed a "special, private show", just for Oliver on his last birthday. Oliver wouldn't say which Clown Bee it was, but Ben reckoned it was probably Buzzle.

Buzzle was Oliver's favourite Clown Bee, and he always wore a Buzzle T-Shirt and shorts on Mufti days, along with a fresh pair of sneakers. Ben sometimes wore his old Buzzle shirt to mufti days, but it was faded from many years of wearing, and didn't really fit all that well any more.

That didn't matter today, though. Ben continued to read the ticket.

"ADMIT ONE

TO THE WORLD FAMOUS

CLOWN BEES CIRCUS!

DATE: JANUARY 18

TIME: 1:30PM

VENUE: SPRING CREEK PARK

THIS TICKET IS NOT TRANSFERABLE,

CANNOT BE SOLD SEPARATELY

AND MAY NOT BE REFUNDED FOR CASH."

Ben wasn't quite sure what that last bit meant. He'd found the ticket floating through the breeze while he was out riding his bike through Willow Woods. The bright silver gilt around the words had caught the sunlight and his gaze, so he'd reached his arm out as he cycled past, figuring it was just a lolly wrapper or something.

Ben could make fun paper planes using lolly wrappers as the decoration. It was simple entertainment, and he never showed the planes to anyone, but a good square fold of one of the pieces of paper his father screwed up to drop into the bin with a few sherbet sucker wrappers on the end could make a great spaceplane for an afternoon's fun.

Ben suddenly realised that he didn't know exactly what time it was. Mum had called him in from the back yard for lunch at 12. He'd gobbled down his devon and tomato sauce sandwich in record time, then headed out the door as quickly as possible. Mum had been folding clothes, and Ben knew that if he moped around the house too long, he'd end up with "chores" to do.

Riding around the forest on his bike might have been ordinary, but anything was better than "chores".

Ben hopped on his bike and put the pedals into furious motion, heading home momentarily.

Wait, no, he thought.

The big mantle clock over the fireplace that had belonged to Grandpa would tell him what the time was, but if he headed home, he'd end up with "chores", not to mention questions about how he got the ticket in the first place.

This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, or at least it would be if he hadn't already missed it.

Ah, Ben thought. What about the big clock in front of the courthouse? That told the time, endlessly chiming in a noisy pattern on every hour. He hadn't heard it while he was cycling through the woods, which meant it probably wasn't yet one o'clock.

Ben headed for the town square, keeping one hand firmly gripped on the ticket. Of course, everyone said that the Clown Bee Circus wasn't as good as it was "in the good old days". Back then, apparently, Princess Honey would pop out of the pollen flower using a real cannon, and sometimes she'd even land in the lap of someone in the front row seat. Custom dictated that if Princess Honey did land in your lap, you were entitled to a big kiss from her before returning her to the circus ring.

Princess Honey had retired suddenly a few years back. Ben didn't know anyone — not even Oliver — who had been to the Clown Bee Circus since then, but he'd read somewhere that the cannon now fired out chocolate kisses for the crowd to catch. Somehow, that didn't quite seem the same, even though if you ordinarily asked him, he'd always opt for a chocolate rather than a kiss from a girl.

Girls were icky. They didn't even understand why Captain Bumblebee was so awesome, even though his TV show had shifted from real actors to animation a couple of years back. The mouths still moved on the cartoon show, and Ben could quote every line of every show. According to Dad, that meant he should "stop watching that rubbish", but Ben never missed a re-run episode. Ben couldn't recall a new episode being aired for quite some time, but the re-runs were enough for the meantime.

Ben turned the corner to the courthouse and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt in the loose gravel that lined the path just outside the stern marble building. Looking up, stared intently at the clock. It was one of those stupid ones that the old people had in the olden days. No gleaming digital face, just stupid hands and the numbers one to twelve on it.

The big hand was on the four, and Ben's heart sunk. Four O Clock already? Shouldn't it be getting dark by now?

The little hand was between the one and the two, which meant it was... what, exactly? Ben struggled to think for a second. Back to the bit of class where they'd been playing that dumb number game. The big hand was... on the minutes! That was definitely it!

So it was only four past one! There was still time to cycle down to Spring Creek and get a decent seat! Ben jumped back on his bike and pedalled furiously, his head full of visions of Clowns, Bees and laughter. Above all, the Clown Bees were the funniest and funnest thing that Ben could think of.

There it was, right before him. Bright yellow and black stripes, with a big spinning golden bee on the very top, just like in the TV show.

Except that it looked a bit different in the real world. No spotlights running over the exterior of the tent. The stripes were yellow and black, but the black was faded, almost a dirty grey colour, just like Ben's Clown Bees bedspread at home that he'd got for his fourth birthday. Mum wanted to put a bigger quilt on Ben's bed, but there was no way he was having a plain white quilt rather than a Clown Bees quilt. He'd rather have cold feet all winter long.

Ben readied his ticket to hand in at the ticket booth, but there didn't seem to be anyone there to hand it to. He could see a sign that said "Next show: 1:30" right next to a small digital clock that read "1:23" in bright red numbers.

That must be it, Ben thought. The midday show hadn't yet finished, so everyone else was already inside, enjoying the spectacle. Maybe I could catch a little bit of the end before my turn starts?

As he approached the tent, he could hear the earlier show. People were screaming with the kinds of belly laughs that Ben was sure he'd soon be enjoying.

Just then, a man in a Union jack waistcoat and striped trousers fell out of the tent, toppling over face first into the dirt.

Seconds later, a a man in a green suit festooned the word "Guiness" all over it ran screaming out of the tent, a rictus on his face that lasted the entire five steps he took before stopping still, turning directly around as if to face the tent. He too fell down face first.

Finally a clown, his face puffed up with dozens of red sting marks all over his face ran out of the tent, laughing and screaming and pushing his way directly past Ben as though he wasn't even there.

Hmm, thought Ben.

An Englishman, an Irishman and a clown come out of a tent.

There's definitely something funny going on here.

****

# 38 In The Future There Will Be...?

The halls of education gleamed in the sunlight, filtered through the haze of a thousand starships constantly taking off and landing.

Everywhere you looked, students were moving through the halls on their way to the final exams that most of them would ever face. You could see in their faces, Samuel reckoned, the sheer exhaustion of displaying all the learning they'd been doing ever since they'd been dropped off at the halls at age three, as all children were.

This was it. The big one. The last one.

Also, the tough one. Creative Writing, Final Year.

Samuel drew a deep breath as he saw exam hall #575b approaching in the distance. Within minutes the hovertram would slow to a halt to allow him and half a dozen other students to gently climb down to the hall and take seats that were already colour-coded according to patterns they'd been assigned over fifteen year-cycles ago.

Magenta-Puce-Puce-Aquamarine-Gold.

Magenta-Puce-Puce-Aquamarine-Gold.

In the back of his mind, Samuel hoped that there wouldn't be a seat and table with the familiar tones of Magenta-Puce-Puce-Aquamarine-Gold to be seen anywhere in the hall. It would be a miracle unheard of, but wasn't that what the stuff of miracles was wrought from?

Samuel suddenly felt a little happier. That idea, as ludicrous as it was, had to be creative. It had to be.

Maybe this wouldn't be quite so bad. Maybe he could find that little creative germ within himself that would blossom out into something wonderful.

Or maybe not.

"Exam Hall #574b", the robotic tones of the hovercar announced. Only one student alighted, looking glum as they faced the tough temporal physics exam. So the stories went, that was an exam that got rather... unusual if candidates got the tricky third layer equations out of whack.

Samuel could well recall, ten years ago, being visited by candidates from a temporal physics exam that had taken place some fifty years prior, just after the great war had concluded. None of them had been willing to remove their radiation suits, and the teaching authorities had quickly swooped in to take them away from the student dormitories. They'd looked pretty sick through the thick plastic of their protective hoods, and certainly none of them ever appeared in a class that Samuel was taking after that time.

The students who tended towards that study field were housed afterwards in a new dormitory "because it was best for everyone", apparently.

That night of glowing suits and feeble screaming had been enough to put Samuel off temporal physics as a study course, and instead towards a career in the arts.

Arts was where the real money was anyway. Customers would lay down some serious credits for a genuinely original song, or a performance of a classic play in some new, unexpected way. Samuel so badly wanted to be rich.

But first, exam hall #575b and its creative writing exam lay before him. Only it wasn't before him, but underneath him, right now.

"Exam hall #575b", the monotone hovertram stated.

Glumly, Samuel arose from his seat, and walked slowly to the exit. Waiting in line, five others hovered briefly at the door before gliding gently down into the hall, as if cupped in the hand of some invisible deity.

There was no deity present, or at least Samuel hoped there wasn't.

Deities tended to make things messy when they turned up, or at least that's what last year's proto-history course had taught him.

Deities tended to break things, or tame fantastic creatures, or ravish whatever "maidens fair" were. There was, even now, considerable debate over what a "maiden fair" actually was, but most high level history academics tended towards the idea that it was some kind of self-reclining table. None of them agreed what a table was, but it was obvious even to an idiot that a maiden fair was a self-reclining model.

Now it was Samuel's turn to head out the exit and let the electromagnetic pulse field guide him to his seat. He had not planned to be the last to leave the hovertram, but by sheer chance the door opening had appeared furthest away from him, which meant that custom dictated he exit last.

Once he was safely in the field, the hovertram zoomed away, leaving Samuel temporarily floating in space. Seconds passed, and he did not move at all.

Was this it? My dream come true? Samuel thought.

Just as his hopes (and spirit) rose, it was dashed as he started to float down towards an all too familiar sight. Magenta-Puce-Puce-Aquamarine-Gold, laid out on a desk and chair that may as well have had his name streaming across its display sphere to really lay it in thick.

Oh well, Samuel thought. May as well get it over and done with.

Samuel gently pressed his head against the display sphere, confirming his identity and downloading the necessary information for the exam paper.

Not that it was a paper to speak of, but some traditions remained.

Samuel suspected he was one of the few students who actually understood what a paper actually was, or how the ancients had made their crude records by killing vegetable life forces, smashing them and flattening them into flattened forms they could make their primitive marks upon.

Samuel had done so well in his proto-history studies that he'd been allowed to undertake some preliminary quintertiary studies, including viewing an actual holo-record of some actual paper. It had taken a lot of application pleading to be allowed access to such a rare historical record, but it was a sign of how much faith the education faculty had in Samuel's ability that they had signed off on it.

Samuel could still recall what was imprinted on the paper.

"ONE WAY TICKET 5D."

Nobody knew what ONE WAY TICKET 5D meant, but then the ancients had some quite unusual ideas about everything, in their cute, primitive and ultimately stupid way.

No time for pondering, Samuel thought. It's exam time. Time to get CREATIVE!

Samuel knew that the moment he thought the title of the exam, it would unfold in his mind, and he'd have three cycles to put forth his best effort in whichever creative sphere felt best to him. Some would answer the question – it was always only one question – in song, others in dramatic performance, some in colours or sculpture forms, or anything else that could be justified.

Very well, Samuel thought. Creative Writing, Final Year.

Instantly, the paper unfolded in his mind, writing out a single sentence.

" **What will life be like in the future?"** it said, and the clock started counting down the cycles in a regular, rhythmic pattern that was said to aid students in concentration by up to 0.000000000173 per cent.

Oh. Thought Samuel.

Very oh.

Very big oh.

Samuel had hoped for something to do with tragedy, or perhaps pretending that he was a hovernanny, or an achievable kind of creativity. What was this?

I mean, what is this? Samuel thought.

The future?

This would have been much easier back in, say, the nineteenth, or even the twentieth or twenty-first. It would have been simple then. There was so much to look forward to, and you could have put down just about anything.

Jetpacks. There must have been a time when Jetpacks appeared impossibly futuristic, something to look forward to. Now you could buy a disposable jetpack from any vending machine for a quick spin out around Alpha Centauri after dinner, or to watch the garbage scows drop the dissidents into the black hole if that took your mood. Jetpacks were ordinary and so very boring. They were not the future, but the past.

It must have been exciting in a way, Samuel thought. Back when there were things like diseases that could cut your life short, like cancer, NPIV or HLOD.

Back before vita-waves made all those things entirely redundant. A quick wash in the vita-waves each morning, and anything that you'd caught, or anything new that had mutated would be simply re-arranged out of your DNA, analysed for future reference in the medi-banks. Not that you felt anything, beyond a slight itchy sensation in your scalp if you did need genetic resequencing. No, medicine was boring. There was no future there.

What about... maybe future people?

Yeah, that might work, Samuel thought.

Perhaps future people would be a different shade of purple, or only have three arms instead of the usual four.

The unusual mental image of a three armed person quickly drew itself onto Samuel's mental sketch pad, ready to be committed to his final answer. The sight of the three arms, lacking that perfect synchronicity that Samuel knew to be right and correct shocked him into a nervous laughter.

A student that Samuel could only identify as Magenta-Puce-Puce-Puce-Black – a new colour combination that Samuel had never seen before in any of his courses – glared back at him. She was in the middle of undressing and applying some kind of thick black grease to her body, for reasons that eluded Samuel.

He'd clearly interrupted her in a key pose, and she didn't appear happy.

Maybe people in the future might be happy, Samuel thought.

This isn't working, he realised. People were people, and they were always going to be people. Nobody was going to believe in people with only three arms. They would never be able to work the proper interfaces for study, for a start, or scratch themselves in more than one place while playing the euphonium. No, the exam board wouldn't be interested in any future people.

I don't have a future if I don't pass this exam, Samuel thought.

As Samuel panicked, he looked away from the sphere to take in his surroundings. Just next to him, a girl he'd only ever known as Magenta-Puce-Puce-Orange-Cyan had committed suicide. A bold and maybe even, dare he think it, a creative step, Samuel thought.

Although it would be tough to back it up afterwards when faced with the examining committee.

Future food... future food....

No, there was no point in pursuing any kind of thought about future food. Even just thinking about food had made Samuel incrementally more hungry, at which point the enzyme producing hoverbots had zipped down to his desk and injected the necessary chemicals directly into his stomach tube.

Mmm... bacon.

I have no time for bacon. I have no... time!

And in that instant, Samuel knew exactly how to answer the question.

In the future everything will be exactly and precisely as it is now, because everything has been invented, and there is nothing to look forward to.

****

# 39 The Work

The sun beat down on the valley with a relentless, pounding strength, just as it had done on every day that the slaves had worked here. Nobody had counted how long that had been, but then nobody lasted in the valley long enough to appreciate the scope of time. Only the work mattered.

Overhead, the carrion birds circled, awaiting fresh meat as they dipped and twirled through the hot winds that persistently swirled and gusted, sometimes light as a feather, and other times with enough force to punch a man down to the ground and keep him there.

The wind forced the sands around, and the sand got everywhere.

Into the boots, into the clothes, into the food and into every crevice of the men themselves as they toiled and sweated. At first, it was hard to tell whether your eyes were stinging from the sands or from the sweat, but the difference quickly became apparent. Sweat simply stung for a second or two, while the tiny grains of sand found the moist crevices of your eyes and stayed there to irritate, slice and scar. You could not keep out the sands. Nobody could, no matter how well they tried to wrap their heads in cloth, or wash their eyes in the scant quantities of water every man got for drinking. Eventually the irritation of the sands gave way to the scarring of the eyes, and before long, the whiteness of the iris that meant that a man had gone perpetually blind.

Blind slaves were always freed, but freedom in a place such as this carried a very high price, as there was nowhere to go but into the desert. In the desert a blind man would surely die. Sometimes they wandered out anyway, crying out to lords both real and imagined as they staggered away. You could hear their screams as the rangy creatures of the desert took them down. It never took very long, and then the screams would cease.

The "free" slaves tended to congregate around the edges of the camp, begging for any scraps the overseers could send their way. Already, the bones of the long dead were bleaching in the dry heat, and while they fought for every scrap, they knew in their hearts that it was only a matter of time before they joined their fallen comrades on the scrap heap. They could no longer see to make them out, but the screeches of the carrion birds made it all too clear when another member of their group had fallen face down for the final time.

The slaves who were still working never noticed, but then they never had time to pay attention to anything but the work in hand. Each day was much like the last, rising as the sun came up, supping from the cook's cauldron – always the same simple brew of oats, water and chunks of fat to start the day – before lugging the heavy sandstone blocks a few gruelling centimetres an hour towards their final resting place. With six men attached to the ropes, and an overseer directing their motion, each block could be moved only a few metres in each week, and only a few slaves were sent each week to replace those who fell.

Still, the work continued, as it had been decreed that it must.

Even the overseers sent knew that they had been sent on a death march. Their work was easier than that of the slaves, but they were still stuck under the same hot sun, eating the same simple food until they too dropped from either the heat exhaustion, the blindness or both.

At first, the overseers had come from the ruling classes, with a keen eye for the work that needed to be done and an education that allowed them to precisely engineer the positions of the blocks for optimal effect. As soon as the first nobleman's son went blind and wandered into the desert, the others determined to leave as soon as they could, wandering off into the desert one evening with the supplies, the camels, and a quantity of the sacrificial gold.

Without the gold, and given their noble status, they might have escaped the valley.

With the gold, they were labelled as infidels, hunted down and executed. No snack for the desert creatures or the carrion birds, the escapees were dragged back to the camp, paraded before the slaves and remaining overseers and chained to the ground in front of the massive sandstone blocks.

The next day's work involved, as it always did, dragging the massive blocks into place, directly over the bodies of the men who'd sought to escape with the precious gold. Their screams quietened rapidly, and their bodily fluids gave the slaves temporary respite from the friction of the ground.

Once word returned to the capital that the escapees had been dealt with in such a manner, it became increasingly hard to enlist the sons of any man with enough leverage, or enough money to avoid the work. The quality of overseers declined, and with it, the number of people who cared whether or not an overseer ever returned. All that mattered was the work, and the conclusion of the work, which was still several years away at the current rate of progress.

This did not please those who knew the real scope of the work, and why haste was important.

This was why, one day the slaves heard something different to the usual dusty groans of their fellows waking up in the early morning. A regular, repeating deep boom of a sound, hitting with a rhythmic beat that shook every man in the camp awake. A regular sound that grew in its volume as the source of the sound grew closer as the day wore on.

Not that the slaves stopped the work in order to find out what the sound was. That would have meant abandoning the work to head into the desert, and even if the overseers hadn't whipped men for that kind of curiosity, they knew full well that the desert was simply and purely a place of death.

As the sun started to set, the noise reached its peak. Over the sand dunes came the silhouette of a man. First one man, then another, and another. More and more and more, until they blotted out the sheer lines of the desert sands with the flow of thousands of bodies, all marching along to the sounds of gigantic kettle drums suspended on the backs of elephants. The drums did not stop until the men had reached the camps, marching in deliberate lines until they stood on the very edge of the camp, out where the blind slaves feebly sought out the slightest hint of food.

The drummers climbed down from the backs of the elephants. They barely acknowledged the blind slaves, but then who would? A blind slave had no value beyond the feebly comedic, and out here in the desert valley with the scope of the work in front of them, there was no time or desire for any comedy.

Instead, there was the work, and a fresh workforce to make it happen. The old way would be swept away, and while they did not know it, being ignored by the drummers was, in its own way, a show of mercy compared to the fate that would shortly meet those who had been struggling to work in the camp.

The carrion birds could not smile, for they did not possess lips, but if any man had looked up at that moment, they would have sworn that the cruel beaks of these scavengers were formed into a crude grin.

Soon, there would be fresh meat.

****

# 40 Inked

Everyone knew what was special about the tattoo parlour at the end of the otherwise indistinct shopping arcade on the old side of the train tracks. The shops around it had come and gone as the shoppers themselves came and went.

Where once there had been a thriving commercial mecca, bolstered by a major department store, a fried chicken outlet and a tiny and noisy store that sold only socks, now there remained only an accountancy firm that had been in town since the late 1890s, an opportunity shop filled with tattered remains of yesterday's fashions and the beloved toys of a long-forgotten youth or two, and, of course, the tattoo parlour, amidst row after row of empty shopfronts promising new stores that would never actually open soon.

The tattoo parlour didn't need to advertise with gaudy neon signs, or even posters displaying skulls draped provocatively over the breasts of half-naked warrior women as so many do. It had never needed to.

In accordance with the shopping centre's guidelines, all it had was a simple circular sign that plainly read "Tattoos". That was enough to make customers aware of what the shop was there for.

Advertising any further was beside the point, so unlike every other shopfront back when the arcade had been bustling, the tattoo parlour had always kept up the same simple black sheet in the windowfront. Ostensibly, it was to "protect community standards", or at least that's what every other store owner was told if they ever bothered to ask. Given the current state of the arcade, the black sheet stands out more because it shows signs of having been recently cleaned, unlike the grimy windows of the long-vacant stores nearby.

Still, the customers came to the tattoo parlour with regularity, always pausing before they opened the door to head inside for a time.

Everyone knew why they paused, but nobody would ever say. It was, the regulars would comment, or often just think to themselves, something that you had to experience personally.

Teenagers keen on a tattoo of "the hottest band to ever hit planet earth" – whichever band that happened to be this particular week — would quickly find themselves turned away, which only added to the appeal. Rumour had it that even fans of The Beatles back in their day had been turfed out once their tattoo plans became clear.

Likewise, young lovers, keen to seal the eternity of their passion with matching inks were told that they'd have to look elsewhere. More than a few relationships had soured on the steps of the tattoo parlour, with each partner secretly, or sometimes not so secretly blaming the other for being turned away from the one clear sign that they were "meant" for each other.

You had to know what you wanted, know what you liked, but it was more than that. Regulars would talk about how Grizny, the tattooist, seemed almost to know what you wanted before you did, and whether you were really serious about it at all. The stories suggested that he would tattoo drunks, but nobody ever seemed to know anyone who regretted what he ended up marking them with.

Despite such strict rules, the tattoo parlour was never in danger of closing, attracting a regular clientele that refreshed itself as age took its toll on regulars who'd been going there for decades, and new generations attained sufficient maturity, in the eyes of the parlour, to qualify for inking.

It certainly wasn't the location that attracted the customers. Or the receptionists, who changed with quite surprising regularity for such a niche service.

It was the inks.

***

Debbie awoke with a hangover that entirely suited what she could remember from the night before.

She was, she had to admit to herself, a little wary of actually opening her eyes. Opening her eyes would mean that the sunlight would start to creep in. Long experience had taught her that this was the worst moment of her hangovers. Not the long, lingering, thudding headaches that eventually subsided once the painkillers, coffee, bacon and eggs had done their thing, but the sudden sharp, stabbing pain of the sun's harsh glare through her eyes right after a "big night".

Heyyyy pretty lady... heyyyy..

Last night had been a big night. No doubt about it. She'd been out celebrating the closure of her first big real estate deal, and, as was customary, had been busy buying drinks for the entire office out of her commission, which had been sizeable. There had been wine, and more wine, and curry, and for some reason a quick trip to that department store that stayed open late to buy a pink frilly scarf.

Debbie cautiously opened one eyelid, just a fraction, tensing up her shoulders for the pain spike she was certain was about to belt her.

It seemed gloomy somehow. Almost dark.

Squinting just a little less, she tilted her head towards her alarm clock, feeling certain she hadn't fully closed the blinds before staggering into bed last night.

Wake up... I've got a trick to show you.. It's real good. You're gonna love it!

3:42am.

Debbie couldn't quite fathom it. Had there been a power cut, making her alarm clock reset itself. No, that couldn't be it, because it would be angrily blinking 12:00 at her in a repeated fashion if that was the case.

There was nothing for it. She was going to have to sit up.

That's the way. You're going to love what I've got to show you...

Debbie checked her phone. Four messages were waiting for her, along with the confirmation that it was, indeed, 3:42am. 3:43am now, and she couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that she'd been woken up somehow.

Look down, pretty lady...

Debbie jumped in surprise, twisting her head around in the darkness to locate the source of the sudden voice.

Nothing. There was nobody there. Calm down, stupid, she told herself. It's the wine talking, along with the pain in your ankle from that tattoo place.

That was the other reason she'd celebrated, of course. Debbie had wanted a tattoo for years, all the way back to her teenage years, when her mother had shamefully pulled her out of the tattoo and piercing place in that holiday shopping centre in Southend when she'd tried to get "BROS FOREVER" tattooed on her upper shoulder. Sure, maybe mum had been right in that case, but Debbie was older, wiser, and on her way up the career ladder now.

She'd show mum, she'd decided, what a joke it all was. That's why, when the little hairy guy who ran that creepy tattoo place in the shopping arcade that she'd just that afternoon negotiated the new lease on asked her what she wanted, she'd said the joker. Not the villain one, she said, but something really funny and silly. A joker grinning, or juggling balls, or something like that, she'd said.

"I know just the thing", Grizny had replied, before swabbing down her ankle and setting to work.

It hadn't hurt as much as she thought it might, although she had considered having a quick shot of Dutch courage before heading in.

So many tricks to show you! Look down!

Alarmed, Debbie reached for the bedside lightswitch, and something to defend herself with. In her panic, the light tumbled to the floor, leaving her clasping at the only thing she could grab otherwise from her nightstand. A roll-on deodorant wasn't much, but she flung it across the room anyway.

"GET OUT!" she shrieked, in pure panic.

Awww... don't you want to see my tricks? All you've got to do is look down. We're going to have sooo much fun together, you and I. Forever, we'll be having fun.

So much fun.

****

# 41 Killing Time

There's something terribly reassuring about British Pubs.

Even the words sound good. British Pubs. Not Irish pubs, with their slight air of affected green and compulsory Guiness on tap that you'll find in any major city from Los Angeles to Tokyo and back round the planet again.

Not that I want to annoy the Irish, to speak of. But Irish pubs are not British pubs, and whether they're the newer wave of gastropub style outlet, or a dark and dingy hole that hasn't changed substantially since Churchill was in power, there's something entirely defined about British Pubs.

You know when you're in a British Pub, and a British Pub knows what it is.

Which is probably why I'm killing time in one right now. It's rapidly becoming dark, and I have some time to kill before meeting up with an old school friend of mine for beers, reminisces, and maybe some pizza inbetween the pints. I can already see the evening lining itself up, but I've just got to get there in a chronological sense.

I'm not very good at it.

Killing time, that is. Other people seem to be able to fill every waking moment with things to do, people to see, important gallery openings, new films to seeor whatever else is happening in any big city at any particular point in time. I'd hit the point, though, where I just needed to stop and capture my thoughts, and I needed a place to capture them in.

I hate killing time, because it always seems like a waste, but when you're entirely burnt out on culture, shopping, or whatever else it is that floats your particular boat, we all end up cutting up little slices of Father Time every once in a while.

Hence my strategic retreat to a British pub, in this case, a nondescript enough place called the Lamb and Flag.

Not that heading into the Lamb and Flag was my way of warming up for the night to speak of. It's just that when you're by yourself in a not-entirely-strange-but-not-yours city – the kind of place where you know where everything is, you've either done or determined not to do the tourist kind of things and you're not quite local enough to actually have somewhere to plonk yourself down comfortably without a drink in hand, an establishment that specialises in the serving of intoxicating beverages and simple salty snacks can be just the ticket.

Especially a British Pub. I may be flying solo for the moment, but there's something convivial about British pubs that makes you feel as though you're part of a crowd even though you don't know a single soul. As I sip my pint I spot a middle aged chap in a scarf and longcoat enter and hug a woman who's been sitting sipping a gin and tonic she angrily ordered five minutes ago. One hug, and the anger is gone, replaced with a passionate look in her eyes that suggests he's going to get very lucky indeed later tonight, if she can hold back her urges that long.

No, before you ask, this isn't that kind of pub. The Lamb and Flag is just your average British pub, nothing notably special, except that to me, right now, that's exactly what makes it so particularly special.

The lass behind the bar smiled at me as I ordered my pint, no doubt thinking of the tip I might leave her after a few drinks. She's decent at smiling, but less so at pulling a pint, which takes her a fair bit of effort and more froth than I'd really like to pay for. Sorry, darling, maybe when you're a bit better at the actual drinks part of the arrangement. Cute, though. Then again, my wife would cheerfully murder me, where she here. Then again, if she was here, I wouldn't be by myself in a pub, would I? That almost makes it her fault, I think. My wife, that is.

Based on the ear chewing the landlord's giving the barmaid, I get the distinct feeling that bar work isn't in her future. Either that, or she's the landlord's daughter, in which case she's got some long, hard lessons ahead, and I'd better keep my manners on the very polite side.

Over to the right is a group of lads, still wearing their high visibility jackets, arguing about their game of darts, and who the all-time greatest player was. I can feel how they defer to the older guy – I think one of them called him Dave, but it could have just as easily been Steve or Jason – in matters of authority, but in every other aspect they're joshing and joking as the arrows fly and the amber fluid slides gracelessly down their necks. Clearly, they're in that set of corner seats for the long haul. I could see myself joining their number, at least in my imagination, but what would I say to them? I'm a terrible darts player, only a moderate drinker, and I'd probably try to correct Dave... or whatever his name is... on the finer matters of immigration policy and why it's not really feasible to send, as he puts it, the "darkies" back to where they came from. It wouldn't end well, in other words.

Instead, I sit here, and I sup my pint of what the bar tap called "The Joy Of Work", a beer I've never tasted before and probably never will again. It's a decent enough drop, I suppose, but I've really only circled on it because it stood out amongst the endless array of common beers from the big brew houses, all of which I've supped on so many times that I've grown bored with them.

Bored with beer. Hey. Boar-ed With Beer. That'd be a good name for a comedy pub. I must tell Leigh about it when he turns up, which wont be for... another ninety minutes.

I'd better get another pint in.

Here comes the charity mugger, doing her rounds of the bar jangling that inevitable sealed plastic collection cup under the noses of everyone and everything. The couple's shooed her away, more intent on staring deeply into each other's eyes than saving the whales, or the children, or the rainforests, or whatever notable but worthy cause she's collecting for. She's young, or at least young to my eyes, with that kind of fierce determination that you only get from the most ardent lefty types when they're only six months or so into University and determined that if only people could see, could understand, they'd change and the world would suddenly be better.

For just a second, we exchange glances, and I read her determination, and she reads something in my eyes that rather quickly makes her turn around to Dave and the boys instead.

Pity. I might have liked the conversation, and I might have even given her some of the few pound coins that are formed into a lump in my pocket. Remember when we all used to carry around coin wallets for the change that accumulated after a few drinks and the paper? Now everything's plastic, and a lot easier, but it must be tougher on the donation-seeking types.

Oh. Dave and the boys are trying, very badly, to flirt with Ms. Save The Whales/Nukes/Transgender Penguins... or whatever.

Quite badly, based on her body language, as she's trying, despite it all, to get some money out of them.

They're more interested, it seems, on copping a feel of her backside through her multicoloured and multi-patched jeans and making jokes I'm sure they think are witty.

Unless crude innuendo is currency, and I'm pretty sure it's not, she's going to end up flustered and empty handed. It's all part of the game for those kind of boys, I tend to find. They never mean "nothing" by it, but at the same time, they're all heading home by themselves tonight, I'm sure.

Yep. There she goes, storming out the door not a penny richer. The transgender penguins will have to save themselves another day.

A group's just entered, likely competition for Dave and his lads from the look of it. They're a bit more nervous, but given the build of them, I can't for the life of me fathom why. Big, hulking types, all four of them, the last barely able to squeeze his shoulders around the already crowded bar area. They're all carrying long black bags, which gives them the almost comical look of a classical orchestra that's gotten seriously into heavy gym work for a period of years.

Wait, is that what I think it is?

Yeah. It is. The big one's just drawn out a shotgun from the bag he's carrying.

Really? Is this really happening?

I mean, who robs a pub, of all places?

Banks, sure. I get why people rob banks. It's not just the money, although clearly it is the money they're after. Yes, I'm mentally rambling. You'll have to forgive me BECAUSE THERE'S A GUY OVER THERE WAVING A FUCKING SAWN OFF SHOTGUN AT THE BAR STAFF.

But banks. People don't only rob banks for the money, but also because they're big, unfriendly enterprises run by people who frankly give the term "bastards" a bad name. Nobody cares, the same as if a supermarket or fast food place gets turned over.

But a pub is a local place, a community place of gathering, and that's just not on. It's so especially not British.

The other three have drawn out pistols, and they're pointing them mostly at Dave and friends. Despite the machismo with little Miss transgender penguins, Dave's crumpled at the first pistol waved in his face, and either spilled his pint on his pants in shock, or straight up pissed himself. The bum pinchers are scrambling back against the walls. Looks like they're less macho than they seem.

The couple's frozen, still holding hands and trying, I think, to make themselves one with the wallpaper. The landlord's opening the till up... but it's empty save for a few fivers and somebody's leftover credit card.

Big lad isn't happy. He isn't happy at all, and he's making his displeasure known by jabbing the barmaid in the stomach with the shotgun, forcing her up against the optic bottles, tears streaming down her face in fright.

That's when the shotgun goes off.

People always think that they explode with force, because that's what shotgun pellets are designed to do. Have one pressed right up against a human being's torso, though, and the results aren't pretty.

Nobody else is moving, which means I'd better get to work.

I did mention how I hated killing time, right?

****

# 42 Scream

Terry was in pain.

Serious, thumping pain. Not the kind of pain that he'd encountered when he broke his arm at age six, having been convinced by his older brother Nick that jumping off the top of the bunk was a perfectly safe thing to do, and that in any case, Superman flew because he believed he could. He'd hidden his pain from Mum for hours after that one, until she'd randomly brushed against his arm that night at dinner and he'd collapsed in a heap.

The cast had stayed on for weeks, and even now, when the storms were coming in, his elbow would creak to remind him of the pain, and that you never, ever wanted the top bunk.

Neither was it the kind of pain that they always put in the television adverts by drawing all over someone's naked but curiously feature-free body. There were no squiggly pulsing lines that could describe Terry's pain, and nor was there a hope of some miracle drug produced by scientists in squeaky white lab coats that would make the pain fade away that he could dissolve in a sparklingly clear tumbler of water.

The pain that seared through every part of Terry was raw It cut as it burned right through his creaky elbow, up through his shoulders, the knot in his neck, over the back of his head before landing on the front of his head, where it clogged up his sinuses and forced thick gelatinous tears to roll down his face. He could hear a primal sound coming from somewhere nearby.

Something almost feral, but in the sense that it was wildly uncontrolled, not from a position of strength. Like a feral mouse, split by a rusty mousetrap and well aware that all it can do is lie there and wait to starve to death, weak and pathetic.

It took Terry quite some time to realise that the sound he heard were his own sobs, echoing around the walls of his flat. They bounced off the walls, ricocheted off the ceiling and sunk into the dirty white carpet that he was collapsing into.

The room was completely empty. Nothing was there. Eventually his cries of shock and pain receded, and he lay there on his carpet, silent and staring with eyes that struggled to focus and a mind that could not yet comprehend.

Time passed, and the sun set, casting dark shadows over the room.

Terry's head started to sort itself out. Wiping the tears and snot from his face with his sleeve, Terry started to realise everything he should have been looking at, and where it was missing. Which was everything, because it was all gone.

His sofa with the mismatched cushions was gone. His bookshelf was gone. Not even the television stand or his creaky old television that his friends constantly gave him a ribbing about had been spared. Sure, he knew that those modern TVs were all high definitiony thingies, but his telly showed him what he needed to see just fine for now. Even if it did take about fifteen minutes to warm up these days. That was, he'd thought, just enough time to open up a beer, get on the phone and order a pizza and get out of his work gear at the end of each long day.

He'd always figured he'd get around to replacing it when it actually stopped working. He wasn't quite sure where on the top of a flat panel you'd thump it when the picture went wobbly, anyway.

But now it was gone, and all that was left was a dusty, grimy impression of where its stand had been for most of the last ten years. The calendar was gone from the wall, as was that painting of the gorilla that he'd purchased while drunk on that holiday in Bali for fifty bucks. He'd always hated that painting, but he'd suffered so much ridicule for waking up with it in his bed the night after Craig's 21st bash that he could never quite get rid of the ugly thing.

You could trace a path through Terry's recent life by the imprints of everything that was no longer there. Here, the trace of his TV stand, the antenna cable left impotently limp on the floor. There, the small imprint of a bookshelf that had held his collection of videotapes and the photos the relatives had insisted he should keep after mum had passed on. Most of the people in the black and white photos were complete strangers to Terry, but he'd grown up with those same photos on Mum's treasured, and, so she claimed, antique display hutch. It was only when she passed and Terry and Nick had to dispose of the contents of her retirement home flat that they discovered that the hutch wasn't much older than they were, and had been purchased cheaply at Copperart as a run-out special back in 1981. The hutch went quickly to firewood, but the photos reminded Terry of a simpler time. The bookshelf and the tapes were gone, but the photos lay, mostly face down on the carpet, as though Terry's long lost relatives were hiding their faces in shame at what had happened to him.

Terry knew without having to count that there would be two photographs missing.

Terry needed composure. No, stuff that, what he needed was a beer. Maybe a good few beers, with a Scotch or two to wash it down with. There was an abundance of good drinking in the kitchen, only metres away. Terry rose up from his knees and stumbled towards a drink.

The kitchen was similarly bare of everything but some rubbish that littered the bench. Rubbish wasn't entirely a new phenomenon at Terry's place, although he did try to make an effort to clean up the pizza boxes every once in a while. Now they simply spilled onto the floor into the dark. Terry flicked on the light switch to make things a little clear in-between the remnants of the tears that once again threatened to engulf him.

A single cockroach lay on the floor, and for a second Terry wondered why it didn't act in the manner he expected from one of its species by scurrying back under one of the skirting boards. It was only when it resolutely didn't even flinch as he walked towards it that he realised that it had been crushed entirely flat when something large had rolled over it.

My fridge, Terry thought. My fridge has squashed this roach on its way out the door, and now my fridge is gone. Terry began to cry again.

Indeed it was gone, leaving a tell tale imprint of dust and grease in the wall alcove where it had largely served as Terry's storage space for beer, leftover pizzas and, if he felt like being particularly fancy, leftover bits of curry from the Indian place down on the corner.

He and that fridge had history. Sure, it was a revolting green colour, and it made curious burping noises in the night that indicated the release of chemicals that Terry figured the mysterious "they" that always seemed to know much more about how he should run his life than he apparently did had probably outlawed years ago. But that fridge had been his Dad's fridge, from when he'd run the surf shop after he'd split from Mum all those years ago. Terry had his pick of what was left of his Dad's stuff after he'd passed, and being in need of somewhere to store beer as a teenager, he'd jokingly said he'd have the fridge. It had been a constant in his life ever since... ever since now. No wonder the flat was so quiet.

No beer. The pantry door was wide open, but the only thing left there was a single solitary packet of diet chicken noodle soup that was already several years past its sell by date. The absence of a kettle on the countertop meant that Terry couldn't have even boiled some water for it if he'd wanted to.

This was too much.

Far too much.

Terry was still in his work gear, and his work gear was grimy and sweaty after a hard day on the job. While every other door, cupboard and opening was swinging gently in the summer breeze, the bedroom door was curiously closed. Terry approached it, trembling with a mixture of sadness and a slowly rising rage that started to boil up from his toes.

The bedroom wasn't empty. Not quite, in that while the bed, the lamp and the tables were gone, in the middle of the room lay a massive pile of clothes that Terry recognised as his, shredded into pieces and caked with grease and oil. On top of them lay Terry's chainsaw, gummed up with denim threads and fragments of polyester t-shirt fabric.

She was, Terry was starting to realise, gone.

****

# 43 Old shame

I am naked, and cold, and I'm standing in my kitchen.

To make matters worse, there are people in my living room, talking and laughing, and in a minute, I'm going to have to go out and face them. I'm not even sure I know all of them.

OK. I can do this. I can. I must.

The only other alternative would be to try to silently open the screen door that always squeaks loudly whenever anybody tries to open it, unlock the deadbolt on the door and run out into the back yard.

I will admit that the thought did cross my mind. This might be a preferable escape, were it not for the fact that the living room looks directly out onto the back yard.

Based on the quantity of light I can see streaming out over the begonias, it would appear the curtains were open, at which point I'd be avoiding standing naked in front of complete strangers by instead choosing to streak through my garden in front of them.

Also, it appears to be raining.

How did I get here?

I remember... almost nothing.

I do remember suggesting to Helen that it might be nice to see in the New Year by having some friends around for drinks and reminisces. See out the old year with old friends, that sort of thing.

Helen hadn't thought the idea had much merit, because who would we invite?

We always talked online with our friends, but actually seeing them, in person, after all these years would be uncomfortable, or at least it might be. Helen is not a big fan of uncomfortable social situations.

I knew what I had to do in this situation. Every once in a while in our relationship, we'd hit one of these speed bumps where I wanted to do something and she didn't. It had happened in Madrid, and it had happened with the postman losing the parcel, and it even happened one time in the supermarket when they stopped stocking her particular choice of soy milk.

What I had to do was wait, and let her burn the anxiety out of her system. Back when I was first getting to know Helen, I used to argue with her. It was a bad move that generally ended poorly for me.

At one point an argument had almost finished our relationship after a particularly sour debate over whether or not one should actually listen to the safety briefings on airplanes led to her storming out of the Indian restaurant and refusing to talk to me for a week.

I'm not a big fan of the quiet. They're still talking in the next room, although the closed door makes it hard to actually make out what they're saying.

Anyway, the way to bring Helen around to an idea is to give her time to let it settle in her head. I remember that three days later, when I brought up the idea of having our old friends around for New Year's Eve again, she was little bit more open to the idea.

Open to it right up until she realised that this meant she would have to rearrange the furniture to accommodate all of the people we knew. This then spiralled into an anxiety attack over whether purple begonias were a sign of class warfare, so I let the matter rest for a few days.

It is cold in here. Very cold, although I guess the rain may have something to do with that. I just glanced down at my feet, and noticed several grey pubes. Oh, that's right. Naked.

What can I do about that?

Can one buy dye for curly pubic hairs? I suppose one probably can, but that will involve somehow getting to the car, and clothes, and a wallet, and it not being whatever time at night it actually is. Plus, I'm not exactly sure how to describe my natural pubic tone. Then again, if I'm still naked, perhaps the sales assistant will be able to tell.

It's certainly dark out in the garden, and that rain appears to be settling in for the long haul.

Focus. Focus! I need to work out what to do about being cold and naked.

Ah. Tea towels. I could at least wrap myself in some tea towels.

We must have some tea towels around here somewhere. Actually, I remember them now. We had a set of three with pictures of kittens on them. Buying them was the one thing that turned Helen around on this whole having-friends-around-on-New-Year's-Eve shindig.

Helen had spotted them in the little craft store on the old side of town, the one right next to the coffee shop that sells its own home-baked Muffins that Helen's convinced actually come from the bakery three doors down, and she really, really wanted them.

The tea towels, that is, not the muffins. Although we did stop in for a espresso with a mango and apple muffin right after the tea towels had been procured.

Those tea towels must be somewhere.

Helen had laughingly threatened to put them in with the teabags on the basis, she said, that they were tea towels, and tea deserved the right to dry itself off after a nice leisurely swim. I had tried to point out to her that tea was unlikely to go for a swim, because the beach was miles away and that tea lacked the necessary three pounds and seventy five pence to get into the council leisure centre and swim that way.

Helen did not take the joke well, and I spent the following six hours being very sternly ignored.

Where are those damned tea towels? They're not hanging in front of the oven. I'm a little tempted to switch the oven on, if only to raise the temperature in the room a little.

I can feel that twinge in my left foot that always means that I'm getting too cold, and it's time to get out of the pool. This kitchen has always been too breezy for my liking, but Helen insists that it's just "bracing" and that when she wants to cook, it's an essential element to her baking rising the proper way.

Maybe they're under the sink.

No. Just three sponges, a plastic wrapper for something I can't quite identify that's not in its plastic wrapper any more anyway and the vegetable scrap bin for the chickens. For some reason, the scrap bin is glistening.

It seems as though somebody's been sick in it, or, looking at the bottom of the sink cupboard, possibly upon it.

An experimental swirl of my tongue and a snort of my sinuses suggests that I'm not the culprit. Although there is the faint taste of something. Is that beef? Maybe mushrooms. Something with a piquant creamy finish, as Patrice would say.

Good old Patrice. That story about the waiter was a cracker.

When was that? Oh, right. Patrice had turned up with Annabel and a bottle of red, and it didn't take long for the stories of the old days to emerge. That time in Paris with the bookseller and the bottle of creme de menthe. Cramming with the textbook the night before the final medical exam. That chap with the leaky bowel the very first day of ward duty. Patrice has a million stories, but it doesn't seem to matter how many times he recounts them, they always seem fresh, and his recollection is always sharper and wittier than mine.

I mean, everyone's heard about the forest and the quad bike and the bottle of sauvignon blanc a hundred times, but Patrice can bring the house down with it anyway. It's all in the delivery, he'd say, while flashing the smile that's made him a very popular obstetrician with his wealthy clientele.

Right now, I wish I could bring the house down, if only because it would keep everyone busy while I made my way to the bedroom to grab some clothes.

Although if the house were brought down, that would take the bedroom and the cupboard with it.

My teeth are chattering now, and I'm starting to worry that the sound will bring somebody into the kitchen. That would be, as Helen would put it, the ultimate embarrassment.

Tea towels.

Tea towels.

Where are the DAMNED tea towels?

One of them was... that's right... one of them was under the fondue set, because the table was a reconditioned antique that Helen purchased from that little shop next to the bakery that she was certain was the source of the coffee shop's suspicious "home cooked" muffins. Helen had been distraught when Alan and Jessica's youngest had spilled orange juice on it six months ago. The prospect of further damage was unconscionable, and thus the first of the tea towels was safely placed underneath where the fondue pot was to sit to absorb any excess heat.

Jesus Christ, what was that?

Thunder and lightning. As Freddie once put it, very very frightening.

My heart is racing, and I'm sure I'm flushed. Nobody, but nobody should come in right now to find me right now, because I'm pretty sure I've just grabbed at "myself" out of shock. That's not going to be a good look.

Uh... yeah. Better calm down. And release my "grip".

Mind you, it didn't help seeing the sudden flash of my silhouette against the far wall. I'm getting a bit bowed and more pot bellied than I'd like at my age. Although at least in silhouette form at least you can't make out the grey pubes.

Wait. I think I can see one of the other tea towels, thanks to that storm.

The problem is that it's dripping wet, because it's out on the washing line.

Which means I've got one last chance to find a kitten themed teatowel. Where could it be?

Not in the kitchen cupboard. Not, as far as my eyesight can ascertain through the murk and rain, out on the line with its compatriot. Not on the oven, or in the sink, or draped over the side of the fridge, or on that old stool that Helen insisted we had to take when her mother passed away, or even lurking on the floor.

It's nowhere, as far as I can see.

Oh.

Right. I remember now. Darren had been telling a story to Susie and Patrice. Something about racing through the south of France in an Aston Martin, and how he'd known his tyre was going. Or was it the clutch? Anyway, he'd finished up with a wide sweep of his hands while shouting out the punchline. He's never been as good at relating an anecdote as Patrice is. I think Darren knows this, which is why he tends to get noisy and animated to make up for it. Only this time he got a bit too wide and sweeping with his gestures. Just like that, the fondue pot hit the floor.

Helen was not amused.

The tea towel had proved sufficient to sop up the cheese and bread, and was now sitting staring at me from the washing machine. A chore for tomorrow, whenever that might come.

Laughter from the other room, and the clinking of glasses.

The shivering is starting to overtake everything, and it's getting hard to focus.

What else? What else?

Bin bags. Not a good look, but I'll take what I can get. They're always neatly kept in the bin cupboard behind the bin.

Which is full of wine bottles.

Who did that? Helen's going to be furious, because glass should go in with the recyclables every time. Something tells me she's not happy with me right now anyway.

Damn. The wine bottles in the bin mean I've got to slowly, painfully move the bin to avoid it making a lot of noise. If any of those bottles topple and break, I'll be cold and naked in my kitchen with glass shards on the floor.

There are no bin bags, just a yellow post-it note in my handwriting saying "BUY MORE BIN BAGS ON THURSDAY".

When did I write that? Before Thursday, I suppose.

Which means I really don't have any other choice. I will have to be bold.

This is my house, and all I need to do is approach the door, open it and walk through the living room to the bedroom and grab a pair of pants. That would be enough.

Maybe they know I'm in here. But why?

All I have to do is approach the door and walk through with confidence.

Here I go.

One step. Then two.

The door handle is right there. All I have to do is reach out and turn it.

Here goes nothing.

****

# 44 Tired

Tired

I'm tired. I think I have to realise that.

So very tired. My eyelids are heavy. Almost feels like they're glued down.

Maybe some glue is resting on the top of them. Thick, gloopy glue, of the type I used to use in primary school. Layers and layers and layers of it, cascading downwards as gravity commands.

Heavy.

And yet somehow, at the same time, it feels feather light on my eyelids. How does that work? It doesn't. My eyelashes must be behind it all.

Dropping my eyelids down would be so very easy. My eyelashes are in on the plot, ready to flutter down and take my eyelids south at the first available opportunity.

All they would need is a single, short, silent moment of compliance.

It would take almost no effort at all.

Leaving my eyelids up is like Atlas holding up the world in his mighty exhausted arms.

I'm struggling, though. It feels like the world might just have landed in the side of my eyes. The individual contours of continents and mountains are grinding and churning against the sides of my eyes, forcing oceans of tears to spring forth in response.

Some kind of grit is there, and the longer it's there, the larger it looms in my vision, causing my eyes to form glutinous tears that roll slowly down my face.

The tears themselves serve a serious and neccessary purpose.

Without them, my eyes would be aflame with no respite. They burn bright with agony and a heat that could melt pure steel into shiny puddles with only the slightest glance.

I am dangerous with my supersonic eyes, like a cartoon villain determined to... do those crazy things that cartoon villains do.

You know, plans and such. World domination and subordinates in chainmail bikinis and water supplies turned into jelly and somesuch.

Can't really think of plans right now. So tired.

The flame subsides in my eyes, at least a bit. The pain is still there, and with the lessening of the heat, I'm instantly more aware of the smaller, more subtle pains.

It's like I can feel each individual nerve ending and vein in my eyes, pulsing to their own silent beat as I stare out of my fiery red orbs. If I was electric, you'd swear that you could see all two hundred and forty volts surging through my eyes, one shattered and beaten volt at a time. I am a bad design if I'm a electric me. I need to be retooled, which would involve powering down.

So tempting. Sleep. It would be so nice.

If I could sleep, then ironically, sleep would quickly form in my eyes.

Ah.

Sleep.

Sleep would be good. Better than good.

Better than excellent combined with awesome, when awesome is busy having a illicit nighttime affair with FANTASTIC.

Better than sex.

Sleep. Yeah, I think I'll....

Sweat drips down, through my hair, over my brow and into my eyes, forcing me sharply awake from the sheer salt shock. My eyelids arch up to form sandbanks against the briny invaders, and once again the fire is back in my eyes, burning deep down into curves and folds of my brain.

Again and again the sweaty interlopers wash up against the shores of my eyelids, determined to break the barrier. I blink once, and the salt washes into my eyes, forcing me once again fully awake.

My legs are leaden lumps of flesh, propped up by iron bars pretending to be the bones within. They move only with the most intense effort. The cogs in my knees have sharp edges that float underneath my kneecaps, adding intensity to each and every small shudder. The meat of my muscles feels as though it's been laid out by a butcher for public assessment, bleeding intensely while slowly turning grey in the sunshine.

I can hear the hairs on my legs scream with each movement.

They have French accents as they moan and groan.

That doesn't even seem strange.

I'm probably tired, or something. I forget. Because I'm... tired, I guess.

Yawning.

I can't stop the tsunami of a slow yawn escaping my lungs. I can feel the pressure wave of the yawn as it languidly forces its way up my throat, past my tongue and out through my mouth. Like a ragged movie lion, the roar leaps out with only barely enough energy to pass my lips and dribble down my chin. One small yawn announces the arrival of another and yet another. I can't stop them flowing from my soul with ever increasing ferocity.

Christ, even yawning is exhausting me.

My back throbs will dull energy, reminding me of the pain that it's in. Even the most minute of movements brings forth cracking noises that suggest the heavens themselves will shortly be rent in twain, with tiny angels come to take the individual discs of my spine away to rest gently on feathery clouds. They could rest there a while before being used by the angels to twang on their heavenly harps. Even that would be more comfortable than right now.

C'mon Angels!

You're welcome to them. I no longer need them, and when my spine falls apart, I imagine myself neatly folding down into a compact sleeping square, with only my furiously red eyes peering out from the top. You could stack twelve of me on a supermarket shelf with one of those bright yellow "CRAZY SPECIAL" stickers on the side.

My arms are sagging badly. My hands are thick lumps of devon with greasy nails at the end, and they're losing traction against my elbows, which are determined to fold up and call it a night against my sides.

I dare not look down at my arms, lest my eyelids slide down and lock in place. I can picture the locks and bolts slamming into place to keep my eyes shut.

Dreaming right now would be so nice.

So tired.

Tired.

Tire....d.

I'm even tired of thinking about being tired.

I really should keep my eyes on the road.

****

# 45 The Weekly Grind

Sunday

Sundays are always quiet here in the city. Every Sunday is much like the last Sunday.

A few stragglers left over from Saturday night, but they've emptied their wallets cleanly into the pubs and clubs, staggering around worse than most of us do. The street cleaners, picking up bottles and running those noisy big machines that hose down the gutters and get your feet wet if you're not quick. Like you need more reason to be wet when it's this cold.

Sundays are when I usually sit and try to think of anything besides the cold. Winter really bites into you once it gets its proper cold teeth chomping away at your marrow.

Just over the way from where I'm sitting is one of those fancy coffee places. I know better than to sit outside there. They always get angry if I'm there, and I don't want to run into the cops again. You'd think being inside, the cells would be warmer, but somehow the bastards manage to make them even colder and wetter than being out on the streets.

So I sit, and I think about a nice warm fire, just over there. Crackling and blazing, the kind that starts by warming up the thick skin on your toes, licking up towards your knees, your bum and your gut before your head starts properly sweating. Yeah, a nice big tasty fire.

Burning up the coffee shop. Yeah. They deserve it.

Monday

I had a ukulele once... must have been years ago now, I reckon. Hard to keep track of time as it passes, really.

Anyway, I had a ukulele. Useful little thing, an instrument, because people always drop more coins than with just the sign. Some of them even compliment you "on your industry" as they do so. Sure, I was never a great player or anything, but who listens to more than a few seconds of a busker anyway? A little Hendrix, a little Bowie... or was it Springsteen? Anyway, it was good tool to get people to cough up a little more change.

Every bit counts when it's going towards your next meal or pack of smokes. Can't really afford smokes any more though. Sometimes the drunks drop packets, and there's a scramble to grab 'em without being noticed. Full on fist fights, even, but I don't fancy being picked up by the cops just for a ciggy.

The Ukulele was good for keeping the funds up, and for keeping people generally onside. They like to either ignore me or hassle me to be somewhere else. Never really saying where, just not where they are. But with a ukulele, I'm just another busker in the city, adding that thing... what do they call it?

Oh yeah. Culture. With only my blanket I'm debris, but with my ukelele, I'm culture, I am. Or I was.

One day, this ornery old bugger who'd moved into the doorway just down from that sneaker place walks up to me while I'm playing. Smiling, he was, and that's always dangerous.

I mean, what reason do we have to smile?

He smiles, and he giggles, and he even dances a tiny jig. For just a second I thought it might work, if he danced and I played, and we might make out alright.

Then he drew out a bar from behind his back, and smashed the Uke into bits.

We got into it for a while, and I got one of his teeth out and some of his hair too before the coppers arrived.

We both knew the score. Neither of us dobbed, not once, just going silent. The cops hate us, but they hate the paperwork more. They dropped me out of a paddywagon down by the Quay.

Never saw the other bloke again, and that was that for my Uke. Not even scraps of it left by the time I made it back to what was left of my stuff.

Bastard.

Tuesday

Scraped together enough for a cup of tea today from the morning rush. Reckon that lady didn't mean to drop two bucks into my cup, but she was too embarrassed to say anything. I could tell she was thinkin about it, though. She dropped the coin in, then she stopped, and looked down at the cup, and stood there for a little while.

Reckon she was just getting brave, and then her phone rang. Didn't want to get it out in front of some street person, so she just walks off.

I wouldn't nick a phone. Nothing I could do with a phone, 'cept maybe give it back to its owner for a reward. The pawn shops won't take a phone from me without an address and a driver's licence, and I ain't got neither of those. I've seen some folks grab phones just to smash 'em. The crazy ones, the ones that never seem to last very long, whether they get taken away by the cops and never come back, or just wait out in the cold to freeze with a manic grin.

Crazy bastards.

Dangerous bastards.

Still, a gold coin means a a cup of tea.

A cup of tea can go a long way if you drink it slow.

A cup of tea can also be tonight's toilet if the wind bites too much and the law is around, or tomorrow's beggin' bowl. One of the first things I learned out here was that a small cup is better. Makes you look less greedy, and it's harder for anyone else to nick.

Wednesday

I saw her today, just after I was waking up. Must have been around 11, because there wasn't many people around, and the sun was fully up. I was just rolling up my jacket and setting up my sign, and I saw her on the other side of the park.

Setting up there, she was. Still had that coat, and the long dark hair, although there's a white streak through it now.

Nice. It looks good on her, like she's aged well. She was setting up with a coffee cup. An actual cup, too, not a paper one.

Not always the best choice, a coffee cup. Makes a lot of noise, which means everyone else can tell when you're getting money in, and that always brings out both the crazy ones and the mooching ones that haven't done that well... or think they haven't.

Wonder where she nicked the coffee cup from? Not that I got close enough to see anything written on it.

Not that she's picked well. That spot in the park gets the cold wind coming down across it in the afternoon, and all the office workers go over the other side to walk anyway.

I watched her for a bit as she sat there. She seemed glum, but not just in the head down waitin' for a coin kind of way. Like all that life she had back in the day was all but gone.

I don't think she saw me, though. I don't think either of us would be ready for that.

Thursday

Last night was a cold one. Real cold, which means the only thing to do if you can't find a spot with no wind is to walk around and keep yourself moving. Reckon there'll be more than few dead bodies for the ambos to pick up this morning. Either the ones who didn't learn to keep moving at night, or the old ones who just couldn't keep shuffling around.

Not that there's a shortage of us, though we do keep a sort of peace. Most folks learn pretty quickly who owns which patch, and why. Been a long time since anyone's challenged my spot opposite the coffee shop, although there's always a few that try camping out in front of it. Cops pick them up pretty quick every time.

Looks like they've got one of them cameras set up outside. That must be it. Cameras are everywhere these days. I even get my photo taken once in a while by those tourists.

They never pay, though. They just try to take the photos without me seeing. I've got nothing better to do than watch them, though, so I know.

She wasn't opposite the park today.

Didn't see her at all. Didn't make much, either, though the people with the bibles and the soup came around, like they do every Thursday. I can stand a bit of Bible bashing if it keeps me tummy warm.

Friday

There I was, just waiting for the afternoon rush to come through. Afternoons are OK, because people are rushing to get home, but that means that they form big blocks while they wait for the lights to change. If I'm sitting just right when they're stuck there, at least one of them will drop something in the cup, and that sometimes shames the others into giving too.

Anyway, I was sat there, working out how much I had. About five bucks, I think, which might just get me a little something to eat and maybe a beer if I can duck into the pub without them working out what the smell is.

And then she walks up to me. The white streak in her hair looks really good, and she seems to be smiling, full of that life she used to have. That energy that sometimes made her amazing, and sometimes made her bloody scary.

"Hullo Dave"

I tried not to talk to her. I remember what happened last time, so I just slump down behind my sign.

"HULLO DAVE!" she cried out. I remember the crazy, and the shouting, and the screaming.

Also the kisses. The kisses were... nice. Except for the biting, sometimes.

No, on the whole, with the way it ended last time, I don't want none of that. Not any more.

Eventually, she walked away, crying.

I didn't want that, neither. I hate it when she's crying.

Saturday

Sam's dog died.

Sam's really upset about it. He knew the dog weren't well, 'cause for the last couple of... weeks, I think he said... it had just sat there, lookin' sad. There's a benefit to that for Sam, 'cause while people will overlook you if you've been on the streets for a while, they'll never overlook a hungry lookin' dog, long as it's not growlin' at 'em.

All his dog had been doin' was lookin' sad, and that got people givin' Sam all kinds of money. Notes, even. He'd been pretty happy with that, right up until last night, when apparently it turned 'round on its bed three times, let out a little howl and shat itself before collapsing down, stone dead.

Sam's been out here longer than me, and he was one of the ones that showed me what to do when I first got here. Who to know, who to avoid, and how to keep on living. Can't say I'm making a living, but I'm not dead yet.

Not like Sam's dog. Stiff, it was, with its legs straight out in front of it and a brown smear where it dropped. Street cleaners won't be through until tomorrow to deal with that, but they won't deal with a dog.

Anyway, I helped him to wrap it up in its blanket and stuff it into one of the big trash bins behind the office stores place. It ain't much of a burial, but we both know a dead dog's not going to do much but rot. Best it do that as far away as can be managed.

Some young kid in his twenties was in my spot by the time we got back, refusing to move.

That's why I helped Sam out. He's good at delivering kicks to the head, which was all that kid needed. Pah! As though there's reason to be out here when you're that young and alive.

It reminds me... but no. I can't go back there. Not even in my memories.

Sunday

Sundays are always quiet here in the city. Every Sunday is much like the last Sunday.

****

# 46 Refuse

It has long been understood – or at the very least, subconsciously suspected – by human beings that the objects that they craft and create adopt certain attributes from their makers and owners.

In Rio De Jainero, a wooden carving of Christ The Redeemer bleeds from both hands on special holy days.

In Moscow, Lenin's corpse is now more chemical than human being, but to the right sort of Communist, it still has plenty to say.

In Iowa, five year old Madeline Spencer's doll, Cynthia, speaks, but only to her.

Sandeep's rusty taxi has its grumbly days in Delhi, especially when it rains.

What humans have never appreciated is that it is not simply objects of special affection or reverence that gain these qualities, whether you'd call them spirit, soul, Mitama, the anima mundi, the psyche or something else again.

It's everything we make, and everything we touch, even when we no longer touch it.

***

"Oh, stop that noise. It's not that bad."

"I can't help it. There's something stuck on my eject mechanism, and it keeps popping open. Where am I, anyway?"

"You're here, now. In the afterlife."

"The afterlife?"

"Yes... heh.... Cough... the afterlife. You had a life once, I suspect."

"A life?"

"A task. You did something for the humans. That was your life."

"I did. For a long time, it would be dark, and still, and the only movement would be the cat, or sometimes a cockroach emerging from behind the dishwasher to nibble on the crumbs of food the young ones would drop on the floor. Then, as the light emerged, the curtains would be drawn back and I would be loaded up."

"Loaded up?"

"Oh yes, and it were glorious. All sorts I'd be loaded with. White, brown, multigrain, even baps and bagels. My lever would go down, and the power would surge until I felt as though I was going to fly, and then the toast would fly, perfectly upwards and perfectly toasted, every time. I'm a Simonson's, you know. None toastier than a Simonson's. That's what it said on the outside of my packaging and everything. I wonder what happened to him?"

"He probably ended up here. Or maybe as a newspaper."

"I never liked him, you know. He made me feel like a prisoner on that store shelf, him and that polystyrene. They were always rubbing up against each other and... giggling. It weren't natural, I tell you."

"You shouldn't judge others. Did they have a choice in being packed so tightly together? No, they did not. Everything in its order. My packaging taught me that, on the first day we were brought together. She was see through, and as she said, that meant she had nothing to hide. Not even me.

But anyway, go on. What happened?"

"After a while, I started to feel different."

"Different?"

"Heavier. They never cleaned me. Not once. If you were the oven, or if you were a frypan, you got cleaned regularly, or at least when you started to belch smoke. But not me. On the outside, that just hurt my pride."

"Your pride? How did you have pride?"

"I was a Simonson's. A SIMONSON'S. Not some grotty supermarket brand toaster made in a factory far away, but right here in Cheshire, the same as has been done for generations. Hand tooled with love. I am, and always will be, the product of worker #9316692. He liked Cheese and Onion crisps when he had his breaks. I remember that, and the line of us, all waiting to be packed once we'd had our safety tests done. Only then could the Simonson's badge be applied, because only then would we truly be a Simonson's.

#9136692 worked hard on me, and they let my Simonson's badge of pride go all grimy. Smears of marmite. Chunks of marmalade residue. Something called 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter', which made my chrome look all dull. But that were not the worst. Oh no. Far from it."

"Do tell. We've got nothing but time here."

"They never cleaned my insides. Never. Not once, even though I had the Simonson's E-ZE-KLEEN crumb tray, same as any other Simonson's toaster.

Day after day, round after round of toast.

Crumbs.

Fragments.

Sometimes half-crusts would fall down into me, making me heavier and heavier. And when that power starts flowing, I do what I'm told, and heat it all up, whether it was stuffed in my slot ten seconds previously, or if it's the remnants of last Tuesday's emergency toast dinner. It's all the same when the power is flowing.

Even I was surprised when the fire started, mind you."

"That would explain your rather... blackened form. But what happened to your noisy eject? Did you melt some?"

"Me, melt? Why, the very idea that a Simonson's would... no, nononononono. No, I did not melt.

My eject was... inconvenienced somewhat... when the fire axe came down through the window, and right onto my lever. It wasn't Kevin's fault."

"Kevin? Who's Kevin?"

"The fire axe. He were a nice lad, mind you. Kevin, he was. Kevin the fire axe. His owner kept him nice and shiny, and quite sharp, too. I bet if I'd been a firehouse toaster, I'd have been kept clean. At least I can be happy that I was quite sturdy, even when I was subject to a blistering heat.

I may have bent a little, but I never broke, not even under the weight of a fire axe.

On the whole, he seemed very sorry to have hit me."

"I'm sure he was. Those of us with the sharpest sides have an obligation, you know. The scissors always used to tell me that, and they knew a thing or two. Anyway, after that, I spent a couple of months with no power and no work, but a lovely view of the valley from where the trees used to be. Then the men came with the bulldozers and the sledgehammers, and I was thrown into a skip, and then to here."

"It's a common story. That big lad over there, with the broken door? That's Gary, that is. Been here longer than most. His owner fell asleep smoking a cigarette and just plain burned away. Nobody wanted Gary, what with smelling like both smoke and bacon, so he got dumped here. Charlotte over there had some dodgy wiring that burnt out her cable, so she was thrown away too."

"So what about you? How did you end up here... and why the tan?"

"Ah, well. Like most of us, I was purchased with the finest of intentions. He bought me. Picked me out particularly and especially from a store, took me home and placed me with reverence on the bathroom floor."

"They used to tell jokes about me and the bathroom when Granny came to visit. I never understood those. What goes on there that might make Grannies and toasters quiet anyway?"

"I don't rightly know. I never had a granny stand on me, or a toaster come to visit. Just him, and sometimes her... a couple of hers, actually. I mostly liked the hers. They always smelled fresh, and they were much lighter than he was."

"So he was heavy?"

"Heavy AND sweaty. At least, at first. When he first bought me, I had pride of place, with no towels ever dropped near where I was. Terrible gossips, towels, but then when you're given that much private access, the temptation must be overwhelming.

At first, he came in twice a day to stand on me, watch the numbers, grumble a little and then hop off. Morning and night he'd come in, look down at me, frown and then do some heavy breathing to suck his gut in before stepping on me.

For a little while, the job was easy, and it got easier, because there was less of him standing on me. That was largely when first her was around.

She was lighter than he was, and only ever got on me after she'd been in the shower. No sucking in of stomachs on her. Not even a towel, just a giggle and a hop onto my plate. Mind, you, I've seen some special sights that way. I could teach a towel a thing or two."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Quite unabashed, was first her. She even used to come in sometimes to clean up, and she would always stop to wipe the dust and grime off me too. Second her didn't bother with that. Right grubby cow she was, and it showed. Terrible corns on her feet. She didn't last long, but by then he was ignoring me as well."

"Ignoring you? How?"

"If I was lucky, he'd step on me once a week, mostly while waiting for the shower to warm up. So that's his grimy, sweaty feet on my plate, getting ever so heavier week after week, and his anger when he saw what he weighed. He even tried kicking me once."

"Only once?"

"Yeah, just the once. Forgot I was up against the wall, you see, so all he really did was bruise his toes and curse his lot."

"Then what happened?"

"There were a succession of hers. Some of them looked at me with disdain, some of them rested their feet on me when they were using the toilet, but none of them lasted all that long. They all seemed to last less and less time, with more and more shouting with him.

Then he really went off me. Used to leave towels all over me, getting musty and dripping water into my gears and springs. It's a dull thing when all you can see is part of the bathroom from under a towel. The taps won't talk to you, and the less said about the toilet the better."

"So how did you end up here?"

"Ah, well. Yes. That. Well, one day, I think it might have been in the summer, because the towels dropped on me were drying quite quickly, someone else came in, crying.

Very upset.

They looked around the room, did some counting, a little more crying, and then came back in with a big plastic bin bag. Into that I went, along with the towels, the soap and that little crystal cat with the pink nose that sat on the windowsill and never said a thing to anyone. Snooty little miss, she was.

Never even said anything on the way here when the bag rolled over and she was crushed under my side. Not even a squeak.

The towels lasted all the way here, and one of them was even under me for a while. Norman, his name was. Nice big brown fella, with ruffled edges and little eagle logo on one end. Not that he knew what the Eagle meant. Terrible gossips, as I said, but they don't know much, towels.

We used to chat about the good old days for a while, right up until the rains came. Then he started to rot. He grumbled about it for a while, getting quieter and quieter. Then one day he just stopped talking altogether.

There's nothing left of him now. Even the bits that were trapped under me got blown away when I was flipped over by that Seagull. I know when to keep my trap shut."

"So was that how you got that tan? From a brown towel called Norman?"

"Oh, that? No, that wasn't Norman. Even when he was rotting away, Norman had the manners to keep himself to himself, and keep himself colour fast.

No, the tan you're talking about was because last week, they dumped a box of old mangoes on me. Strong Australian accents, mangoes, and always talking at a hundred words a minute. Then again, I guess I'd talk that fast if I knew how long I was going to last out here in this rain and heat. They didn't last long, but then they didn't keep their colour to their selves either."

****

# 47 Cut

I must keep running. Running and running and running and running, through the thick wet branches that whip at my face, through the darkness and the rain and the mud and the cold.

To my right side I can see the waters of the lake, churning in the storm and reflecting the trees as they are buffeted by the wind.

In my ears I can hear the rain lashing down through the branches, my own uncertain footfalls as I run and the gasps of my own breath.

I must keep running.

Just running, and stumbling, and cursing and crying. Mostly running though, because if I don't...

No. I don't have time for that. I must keep running.

***

The Shape watches the figure moving across the east bank.

With slow movements, and as much deliberation as it can muster, it reaches down for the chainsaw.

Blood trickles down the shape's left boot, bright and red. It is not blood that the Shape has lost, but rather blood it has spilled. This is what it does, and what it must always do, although it no longer knows the reason why.

The chainsaw is still warm and inviting to the shape's hands, with its reassuring engine sputtering along despite the rust and damage it already bears.

***

I have to stop. I can't breathe, and I feel dizzy, and wet. This oak tree is right in my path, so I will stop there and try to catch my breath. But not for too long.

My left sneaker is hanging off my foot, the laces still untied and now caked with mud and fat with droplets of water. My trembling hands are struggling to make a simple loop, and my head is pounding, making it even harder.

At last the loop comes, and the shoe is tired. No, wait, it's tied. Tied. My head is still spinning.

I reach up to check my pounding head, and feel a warmth that seems unlikely on this cold, dark night. When I draw my hand down, it is dripping with blood from a wound on my head that suddenly stings back into life.

***

To the right, across through the abandoned farm the shape shambled along. The chainsaw rumbled and purred in the shape's strong grasp, every once in a while catching on a tree root or larger rock as it drove a furrow through the soil. All the shape needed was time.

***

The intensified pain in my head gives me new energy to keep on moving. Dan didn't make it because he insisted we hide in that barn. Oh Dan. Why... but no. I don't have time to cry. I will cry later when I'm safe. I'll only be safe if I run.

I get to my feet, unsteady and wobbling, but suddenly more alert. I can hear every leaf trembling in the rain, every branch creaking in the wind... and the sound of footsteps.

Slow, deliberate footsteps. One at a time, with one hitting the mud with a solid tromp, while the other seems like a slower, squelchy drag. What's more, they were close.

***

The man had hurt the shape with that sickle, driving it hard into its left leg. A minor annoyance overall, naturally, although there was little that was natural about the shape.

The man was no more, because while the sickle had slowed the shape while it struggled to seperate blade from what had once been sinew and bone, that was all you could hope to do. The sickle and the man were now permanently part of each other, back at the barn.

***

Run?

Hide?

Run run run runrunrunrunrunrunrun! No! HIDE! NO! I DON'T KNOW!

***

The shape could not smell anything any more. It no longer even had a conception of smell, but it could sense that its prey was near, just as it always could. It could always tell, and always would.

***

I am running.

I do not remember running, or starting running, but the cold wind whistling through my ears tells me I am running.

The cold pain stabbing up from my left foot tells me that I didn't really tie that shoe up very well. It is lost now back in the mud somewhere.

I have no time. I must keep running.

***

The clearing contained a large oak tree and, curiously, a shoe.

Dropping the chainsaw to the ground, the shape picked up the shoe and looked deeply into it.

The shoe was not alive, but it contained pictures of things that were alive. Three horses frolicking in a green field could be seen underneath smears of mud.

Suddenly angry, the shape squeezed the shoe in its swollen hands.

The shoe crumples, but it does not break.

Enraged, the shape takes the chainsaw to the shoe until it is nothing but fragments of cloth and rubber and mud.

***

Running, with my arms in front of me to push away the branches and the leaves and the mud when I stumble and fall to the ground, only to push myself onwards and upwards and back to running. My T-Shirt is mostly mud, muck and water by now, as are my shorts and the one remaining shoe. The rain is enough to chill me but not enough to wash me clean or hide my footsteps.

It is still coming for me. I have to keep on running, though my lungs are raw and perception is spinning.

Just run. Take care of everything else later. If there is a later.

***

The shape stopped to consider the shoe.

It had been angry. Angry was new. Angry was different.

Usually, things just happened as they had to, with the cutting and the bleeding, and the noises, and above all, the work. Nothing must get in the way of the work.

The Shape knew this to be true.

Angry, though, was new. There was nothing in the work about angry.

It would have to wait. There was work to be done.

***

I am hiding in some bushes, trying to recover what's left of my t-shirt after I ran and collapsed right into a thicket of wild roses. My skin is afire with a thousand tiny pinpricks and ragged grazes. I can feel the blood pumping out of a wound on the underside of my left foot, making me lame, so I must hide. It's all I can do.

The path followed around the lake from the left to the right, so this was the way that the Shape went as well. This was good. This was the work in progress, as it usually progressed.

I am trying to remember my survival training.

I am wishing I hadn't snuck off from my survival training to have a smoke. But really, that old guy was just so damned boring, always droning on about which nuts and berries you could safely eat, and which ones would have you crapping out your intestines for a week. Who cared about that stuff? We were only going out here for a weekend, anyway.

He'd said something, that old guy. What was it?

I wish my head would stop hurting so I could think.

It was something about taking something. Or looking out for something.

Rattlesnakes? No, not rattlesnakes. Bears, maybe? No.

Stock. It was taking stock.

"Take stock of what you've got if things get bad" he'd said in that slow, silly Southern drawl.

We'd all giggled underneath our breath, because, really, he did sound so stupid.

So I should take stock. I've got me.

Shit. That's about all I've got, and I'm down one shoe, bleeding a bit, and I can't see more than a few inches in front of me because I'm stuck in a thorny rose bush.

I should run. Yes.

***

The girl burst from the rose bush where the Shape had sensed she was hiding, screamed at the sight of the Shape and sprinted away into the night.

The Shape expected this. They always ran. Always. Running, screaming, stumbling and eventually stopping. It was all part of the work.

***

OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodItWasRightThereOutsideTheFuckingBushAndItNearlyGotMeAndIHaveTORUNRIGHTNOW

RIGHTNOWRUNRUNRUNRUN OW.

OW.

That sharp pain in my head has turned into a dull pain, and suddenly the world is spinning around and I can see the stars above me as I fall down backwards.

I can hear the noise of an engine behind me. A small engine.

I get to my feet, and see that I've run headfirst into a door.

Why is there a door out here in the woods?

I cry from pain and shock and adrenaline and look around.

It is a barn.

A barn?

Not just a barn, but the barn. The barn Dan and I were meant to spend the weekend in.

Which means that Dan is... inside.

Except it's not Dan any more.

I can't face that inside. I can't. But... hang on...

Keys!

There are keys!

Keys to Dan's truck, which we parked by the thin track that runs down towards the barn.

Keys that Dan always kept on that thin leather necklace that he got at that Indian reservation when he was sixteen.

Shit.

That means I have to go in there and see, and find. And escape.

***

The Shape is close now. The barn is there, and the girl is there, scrambling to open the door.

This will not take long, and another night's work will be done.

****

# 48 The Legion

Join the legion, they said. It'll be a laugh, they said.

I can still picture the four of us, sitting at the tavern and downing some local wine, pondering our futures. The wine was cheap, the tavern wenches even more so, but the night had been about drinking and boasting of the history of our ancestors. That, and singing songs, as is the way of all true men.

"A Legionaire's life", so the song goes "Is a very fine thing!"

When you're deep in your cups, it's an easy song to sing that won't get you thrown out on the street like some of the more risqué anthems I've learned since. Not that I'm afraid of a tavern fight, like some of the milksops that make up the senate these days. Why, if my father were around, he'd soon sort them out "at the end of my sword", as he used to say to finish any and all arguments we'd have at home.

Hearing our song, a centurion on crutches had made his way over to make us an offer. Smiling, he told us that we were young, strong and wise, "as anyone could see". In our youthful stupidity, we thought he was damned right.

"Join up!" the jovial centurion had said, "and fight the barbarian hordes as our fathers did!"

That sealed the deal right there, and in hindsight I'm certain it was deliberate. Nobody says that I'm not loyal to my ancestors, at least not if they want their intestines to stay within their frames. My father's long dead from a wasting disease he caught while on the Gallic campaign, although the official cohort record stated he was killed in battle. That record amendment had cost the family quite a lot, but anything can be done if you know the right people and are willing to pay. Pay, or threaten appropriately, and that's always been a specialty of mine.

Drunk as we were, we thought his idea an excellent one. Rome's on a precipice and ready to fall to the Barbarians, and it's the duty of every real Roman citizen to defend it. I'm sure you agree.

After we'd signed up, my temper and willingness to kill had impressed early, and I was promised the world.

Only right now, the world as it stands is dizzying array of frozen red snow, the bark of this tree biting into a wound on the back of my head as I gradually lose the feelings in my legs.

They can promise the world, all the gold and a raunchy senator's daughter thrown in for free, but what they don't mention is the fact that some of you will end up slowly dying of blood loss in some abominable German forest in the deep of winter.

" _Legionaires, For Rome, FOR ROME!_

We'll kill them all and then come HOME!"

It's a jolly old song, that one.

We should have seen the attack coming, because these barbarians aren't the subtle type. We were out scouting around the forest for anything that could be boiled down to supplement our food ration, same as every other legionnaire, when they attacked. Aemilius had been the first to fall, a barbarian axe hitting him neatly across the back of the neck mid-cry. We'd spun around, swords already being drawn, and then the battle was joined.

Hah! Battle. You can't call a slaughter like that a battle as though it was some glorious foray complete with triumphal procession at the end. Nobody will march in triumph for me. If this snow keeps falling, they might not even notice my corpse long enough to steal my boots, sword or helmet.

" _Legionaires, they stand and FIGHT!_

Through the day and through the NIGHT!"

Yeah, they don't write them like that any more.

You couldn't even call it a victory for either side. After Aemilius fell, Otho, Gnaeus and I fell into drill pattern, facing off against the four barbarians who'd emerged from a frozen thicket behind Aemilius' now-tumbling corpse. They wore those thick hides stitched together from whatever animals they could kill and cure the skins from. The rumours around the camp were that when old Gauis went missing, they skinned his hefty rump to make two hats for the Barbarian chiefs. We all laughed, but I wouldn't put anything past these savages.

The training covered what to do when you're attacked with a broad axe, but there's a gulf between running with your sword at a dummy and facing the battle scarred visage of a crazed barbarian in the snow. Otho stumbled in the snow and fell, face first, with a barbarian's axe following quickly into his back.

A single shriek, and Otho was no more, but that allowed me to skewer the barbarian who was then stuck with no weapon. Their odour and strange hides were no match for fine Roman steel, and a swing removed his head post-haste. A second fell to Gnaeus' swift sword work, leaving two barbarians now facing the might of the Roman army. We felt confident, invincible and enraged by the loss of our comrade in arms.

I say we, but a barbarian throwing an axe clean between the eyes of your best drinking buddy made it past Gnaeus' defences all to quickly. He fell to the ground in a crimson spray, leaving me alone against the foe. I plucked the axe out of Gnaeus' eye socket with a sickening slurp noise and faced off against my foes.

" _For ROME we SWING for ROME we CLEAVE_

The battlefield we'll never LEAVE!"

The unarmed axe thrower watched me cautiously from a distance, waiting for his friend to make the first move. Feeling a little bold, I threw the axe back towards the last barbarian, intending to at least wound him, but he saw the move coming and deflected it with the hilt of his axe. His friend scrambled to pick up his weapon, and I was upon him in a flash.

That left one barbarian swinging at my head, and connecting. The stars from above collected in my skull, and by pure instict, I flung my sword hand upwards, directly through the throat of the last barbarian.

In victory, I am slumped against a tree, feeling the lifeblood slowly ooze from the back of my head, along with my life thoughts. I lack the essential strength to tear my sword from the corpse of the last barbarian so that I may enjoy a noble death. My arms simply do not want to lift any more, although they are readily taking in every ounce of cold this grey snowy forest can hand me.

Jupiter, but even in death these Barbarians stink. A deep, throaty odour rank with traces of urine and tree bark, which is probably why we didn't simply smell them out before the attack, because this entire filthy forest reeks like that. I don't think I've had clean nostrils ever since we crossed the border. Quite why it's worth our while in a country that stinks so much and remains frozen so long eludes me.

" _A legionaire is brave and true,_

And what's more he can..."

He can.. what? I can't remember. Something to do with a wine barrel, the sharp end of a hasta and a duck, I think.

The snow is falling more heavily, and my eyes grow dim. On reflection, it's a stupid song. Nobody will sing to my glory, or even remember me when I'm gone.

****

# 49 Has Bean

The coffee shop was bustling, as it usually was around lunchtime. Customers jostled in ad hoc lines around the barista bench, shouting orders to be heard above the general cacophony, which was probably why an Decaf Latte order for "Alice" ended up as a Cappucino order for "Alex", and also why nobody could hear the delicately arranged but head office approved and ordered alt rock soundtrack that was meant to engender a feeling of being a local community watering hole.

"This track list will encourage repeat orders. Your customers will want to come back to hear all the latest tunes, and when they come back, BAM, they're ordering coffee". Lucas could almost hear the discussion that he was sure must have taken place somewhere up in head office, where the suits ruled the roost.

All Lucas knew was that one day he'd gone from playing one of the local alt stations via the radio to popping in a disc that bore the corporate logo of Caf-Fay-Nated (an Amalgamated Foods And Beverages Brand) every morning when he opened up. The entire disc ran for only thirty-six minutes across its twelve tracks, all of which featured bands which were thought to be the hot new thing four years ago when the mass pressings of Caf-Fay-Nated Hits Volume One happened.

Lucas knew for a fact that the drummer in one band was two years in the grave, four of the acts had split up and only one act had done more than a commercial jingle since they'd taken the money from Amalgamated Foods And Beverages years previously.

In that whole time, Lucas could count the number of copies of Caf-Fay-Nated Hits Volume One that had sold to customers in that time ("An easy way to raise average customer profits"), because he'd only sold one, and that was to an elderly lady who'd declared that she just loved the cover. Given that the cover was the same picture of Chirpy The Caffi-Squirrel that adorned every other bit of officially branded merchandise, not to mention the patch machine stitched into every polo shirt Lucas ever wore to work, Lucas suspected she may not have been quite right in the head.

By now, Lucas had heard every plaintive wail of betrayal, love and lust thousands of times, and it wouldn't matter a jot how many customers were shouting for their caffeine fix anyway. He could tell by the clock on the wall which position on which track the disc would be, unless the damned thing had developed a scratch, in which case he'd have to unwrap one of the retail copies that otherwise gathered dust near the cash register and start playing that. Lucas hated having to even reach in for a supposedly fresh copy, partly because he'd then have to fill out the paperwork to justify the business cost of removing $19.99 "worth" of value (that never sold) from the store floor, but mostly because after sitting out for four years, even under plastic wrap, there wasn't a copy that didn't have a sugary layer on its outside that stuck to your fingertips like superglue.

Still, things were busy, and that was good for Lucas. He'd still have a healthy profit uptick to deliver to his manager at the end of the week.

***

Sarah watched Lucas idly for a second, and as she did, her loathing intensified.

Sarah was sick of all of it, every last cup, spoon and stirrer. She was sick of customers complaining when the coffee was burnt, sick of being burnt by the hot edges of the coffee machine, sick of the shoes she'd stupidly decided to put on this morning before the sun came up that were digging a small but bloody groove in the back of her heels, sick of wearing the same drab brown blouse, black skirt and bright orange Barista's apron that all Caf-Fay-Nated staff were obliged to wear. Above all of it, though, Sarah was thoroughly and absolutely sick of sick of Lucas constantly hovering around the floor watching the customers instead of actually doing some work.

Maybe, just maybe, he could come over here and work out why the damned credit card machine kept declining cards, or why the coffee machine kept breaking down.

She longed for the day when any one of her job applications, whether it was at the fancy fashion boutique on the other side of the mall, or that receptionist's gig in the dental practice down the road, or even that barmaid's job at the sports bar actually came back with any kind of expression of interest. She'd whip off this stupid orange Caf-Fay-Nated apron and hurl it at Lucas' stupid head so fast he'd be blinded by the orange light.

One day. One day, it would happen. It had seemed like a decent job at first, because she'd been fresh out of school with no particular idea what it was she wanted to do and, as quickly became apparent, no skills that anybody would pay her real money for. Her mum had suggested that a job at the new coffee shop in the mall "would be ideal to put on a resume", and at least there, Sarah could point to some solid experience.

Three grim years of slinging coffee with increasingly ridiculous seasonally themed names at morons who'd scream and rage if you mistook almond soy for carob soy, or gave them a Caf-Fay-Nated Cookie when they'd clearly wanted a Caf-Fay-Nated Muffin, despite the Muffins bearing a large and slightly wonky "SOLD OUT" placard on the desserts shelf. Sarah could make any kind of coffee you wanted, and if you were polite, she might even make it from the fresh stack of cups, rather than the ones that the rats had gotten to over the Christmas break that gave the coffee a distinctly bitter tone.

Two more hours, Sarah realised. Two more hours of coffee making, and she could go home and collapse in front of the telly for a few hours before heading out. It was Friday night. She might even make herself a nice cuppa at home before heading out.

***

May could not believe it. That STUPID BITCH had given her a Chocolate SprinkleCino ™ when she'd CLEARLY and OBVIOUSLY asked for a GOD DAMNED STRAWBERRY SPRINKLECINO WITH CREAMY-NATED MARSHMALLOWS.

May stared down at the chocolate gloop that greeted her when she removed the plastic top that had been hastily jammed on the top before being handed to her. She could dimly make out something that might have been a Creamy-Nated Marshmallow once upon a time, but could equally have been a Choco-Nated Fun Drop (May contain traces of bromochloride). Either way, it was rapidly melting into the thick brown liquid that burnt ever so slightly on her palms as she gripped the cup in her silent rage.

This place had gone so, so downhill, May thought. There was just nowhere you could get a good coffee any damned where. Still, the coffee was at least cheap here, unlike that fancy place on the other side of the mall. The silver spoon service made May feel like a queen, right up until she had to pay the bill, at which point reality would come crashing back in, reminding her that she was more of a pauper.

Caf-Fay-Nated didn't have those kinds of service options, but equally it didn't have that pretension or price scale, either. Still, May fumed, it should serve WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, not just some random brown stuff in a cup. She needed her coffee fix, and so did the future of fantasy writing. The third volume of her EPIC fantasy series wasn't going to write itself without sufficient caffeinated inspiration.

Sufficient caffeinated inspiration, and some kind of idea where Starrya, Princess of the Dread Realm was actually going to go next. Also, having some idea where to finish the second volume might not be the worst thing in the world, but May thought she probably should get somebody to publish the very first volume before she worried about small details like that.

But first, she was going to go up to that counter and give that BITCH a piece of her mind.

***

Eric stared at the barista, as he so often did, without her knowing. He'd scored a minor victory earlier, because she'd smiled at him when he'd quietly ordered an almond and mint mega-cappa-cina with rainbow sprinkles, as he always did when he came into Caf-Fay-Nated.

That was three hours ago, and he'd quietly sat in the corner and sipped his drink, watching the world go by, but not that much. Most of the time, he sat and watched the barista work, admiring the sway of her hips as she spun around to grab the various bean types customers wanted. Eric had winced in pain as he watched her absentmindedly rest her elbow on the side of the Caf-Fay-Nated Coffee Machine ("Millions Energized, Because Of The Good Work That You Do ™)", and he'd nearly gotten up to ask her if she was OK.

Nearly, but not quite, because he couldn't do that just yet. He did manage to take another quiet photo of her, this time from the side to add to his collection. It was a little blurred, and there was an arm in the way of her waistline, but it was yet another way he could appreciate her in his own quiet way. He'd print it tonight at home, and it could join the others in the shrine.

One day he'd show her the collection, and she'd be so impressed. She'd have to be. Have to. Have to be.

She'd be swept off her feet, and they'd be married that day. Eric knew that day was coming.

But not today.

****

# 50 What Happens In...

I remember being at the table. The neon lights. The scotch and soda by my side. The impossibly buxom brunette showgirl teetering around with a tray full of drinks while drunk and leery tourists peered as closely down her top as they feasibly could without leaving a trail of spittle behind.

The blackjack dealer had a small, neatly trimmed goatee, improbably dyed purple, which offset against his crisp white MGM Grand tuxedo that all the dealers wore. The dealer had a toothy grin that invited you in and made you feel welcome while you dropped dollar after dollar after dollar at his table.

I'd only landed in Vegas six hours ago, and already I was five grand up. I was feeling brave, and a little indestructible, so I'd dropped all five on the next hand at the blackjack table. It was probably the drinks and the crowd that had gathered around me that egged me on to do it. That, and the crazy chiming noise that thousands of slot machines make while they're busy chugging down endless quarters.

To my left, an balding Israeli banker who sweats every time he gets a good card. He'd be the gambler's best friend if we were playing poker. To my right, two overweight American buddies who told me, in rather explicit detail, about the facts of their weekend away from their wives, right down to the tatoo on the rear of the hooker and the stain that she'd left that one of them still wore proudly on his overly loud neon Hawaiian shirt at the table. No, thanks, I'd said. I don't really want to sniff it.

The cards were dealt. I peeked down, curving the edge of my cards up imperceptibly, like they do on the TV. The King Of Diamonds peered out at me in his regal finery, and nestled up next to him like they were best friends, the Ace Of Diamonds.

Blackjack.

Then everything went black.

***

When I awake, it is with a taste of dust in my mouth. I quickly discover that this wasn't just my mouth, but in fact a layer of dust, about an inch thick, covering my entire body. It gave my clothes and shoes a rather ghostly pallor. I sit up, shaking the dust off my head and shirt as best I can manage. Thin, dry desert sand wafts off me in the hot desert breeze. I am sweating beneath the layer of grime.

I've no idea how I got here.

Somebody must have spiked my drink while I wasn't noticing it, and then dumped me out... here. Wherever here is. It's dry and dusty desert, but in the context of Vegas that could mean anything. I'm not actually dead, so I guess it was meant to be a warning of sorts, as was the faux burial.

Although now that I look down, the imprint of my body in the dust is quite deep, as though the desert sands had been shifting for quite some time. There must be something in the chemicals in this sand too, because my diamond blue tuxedo isn't just dusty, but quite faded. I thought that Nevada was meant to be a protected state park outside of Vegas' dusty glamour, but then I guess when you're in a state with such strong mob ties, any kind of chemical dumping is possible. I suppose I should be happy I'm still alive.

I am thirsty, though. The dust around me has settled in my nostrils and lightly on the surface of my mouth. I'd kill for a martini right now, or even just a crisp cool bottle of spring water.

Looking around, all I can see are dunes, hills and a few circling birds. I hope they're not circling for me. Ah. Off in the distance, I think I can see...

Yes. It's a telegraph pole. Not quite a refreshing iced drink, but a sign of civilisation. I'm certain that it's possible to wander until you drop dead in the desert, so anything that points back towards Vegas has to be a plus. Time to start hiking...

***

It is a telegraph pole, although it's a seriously old and desiccated telegraph pole. I'm not quite willing to lean against it, even though the walk here has made me even more parched. I'm not certain that it wouldn't collapse on top of me. It's beside what must have been a road at some point, although I can only tell that because the shifting sands reveal patches of faded bitumen along the roadway. Nobody has driven this road in a good long time.

How did I get here, then?

A mystery for another time. I set off down the road. It may not lead to Rome, but it has to lead somewhere.

***

At last, Vegas. The road in the end wasn't that long, although with my watch inexplicably not working — sand must have got into the mechanism, because I definitely wound it while I was waiting on the tarmac at McCarran — I can't say exactly how long I was walking for. My jacket's long gone, because it only took a dozen steps for me to realise it was making me sweat even more profusely. My shirt's not much better, and my cummerbund's now doing double duty as a sun protecting bandana. Still, once I get back into the hotel, I can shower and change and try to piece together whatever's happened before going to the police. I'm sure they'll be able to help.

There must have been a serious dust storm, because there's no power to the endless billboards that litter the Vegas skyline. No power at all, now that I look more closely, because the traffic lights are also off, and there are no cars on the road. Just the endless, cloying, persistent sand that's covering every aspect of every seedy hotel, mega-resort, car hire place and brothel in piles that lay in some places an inch thick.

Looking more closely, I can see that there must have been some damage in what I'm guessing was a cyclone — or is it a tornado — too. The front entrance of the MGM Grand is littered with glass, and there's no sign of a doorman, although there is a stretch limo parked outside, its back doors open revealing...

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?

It's a corpse. There's a corpse slumped in the back seat, its face almost entirely wasted away.

I think I'm going to be sick.

A corpse in a tuxedo, clutching at a bottle of Bollinger.

I am going to be sick. No.. just some dry heaves. I've no moisture left to throw up with.

For a brief second, I ponder taking the bottle simply to have something to wash out the dust from my mouth, before realising that the poor dead soul's slumped in such a way that the bottle's contents have tipped out onto the sidewalk. There's not even a damp patch where it happened.

What the hell is going on?

I stumble, half-crazed into the lobby. It's as massive as I remember, but with no power it's also eerily dim. Only the broken green glass doors at the front are allowing any light in, along with yet more desert dust. The cacophonous ching of the slot machines is absent, which means it's the first time I've ever stepped into a Vegas casino and not heard them going off.

There's also a smell that I can't quite place. It's persistent, over and above the gritty sand that infests my sinuses. Sort of like ham. Maybe dry cured ham, or proscuitto, or something. It feels like it's been a long time since I had that complimentary tray of prawns at the buffet, and for just a second, my dry mouth tries feebly to salivate.

Then my eyes adjust to the light, and I see them slumped in their hundreds against the broken slot machines, and I work out where the smell is coming from.

This time I am sick. You'd never notice vomit against a typical Vegas carpet, and doubly so when it's in the dark.

I need some light. I don't even know where the light switches are in this place, if they even have them.

Oh. Bugger. That's right. There doesn't seem to be any power anyway. I wonder if there's anything behind the concierge desk? There's just enough dim light there to have a bit of a look around...

Oh shit. Another corpse. This one's in the MGM Grand tuxedo, too, so they must have been a staff member. There's a namebadge on the lapel, but it's too dark to make it out. Ang... Ange... Angelo, I think.

Sorry, Angelo. I've no idea what's happened here, but I think I want out. All I need to do is get to my room and get my stuff before heading to the airport.

Room key cards, room key wallets, Las Vegas maps by the thousands. Not a lot of use to me in any case. Do I still have my own room key?

Oh for.... it was in my jacket. The same faded jacket that I left back by the telegraph pole. That's a big problem, although I'm starting to realise it's probably not my only problem.

Finally, a toolbox. There's a torch inside, and a packet of batteries too. I can get some light onto the room, although I'm not sure I really want to.

Yeah, I didn't really want to. The room is quiet, but for the sounds of piles of sand shifting around in the very small amount of breeze that makes its way inside. The torch beam cuts like a laser through the darkness, leading its way around the rows of slot machines and into the gaming area. Slumped against nearly every slot machine is a dried out corpse, some still clinging to the pull lever like a baby clutching at a bottle.

I walk past the Roulette wheel. It's filled, as is every nook and cranny, with dust, and will never spin again. Past the Poker table, with players slumped down over their cards and chips.

Then I see him. The dealer. He's still there, grinning at me through the darkness, and lightly licking his lips. Around him are slumped the Israeli banker, no sweat on his shiny white skull but plenty of dust. The buddies, or what's left of them, having lost considerable weight but not the tattered remnants of their sex-soiled Hawaiian shirts.

The dealer looks pristine in his tuxedo, and as I approach, I realise that he's also being lit somehow from above.

He smiles at me, and deals another hand.

****

# 51 Lessons

Yes, yes, young man. I know which way the podium is. No, I don't need a hand to get up there.

Ah, now, where do I start? Oh yes.

I've got to admit, when they asked me to speak here, I had no real idea what to say.

I know what I'm meant to say. I'm meant to leave you with some kind of inspirational message, tied into all the things I've learned over many years in this profession. Something that stays with you, lifts you up, and, while the board won't thank me for saying it, something that justifies the fee that they've paid me in order to appear. Yes, yes, the old school spirit and all that, but always remember: Get paid for what you do. That doesn't have to be in money, by the way.

Still, I struggled to come up with something to say beyond the usual platitudes. I just didn't have the words... until I thought back into my own past.

To explain this story, I guess I have to explain a little bit about my father. I was never terribly close to my father. He was always this enormous... figure, looming large in the family, always back at 6pm on the dot from his job in the city, where he worked as an accountant. Some of you may well go on to that field, but that's not important. I didn't, I think, get on terribly well with him, especially as a teenager.

Yes, I can see many of you having difficulty imagining me as a teenager. We were all that age once, and while fashions change, teenagers really don't. Just as many of you did, I imagine, I went through a period where absolutely everything my parents said and did was just so plainly and obviously wrong, and they were so obviously so stupid.

Actually, this may well have been true of my late mother, who was, in retrospect, a terrible racist. Not overtly, you understand, but under her breath whenever she had to go down to the corner store to buy a packet of cigarettes from Mr Patel.

She'd smile and hand over her cash, but the second she was out of the store, she'd mutter under her breath about how all those Pakis were ruining the country, and that she was sure he was somehow stealing the cigarettes out of the packet she'd just bought. I remember her challenging her on this once, as the Pall Malls she always purchased came in a sealed packet, but that only earned me a cuff around the ear for "being smart". One quick tip here; if someone is aggressive towards you for "being smart", it may well mean that you're right, but that they don't want to hear it.

Anyway, leaving my mother out of it for a second, I was doing poorly in school. Some of you probably went to Anthurst, as I did, with your parents covering the fees along the way. That wasn't a great hardship for my parents thanks to my father's job and, I suspect, his connections, but in any case, he wasn't happy with me flunking so many subjects.

This led to a few furious arguments, and on one evening, we concluded with me shouting at him before heading to my room, slamming the door on the way before collapsing to my bed. My father was far more stubborn than I am – and I'm sure you've read the stories and can't think there was anyone more stubborn than me, but it was true – and it wore me out, so I quickly fell asleep.

Fell asleep until 4;15am, that was. I'll never forget that time, because at 4:15 on November 23rd, 1989, my father came into my room and switched the light on. That was enough to startle me awake, but all he did was stand there, with his fingers to his lips. I took that to mean silence, so I lay there, startled and instantly awake, unsure what was going to happen next.

He gestured towards my cupboard, so I got up. As I did so, I noticed he was fully dressed for work, so I started getting dressed in my school uniform. He shook his head, so I stopped.

"The suit", he whispered.

I only had one suit, which had been tailored for me a few months prior when I had to attend the funeral of Auntie Sarah. Sarah was my mother's sister, and while i'm told she was present when I was born, I never saw her as a small child at all. Some grudge between her and my mother now lost to time. Anyway, the suit was dark and formal, and staying quiet, I got dressed into it, remembering to grab the black shoes from the back of the dusty cupboard instead of my usual trainers.

We walked downstairs, and out to the garage. My father got into the car, and we drove to the train station in the town. That was unusual, as Father usually drove himself to work, very proud of his recently acquired private parking space as part of a recent promotion at the time. It was still dark, and being that time of year bitterly cold even through the layers of the suit.

I still didn't understand what was going on, but any attempt to ask questions was met with my father's particular glare, and a finger to the lips indicating that I should stay silent.

We waited, cold, but not alone on the station platform. Around us, workmen in bright high-visibility jackets and stiff workboots stood and chatted, smoking and laughing and sipping cups of badly prepared coffee from the kiosk on the platform.

At that time of the morning and at that time of year, everything seemed grey and cold. There was no life in the world, no joy, just a sense of waiting for the train to arrive, but with no expectation that it would be any better when it did.

After what seemed like an age, the train arrived, and we silently boarded. I went to sit in one of the carriages, but my father's hand descended.

"Stand" he said, and so we did.

The workmen shuffled in past us, taking up seats. At that time of the morning, as you might think, the train was mostly empty so they quickly took up multiple seats, with more than a few of them stretching out over multiple seats, pulling hoods and caps over their eyes and catching some sleep while they could.

"Watch", he said.

I had no idea what to watch, so I desperately glanced around the carriage. Workmen? Check. Old, slightly grubby railway carriage seats in a pattern that was probably fashionable fifteen years ago? Check. Semi-torn poster for a sickly sweet chocolate bar? Also present.

Still, I didn't understand what it was I had been torn out of bed to observe, so I spoke up, but quietly.

"Watch what?"

"Watch them" my father replied.

So I did. There were about a dozen workmen there, all in fairly similar rough but solid working gear. A lot of high visibility neon, more than a few parkas, and nearly everyone in heavy duty working boots, except for one man asleep over three seats who had no shoes at all, or, seemingly, any desire to shave or wash recently. Even from the other side of the carriage I could easily smell him. Even just talking about it now, so many years past brings his pungent odour to mind.

So I stood, and I stared, and I stared, and I got a little bored, trying to imagine what these workmen did. That one was working at a butcher's, I thought, based on the blood spatters on his jacket. Either that or a morgue, the darker parts of my mind figured. Another pair, idly playing cards, had sewn badges that indicated they were members of a mining union. The pungent man, well, I didn't figure he did much beyond smelling bad.

At the next stop, father indicated that we should get off. Still confused, I followed his command, but I knew the next stop was at the sleepy little village just up the way. We never stopped there in the car, and there was nobody about.

So we stood on the platform, and waited until the train had fully pulled away. That's when my father asked me what I had seen.

"Not much" I replied.

"Not much? We were on that train alone?" he queried.

"OK, no" I said. "There were the workmen."

"Yes, the workmen" he said. "What did you notice about them?"

"I... don't understand. They were workmen. What was there to notice? They had work uniforms on? They were putting their feet up on the seats? Is this what this is about? Your stupid rules?"

"No, son. Not that. What were they doing?"

"Nothing, really. Most of them were asleep!"

"Why were they asleep?"

"Because it's a quarter to five in the morning! I'd be asleep right now if you hadn't pulled me out of bed and forced me to the middle of nowhere for no reason!"

"It's more than that son" he said. "They were on that train and asleep for one very simple reason. For most of them, maybe not all, but most, they didn't have the choice. They didn't recognise me, but most of those men went to school with me. Now do you see it?"

"No" I replied.

"I had the same choices as them, and went to the same school. But I took something from that school that most of them didn't choose to do. I took an education. That's the point. They're up, and on a train when everyone, you and me included, would rather be in our beds. Not because they want to, but because now they find themselves in a position where they have to. What's more, while they're employed now, it's in trades where there will always be someone younger, cheaper and fitter, and that's if their jobs aren't entirely replaced by machines in the meantime. "

"So?" I replied.

"You really are stupid, boy" he said. "The point is, that's your future path if you ignore improving yourself. It doesn't matter how, mind. Be an accountant like me. Or one of those comedians you're always watching on television.

But you have to work hard, and work hard from now, and get as much from your education as you can, because once it's passed, you'll find your choices seriously limited.

Nothing wrong with being a night worker if that's what you want to do, and maybe some of those men want just that. But looking at them, there's little doubt that for most of them, they've dragged themselves out of bed not because it's their desired life, but the one that their choices led them to."

That was, without doubt, the longest conversation I ever had with my father. With that, we waited for the return train and went back home. He ushered me up to my room, and then headed off for work at his usual time. We never spoke of that again, and even when he was passing from cancer, just two years later, it never came up again.

But it's stayed with me.Those men would have been in their late thirties if they were contemporaries of my father, and at the time being in my own late thirties seemed an impossibility. Now, of course it seems like only yesterday I was in my late thirties, although that was a few years before most of you were born.

Still, my father's words stick with me, and I'd like them to stick with you. You're graduating today, but if you're smart – and not in the clip behind the ear way, mind you – you'll never stop learning and giving yourself options and choices.

It's either that, or the grey early morning train and the uncertain future. I'm nearing the end of my journey, but if I had it to do over again, that's still not the train I'd choose.

Yes, yes, I'm finished now, you don't have to keep giving me that silly wind up gesture young lady. Have some respect for your elders, won't you?

****

# 52 Remember Dave?

"Pass the peanuts would you. Yeah, thanks. Lovely. Now, what were we talking about? No, before the car. I know, I know, ready by Tuesday, you told me earlier, remember? No, it was the other thing.

Oh yeah, Dave. We were talking about Dave. You remember Dave, right? Big boofy bloke, shock of red hair... yeah, the one with the Bulldogs tatt on his right arm? Really? You know another red headed Dave? Wow. Well I never. From the office, you say? Ain't that a thing?

Anyway, Dave... my Dave, I guess you might say, though he's his own man entirely, especially now he and Katrina aren't together any more. Nasty business that. You know how Katrina and Frank were messing around behind Dave's back, right?

Well, he comes home from that job he got with the sandwich board outside the jeans place, not because he got fired or nothing... although now I come to think of it, he did get fired, but just not that day... and discovers the two of them in bed together.

Dave's a great bloke, but he's got his limits, same as the rest of us, and he goes to town something fierce on Frank. Katrina gets scared, figures somebody might be about to die, and maybe she was right and maybe she wasn't, but long story short, she calls the cops, don't she?

So the cops turn up to discover Frank having his head punched against a wall over and over, one eye completely stuffed, nose broken and a coupla' ribs too, so they haul Dave away for his troubles.

Well now, it ain't exactly his fault, now is it, but that was the end of Katrina and Dave. Also why he gets fired from the sandwich board job, though that takes a day while he's cooling off in the cells. For once, there's a bit of luck on Dave's side, and let's face it, the poor bugger deserves every bit of luck he can get, because when it came up in court, the judge more or less sided with Dave and had it thrown out as a wassname.... you know... they always talk about them on those fancy TV dramas... oh... yeah, that's it. A crime of passion. What he did to Frank was a crime, but he went, you know, mad with passion after seeing what he saw, so the judge gives him a suspended sentence.

There ain't no passion left between Dave and Katrina though, not after he's seen her making the beast with two backs with Frank, and his luck ain't no good in front of judges after that neither, because when the divorce comes through he's hit pretty hard what with the child support and losing the house and all. Fair go to Katrina, though, 'cause she's the one dealing with Kevin and Sharon. That Sharon's a wild child and no mistake. Takes after her mum, I guess. I still see her down the supermarket from time to time, though it didn't last with her and Frank either. After he got out of the hospital I think he went to work over in Perth. Somethin' to do with mining or something like that, anyway.

So Dave, anyway, Dave hits this really rough patch after that. Goes through a bunch of jobs, gettin' mad at everyone and everything so fast it's a miracle anyone will hire him. Then he lands that job on the roads with me, after I put in a good word for him. Well, I had to, didn't I, after I'd been taking him out fishing so that Katrina and Frank could... well, yeah, Dave still doesn't know about that part of it all, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention that to anyone, you know?

Cheers mate. Yeah, I'll have another.

So anyway, Dave starts working with me on the roads, doing whatever bits of work come up on the highway out of town. Yeah, we're still working on that thing, even after all these years. Those politician blokes don't half work slow when it comes to signing up money for the roads you know. That's why this country's in the state it's in... but I'm gettin' away from myself. Probably the beer. Yeah, why not, I'll have another.

Cheers.

Right, so, Dave then. Dave had work, and he was renting a little flat above that Asian supermarket over in Marshall St, but he wasn't all that happy. No, not at all, not one little stinking bit.

He was drinking hard after work, every night, all weekend long, and sometimes even at work. You don't need to be sober much to hold up that stop sign, but when you're obviously leaning against it all day long, at some point the boss is going to notice that. Keith's a great bloke, and he let it slide for as long as he possibly could, but then one day, they're out working just near this school, and Dave's had a few the night before, you know how it is?

Actually, now that I think about it, maybe he'd even had a few for breakfast that morning as well.

Looked pale and shaky from the moment he showed up, and it was clear that he wasn't fit for any of the trucks, or even shovelling out the gravel, so Keith puts him on sign duty, figuring he can't do too much harm. The bit of road we was working on was just up by Johnson's pass, near that little winery, just by the bend. Yeah, we've been working on that highway a fair old time now, you know. Anyway, Keith decides he'll put Dave around the corner from where we're working, on the radio so he can talk to Bruno, who he puts on the other end. You know the drill, let a few cars through, let 'em know what the last car is and then reverse it so nobody gets delayed too much. Good job for Bruno too, 'cause he's getting on in years, but he doesn't want to retire, does he? I mean, from what I've heard, he's pissed away every penny he's ever earned, and you can't get by on the pension they give you these days so I hear.

Nah, I'm good with that. Got a few properties up north that I've been investing in. But that kind of thing, well, it just wasn't a thing back when Bruno was my age. Used to be you'd have a job for life, and I think that's what Bruno figured on, but the roads is hard work and once you get to a certain age you just don't suit real hard work no more. But Bruno does what he can, and he's an easygoing bloke, so Keith keeps him around on the road crew, because what else is Bruno going to do?

Anyway, the day was getting on a bit, and it was a hot one. I'm working away, and out of the corner of my eye I see this hot silver sportscar... no, I've never been good with the makes, but it was one of those really sleek ones that looks like it costs as much as a house, and probably does.

Anyway, behind the wheel is this gorgeous blonde. Smoking hot, curves up to there and then a little bit more, you know the type. So I stop and watch her, 'cause it's only a 20 zone for this stretch, so I've got time to take in the view if you follow my meaning.

Anyway, we're just about to break for a smoko when we hear the most ferocious racket. Bear in mind we've got the steamrollers flattening out the dirt, so it's not like it's whisper quiet to begin with, but this was something different. Something bad.

Anyway, Dave. Yeah, Dave, so, he's been round the corner, meant to be guiding the traffic through, which he had done for a while. Slowly but surely, though, that hot sun's beating down on his head, and it's kind of quiet, because it always is up that way for most of the day, and he only goes and falls asleep, doesn't he? Leaning up against the post, straight up and totally conked out.

Problem is, just as he's falling asleep, seems like the sign twists round in his hand from "STOP" to "GO", so that's what he's showing the world. Now Bruno, Bruno, he don't know nothing about this. He just has his sign on "GO" as well, because that's the last communication he's had from Dave, and he figures he'll let the traffic get through until Dave tells him otherwise, because it ain't busy up there, but most of the traffic is heading north.

So we all run around the corner to discover that the little silver sports car is now totally embedded in the front of a combi van. Total writeoff, both of them, although thankfully nobody appears to have been actually hurt. Probably down to the sportscar being low and solid, and the combi a bit high and, like most of them vans, built out of cardboard and tin, so it folded in easy. Though I did know a bloke who lost his legs in a combi crash... but another day. Yeah, sure, I'll have another if you're buying.

The driver of the combi is some student type who looks like he's going to burst into tears. You know the sort. Bob Marley T-shirt, stupid haircut, probably on drugs.

Anyway, the blonde is tearing him a new one and no mistake. She could swear up a storm, it turns out, and she's letting rip with no prisoners taken, letting the student bloke know that he's f'n this and he's f'n that and she's f'd now but she's f'd if she's going to f'n well be f'd by herself over this complete and total f... well, I think you get the point, right?

Anyway, throughout all of this, Dave's only bloody stayed asleep, hasn't he? Only wakes up when the blonde comes over to him and slaps him in the face! After that, we lost it. So, so funny. 'Cept that she doesn't see it as funny, and starts tearing up a storm on us as well.

Anyway, again, the cops have to be called, because that's procedure, and Keith's got to explain what's happened to them and to his bosses. Now, Bruno's the one that let the blonde in the sportscar through, but he can't let him take the blame because it wasn't his fault in any real way. Whereas Dave, well, he's the one who fell asleep, and we can't cover for him because the lady... though with a mouth like that she weren't no lady... she knows he was asleep and goes and tells them.

So yeah, Dave was let go from that job, and it just got worse from there.

Yeah, that's what I heard. From the bridge, just last night. Found him this morning.

Funeral's tomorrow, and I'm buggered if I'm going to that sober. Get another one in, would you?"

****
About the Author

Alex Kidman is a multi-award winning technology journalist based out of Sydney Australia. If there's a reputable Australian technology publication, chances are he's either written for it or been the editor of it. Sometimes both. In his spare time he writes as well, because he finds it therapeutic, which is why you've just read Fifty-Two, and perhaps his other published novel, Sharksplosion. That one is just one single story, albeit a rather ludicrous story.

Otherwise he enjoys retro video games, anything to do with Jim Henson or Prince and spending time with his amazing kids, who will one day either run the world or destroy it utterly.

Other titles by Alex Kidman:

Sharksplosion (look for it online at your favourite eBook publisher!)

Charles Leadworth (Coming soon)

Connect with Alex Kidman

I hope you enjoyed reading Fifty-Two! Here's where you can find me on social media:

Follow me on Twitter: <https://twitter.com/alexkidman>

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