

## THE WRITER AND OTHER STORIES

By Gary J Byrnes

THE WRITER AND OTHER STORIES - First published in 2013 by Gary J Byrnes.

Come on a mindblowing journey.

From a feast in imperial Rome whose ripples will be felt across the ages, to a desperate space mission that hopes to find salvation for a broken human race.

From a meeting in bleak 1930s Ireland that plots the plunder of an entire nation, to the first-hand experience of a New Yorker during the horror of September 11, 2001.

From a lonely and confused seeker of the Holy Grail, to a detached society that feeds its troubled youngsters to the wolves.

This thrilling collection of stunning short fiction will force you to challenge every assumption, to question everything, to conclude that your influence on the development of human civilisation is as critical as anybody else's. Ever.

Human society has always been controlled and manipulated by the few, but can the many fight back?

Copyright 2013-19 © Gary J Byrnes.

The right of Gary J Byrnes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright & Related Rights Act, Ireland, 2000. All rights reserved.

In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is distributed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may not be re-sold but may be given away. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Novels by Gary J Byrnes, in print and ebook formats, available from all good online retailers.

Want to save the world? www.readathriller.com

@garyjbyrnes

INTRODUCTION

Sometimes an idea gets into my head and it just won't go away until I write it down. Sometimes it becomes a novel, sometimes a tweet or a blog post, sometimes a short story. This is my first complete collection of all the short stories I've created since I started writing fiction in 2002. The stories are arranged chronologically by setting, as opposed to by when I wrote them. I want to discover if a thread, however tenuous, unites them over the thousands of years that they span. And what is that thread? You read. You decide. You tell me.

In my opinion, humans are easily-led, easily-manipulated, easily-fooled. Will it require a great event to shake us from our slumber or will it require just one great person? You?

All the stories, including those that have been widely-read as part of _9/11 Trilogy_ and _Ireland Trilogy_ , have been improved as no story I write is ever truly finished. Most of these stories are published here for the very first time. I hope that they give you as much pleasure in the reading as they gave to me in the writing.

Gary J Byrnes

February 2014

Table of Contents

1. THE WRITER

2. THE KEY

3. PERHAPS A FEW

4. THE CORRECT SHADE OF RED

5. TROIKA

6. GOLEM

7. THE GARDEN AT THE INN

8. TUESDAY

9. NINE TWELVE

10. COORDINATES

11. GHOST IN THE GRAIL

12. SERVICE NOT INCLUDED

13. THE ERASED MAN

14. COME PARTY AT THE END OF THE WORLD!

15. BLITZKRIEG IRELAND 2016

16. THE LONG NIGHT

17. NOTHING BUT TIME

18. THE X-GAMES

19. THE ZOO

20. GAIA'S EMBRACE

21. REVERSE TAKEOVER

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1. THE WRITER

Rome, The Empire - 40 CE

Rats feasted on a dead drunk, but out of sight. A heavy evening after the scorched afternoon; late summer, the month of the God Emperor Augustus. The air glowed, smoke from thousands of oil lamps and open fires catching the sun's fading power.

The writer's eyes burnt as he stood on the balcony of his family domus on the Palatine Hill, watched the murmuring city stretched out below. He acknowledged a peculiar beauty in the wide sweep of wretched humanity huddled together; slums and tenements hugging the banks of the Tiber, hill after hill to the glimpse of distant, burning sea.

Time passed. Abstract forms took shape. His heart leapt, giddy.

Later, a fat moon rose from behind the imposing home, cast its cold light over the dead day, the greatest city in history, the worried man. But the writer had a fire in his belly, a new idea burned, became alive. At last, his simmering anger had found a purpose, some kind of direction.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' said his mother, touching his elbow and rubbing it fondly.

'From up here, yes. But it is a different life in the slums,' he answered. 'It stinks like a dead dog.'

'It's said there are a million souls in the city now, Marcus. A million. They are here by choice. This is the Golden City of Dreams. Dreams of wealth, success, excitement. You cannot blame our Senators or our Emperor for the squalor that success inevitably brings.'

'Especially since we have a Senator as guest this evening, mother?' quizzed Marcus, worried for his father.

'We must be gracious. Anyway, Maximus has been very kind to us. And he's your father's best friend in the Senate.'

'That's a very beautiful stola you're wearing, mother. Where did you get it? And is that black wig from India, perhaps? Has generals' pay risen again?'

She didn't answer, just stared at the city in silence until a servant announced the Senator's arrival.

'I will welcome our guest. Please, for me, be happy.'

'I'll try,' said Marcus, as if to himself.

His mind flew: filled with conflict, many emotions, passion. In recent months, he had begun to question the society in which he enjoyed a privileged place. The vast majority were poor or enslaved, while he had enjoyed a Greek education, the spoils of Empire and the stability of position. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore. Not since he'd started hearing the stories, the stories he'd begun to write down and share, in Greek so that they could be read throughout the civilised world.

Would his stories bring any fairness to the casually cruel and biased system that controlled so many millions of lives? Probably not, but he knew that was not reason enough to abandon his project. The simple act of writing would purge his own guilt and, like a pebble in a pond, who knew where the ripples would end up? His heart beat louder as he lost himself in the structure, the plot, the drama. He was truly lost to it.

He heard his mother calling his name repeatedly.

He drained the goblet of wine and took a deep breath. He turned from the glorious musings, hesitated, went to the dining area. During the hot summer season, evening meals were taken in the peristyle, the open garden in the centre of the domus. The servants waited in the shadows while oil lamps on the pillars illuminated the guests. Two child slaves were tasked with using ostrich feathers to keep flying insects away from the diners. The centrepiece was an innovation: a long oak table which overflowed with gold platters of grapes and bread and many jugs of wine. The guests were seated on plush, high-backed chairs, rather than the typical lounges.

'Mother, your generosity is unequalled in all of Rome,' said Marcus, touching his lips and bowing deeply. He turned to the guests. 'I welcome you, Senator, and all our guests on behalf of my father.'

'Indeed,' said his mother. 'He risks his life blood in Gaul so that we may enjoy the fruits of the Empire.'

'I thank you for your welcome, Marcus,' said Senator Maximus, resplendent in his purple-trimmed Senatorial toga. 'In these difficult times, the welcome of friends is indeed a respite.'

Other guests. His mother's current artist-in-residence. The wine merchant who lived next door. The merchant's wife. To Marcus, the artist was a pompous man whose ability didn't match his ego, a frighteningly familiar idea for a struggling writer. The merchant couple were wealthy, overweight and vulgar in all their habits. Bacchus was their favoured god. So they called for more wine. The servants filled the wine goblets with mulsum, honey wine. All present stood and drank in honour of their hostess, her courageous husband and the House Gods.

For the first course, a plate of mixed salad with olive oil dressing was followed by sea urchins marinated in liquamen, the sauce made of salt and rotten fish. Salt was ubiquitous, Rome herself having been founded on a salt mine. The finest spices from Ephesus were passed around the table. Praise flowed and Marcus was happy for his mother and thankful for his fortunate circumstances.

The talk was of politics, of course. There was discussion of little else at Roman dinners, Emperor Caligula having recently returned from Gaul with cartloads of seashells and thousands of slaves. Now, the Emperor was reimposing his will on the city at the centre of the world.

'I know Tiberius put the last independent legions under imperial control and will be remembered for not much else,' said the merchant, 'but I preferred him to Gaius Caesar Germanicus Caligula.'

'Little Boot has increased the free flour ration and the games are becoming more bloodthirsty,' said Maximus. 'So the masses are happy enough. But I must warn you all that he is seeking to replenish the state treasury.'

'How?' asked the merchant, worried. 'More taxes?'

'Worse,' said the senator. 'Extortion and confiscation. He has demanded tribute from many wealthy citizens. Failure to pay has led to confiscation of estates.'

The merchant became pale and quiet, calculating how much he could easily offer the Emperor should the agents come knocking. He decided to lead the discussion away from the disturbing topic.

'Yesterday, I saw two gladiators fight a lion,' he exclaimed. 'A lion! It managed to gore one of them before they dispatched it with a dagger in the ribs. It was truly a spectacle. The mobs lapped it up. But think of the expense in bringing a lion to Rome from the furthest part of Africa.'

'The servants are talking about his plans to make his favourite horse a senator,' said Marcus.

'Nonsense,' retorted Maximus. 'I fear these whispers are being put about by someone who sees opportunity in our emperor's madness.'

'Such as?'

'Claudius, perhaps.'

'Claudius does have the loyalty of the Praetorian Guard,' said the merchant. 'And Little Boot executed Naevius Sutorius Macro of the Guard after he ascended. So there will be no love lost there.'

'The Guard may yet save us all,' said Maximus.

The discussion was interrupted by the head servant, a Greek, who rang a beautiful gold bell to signify the arrival of the main courses. A full roasted pig, assorted baked fish, a roast pheasant and copious quantities of wine soon covered the table. The guests rejoiced and praised their hostess.

'Did you hear about Caligula's little episode in Jerusalem?' asked the artist, a self-obsessed man who observed his reflection in anything shiny at every opportunity.

'Please go on,' said the merchant's wife.

'Well, I have it on good authority that he wants to put a wondrous statue of himself in the Temple at Jerusalem.'

'How do you know this?' asked the merchant.

'My very good friend is the sculptor. The statue is almost complete. Fortunately our puppet there, Herod Agrippa, won't allow it. He thinks it'll drive the locals mad. They've been very restless in Judaea, apparently.'

The conversation waned, all mouths busy with the main courses. Marcus was more disillusioned with Roman society than ever before. He knew Caligula was broadly disliked, but now it seemed clear that the Emperor was mad and the citizens would suffer for his insanity.

'Yes, I've heard stories from Judaea,' said Marcus, quietly delighted at the opening.

'Do tell,' said his mother.

'I've been speaking with a Judean. He's a slave in the baths near the Forum. Nice chap. Quite intelligent. He can even read Greek.'

'Fascinating how some of the savages can adopt our ways,' said the merchant. 'But no more civilised than dogs.'

The others nodded their approval of the assumption, a commonly held superiority complex.

'So this slave, Luke is his name, he told me about a character in Judaea. I'm writing a long story about him. A novel.'

'Wonderful,' exclaimed his mother, clapping her hands and kissing him on both cheeks. 'You will be the greatest writer the Empire has known. You are still so young. You have time. All you need is the idea. Praise to Mercury,' she said, raising her goblet, 'Protector of writers.'

'And merchants!' said the merchant as all at the table raised their drinks.

'Tell us your idea, Marcus,' they chorused.

'The idea is to write a sequel to the Testament, the holy book of the Judeans, which is very popular reading among the literate classes.'

'I've read some of it,' said the artist. 'I even have the scrolls in my studio. Quite fascinating, really. Their god character is such a brute. Is it meant to be ironic?'

'Oh, it's magical,' said the merchant's wife. 'A fantasy, I'd say. The part about the creation of the Universe is so exciting.'

'Genesis, isn't it?' said Marcus's mother.

'Everybody's talking about it. Escapist, exotic literature is such an antidote to political plays and love stories.'

'I'm so tired of the Greek myths.'

All agreed.

'Yes,' said Marcus. 'So I hope to capitalise on this interest in religious escapism and continue the story.'

'In which direction?' asked the merchant.

'More wine!' called his wife. 'Bring us that pale Spanish.'

'You'll like this,' said the merchant. 'It hasn't suffered for travel. Marcus, I apologise. In which direction will you continue the story?'

'This slave, Luke, has given me the entire structure,' said Marcus, excited now at the growing potential of his story. In truth, he was amazed at the popularity of the old Judean stories among Rome's elite. It all seemed to fit perfectly. 'Just a few months ago, a man in Judaea claimed to be the son of their god.'

'Yes,' said his mother, 'the Judeans have only one god. How quaint.'

'Needless to say, he upset the local priests and they had him crucified. Our man Pilate was forced to order the killing.'

'As cunning as wolves, priests.'

'This crucified man supposedly performed miracles, such as turning water into wine.'

'Water into wine? Then off with his head!' exclaimed the merchant.

'Quite,' continued Marcus, after the laughter subsided. 'He is also said to have cured lepers and raised the dead.'

'All very interesting,' said the artist, a secret atheist. 'But it sounds like a simple religious fantasy to me.'

'It gets better,' said Marcus. 'After he was entombed, three days later, he rose from the dead.'

'A standard switch, I would've thought.'

'Those Judeans have had too much of the man's magic wine, I fear,' laughed the merchant, uneasily.

'Apparently a lot of them believe this is all true. Besides all the magic tricks, he had a profound message: that all men are equal, that the Emperor and the slave are as one before god.'

'Be careful with this tale,' warned Maximus. 'That kind of talk could get you deported. Or worse.'

He'd thought of this risk, of course, and had already taken the decision to publish under an assumed name. Perhaps a Judean name for authenticity: Matthew or Luke or just put it down as the word of God. Edgy. He would lose credit for his work and any chance at profit. But these motivations were no longer the drivers of his creative urges. His spirit demanded more. His soul had awoken. He would create a character like none seen in fiction before. Pit him against an empire. Challenge the status quo. An _Odyssey_ for a new millennium, a Ulysses not on a journey of self-discovery through allegory, but a hero for the poor, the enslaved, the ninety-nine percent.

The dishes were cleared and dessert of Syrian pears and Greek honey was placed before them.

'Your main character, Marcus. The magician, what is his name?' asked the merchant's wife.

'Literally, the anointed one who brings the salvation of God,' said Marcus. 'For a hero, Jesus Christ has more of a ring to it, don't you think?'

'I'm worried, Marcus,' said his mother then. 'I don't want you causing any trouble.'

'Don't worry, mother. It's just a story.'

_A story that can wait awhile, perhaps. This scene, this now, this is too interesting to lose_.

Another story formed.

The writer excused himself, went outside to smell the night and to look at Jupiter, King of all the Gods, in all His glory. He smiled.

2. THE KEY

Versailles, France - 1789

The locksmith arrived early to work, across dew-laden lawns and crunchy paths, thinking about a beautiful lock and the simple, exquisite pleasure to be had in its completion. At the main courtyard, the guards nodded blearily, thankful that their shift was almost over. The sun topped the treeline then, throwing a gorgeous pink glow over the building ahead. Somehow, at this time of day, nothing seemed to be wrong with the world. It was as if a fresh start could be made, a new blueprint for a new design. But this optimism quickly faded from Gamain, to be replaced by the melancholy of existence and fear of the dreadful anger that was building outside the walls.

But the project was all that mattered and he allowed his mind to dwell there, pausing by the ordered garden, perfectly coiffed bushes forming geometric patterns, in the English style, across the lime green lawn. Two gardeners worked carefully on the borders and the locksmith took solace from their efforts for, if they could tame nature, couldn't he tame a man's ambitions? He reached the inner courtyard then, more guards. They searched his leather satchel. He walked through the great hall, servants busily removing the leftovers from the night just gone. The sleepers were allowed to slumber, they were stepped over, swept around. Great beams of sunlight filled the high-ceilinged air, lit the ornate plasterwork with its cupids and flowers. The place smelled of candle wax and body reek. A lone violinist sat on a platform, his hair wild, his fingers almost numb. Yet his plaintive air brought a lone tear from the locksmith's eye. _Is music God?_

When he reached the workshop - in truth a parlour of velvet and paintings with gilded frames and standing servants, with an oak bench before the great window - the locksmith was met by an aide, the fop from Lyons.

'His Majesty is indisposed at present and would be grateful if you could breakfast in the luncheon room.'

'Of course. Is His Majesty in good health?'

The aide coughed delicately, the back of his hand to his mouth.

'Yes, he is merely overseeing the final selection of some gifts for the Royals of Russia. I shall find you when His Majesty requires.'

The locksmith bowed his head and, in keeping with the Versailles code, waited for the King's aide to retreat. For what else can one do when Louis XVI, King of France and Navarre, requires one to wait, but wait?

The locksmith found the luncheon room, a kind of holding area for lesser aristocrats and higher commoners. The room was no less ornate than the grand banqueting hall, just smaller and less bright. Some two dozen there, mostly asleep on benches or on the floor, their robes over their eyes, their inappropriate liaisons and drunken exclamations temporarily forgotten.

A minor noble, his first time at the Court of Versailles, managed to lift himself to sitting position. He fumbled with his over-complicated, dated clothes then urinated into an ornate silver soup bowl, sighing with relief as the bitter stream of orange piss rang out, echoing. The locksmith wryly noted that the bowl was of the old style, from the reign of the King's grandfather. Reduced now to a pisspot. Such is life. Such is time.

A smile, then.

The locksmith found a clean seat near the kitchens and managed to catch the eye of a maid who looked familiar to him.

'Monsieur Gamain?' she curtsied.

She was a fine one, lips red as strawberries, hair black as the King's favourite stallion.

'Francois, please. I await the King's pleasure,' he said. 'Could I trouble madame for a pitcher of something red?'

'I'm no lady, sir,' she said. 'Just a poor girl from Paris. Would sir also like a taste of pistou soup, perhaps? Pistou from Provence? The King was forceful in his praise last night.'

'A poor girl in the palace of the King of France. No bad thing,' he smiled. 'Yes, I would be most grateful for some pistou soup. I can taste the richness of the basil at the mere suggestion. And the potato dish that was prepared yesterday? Was that to the King's pleasure?'

'His Majesty has named it Dauphinoise Potato as it is as delicate and beautiful as Prince Louis-Charles himself. I regret that I cannot offer sir a taste.'

'And how is the Dauphin? Is his strength back?'

'He seemed in better form at dinner. His mother put him to rest early.'

The locksmith's pulse waltzed at the mention of her.

She curtsied again and asked the locksmith to follow her to the kitchens. Her face was somewhat brighter now, though the room was still dim, needed the windows thrown open. As they passed the silver pisspot, the ignoble struggled to his knees and vomited a foul amber liquid into the tureen.

'Better out than in,' said the locksmith.

Gamain sat at a bright table by the kitchen window. He soaked chunks of crusty, yeasty bread in the snot green pistou soup, then relished the garlicky, basilly greenness of it. A jug of new red wine from Bordeaux made a pleasant accompaniment, all cherry fruits and blackcurrants and sunshine. The maids scrubbed the floor and began preparing chickens and fresh bread for the King's lunch. There was a high level of gossip and chit-chat, an abnormal air of - hard to put one's finger on it - fear? Gamain summoned the maid, asked if there was something untoward.

'Murder, sir. There was a murder in the palace last night. I can't say.'

And she was away and he was back to his pistou and his now scattered thoughts.

A stirring.

Gamain looked up from his soup bowl and found Her Majesty there. Marie Antoinette, her daughter, Marie Thérèse Charlotte, at her side as always. A ten-year-old woman. He jumped to his feet, his head bowing, the soup spilling, the greenness leaching into his breeches. The Queen, silken kerchief always in hand, leaned forward and gently dabbed at the soup, there on his thigh. Her mouth was by his ear.

She whispered.

'I would like for you to insert your key into my lock, sir.'

Gamain looked to the room. All the maids were on their knees, chins on chests, no eyes seeing. So he brushed his trembling, wet lips against her hot, powdered cheek.

A cough from the doorway. The King's aide, Buisson.

'Your Majesty,' he said, bowing his head almost to waist level, his right hand and right foot extended. 'His Majesty awaits the locksmith.'

'Very good,' said Marie Antoinette, smiling at her daughter. 'We shall join you two today, locksmith. We want to see what all this lock-making fuss is about.'

Gamain's cheeks reddened. Was this another game?

'I am fascinated by keys,' said the woman-child.

Buisson led the way through golden halls, Gamain taken by the Queen, his hand in hers, Marie Thérèse Charlotte marching solemnly behind. She chatted, gaily at first, then her tone lowering as she told about how the King had become infatuated with the predictions of a seer from the south, a writer of beauty potions and jam recipes who had also written verses pertaining to the future. And all this two centuries in the past!

'Michel de Nostradame, you know of him?'

'No, Majesty. I prefer mechanics and science to religion and superstition. And have these predictions affected the King's _behaviour_?'

'Only inasmuch as he truly believes himself to be a God,' she smiled, adding with some bitterness, 'a God who must create as many progeny as his loins will allow.'

Gamain understood from the palace gossip that the Queen had been usurped from the royal bedchamber. They strolled on past the portraits of kings past and his mind began to fantasise. _To bed a Queen, would that be worth one's life?_ He glanced at her, her Saint-Cloud porcelain skin and Bordeaux lips and Provencal blue eyes. _And the rumours, were they true? Did the Queen host orgies? Did she enjoy lesbian trysts? Did she bed her own son?_ Gamain found the gossip distasteful and, in truth, felt that it was easy for everyone from the bitter minor royals to the hungry peasants to blame all France's ills on the Austrian, instead of the King's fruitless wars, his advisers' economic incompetence and a nobility unwilling to accept the higher taxes that France so desperately needed. Above all, the King's support for the revolutionaries in America would, it was feared by the Chancellor, eventually bankrupt France.

'And what of the murder in the palace last night?'

'A chamber maid was strangled. She has been buried this morning. I suspect His Majesty will want to discuss the incident with you today.'

An officer approached her then, a captain of the palace's Swiss Guard. He explained that a mob of peasants had gathered at the front gates, begging for bread. She understood that prices had risen sharply since the bitter winter and now, after a wet and feeble spring, there was no respite in sight. She told the captain that under no circumstances was violence to be used on her people and to order the kitchens to produce an extra five hundred loaves of brioche for distribution to them 'so that their children will see the harvest'. Brioche, the sweetened bread. Cake.

The child said 'I should like some brioche too, mama.'

Gamain loved Marie Antoinette then and decided that, yes, he would risk his life for her embrace.

The King was distracted, impatient. Gamain was helping him to complete his warded lock mechanism, a design little changed in six hundred years. The King would finish his masterpiece lock, perhaps within the year, and the Locksmith's Guild would then award him Master Craftsman status.

'I enjoy our work together, Gamin,' he said, glancing at his Queen, who sat by the window, whispering to her lady-in-waiting, already bored by the King's pursuit. 'It gives my mind a fresh perspective, the act of creating something so beautiful and practical.' He had her attention. 'I tire of the mundane realities of position.'

She looked away.

'Your Majesty is certainly worthy of Master status. May I?'

'No, Gamain. I will finish my lock, even if it's the last thing I do.'

'Your Majesty is certainly dedicated.'

'Now tell me again about this new lock from England.'

'Yes,' said Gamain, excitedly. 'A Robert Barron has patented what he describes as a double-action lever-tumbler lock. The lock has two interior tumblers held by a spring, from what I hear. The tumblers have notches that hook over the bolt to keep it locked in place. The key has notches which correspond to the notches on the tumblers. Only the correct key will lift both tumblers so the bolt can be drawn. Theoretically, any number of tumblers could be used. This certainly appears a most advantageous development.'

'And the drawings?'

'I have asked our ambassador to procure a set from the London Patents Office.'

'I should like to build this double-action lock, Gamain.'

Marie Antoinette stood, yawning. 'I suggest that you finish this one first, Majesty. The inability to complete a task is not an admirable quality.'

The King smiled at this, opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. He looked at the locksmith, eyebrows raised. 'I need a drink. Lunch, sir?'

Gamain bowed, picked up a clean rag and offered it to the King.

'I can't join you,' said the Queen. 'I must meet with my gardeners and I await a report on the peasants. Apparently they can't afford to buy bread.'

'The economics of peasantry?' exclaimed the King. 'Why do you concern yourself with such distasteful pursuits?'

And that was the end of it. The Queen curtsied and left the room, a quick glance at Gamain.

The King fidgeted with the lock for a few moments, then beckoned Gamain to the corner of the room furthest from the door.

'Gamain, I need you to examine the lock.'

'The lock, Majesty?' said Gamain. But he knew.

'The lock in the door to the dead woman's room. It is broken somehow.'

'Of course. Now?'

'Yes, now. And bring a replacement mechanism.'

Gamain gathered some tools into a cloth bag as the King looked out the window, watching his wife as she walked down the path, her ladies tittering behind her, the gardeners standing by their work, nervously fidgeting.

'She is very much the Queen, eh Gamain?'

'Very much,' said Gamain as he opened and closed drawers until he found a mechanism, one which had inexplicably jammed some months before. Fixed now.

'See, she has brought the sun back, at last.'

Everything ready, Gamain waited, watched the sunbeams dance across the King's golden suit, even the dust motes shining brilliantly in his presence. But this was no Sun King. He turned on his heel, his eyes alight.

'Come. To work. The magistrate will be along soon.'

Gamain followed the King at a trot, a small part of his brain concerned at the impending arrival of an investigator, the majority imagining a glistening chicken, perfectly-roasted in rich butter, accompanied, perhaps, by a chilled rosé and some of that fine bread.

They passed through the hall of trompe l'oeil, not because it was necessarily the shortest route, but because the King loved the room so. The floor was a mosaic of tiny painted tiles, a charming fish pool, golden carp resting at the surface of shimmering turquoise water. Walking across it always gave Gamain the feeling of being Jesus Christ. The walls held paintings, mainly from Italy, many without frames and with white backgrounds to merge with the white walls, their subjects startlingly realistic. And the vaulted ceiling was crowned by skylights, leading to the overhanging firmament. Or was it?

Another corridor and they reached the room. A courtier stood at the door, which was slightly ajar, enough to put a hand through. The King dismissed the courtier with a wave of his hand and, as the young man hurried off, the King called after him.

'None shall enter this area.'

The courtier stopped, turned, bowed. 'Yes, Majesty.'

They entered the room, the bed already stripped, shutters open. Gamain, opened his tool bag, found a magnifying glass. The King stood at the window, feigned disinterest well.

'Ah,' said Gamain. 'The lock has been forced, Majesty. And by one with a knowledge of its workings. See?'

The King stayed by the window. 'Just change it. And quickly. The magistrate approaches.'

Gamain removed the broken mechanism and put it into his bag. He expertly fitted the replacement, securing it with brass pins, testing the key. Perfect.

'Good,' said the King. 'Now, away.'

They dined in the King's chambers, the buttered chicken as delicious as Gamain had hoped. But he found the food unpalatable. The whiff of death did something to a man's appetite. The whiff of murder did something to his soul. And the complicity ate him up inside.

A courtier knocked and announced that the magistrate was finished with his investigations, natural causes, but enquired as to whether His Majesty wished to make a statement. The King told him _No_ , ordered that Père Ricard should prepare to hear the Royal Confession after lunch, _It's good to cleanse one's soul, eh Gamain? I do so love being a Catholic._ Then he twittered about his blasted lock and whether he should put it aside and instead focus on the new English design.

'What would the Guild make of that, eh?'

_This is the end_ , decided Gamain.

"Accustom a people to believe that priests can forgive sins and you will have sins in abundance."

\- Thomas Paine, American revolutionary.

3. PERHAPS A FEW

Dublin, Ireland \- 1844

He stood by the tall window, its twelve panes grimy with late summer dust. Gazing down at the teeming street, he was repulsed by the people below. Their indolence. Their dress. Their lack of manners. Their filthy tenements.

'Animals,' he said, draining his glass of Scotch.

He went to the table by the wide fireplace and filled his glass. A waiter knocked and enquired if there was anything the Major wanted. More whisky. He checked his watch then. The Doctor would arrive soon. Well, he was expected soon. Who knew what might happen in his primitive, godforsaken place. A fresh bottle arrived, the Doctor immediately behind. They shook hands, the Major appalled by the filth of the man.

'Damned awful place,' said the Doctor. 'The carriage ride in from the ferry was interminable.'

'A drink?'

'Thank you, yes. I don't normally...'

The Major held up a hand, as if to say no excuses necessary. He filled two glasses and gestured towards the armchairs by the table.

'Have you checked in?'

'Yes, thank you. They've taken my bags. Are they safe? Do you mind if I go and change? Clean up?'

The Major looked at the little black case the Doctor carried.

'That can wait, Doctor. Our business first.'

'Here,' he said, placing his case on the table, taking a key from his waistcoat pocket, inserting it in the lock, hesitating. 'Are you sure about this?'

'Just open it.'

The case revealed two small glass phials, sealed with cork stoppers. The phials were cushioned in dark velvet. They might have been precious jewels.

The Doctor said 'Phytophtera infestans, Major. In its most virulent form. We've been studying it in the labs at Kew since we picked up a sample in Belgium. It is, as I say, a virulent form, particularly so.'

The Major picked up a vial with both hands, held it to the window, seemed unimpressed by the grey powder.

'Looks dead.'

'It's very much a live fungus, Major. Billions of spores. Now tell me. How do you plan to use it?'

The Major put the vial back in the case, wiped his hands on his trousers and took up his whisky again.

'Will the wind spread it?'

'Yes,' mumbled the Doctor, his face quite pale. 'Get to high ground on a windy day. That's all.'

'Excellent. The Irish, as you are now aware, are a backward race. They breed like Catholic rats, have no desire to progress and offer little to our Queen and her Empire. Unskilled labour, yes, we have need of their strong backs. There is talk of building underground railways in London, yes? Technology is the future and we want the Irish working for us, not laying about here, eating potatoes.'

He finished his drink, poured another.

'But they are human beings,' countered the Doctor, 'however pathetic. Not slave labour.'

'That's debatable, Doctor. Perhaps a subspecies. Back to your question. I aim to use your fungus to destabilise the population, but just a little. There have been rumblings in the west. The Catholics now think that they deserve land rights and we are concerned that the nationalists will use this against us. So, by attacking their ability to feed themselves, we plan to make them more dependent on the Crown.'

The Doctor's legs suddenly weakened. He sat down heavily, took a long drink. His back was wet. He felt awful.

'You can't. It's not right. What if it takes hold? It could be catastrophic.'

'These little vials?' he gestured. 'Hardly, Doctor. Surely just enough potato blight here to wipe out a county's worth. Which will achieve our aims. None will die here.'

'How can you be sure?'

The Major went to the window again, shrugged.

'Well, perhaps a few.'

4. THE CORRECT SHADE OF RED

Arles, France - 1888

Vincent Willem van Gogh swayed in the tiny kitchen, the lone bulb over his head causing the shadows to veer over and back, making it - the thing - bright then dark then bright again. A thousand bees buzzed inside his skull.

The ear was on a plate, a fine example of classic Delft with blue floral patterns around the rim and a scene of resting peasants in the centre. The ear oozed blood, the red working well with the blue. He mixed a strong crimson, that was it, used streaks of burnt umber at the edges, where the life juice congealed.

A trickle against his chin and he tied a length of clean flannel around his head. He would see the doctor later. For now, art.

So he drank his fungus-piss with wormwood, his green fairy, and painted until it was done. Then he sat in a yellow wooden chair that creaked and he put his head in his hands. Dawn broke, a melody of pink and orange and his heart lifted for just a moment when he saw it. The pain was, at last, unbearable, so he went down the street to the doctor's, taking his painting to offer as payment for stitches or morphine or whatever would make the buzzing go away.

5. TROIKA

Dublin, Ireland \- 1936

Dark at noon, midwinter. A statue over the entrance doorway, Holy Mary, Mother of God, a feeble garland of lights drooped over her blue shoulders.

The men glanced around as they neared the door. College deathly quiet.

Their breaths hung like stains in the frigid air. The taller one reached for the handle, looked at his friend. A nod and the door was opened. No turning back now.

A blast of heat and a smell, a smell of something, something familiar yet hard to place, burning the air. The priest recognised it as the smell of death. The door closed behind them, that cold world of schoolboys and sinners and paupers and peasants shut away now. They walked up a dark hallway of musty curtains, marbled saints, fading photographs in dusty frames, and into a large room with a blazing fire at the distant wall. Three high-backed armchairs arranged there. The top of head visible, gleaming, oily hair.

They paused.

'Come,' he commanded.

They sat to either side of him, no pleasantries, the fire intensely hot.

Like the fires of hell.

He wore an immaculately-tailored pinstripe suit, grey on black and had a chain of rosary beads in his right hand, the crucifix dangling. The priest instinctively felt for his own beads in his coat pocket. The politician fought the urge to do the same.

'Ambassadors. Welcome.'

'Thank you,' in unison.

'Tea?'

They nodded yes and he picked a brass bell from a delicately carved table. Angels and fruit.

A boy, no more than twelve years old, came quietly to the man's side. He glanced at the visitors, fear in his eyes. The priest touched the boy's arm, vaguely smiled. There, there.

'Tea.'

The fire spat loud sparks and the boy jumped. Then he nodded and scurried away quickly.

Bells chimed somewhere nearby. Idle crows squawked.

They sat and waited in silence until the tea was brought, on a shaky silver tray. The boy's hands trembling, the spoons rattling.

The boy left and the politician served.

They drank sweet tea and stared into the flames, imagining tormented faces there.

'To business,' said the man, his eyes fixed on the fire. 'Priest. You are to take these people and crush their souls. I will grant your church a half century of complete control and you will be Lord of it all. Your kind will grow rich and fat off them. You may torture, abuse and degrade them. You will be above the law. For a time, you will be the law. I just want them to be, mmm, pliable. Understood?'

'Yes. Sir,' said the priest.

'Above all, keep the women down,' added, his face twisted in disgust. 'Continue to make them slaves in your Magdalene laundries, control their wombs, fill them with guilt and pain and sin. I have seen the future and its many possibilities and the subjugation of the lesser sex is critical.'

The priest smiled.

'Politician. You are to assist the priest. This new constitution that you are drafting? Let the priest write it for you. Work together. You must make them believe that they live in freedom while you bond them into slavery. You and your kind will have seven decades in which to bleed them of their wealth and create a bureaucracy that is self-serving, an illusion of a republic. Ban contraception so they'll breed like rats. _I need more souls, boys!_ Censor free thought and every form of progressive expression. Keep them mired in poverty and stupidity, mouthing your dogmas and fallacies. Can you do this for me, Éamon?'

The politician pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose. 'I can.'

'Good. I was there at your shoulder when the Free State was born, when you rejected the Treaty and caused civil war. That bad blood will never be lost. A good day's work. And I helped you start your Fianna Fáil, your breeding ground for the future demons who will do my bidding. When the peasants are broken, then this,' he swept his hands wide, 'all this will be swept away and my destiny will be fulfilled.'

He stood then. 'It's done. Go. Take my power, McQuaid. Take it, de Valera. And deliver me Ireland.'

Then come to me.

He strode from the room, taking the heat with him.

The fire quickly withered.

Again, bells tolled nearby. How much time had passed?

'Are you coming, Father?' asked de Valera.

'Not yet. I'll see you in my office, first thing in the morning. We have much to do. For now, God bless.'

De Valera blessed himself and left the room quietly. And Father John Charles McQuaid reached for the brass bell.

6. GOLEM

Dachau, Germany \- 1944

I

The moon showed her face as the wasted man looked into his killer's eyes. He smiled, weakly. One last time, he held the page of crumpled newspaper close to his failing eyes, squinted, nodded.

'Yes. You can kill me now.'

Strong hands closed around the old man's neck, thumbs pressed on his throat. The killer trembled, hesitated. The old man closed his eyes.

'God is truth. Now do it.'

The killer's thumbs pressed harder into the windpipe. The victim struggled imperceptibly, eyes wide, but too late. The life that had been full \- of happiness, the practice of medicine, family gatherings, the appreciation of poetry, the love of sunshine - slipped easily away. Since the world went crazy, the will to survive had faded to zero. The final image in his brain was of his beloved son, age six, pedalling his new red tricycle in the patio garden, the happiest child on Earth. Then nothing. The body was lowered gently into the patch of moonlight on the dirt floor and the watching grey faces all around faded back into the darkness. Prayers were whispered from the darkness. But it was too late for prayers there.

'Goodbye, father,' said the killer as he folded the piece of newspaper and tucked it inside his rough shirt. He was both confused and amazed by how easy it had been to kill his own father. This heap before him had given everything he had - finally his very life - for his son. Yet the hardness in the killer's heart meant that there could be no grief. So he dragged the bony body to the rear of the draughty billet and worked on the second phase of his plan. Dawn was seven hours away and there was much forming to be done.

II

The bored police captain sat uneasily in his spacious oak-panelled office. He shuffled through a slim pile of official reports, made the occasional note. Every few minutes, he stood and gazed through the window at the rushing city below. He was stifled. In truth, he had been considering a transfer into the military. As he straightened up his desk and prepared to leave for lunch, his secretary rapped at the door. He knew her knock.

'Enter.'

'Captain, I have a report that requires your urgent attention,' said the secretary, pointing towards the upstairs office suites.

'Oh? What is it?'

'A murder.'

'At last. I thought I would go mad. All the definitions have changed. I honestly don't know what constitutes a crime anymore.'

He internally reprimanded himself for showing annoyance, however slight, with his political masters. But the secretary could be trusted. Still, he shot her a hard glance. She looked to the floor. A murder! His heart leapt. Somebody important? It must be.

He took the folder from her, flicked to the case page and quickly scanned it. Confusion, then anger seized him, made his hands shake.

'Is this some kind of joke? A Jew? What does the killing of a damned Jew matter?'

'Read on, Sir,' said the secretary.

He read on.

'The body was concealed in a golem. Curious.'

'Who better to uncover the truth?'

He scanned the wall, admired again his collection of framed press cuttings, diplomas and - in pride of place - his photo with the Great Leader.

'Yes, that's true. Nobody knows more about golems and Jew mysticism. But what does the formation of a supernatural saviour from clay have to do with some Jew infighting?'

'What is a golem, sir?'

'Adam was the first golem, mentioned in the Jew Talmud. Fashioned from dust, brought to life. In modern times, it symbolises a defender of the Jews. You make it from earth and water, make an inscription on its forehead, chant and chant some more. Then it will come to life and do your bidding. The most famous example is the Golem of Prague, believed to have defended the Jew ghetto there in the sixteenth century.'

'Ah, the one you - '

'Correct. The one I searched for in thirty-nine. According to legend, it lay in a secret room in a synagogue, awaiting the spell that would return it to life, to defend the Jews once more. I searched every synagogue, broke every wall. There was nothing. I disproved its existence, weakened the will of the Jews. The more I smashed, the more they needed the golem. And he never came.' He glanced at the photograph, smiled. The undoing of the Golem of Prague had made his reputation. 'Essentially, the golem is a metaphor. It represents the attainment of wisdom and holiness, the godlike ability to create life. Just another stupid religious fairytale. But why conceal an irrelevant Jew's body in one?'

'A religious rite?'

'I don't know. The victim was of no importance. I smell a disagreement over money. Still, it will be good to get out of the office. I will leave for Dachau immediately. Send a message to the camp commander. I'll drive through the night, get there tomorrow early. Please arrange any necessary clearances.'

'Of course. Do you need a driver?'

'No, I need some freedom. And can you please inform my wife?'

He sat at his desk, began to write a list of items.

'I'll need to pack my camera, analysis equipment and probes, maybe some sausage and wine. A golem, eh? But first, lunch, something special.' He looked at her. 'Will you please join me? I apologise for losing my temper just now.'

He stood and went to her, put his arms around her perfect waist. She smiled as he smelled her pinned-up hair, the Chanel perfume on her neck.

'And over a Jew!' she said, laughing.

He said 'A dead Jew!' and laughed with her.

III

The workers stood - swayed - in ragged lines on the camp's central square. Guards in winter coats circled, collars raised against the bitter January wind. Drooling Alsatians strained. The camp commander entered the square with his adjutants, addressed the workers.

'There was a killing in your billet last night,' he barked. 'The killing of Jews is solely the right of pure-blooded German officers and guards. The act cannot and will not be tolerated. Who was responsible? Tell me now!'

Silence, every freezing man staring at the cobbled ground.

'Very well. Take off your clothes.'

Resignedly, the two hundred and eight men of varying ages began to strip, peeling away flea-infested layers, exposing pallid, blotchy skin to the weak sun and freezing air.

'My only regret is that I am under orders to keep you alive until an investigator makes his way here from Berlin. An expert.'

At that word, the killer's heart lurched. His bait had worked, the trap was set. When the expert arrived, investigated the golem, then he would spring the trap. And escape from this cursed place. Switzerland just hours away.

'But I will beat you until you explain this golem to me,' continued the commander. 'Why bury a Jew like that?'

Nobody told about the golem. They knew it was a rhetorical question, asked by a brute, an unaware man. So the guards went through the ranks, beat and whipped and dehumanised the workers at random.

The commander looked to the twisting pipes and chimneys that loomed nearby. This was the final solution, right here, so why should they be distracted by the killing. What matter of it? He thought. A Jew? The new ovens will see to them all soon. And this lot will be first in, he vowed. He strode to the nearest Jew, punched him hard in the stomach, kicked him, spat on him.

After twenty-seven minutes of abuse, night had fallen. So he ordered the workers to put their clothes back on and get indoors. The captain from Berlin wanted to preserve all evidence. That was all that saved them from a full night of pain. But it was alright to starve them. He watched as they trudged into their billet, to sleep four to a bunk under horsehair blankets.

'We'll be watching,' he screamed. 'Any Jew who touches the dead one shall join him instantly. Understood? Understood?'

Then he went to the ovens to supervise the first test, thankful that the dead Jew could not delay that milestone. The oven block was a low, redbrick building, which could have passed for a municipal swimming pool. It was well-lit inside and the air was noticeably warm and sweet-smelling. A steady hum throbbed through the space. Twenty naked and emaciated men stood in a ragged line, a dozen guards standing to attention as the commander entered.

The workers' eyes darted nervously. They knew something bad would happen, they just didn't know what. When, at last, the commander ordered them into the new showers, they smiled. They wanted to believe that, yes, they were simply being used to test the showers. This didn't necessarily make sense, but they clung to it anyway.

On the roof, pigeons squawked, squabbled over the best perches by the chimneys.

IV

The police captain found that it was easy to get in to Dachau. Only delay was a line of trucks ahead, each filled with gas cylinders, marked IG Farben. Finally, the iron gateway greeted ironically: WORK WILL SET YOU FREE. A kind of salvation for the human waste that would work, suffer and die there. An odd smell in the air, like roasting coffee. His papers were checked casually by a guard inside the gate, for who would want to come here without good reason? A long column of workers shuffled. Just ahead. The ragged men looked at him with the eyes of ghosts.

'What's that? Did one just smile at me?'

'I doubt that, sir. We kill the insane ones the day they arrive. They're no good for anything. You may dine at the officers' mess. Immediately to your left.'

'Thank you. Then I need to see this dead Jew.'

'Block four, sir.'

'Very good. Where should I park?'

The guard indicated a space for the official car, made an entry on his report sheet and the investigation had begun. The captain was tired, should have taken a driver. Decided to get through it quickly, get away from the stink, find an inn, maybe that one he'd passed an hour before. Taking his camera and briefcase, he walked to the officer's mess. It was a pleasant stone building standing on its own, curiously fronted by a lawn and ornamental trees.

The mess was quiet so he was given the best table, beside a huge window which looked onto the lawn with the open square beyond. The waiter brought coffee and the day's paper, offered the menu, busied himself with a table of engineers in clean overalls nearby. They were in high spirits, discussing the oven schedule, the successful tests and the race to be the first Nazi camp to commence the actual extermination of the inferior races. Schnapps. They sent a glass to the captain, which he accepted warmly.

Then the captain read war news and ate good sausages, fried eggs, nutty bread. He drank four cups of coffee, didn't want to leave the cosy room. He tipped the waiter generously, loaded his camera, wished the engineers luck, went to examine a golem.

The golem was partially ruined, but still an impressive sight. A bulky male figure, over two metres in length, emerged seamlessly from the ground, hands by his side, face strong and impassive. Most of the golem's head and all the powerful body were carefully finished to a smoothness that didn't fit the matter. An area around the neck was torn away, fragments returning to the ground from whence they came. The dead Jew's face and upper body were exposed and starting to stink. His mouth was open, stuffed with dirt, his eyes caked. There, scratched into the dirt that formed the golem's forehead, he read - as expected - the Hebrew word EMET. He bent down, erased the first letter with his thumb. MET remained. Truth became death.

'Now you are deactivated, golem,' he said as a shiver rattled his spine.

The captain took photographs, observed how the earth that formed the golem had been scraped from the ground in the billet. That task had probably taken weeks, in preparation for the killing. But why? 'Why, golem?' No obvious clue. He searched his memory for every reference. Nothing clicked.

He left the building, which was little warmer than outside, ordered the waiting guard to send in the suspects one at a time 'And tell them to hold out their hands, yes?' He connected the ultraviolet bulb to its battery and lit the golem in a purple glow. The Jews came in. He held the bulb over each man's hands. The light sparkled off the minerals on the Jews' skin, residue from the concrete they were using to build the gas chambers and ovens. They filed in, filed out. Finally, hands that had little glow, too much dirt in every pore and fold. This is the man who made the golem.

'Stand there, Jew.'

To be thorough, he checked the rest of the sorry men. But there was just the one suspect. He advised the guard that the killer had been found and it would take but a little while to understand why. Just the two men in the billet now, their weak shadows falling across the golem. The captain lit a cigarette.

'Why did you kill him and why did you bury him inside a golem?'

The man just smiled weakly. Was this the one who had smiled earlier in the square? Something about him. Something odd, intangible.

'He wanted to die.'

'But why the golem?'

'What do you know of the golem?' asked the Jew.

'The Fuhrer has an interest in such matters. Know thine enemy, etcetera. I know that the golem is a Jewish fantasy, a desperate cry for help by a doomed race. Your god has abandoned you, so why persevere with such matters?'

The Jew studied the captain, watched his mouth, his eyes, his hand movements.

'I did it out of respect,' answered the Jew. He straightened his back, lost his stoop, raised himself to a height equalling the captain.

'Are you trying to imitate my voice?' said the policeman.

'Are you trying to imitate my voice?'

'What is your game here?'

Now it was dark outside. It was time. The Jew reached inside his striped jacket, brought out a piece of folded newspaper. He handed it to the captain.

The police officer - now confused - unfolded the paper. Saw the story. The story about himself. The photograph of himself and Hitler. The smiling Jew hunters. He stared at the picture, his smiling face. His brain clicked as the actor's powerful hands closed around his throat and thumbs pressed his Adam's apple through his windpipe. He couldn't scream, just croaked, and his hands were too weak to break the Jew's grip.

'I look like you, captain. Isn't that funny? A Jew that looks like a pure-blooded German officer.'

The Jew was strong. The captain fumbled for his pistol. Too late.

'Too good an opportunity to pass up, captain. We're not so different, we could be brothers. My father gave his life so that I might have a chance at mine. Thank you for being so predictable.'

The officer's life was extinguished.

'Enjoy hell.'

Now time was critical. The Jew undressed, removed the clothes from the body, put on the police uniform. A good fit, if a little loose around the stomach. But warmer. He smoked a cigarette and kept talking, imitating the captain's accent and voice modulations. He put his old clothes on the captain's body, punched his face until he bled, then set to work kicking the dead man's head.

'Filthy Jew!' he cried. Maybe the guard was listening.

Happy that the face was sufficiently disfigured, he lit another cigarette, cocked his cap slightly to one side, assumed the arrogant swagger of the superior race. He checked the captain's papers. They were not specific, allowed free travel. This was what he had prayed for most of all. Grinning, he packed up the captain's gear and left the billet for the last time.

Stop grinning, you fool.

The guard stood to attention.

'He admitted everything. The golem was just a stupid Jew attempt at salvation. I killed him for wasting everybody's time.'

He rubbed the tender knuckles of his right hand.

'Can you have the bodies cleared and burned? And advise the commander.'

The guard wasn't sure about any of this, but didn't dare question a captain.

'I need to get away from here. The smell of Jews is too much. How far to Switzerland? I promised my mistress I would bring back a fat diamond.'

'A short drive, sir. It's well signposted.'

'Very good. That's all.'

He walked to the temporary parking area, looked for the car with Berlin plates. A Mercedes. The key in his pocket fitted, so he began to breathe again and drove to the gate. The guard didn't even check his papers, lifted the barrier, waved him through. He smiled, waved back.

V

His heart painfully pounding, blood rushing through his ears, he drove away from the miserable place. A long train approached slowly, drawing up beside the entrance. He glimpsed faces and hands through the gaps in the cattle cars' walls. He wished there was something he could do for them. Then he accepted reality, his reality, the reality of his escape. He rummaged in a basket on the passenger seat.

'Sausage! Bread!'

The smooth glass of a bottle. He pulled off the road, just for a couple of minutes, just to calm his heart, and drank the wine greedily. As the dark towers of Dachau faded from his rear view mirror and the forest gave way to a view of moonlit snow-capped mountains, the Jew laughed.

'Oh my earnest captain, how could you not know the modern meaning of the word golem? Fool, stupid, clueless!'

7. THE GARDEN AT THE INN

Jalalabad, Afghanistan - 1989

'A similitude of the Garden which is promised unto those who keep their duty to Allah: Underneath it rivers flow; its food is everlasting, and its shade; this is the reward of those who keep their duty, while the reward of disbelievers is the Fire.'

\- The Glorious Koran. Surah 13. Ar-Rad, The Thunder. V 35.

I was face down in a smoking crater, my hands pressed to my ears, while fire and rage rained down all around me. Thundering shock waves shook my bones. A deafening roar came closer and I peered out of my hole to look for the source of the noise. No more than twenty metres away, a Soviet Hind helicopter gunship screamed past, sweeping the ground with its nose-mounted cannon which lashed fire all around the plain. Was I in hell?

I peered in the direction from which the gunship had come. Another helicopter approached, this time firing its unguided rockets in a pattern that mercifully stopped short of my hiding place. On the road ahead were two Soviet tanks, two armoured personnel carriers and some trucks. Flames licked the tanks and APCs. Bodies were scattered on the ground all about, some on fire. A few Russian soldiers were still alive, firing wildly at a position off to my left where the Hind was also concentrating its attention. Dusk was falling in the valley that stretched beyond.

Both helicopters circled round to bring their armaments to bear on what I knew must be the position taken by my comrades. I had lost my AK during the ambush, after the helicopters surprised us; my mind was disorientated from the explosive concussions and my eyes and ears were bleeding. A picture came to my mind of an anti-aircraft missile. I remembered that I had been carrying a Stinger on my back when we ambushed the Russian armoured patrol. Then I knew that I was in Afghanistan and we were winning a war against one of the world's Godless superpowers.

I carefully crept forward out of my hole and began feeling the ground in the gathering gloom. Smoke from the destroyed vehicles was burning my eyes and adding its stinking blackness to the approaching nightfall. I knew that time was short for the helicopters, which did not have night-flying capabilities. A dull glint caught my eye. I crawled a short distance on my stomach. It was my Stinger round, a launch tube with a missile inside. To make it operable, I had to find the separate grip stock and a battery coolant unit. I saw a body a few metres from me. It was my Stinger team colleague. His head had been blown off by the helicopter. He was just seventeen years old. I would mourn him later.

He had carried the grip stock and three batteries in a backpack and, fortunately, they were undamaged. I had been well-trained in using the Stinger and within seconds I had fitted the grip to the launch tube and attached a heavy cylindrical battery. The battery coolant unit is vital as it supplies power to the missile until it launches and also supplies argon gas to cool the heat detector in the missile's nose. So my weapon was ready for firing. The first Hind had completed its circuit and was now coming straight for me. Its cannon blazed and rockets leapt from its wing pylons, turning the ground around me to smoking ruin. Shrapnel and rocks flew at me and I felt pain lash my body. Though my body pulsed with adrenalin and fear, I was ready to die as a martyr, fighting in the name of Allah. This readiness gave me a great elation deep inside. If this helicopter killed me, I would go directly to heaven, where Allah would meet me and give me eternal life and happiness. Only later would I come to appreciate how much of an advantage this gave us over our foes. Heaven for us was guaranteed, but the Christians and Jews were unsure whether they would go to hell or to their heaven. Truly a man must fear death if eternal damnation might await him? But I would not let this helicopter kill me. I was determined to destroy it and save my comrades.

I looked through the sight and put the Hind into the central range ring. I was ready to fire when a Russian soldier opened up on me with his Kalashnikov. A round pierced my side and I fell to the ground in agony. I looked towards my enemy in time to see a rocket-propelled grenade slam into his position, blasting him to pieces. I glanced towards my brothers and saw my commander. He was reloading his RPG launcher and gave me a thumbs-up and a big smile. Ignoring my pain, I retrieved my Stinger launcher and reacquired my target. With the Hind back in my sights, I pushed the safety actuator forward and down. This activated the missile's seeker, which gave a low tone. I then depressed the uncaging switch and heard the high-pitched whine which signalled that my missile had locked onto the enemy craft's engines. I kept my bearing on the helicopter as it passed directly over my head. With its exhaust ports in my sights, I squeezed the trigger. My missile shot forward from its launch tube. Lancing fire and thunder, it roared after the gunship. Within two seconds, it hit its target and a mighty explosion tore the gunship asunder. It fell to the ground and secondary explosions from its own munitions finished the job that my CIA-supplied missile had started. There would be no survivors from its two man crew.

I quickly removed the used launch tube, grabbed another BCU and looked around for a new missile round. As I scanned the sky, I could see the other gunship turn away and flee. The surviving Russians from the burning convoy fought on, knowing that they stood no chance, but knowing too that we did not take prisoners. I had to find a gun, so I laid down the Stinger and left my hole. As my eyes combed the ground near where I had found my headless colleague, shadowy figures emerged from the smoke and dust beyond. One of the shadows came towards me and a man with God in his eyes, the beard of a Believer and an assault rifle held easily in his hands, called to me.

'May Allah forever aim through your eyes, brother Muhammad. Come, let's finish these infidels off,' he shouted joyously.

It was Osama, my commander in MAK, the Muslim organisation which had brought me from Pakistan to fight the disbelievers who had invaded the land of our Muslim brothers. I had met Osama just a few months before, at a Stinger training camp run by our American allies. Then I joined Osama's unit. With the Stinger, I brought down many enemy helicopters. Truly that marvellous device would bring us victory over the hated Russians.

'I have no gun,' I answered hoarsely.

He took an American-made automatic handgun from his waistband and threw it to me as Russian bullets hit the ground all around us. I cocked the gun and ran forward with my five brothers. There were four Russians still alive. They crouched behind rocks and fired sporadically in our direction, still in total shock from the severity of our assault. Minutes before, we'd detonated two one thousand pound landmines when the tanks reached target position. Then we fired RPGs at the APCs and used heavy machine guns and AKs to kill anyone who tried to escape. We had killed more than twenty already. The survivors' faces were blackened and tear-streaked. They shouted at each other in panic. RPG rounds slammed into their positions as our AKs spat lead in controlled bursts. After a few minutes, the Russian fire stopped and we carefully approached the smoking convoy. All were dead, save one, a badly wounded sergeant. His right arm was blown off at the elbow and his eyes were wide with fear. Osama ordered that he be treated and returned to our base for questioning. He would be killed after he told us what he knew but, for now, a tourniquet was applied to his upper arm, stopping his arterial bleeding. He was given a morphine injection to lessen his pain, but the terror remained in his eyes. Osama turned to me.

'You have been shot,' he said, gesturing to my side.

I looked down and saw the gaping bullet wound on my left side, just above my belt. The pain was now starting to fight its way through my body's adrenaline surges.

'Yes, but I lived to see this great victory,' I replied, looking into the eyes of my leader.

'Allahu-Akbar, God is great. Now rest,' he ordered as he took a morphine injection from my first-aid pack and stuck it into my thigh, then dressed my wound.

'Allahu-Akbar.'

I sat on a rock while my comrades checked the area for further survivors and useful munitions. No more Russians were alive and a number of AKs were retrieved, along with a quantity of ammunition. We returned to our ambush site to search for the missing Stinger round. We found it and covered our dead comrade with rocks. Osama recited a few words from the Qur'an and we moved on. We walked a kilometre to our jeeps, which were concealed in a rocky gorge. Osama wrote in his notebook. The smoke from the destroyed convoy and helicopter could still be seen against the glowing sunset as darkness fell over the valley. We loaded the jeeps and began the drive to Jalalabad. Our prisoner begged for mercy but, as we spoke no Russian, his pleadings fell on deaf ears. After a while, he became quiet. A comrade checked his pulse and found that he had died. His body was kicked from the moving jeep as we drove through the night. Every bump on the rocky trail sent darts of pain across my abdomen. Eventually, I passed out.

I woke early the next day in a Mujahideen field hospital in Jalalabad. Our forces encircled the city and its only means of resupply was by Russian airlifts. My torso was bandaged tight and a saline drip was fixed to my arm. I tried to sit up, but pain shot though my body and I collapsed back onto my bed in agony. A Kuwaiti medic came to me and asked how I was feeling. He gave me some more morphine. Morphine is such a magical reliever of pain, it was truly fortuitous that Afghanistan was the best place in the world to grow the opium poppy.

Osama came to see me in the afternoon. He was accompanied by an American commando, who waited at the entrance to the tent.

'I must take a journey with my American friend,' he said, though he cast a curse on the man in Arabic.

'Where are you going? Can you trust him?' I asked, continuing the conversation in Arabic.

'The Americans are a necessary evil. We need their help now, but perhaps they will eventually come to regret it. Allah needs us to make sacrifices. I will return in a few days. Take these notebooks and study them when you can. Guard them with your life. The Russians are almost finished, but our work here is not. Here are some books you might also enjoy,' he said, handing me three paperbacks.

I later learned that he was going to an intelligence briefing with other Mujahideen leaders, Pakistani intelligence officers and American special forces to plan the final destruction of the Russian invaders. He was given another large amount of cash by the Americans, to assist with the running of his unit, as well as a dozen complete Stinger systems. As the pain ebbed from my body and waves of pulsating opiate pleasure enveloped me, I fell into a deep slumber, gripping the notebooks tightly.

The next day, I awoke feeling much better. I was able to sit up in my bed and began to read. The paperbacks included one in English, _Catch-22_ by Joseph Heller, which made the US military look like deluded clowns. Very enjoyable. But I read that much later, choosing instead to concentrate on Osama's notebooks. Osama was a major player in a coalition to control the global supply of opium, the base ingredient for heroin. The plot brought all the key players in the region together. Warlords, politicians, even the CIA profited. Income from the opium trade, which amounted to many hundreds of millions of dollars per year, was used to fund the war against the Russians. Some of the cash found its way into the pockets of Afghan peasants and migrant workers - their only income. Osama's notes led me too to his conclusion, that the Americans would try to suppress the opium trade once the war was won and their aims had been achieved. The Mujahideen role in the opium business mainly involved organising workers to tend the crops and giving security to plantations and opium convoys. Many of the opium cultivation areas were known only to us. We would ensure it stayed that way. The Americans were happy to facilitate our supply of heroin to the bleak cities of Europe so they could keep their direct spending on the war to a minimum. Defeat of the 'Evil Empire' on the battlefield was the Christians' sole objective in Afghanistan and, to them, there were no rules.

Few expected that Islam would become their target after the Soviets and no Muslim expected that we would see American armies occupying the homeland of the Prophet, with Saudi Arabia, Iraq and even Afghanistan itself becoming regional military bases for the Crusaders. As that first Afghanistan war drew to a close, we fully expected to stay on in the region and concentrate on the opium trade, while studying the Qur'an with some of the great Islamic scholars and Imams in the region. Osama had spoken of going to war against Israel after Afghanistan, but defeating the Russians remained our only goal in those days. So much has happened since 9/11. Many surprises, but much has gone to plan also.

So I studied Osama's notes. I learned about the opium cultivation methods used in Afghanistan, the crop cycle and the network of warlords, civil servants and diplomats that was used to export the different forms of the drug. Osama was examining how to develop heroin processing labs. These would allow us to refine the raw opium into a drug that is worth ten times as much. An excellent long-term strategy, I agreed. When Osama returned two weeks later, my injury was healed. A 7.62mm round had gone through my side, without damaging any vital organs. He was very happy and gave me joyous news. The Soviets had signed a peace deal and would begin withdrawing their forces from Afghanistan within weeks. Word spread around the camp and everyone's mood was lifted greatly. He told me to rest for another two days and then we would go to Pakistan for some comfort, as a reward after our months of bitter combat.

I lay on my bunk, a wide smile fixed to my face. We had defeated the largest army in the world. Allah was truly with the Mujahideen, the Soldiers of God. Afghanistan had long been in the Soviets' sphere of influence. After the fall of the Shah of Iran, the Americans lost valuable listening posts and a military partner geographically very close to the Soviet Union. When Deputy President Hafizullah Amin murdered Afghan President Taraki in 1979, he did so with American assistance. The Soviets, fearing that America would move into Afghanistan to make up for the loss of Iran, reacted. In December 1979, barely three months after he assumed control of Afghanistan, Amin was murdered by Soviet Spetsnaz commandos and four armoured divisions rolled in from the north. Karmal, leader of the Afghanistan Marxist party, was installed as president and the war of Islamic resistance began. The embryonic Mujahideen met in Peshawar and Pakistan's President Zia agreed arrangements to supply the Soldiers of God with the funding and military supplies that flowed in from the Islamic world and the Godless West. In uniting Muslims from across the region, the Soviets had shown us our true power. For almost ten years, we fought the Soviets at close quarters, where their artillery and air power were useless. Now they knew defeat. No Godless Marxist-Leninist ideology could withstand the might of Islam.

Osama came for me and we travelled by jeep to the mountains on the border with Pakistan, the road to Peshawar. These high lands would yet become my home. We inspected poppy fields and met our Mujahideen brothers in scattered bases. We stayed for a few days in a comfortable hut at the end of a long, lush poppy valley. We were hidden from the barren plains as paradise must be from disbelievers. Osama marked his chosen locations for the heroin laboratories on a map he carried and drew a sketch of the valley.

By then, I had a clear grasp of how opium was cultivated and its economic importance to the poor Afghanis that made up ninety-nine percent of the population. We decided to travel onwards with an opium shipment which was headed for Peshawar.

We set off at sunset, using well-travelled mountain paths and avoiding all roads and villages. There were twelve mules in our caravan, each laden with two large baskets of raw opium. The caravan was protected by six Mujahideen fighters, each armed with an AK, knives and rocket-propelled grenades. The Mujahideen were fearsome men, having fought in some of the bloodiest battles against the Russians. They came from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria and Egypt. They were my brothers and I felt safe with them, though we were in the most lawless place on earth. We had little to fear from the Russians, they were concentrated towards Kabul, but there were risks from bandits and Pakistani police. Occasionally, desperate bandits and border police would work together to try and steal Mujahideen opium. They rarely succeeded, but they were indeed devious.

We travelled on mountain ponies, which were sure-footed and had great endurance. The mountains were impressive, with towering peaks as far as the eye could see. It was cold at altitude and the scarcer oxygen meant that it was no easy trip. We crossed into Pakistan at the highest point on our journey, the trail covered in snow and the mules slipping often but proving their worth many times over. The border was marked with an Arabic inscription painted onto a boulder beside the trail. It read: 'One day, there shall be no borders between Muslim lands; we shall be one nation under Allah.' We smiled at this, each believing it completely.

The journey was uneventful and, four days later, we were on a low hill overlooking Peshawar. Our comrades continued north, into the Khyber pass, with their opium-laden mules. The frontier town of Landi Kotal, famous for its trade in drugs and guns, would be the destination for our opium. Once a fair price had been agreed with traders, the money would be spent on weapons or brought to one of the Mujahideen's private bankers in Peshawar for later use. Osama and I continued directly to Peshawar, as the caravan would have little need of our guns now that we were in Pakistan proper and stealth was its best weapon. I looked forward to relaxing and rebuilding my strength in Peshawar. Osama was fired with enthusiasm for establishing a base of operations for our brave fighters. A phantom base for a phantom guerrilla army.

We approached the outskirts of Peshawar from the west, with the imposing Balahisar Fort appearing to gaze at us and the other travellers on the road from the Khyber Pass. We would raise very little interest, just two dusty men on ponies, but we took the precaution of concealing our weapons in our saddlebags, keeping our automatic pistols tucked inside our robes. As we passed into the fort's shadow, Osama reminded me that it had been built by the Mughals in the sixteenth century. It now housed Peshawar's government offices and would, one day, be a target for us. We stayed in Old Peshawar and travelled to Chowk Yaadgar, the place of remembrance, a large public square which had been the focus of rallies against the British occupiers, and later, the Indian enemy.

'We will find a discrete inn, where we can rest without raising suspicion,' said Osama.

We found a good, family-run establishment with stables. We put our ponies in for food and a wash and cleansed ourselves of the dust and dirt from our trek over the mountains. We then went to the nearest mosque, as we had not prayed in clean surroundings since leaving Jalalabad.

'Having fed our souls, now we must change some money and feed our bodies,' smiled Osama.

We returned to Chowk Yaadgar and strolled across to the money changers on the west side of the square. The setting sun cast long shadows across the square and the bankers squatted in the coolness of evening's fall. Rows of men, mostly fat and wealthy looking, sat on hand-knotted carpets, their safes behind them, calculators and armed guards at close hand. Osama selected a money changer with whom he had an acquaintance.

In a matter of seconds, the money changer had calculated how many Pakistani rupees we would receive for our American dollars. After commission, it was almost thirty thousand rupees for four thousand dollars. That would be enough to get our organisation up and running, paid for by the Americans. He counted out the rupees from his safe and put the money in a finely woven waist pouch. Osama tied the pouch around his waist, while the banker counted the dollars. The deal was done. We shook hands and, as night fell, went in search of some food.

As we crossed the square, I suddenly felt great relief. It came upon me like a wave. We had left the war behind us and were surrounded by our own people, true Muslims, every one of whom supported our war against the Soviets. The inscription we had seen in the mountains was true, Allah united us and would help us to raise Islam to its destined position as the world's leading faith. As my mind relaxed, I became aware of the scents of flowers wafting on the warm air. Peshawar is famous for centuries as a place of gardens and blossoms. The scents blended with the irresistible smell of food and we made our way to a restaurant whose sign proudly proclaimed the finest chappli kebabs in Pakistan. We found a quiet table and were soon waited upon by the owner. He brought us chapplis, plates of naan bread with a spicy burger of beef mixed with corn flour, tomato and chillies with eggs on top. We ate the chapplis ravenously and washed them down with steaming hot green tea.

When our hunger was satisfied, the owner offered us a smoke of his hooka pipe. We were so happy to be in Peshawar, we accepted his offer. As the cool smoke entered my lungs, the nagging pain from my bullet wound faded away. Soon after, I was in a reverie. The sights, the sounds and the smells all around me carried me to a place I had not known, a plateau of peace and contentment. In the many years since, I have not known such peace.

Soon, Osama began chattering with great enthusiasm about our organisation and how we would operate. MAK had brought us to Afghanistan, but it was controlled by the Pakistanis and Saudis, with too much influence from the Americans. We would create a new body, one with Islamic purity at its core and respect for its members more important than any geopolitical power games. We decided to use our money to purchase a guest house there in Peshawar. This would become our transit point for fighters going to, and coming from, Afghanistan and our heroin distribution centre. Our base. We would also use it as an administrative centre. Every fighter who joined our cause would have his personal details, including next-of-kin, kept here. Any fighter who gave his life in the service of Jihad would be mourned properly and his family would know of his braveness. Later, when Osama was given more of his family's fortune, all Al-Qaeda martyrs would go to heaven knowing their families would be looked after financially.

We had used Peshawari inns as transit posts for much of the war in Afghanistan. But the Americans and Pakistanis knew where they were. This would be the first inn known only to us.

The next morning, after prayers, we sought out an inn suitable for our needs. After a few hours, we discovered the perfect place. It was beside the Chowk Yadgar bird market and looked a fine building. The sign outside read 'Singing Bird Guest House'. It had a heavy, carved wooden door and ornamental balconies outside each window. We had brought our baggage and horses with us so that we could book into the potential acquisition as travellers and assess it in secrecy. The entrance hallway was wide and airy and the man seated at the desk welcomed us with a smile.

'May Allah be thanked for bringing you to us,' he said. Where have you come from?

'We have travelled far and are in need of some rest,' answered Osama.

'You don't have the dusty appearance of two who have travelled far,' ventured the innkeeper, though he did not have an interrogative tone to his voice.

'We arrived late last night and stayed in the first inn we found,' answered Osama.

'Well I thank you for coming to me today. I have not had good business these past years. With the war, nobody wants to travel to Kabul. But at least peace is now in the air.'

'Would it be possible for us to get a large room to share? One with a good view of the square?'

'But of course. May I take your names for the register of guests?'

We gave false names and the man showed us to our room. It was perfect. Soft, clean beds, good washing facilities and an excellent view of the square. We could observe many comings and goings without being seen ourselves. And always birdsong in the background. Beautiful, uplifting birdsong.

The inn had sixteen bedrooms, a dining area, an ample kitchen and a good-sized office. It was secure, with buildings to either side and a walled garden to the rear. The inn could only be entered by the front door. The little garden provided an oasis of calm and beauty. Caged birds of all hues sang at sunrise and sunset. Well-watered plants, lush succulents and climbing ivies, the palpable coolness of shade all calmed the mind and soothed the body. It was a blessed place, a gift.

That evening, we had dinner with the innkeeper, who was a widower and whose children had long since grown up and left him. Osama enquired as to his trustworthiness. Osama had a gift of asking someone unknown to him a direct question. He could judge a man by his answer and could tell whether or not he could be trusted. He believed the innkeeper was honest and asked him directly if he would sell the inn to us, for use as a Mujahideen safe house.

The innkeeper thought our proposal over for a long while, asking many questions. We answered each question patiently. In the end, he agreed on a price of twenty-five thousand rupees, plus a monthly salary. We gave him all we had. He said it would be enough to cover all guests' costs for many moons, six at least. He seemed content, shaking our hands to seal the bargain before he retired to his bed.

Osama and I sat in the tiny garden late into the night, drinking mint tea and whispering about our achievement like excited children. Such plans we had. Such hopes, such dreams. The new moon showed her face to us, an omen of hope and success. So Al-Qaeda was truly born that night, in a garden of sleepy birds, fragrant flowers and dancing fireflies.

This story was expanded to a full-length novel, THE DEATH OF OSAMA BIN LADEN - AN ALTERNATIVE HISTORY, now available in all ebook formats.

8. TUESDAY

New York, USA - 2001

One Tuesday, morning sunlight flooded into a room. Two people on a bed. One slept heavily, her bare breasts above the covers, rising and falling to the slow rhythm of her tiny, nasal snores. The other was awake, retching painfully into a large, white plastic bag. Ed's Easy Market, Sixth Avenue. Cartoon picture of Ed.

The self-harmed casualty sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet heavy on the polished wooden floor. As another wave of nausea racked his body, he clenched the bag between his shaking knees, spitting more bright yellow bile to join the quarter pint that had come up in spasms over the previous hour. What is bile? He couldn't find an answer. How would you describe it? Battery acid, what that would taste like. About every four minutes, his body convulsed and ejected the poison it made itself. His tonsils burned and his throat was a volcano. After a while, the retching eased; there was nothing left, not even bile. The rhythmic retching continued, but it was just a painful mime, unproductive. The agony subsided.

He resolved, for the sixth time in his life, to never drink again. Remembering Jimi Hendrix and how he died, he walked unsteadily to the bathroom where he made a foul-smelling, amber piss. After washing his hands and face, with its puke-encrusted lips, he felt a little better. In the kitchen, he found some Alka-Seltzer and took two in a tall, frosted glass of water. He stood, waiting. After a minute or so, his stomach heaved and he threw up in the kitchen sink. He stood some more. After a few minutes, his body grew to like the traces of drug it had leeched from the drink before expelling it. So he took some more. This stayed down.

Returning to his bed, he gazed for a few moments at the woman. What was her name? Jacqueline? J something. It would come. She looked like the kind of woman he always ended up with when he got too drunk. Silicone tits, model type. Her profile did have a strong touch of classical beauty to it, though. Result. Religion? Is she Jewish? Could be. Jesus, what a killer hangover. He got back into bed and sleep on, no college today, no anything. No nothing. Sleep the hangover from hell off, then try and have sex with her later. Maybe. Try and have an orgasm he would remember. What will she think?

His body was grateful for the water, the bladder release and the acid-neutralising painkillers, so it gave him the precious reward of sleep. It was just after 8.30 am and he rested in the arms of Morpheus (his expression). But the world turned, then came off the rails without him. Tom's comatose body twitched uneasily. He entered an edgy dream, in which he prepared a special meal for his gathered family and the rice kept turning into maggots. Dream Tom didn't understand what was happening and tried to laugh it off while hitting the booze, Pina Coladas. Meanwhile, a hijacked passenger jet flew low over the Village, not far from his apartment. Then it slammed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

An unusual sound followed. The cockroaches, living their frantic lives in the floors and walls around the dormant people, felt it loudest. A low rumble passed through the apartment building, racing through the tunnels and concrete, the fabric of Manhattan. Downtown, shattered glass, molten metal, fire and people rained onto the crowded streets. Tom's lover rolled over.

After a time, a second jet flew low over the stunned city and hit the second of the Twin Towers. Another low rumble. Then more quietness. Emergency sirens screamed in the distance, comfortably far away. They slept on as the sun crept towards Greenwich Village, just outside their loft apartment's wooden-blinded window. Well after nine, the phone shrieked incessantly and woke him. She pulled the light quilt over her head, pouting her lips, but keeping her eyes tightly shut against what was a clear morning outside. He rubbed his head as he walked to the phone. It being cordless, it could be anywhere. His aching brain had an extra sensitivity, so he found the handset quickly. It was under his neatly-folded jeans, there at the edge of the black leather couch.

'Hello...'

'Oh Tom, you're okay. Thank the heavens.' It was his mother, the one who had given him everything.

'Yeah, I'm fine. You sound frantic. What's wrong, Mom?'

'There's been an awful thing. Haven't you seen the news? Put it on.'

'I don't know where the remote is.'

'The Twin Towers have been attacked.'

'You what?'

'Just now. Turn it on.'

'Hang on.'

He put the phone on the coffee table, his hands trembling again. He scanned the room, then checked behind the couch cushions, under it and in the kitchen. No joy. Then he found the remote in the bathroom. He pointed it at the TV, squeezing the number 5, news channel, button as he walked back to the phone, still unphased.

'Hi Mom. Got it. Now what happened again?'

He never heard her answer. For at least thirty seconds, maybe longer, the news channel delivered overwhelming sensory overload. It was really happening. Smoke billowed from both towers. From every angle it looked bad, real bad. Flames leapt furiously from the shattered skyscrapers. At least the impacts were high, he thought, anyone below should be fine. Pity those poor bastards up top, who once enjoyed the most spectacular views in the world. Surely there should be helicopters pulling people off the roof? Can't they drop water from planes, like with forest fires? Confusion, crazy thoughts.

'When did this happen, Mom?'

'Less than an hour ago. Why are you still sleeping? Were you drinking?'

He couldn't take her lecturing, not now, so he cut her off gently, thanking her for the call. Pushing the end call button, he realised that he'd forgotten to ask if she was alright or needed any help. Later. For now, prioritise. Break the news to the lady in the quilt. Straighten up a bit. Shower? Go to bar. Chumleys? Drink. Flee city? If advised by emergency services, yes. If not, stay put and get drunk. Sounds like a plan. In a moment of clarity, he remembered her name. Jasmine. More clarity, please, he said in silent prayer to the God of Memory.

'Jasmine. Jasmine, darling,' he gently shook her shoulder.

This was the perfect opportunity to show his sensitive side. Mustn't blow it, he thought, she's a beauty, best I snared in quite a while. The TV grabbed his attention with garbled reports about more hijacked jets in the sky. Maybe ten of them. Maybe heading for New York. All high buildings being evacuated. Holy Christ!

'Jasmine. Honey, you've got to wake up.'

'Stop. Go away. Can't a girl have a lie-in anymore? What's this city coming to?'

'I'm sorry to wake you, honey. Something terrible's happened and you should know.'

She tuned out of her slumber and opened her eyes. As he explained what had happened, she saw the television. It was replaying footage of the second impact. Jesus H Christ! Did you see that?

'Oh my God!' she screamed as she jumped onto her knees. 'Daddy! He's in the tower!'

'They're doing everything they can to rescue them. I'm sure he'll be fine.'

Now the TV footage showed bodies falling from the towers' heights. Yes, I'd jump too, thought Tom.

'I'm going down there. I'm going!'

She found her crumpled clothes on the couch, all classy designer gear, never looked quite so swanky in the cold and sober light of day. She was badly rattled. But she still looked good.

'Wait. You won't be allowed near it. Surely you can see that?'

'Well I have to try.'

'Does your Dad have a cellphone?'

'Yes.'

In an instant, he had his phone and handed it to her as she stood with her skirt at her knees and her eyes swollen with ready tears. As she punched in her father's number, he went and got some orange juice and started a fresh coffee brew. He put her juice on the coffee table and waited for the coffee. The TV said that there were more hijacked planes in the air. It seemed that a genuine attempt to destroy America was in progress. Jasmine screamed. Wrong number. Slow down, girl. Try again. A pause. A delighted scream.

'He's okay! He's okay!' She held the phone to her chest with the pleasure of a child. Tom smiled. She kept talking to her dad. The coffee machine sighed deeply, its brewing job complete. He poured two cups.

'NutraSweet? Cream?'

She didn't hear him, so he put it all on a stainless steel tray. He placed it by the OJ for her and took his coffee to the patio door. The blinds withdrew noisily to reveal a panicky situation below. Some people were running, most were walking quickly. The casual Village vibe had given way to an edgy hurriedness, more like Wall Street. He opened the door and stepped out onto the first floor, wrought iron balcony. The sound of a low-flying jet startled him. He spilt some coffee on his leg as he looked up at a jet coming out of the still-rising sun. It was low alright. An attack? It's gone. As he rubbed the burning coffee off his thigh, he remembered that he was naked. On any other day, he might have drawn some appreciative whistles and comments from the street below. Not today. People rushed by, their faces confused and anxious. So he went inside and found his clothes.

Pulling on his expensive jeans, his eyes remained stuck to the flatscreen TV, the silver bringer of bad news. For once, TV was a matter of life and death. Air Force jets patrolling Manhattan. That must be what went by just now. All aircraft grounded. All aircraft? That must be thousands of jets. Aircraft heading for Washington DC. More planes heading for Manhattan.

'Are you getting all this?'

She sat on the leather couch, her legs curled up under her body, the quilt off the bed and covering her so that only her model face was on view. She had tears of relief streaming down her reddened cheeks.

'It doesn't look good, does it?'

'No. Not good at all. How's your Dad?'

'On his way uptown, on foot. All the subways are closed. He says it's mayhem down there. He works on a low floor, the twelfth, so he got right out after the first plane hit.'

'Where's he headed? You guys live in Queens, am I right?'

'Yeah. You weren't so trashed after all. He's going to come for me and we'll walk up to the Queensboro Bridge and try and get across that way.'

'If it's still standing.'

He didn't mean to alarm her and regretted his comment, but the annihilation of the city was fast-becoming a possible prospect. Jesus! Drink. Smoke.

'It'll probably take him a couple of hours to get here. I'm having a spliff. Want a smoke?'

'Nah. But Tom, if you need to see your family or anything, I understand. Just go ahead.'

'I might have to make tracks soon, babe. It should be safe enough here for you, yeah? Would you mind? I'd hate leaving you here alone.' He was pleased with himself for keeping up the nice-guy front. Truth was, he actually did care about her, but was happy for her.

'You're so sweet, Tom. Can we get together again soon?'

'I'd really like that, babe. You're gorgeous.'

Now fully dressed in genuine CK jeans and an open-necked white shirt, service-ironed, Tom realised that he hadn't had a shower. He decided not to bother today, just today. Who's going to pass comment on his personal hygiene this day? Should be safe enough. He made a joint, with a large Bambu cigarette paper, a bud of finest Caribbean sensimilia and a cardboard roach. But what if the water goes? What if the power goes?

'I'm going to smoke this and have a shower. You need to take a shower, just go ahead. Take anything you need. Hear me?'

He went to the balcony again. It was busier now. Everyone had decided to get home. If we're going to die, it won't be at some dumb office with people we don't even like, it'll be with the wife, the kids, whomever. We'll all die together. One big, happy, dead family. He inhaled deeply, then coughed until he almost choked. The next inhalation was easier. A feeling of pleasurable lightness, accompanied by a tingling in his limbs, hit Tom and forced his ass onto a deck chair on the balcony. He continued to smoke, Jasmine calling out the latest grim updates. Washington had been hit. The damn Pentagon. Can you believe it?

'THC, please do your duty. Remove me from this brutal reality. Take me to a better place. No more clarity required. Can I just close my eyes and make it go away?'

He closed his eyes. Time melted, his stress eased. Two jets screamed by overhead. Must be more fighters, he guessed. No way any civilian jet's going to be allowed over Manhattan today. No fucking way. He finished the whole joint, then stood up dizzily. Looking out towards Bleecker, the heart of the Village, he felt disjointed, disconnected. The city rushed by. A flock of pigeons rose suddenly from a nearby roof. They wheeled through the clear sky and flapped by the balcony. Then a distant rumbling grew into a heavy roar. The balcony trembled beneath his feet.

'Hey Jasmine! You won't believe this! It's like an earthquake or something!'

'Tom, look! Jesus! Look!'

He went inside. Jasmine sat on the couch, transfixed by the TV, her right index finger pointing at the image of the South Tower collapsing in a monstrous cloud of dust and debris. It was slow motion horror, but more hideous than any Stephen King story. This was real. Unbelievable, but real. The World Trade Center coming down? Surely not?

'Holy fucking shit! I don't believe this! Is this for real?'

Her only response was to let her arm flop down onto her lap, then burst into tears. Again. Tom was torn between having a quick shower and watching the unfolding drama. The TV folks were certainly stunned and seemed to be losing their collective grip on the situation. The chunks of evil news raced relentlessly across the bottom of the screen. New footage of a smoking hole in the Pentagon Building jostled with images of the tower collapsing and nervous anchors. For the first time, Tom heard screams from the street outside. It was only just gone ten. He hugged Jasmine, her hot tears messing up his shirt. He decided to call his mother.

'Hi Mom. I knew you'd be in the office. You okay?'

'Fine, fine. You?'

'Still in one piece. Why don't you get home?'

'You know we've to finish a big order for tomorrow. Mr Lauren doesn't like to be kept waiting. You know this.'

'I know, I know. But maybe he'll make an exception for today?'

'Well I don't know that, do I?'

'Call him. Just call. You'll see.'

'The staff are quite nervous, I must admit.'

'They're shitting themselves, Mom. Can't you see that? Call fucking Ralph, will you?'

'Thomas!'

'Sorry, but you're going to have to excuse a little bit of fucking language, Mom.' Silence. 'Look, I'm sorry.'

'Why don't you come up to us, Tom? Midtown's a lot further from all this than where you are. I'd like to see you. I would.'

Done deal.

'You're staying put? Okay, I'll get up there at some stage. Call me on my cell if there's any change of plan, will you?'

'I promise. See you soon. Take care. Good boy.'

Jasmine stayed on the couch. She hadn't touched her juice or her coffee. Tom cursed his parents' Pakistani work ethic, then offered her a fresh cup, which she refused. She was in mild shock.

'Look, babe. I need to shower and I'm not going in there until you drink something. It'll do you good. Trust me.'

She drank some juice, so he took a shower. The bathroom was open plan, with the shower tray in the middle of the floor and a transparent plastic splash curtain hanging from the high ceiling. He quickly stripped, turned the big, old water knob and was soaked in a second. The water pressure was one of the key reasons he'd chosen this apartment over all the rest. Even by New York standards, this shower could kill. The water beat him relentlessly until his skin tingled. Like tiny fingers, it massaged his skull, soothing the last traces of his lousy hangover. The day had begun badly enough, but had since descended into some kind of farcical nightmare, one that's too ridiculous to be perceived as real, especially by an injured and dehydrated brain.

Water off, he slipped and slid across the marble floor to the towel cupboard. Choosing a huge, fluffy, white towel, he briskly dried his body and short black hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist. Feeling much better. Outside, Jasmine still sat transfixed by the TV.

'Okay, babe?'

'I'm fine. This is getting worse. A plane's come down in Pennsylvania of all places.'

'You're shitting me.'

The TV confirmed this latest event in a confused and psychotic morning. No confirmed reports of more jets heading for us, though. Could this be construed as good news, the absence of more bad news?

'Well I feel great. You should shower. I promise I won't try to get in there with you. Oh, Jasmine?'

'Yes?'

'Last night. Did we?'

'I'm so flattered. Not,' she smiled. 'No, stud. You were way too trashed. Like way.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. It was kinda nice just to cuddle. Really.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Thanks. Now where's my Yves Saint Laurent?'

He looked through a chest of drawers and found a bottle of Polo. Very apt. A splash felt like a fragrant slap in the face. Perfect. Some gel in his hair, white gold neck chain, ring and Tag Heuer watch. Fresh shirt. Check in mirror. Not bad. The double shower crossed his mind once more, but he dismissed it quickly. Sure, she might enjoy a bit of intimacy, on a self-reassuring, fin-de-monde kind of trip, but he wasn't going to shower again. Cellphone. Wallet. Besides, he just wanted out. Out into the maelstrom of the most awful day in history. Big gulp from big bottle of chilled Evian. History was literally being made all around him. Somebody would have to write that history down and TV just didn't cut it, from an experiential point of view.

'You going now?'

'Yeah, babe. I just gotta get out there. See my folks, you know?'

'You're good. Will you call me later?'

'Sure, what's your number? Did I get it from you last night?'

'No, but it's in your phone. I put it in while you were smoking that joint.'

'Thanks, babe. I'll call you. You sure you'll be okay here? Look, you better take a spare key, in case you need to go out for anything. You never know what'll happen.'

He found an elegant, ethnic leather key chain in a kitchen drawer and handed it to her. The fob was an elephant design and it had two keys linked to it for eternity, one for the apartment and one for the outer door. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. The salty smell and taste of a beach. She stayed on the couch, phone on her lap, tissues in her hand, TV bawling out its rumbling war news. He pulled on a tan leather sports jacket and blew a kiss from the open doorway, gently pulled the door closed and he was gone. Her eyes returned promptly to the TV while, inside her brain, she could think only of her recent, fading childhood and her last birthday party before her parents' divorce.

He closed the outer door, again quietly, and emerged from the safety of home into the wild ride of the street. His street. Minetta Street. Sidewalk radar on, expect the unexpected. Left to Bleecker and Sixth. Try Chumleys, see if it's open. Vodka. There were less people on the street now, which was still in deep morning shadow. No familiar faces, no neighbours. Sixth was busier, sunny, with crowds of office workers streaming up from downtown, all headed north. There were many tear-streaked faces, fading wills and fearful vibes. Not good. He was surprised at the numbers until a young Indian man told him that the Mayor had ordered the evacuation of everyone from south of Canal Street. Then his nervous face faded back into the crowd. Tom slowly crossed the avenue, the few cabs and buses swamped by people on the hoof. Snatches of conversation and dazed exclamations flew at his ears.

'Oh my God,' the ubiquitous phrase that was on everyone's lips.

'I saw it, I tell ya,' a young Hispanic man in a crumpled suit.

'Yeah on TV, like the rest of us,' his friend, who wore no jacket, sweating heavily.

'It was an American Airlines plane,' said a woman in office suit and sneakers, fifty-ish.

'I still can't believe this,' her companion wailed as she fell to her knees beside a newspaper vending machine. USA Today.

Tom went to help her up, but the friend gently shooed him away.

'There's nothing you can do. She hasn't heard from her husband. In WTC 1.'

Tom turned back into the heaving human current, his heart sinking by the second. Lots of dead people stories to come yet. The human cost hadn't really hit him until then.

'Keep going. Keep going. You can do this,' a grey-bearded man, overweight, panting, sweating and yet moving with determination, northwards to safety and maybe to sanity.

'Any news on your radio?' a black kid to his friend.

'What?' replied his friend, pointing to his headphones.

'Help, please. Help,' a feeble voice. Not a child, an old person.

He looked to his left and saw an old man sitting cross-legged on a cast-iron manhole cover. It had Brooklyn Foundry 1913 embossed on it, in strong, smooth relief. The man was pale and grey, you could almost say wizened. Tom easily lifted the old man's frail, exhausted body to the sidewalk.

'You from Brooklyn, old man?' A hunch.

'Yes, I need to get home to my wife. She's real scared and the phones are down.'

'Well you're going uptown, you know that?'

'God damn. Damn it. I was carried by the crowd. The trains are finished. I don't know.'

'Look, your best bet is to head back downtown a black, go left on Houston and keep going straight until you see water. Then you should see the bridge, down to your right. I heard it's open for people to walk across. Can you handle this?'

'I think so. Thanks. I was honestly lost, can you believe that? I lived here forty years and I got lost.'

'That's okay. You need water or anything?'

'Please.'

Tom found a street bottled water dispenser, fed it some coins and opened a plastic container of H2O for the old man. He gladly drank some of its life-giving contents. Tom twisted the cap back on and stuffed the bottle in the old man's overcoat pocket. Then he pointed towards the corner and reminded him to stay on the inside of the sidewalk, take the first left, then look for the Brooklyn Bridge. And off he went, weaving unsteadily against the human tide.

'Poor fucker,' said Tom.

He left Sixth, the Avenue of the Americas, at last, and turned onto Bedford Street. Quieter now. People still rushed by, just not as many. Then, a curious thing. Two men were walking uptown on the opposite side of the street, right by Chumleys unmarked door. They were white, dusty, like phantoms. He crossed to them. Closer, he could see that they were businessmen, with once-expensive suits, briefcases still gripped pathetically, their contents rendered pointless by a terror from the sky. The men's eyes and mouths were wet stains in their complete coating of fine, dry age.

'What?' was all that Tom could ask. They stopped.

'From the tower. When it collapsed, we were five blocks away. This dust cloud came across. Like nothing you ever saw.'

'Like Hell, that's what.'

'You guys look like you could do with a drink.'

They looked at each other, still dazed and confused, but knowing he was right. They had survived the worst, surely? Tom hugged them both at once, inhaling the acrid dust and having communion with these eyewitnesses to the horror.

'Come on. You're standing right outside my favourite bar and it looks open.'

He pushed the door which, being clean of any form of advertising or signage, you either knew what lay behind, or you didn't. Simple as that. He held it open as the two honoured guests walked through, both feeling slightly ashamed at their desperate condition. Not to worry. A similarly dust-attired woman sat at the bar, drinking a large Martini and smoking a thin cigar.

'Barman, these two gentlemen have survived downtown and they deserve a drink, if you please. Whiskey, guys?'

They nodded, hugged the dusty woman and took seats at the bar beside her. The barman was a friend of Tom's and, Tom knew, wouldn't charge these men today.

'Two whiskeys, Dan. Large.'

'And yourself, Tom?'

'I think a vodka tonic. Or should I have a screwdriver? No, tonic for now, thanks.'

Pulling over a high stool, Tom put a fifty dollar bill on the counter. The barman charged him only for the vodka tonic.

'Survivors drink free here today,' he said.

Tom nodded his agreement with the sentiment. It's part of western culture to have a stiff drink in times of great stress. Well, if this wasn't the perfect excuse to get loaded, what was? As he settled into his drink, he savoured the oasis effect of the bar. It calmed him. Time slowed again.

There were maybe a dozen other people in the space, including the three dust-covered ghosts. Everyone looked at the TVs. Different channels showed different takes on the events, but there was no getting away from the shocking truth. The barman had been listening to a radio, which he brought to where Tom was sitting.

'Police band,' he said, with a curious grimace, like it was even more bad news. He increased the volume.

'This is 17. I can't hear from anybody. Hello?' a panicky, woman's voice.

Bursts of harsh static broke the snatches of talk as they skimmed the emergency services' bands.

'No survivors here,' a tired man.

'What's with the water pressure?' a man, speaking from a great distance, like the moon.

'Seven people reported missing in this office. You want names?' a police woman, with a Hispanic accent.

'Could be about to go,' a young man,.

'Thousands, I don't know,' a woman, matter-of-factly.

'The hospitals are okay, everyone's either dead or fine,' a tired-sounding middle-aged woman.

'Six units went up, then it came down. That was that. They're all dead! Everyone!' a breathless fire-fighter.

'Looting at 36th and Broadway. Any chance of some back-up?' A breathless cop.

This last piece of news startled Tom. That was near his parents' clothing factory and office. The thought of a breakdown in society, with lootings and killings hadn't occurred to him before then. He turned his attention from the radio, looking to the TV for more on this. The barman took the radio away.

'Could you get me another, Dan?'

'You okay, buddy?'

'Man, in a freaky kinda way, I feel good. Just glad to be alive, I guess.'

'Here's to that,' replied Dan, placing a fresh drink before Tom and tapping the bar counter with his knuckles. This meant that the drink was on him.

Tom smiled and moved closer to the two men he'd brought into the bar. They were sharing their experiences with the dusty woman, so he didn't interrupt, just listened. They spoke of the horror of seeing the second jet hit, as all the offices for blocks around had downed tools to gawp at the tragic spectacle. What they thought was a stupid accident suddenly became something far more sinister when the second plane flew in low. Before tens of thousands of disbelieving witnesses, World War 3 was declared. The two men were financial consultants and they spoke of seeing people jumping from a thousand feet up and of the fire crews racing to the heart of the darkness. The conversation made the hairs on the back of Tom's neck stand up. Then there were cries from the cluster of drinkers near the TVs. The second tower fell to earth. Oh my God.

The bar was filled with cries of dismay and exclamations to God. This was a killer blow. Maybe it had been inevitable after the collapse of the first tower. But it still shocked. The dusty woman burst into tears. She was comforted by her ghost companions. Tom called his mother. No answer and no machine. He swallowed his drink and looked around the dark bar. Covers of books by Hemingway, Salinger and Kerouac were framed proudly on the walls. All drank in Chumleys at one time or another. Tom had always hoped that some of their residual presence would rub off on him. He wanted to be a writer more than anything else. But he hadn't really tried it, as of yet. He knew his parents would blow a gasket if he even hinted at not wanting to take over the business. He resolved to at least try to write and, if it worked, to hell with fashion, let his sister take over.

He finished his drink and tried calling work again. Still no answer. He tried his parents' house. Machine. He left a message. He used the bathroom, pissing into the same urinal that Ernest Hemingway had doused with his own fragrant wastes. He returned to the bar, sat and drank for a long while. He ate some food, nachos and chicken pieces, which Dan put out for free. He drank more. People drifted into the bar all the while. The day had been shattered beyond recognition. There was no grasp of what to do. The normal Tuesday was gone. The void was being filled with alcohol and the comfort of human contact. Tomorrow would be a different story, but everybody knew in their gut that things would never be the same again. Never. Feeling drunk at last, he tipped the barman and made his way to the street.

'Take care, buddy.'

'Might see you later, maybe.'

Back towards Sixth and up Minetta, now bathed in sunshine. He buzzed the door as he passed the apartment, but no reply. Jasmine's Dad must've made it up and taken her home. How would he deal with the Jew thing and the Brooklyn thing if their relationship took? Later. On to Washington Square. A massive cloud of pigeons flew around the park, in an anti-clockwise loop. The arch at the top of the Square was thronged with people. Tom remembered that the arch afforded a remarkable view of the distant towers, framed within its high curve. He made his way to the best viewing position. For the first time that day, he had a view of the towers. Only they weren't there anymore, just a dirty, grey-white cloud. Nothing, empty space. The geography of Manhattan had been changed forever, the silent sentinels of commerce had vanished. Everybody was shocked. More tears, exclamations and dismay. Oh my God, the phrase of the day. Keep going.

East, past NYU, his part-time college, to Broadway. Broadway would take him directly to his family and, if they weren't at work, which seemed increasingly likely, they must be gone home. At least he would have made the effort. Approaching Broadway, he could see that there would indeed be some effort involved in reaching his destination. Hundreds, thousands of people milled past, from right to left, heading inexorably uptown. He had the best part of thirty blocks to travel, so jumped right in and allowed himself to be carried by the flow. He slowed as he passed the Eighth Street subway station. It was closed and armed national Guard soldiers stood by the entrance. They were nervous, jumpy. Some wore chemical protection suits. Tom's heart skipped a beat. First sign of the military on the streets. Not good.

The pace of the migration north wasn't as intense as he'd feared. Many of those who made the journey with him had already walked more than thirty blocks and they were tiring. The Flatiron was ahead, the narrow, triangle of skyscraper that was put up in 1903 on the strip of land where Broadway's drunken path across the ordered avenues of Manhattan met Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street. Halfway there. There was good-natured banter within the crowds. All the weary travellers were in some degree of shock. Humour and the spontaneous expression of emotion were two natural by-products, the confused brain's attempt to maintain sanity. Tom remained quiet, enjoying the intensity of the experience. The Flatiron passed, its ornate street clock proclaiming that it was now 3.30. The looming bulk of the Empire State Building asserted its presence through toothless gaps in the mouth of midtown. Others saw it, too.

'It's been emptied. My sister works there. They're expecting an attack any minute, she says,' it was a young woman, pulling at Tom's arm.

'Really? Did she make it out okay?'

'Yeah, it's just a shell now. Just a shell.'

She faded back into the crowd and Tom walked on. He couldn't help looking to the sky whenever the Empire State came into view, fearing another misguided plane would come roaring in from his peripheral vision. But all he saw were the ever-present, swooning, jet fighter vapour trails, plus some helicopters buzzing towards downtown. Macy's was ahead, marking the hub of New York's garment and fashion district. He tried the factory on his cellphone again. Still nothing.

Macy's was closing early. A phalanx of burly security men in navy blue outfits stood at the main entrance. The steel shutters were half way down, the harried shoppers being shoved gently out into the street. The security guys were of all colours and each was armed, either with a holstered sidearm or a nightstick. They watched the crowds with anticipation. But instead of raging mobs of anti-capitalist looters, they only had to fend off some confused well-to-dos who'd made their way to the store for distraction.

'No ma'am, you can't come in. We're closing. Haven't you seen the news?'

'Young man, it's my right to shop. I'm an American.'

Soon after, Tom made it to the factory. West 36th Street, near Seventh, Fashion Avenue. The lobby was quiet, with some of the building's occupants emerging from the elevators and rushing to the street. Most had evacuated, by the look of things. Tom found an empty elevator and punched for the 12th floor. In a few seconds, he was in the lobby of Black Swan Fashions, the label his parents had started. Though doing cutting and stitching for the big designers was the more glamorous side of the business, its real profits came from exporting western-designed clothes to the wealthy classes in Pakistan and, more recently, India.

Wang, the Chinese head of security was nearby and he came to Tom. No sign of anybody else about.

'Mr Swan. You okay?'

'Fine, Wang. Where's my parents?'

'Gone, Mr Swan. They just left five minutes ago. Gone home to Westchester, they said. Everyone else gone home too. Just a few left in back. The Mayor said there's no work tomorrow.'

'Yeah? Good. I tried to call.'

'Phones have been down since ten. We don't know why.'

'TV anywhere? I haven't caught up in a while.'

'In my office. Go ahead. I stay here.'

'Thanks.'

Tom went into Wang's office, with its bank of grainy, black-and-white views of the floor. An empty stairwell, a deserted locker room, banks of quiet sewing machines. The TV was on and the wall-to-ceiling-to-floor-to-wall coverage continued. Navy warships were out in the Atlantic, ready to shoot down any more hijacked planes. The Mayor said that some subway and bus routes were operating. When asked about how many had died in the attacks, he said 'I don't think we want to speculate about that. More than any of us can bear.' State buildings and important infrastructure locations had been evacuated across the country and there were no civilian planes in the air. Not one. The President was in an 'undisclosed' location. Wow, they were really jumpy if they couldn't even guarantee the safety of the President so he could go about his business on the day when leadership's needed most. That was big. After a few minutes, the news began to repeat, so Tom left the office, wishing Wang well and telling him about the reports of looters he'd heard. Wang said not to worry, flashing Tom a dirty, big Colt automatic, which hung by his heart, inside his red blazer.

Back to Broadway. Once an Indian trail, leading from downtown trading posts to the upstate wilds, Broadway would still bring the committed traveller all the way to the state capital, Albany, 150 miles to the north. Today, he only needed it to bring him a couple more blocks. The urge for a drink pushed him to 42nd Street and the tattered human condition led him to the strip bars.

He stood on the sidewalk, deciding which bar would be best. He'd been in most of them before, but typically at five in the morning and with friends. Pussy Galore? Up Close & Personal? Vixens? Crowds bustled past, as they always do on 42nd. A man hit Tom hard with his shoulder as he pushed by.

'Watch it, Arab,' he said angrily.

'No man, you watch it,' called Tom after him. The man turned and came back.

'You a wise guy, Arab?' he asked. This guy was heavy, Italian and ugly.

'I'm not an Arab, I'm as American as you are,' pleaded Tom, confused and hurt.

The man punched Tom in the face and was gone, back into the swirling crowd. Tom was dazed. The pain of the blow surged past his adrenaline. He touched his cheek. Sore. His nose. Wet. He looked at his fingers. Blood. Some people stopped to stare. A young woman, a shop worker, gave him a tissue from her handbag. He wiped the blood from his face with the stale but welcome tissue. A cop approached. Another Italian-type.

'C'mon, move along. What's going on here?'

'This young man just got a punch. The guy that did it is gone that way,' answered Tom's Samaritan, pointing west along 42nd.

'You okay, buddy?'

'Yeah. I'm fine. The bastard called me an Arab.'

The crowd closed in. Some had pity on their faces. On or two had anger, even hate. The policeman brought his face to within an inch of Tom's, his hot breath reeking of garlic.

'Just move on, okay? I don't know if you are an Arab. My advice is to move on, okay? If anything starts, I'm not sure I can stop it. There's no back-up. None. Got that?'

'But what about the guy who hit me?'

'Look, stop busting my balls here, move on.'

Then he caught Tom by his shoulders, turned him around and propelled him back towards Broadway. Tom stumbled forward until he passed by the entrance to Pussy Galore again. The guy at the door called to him.

'Hey buddy! Beautiful ladies inside. Beer only five bucks. C'mon! What are you waiting for?'

'Nothing.'

Tom went inside. Down a flight of steep steps and deep into the bowels of 42nd Street, where everything was for sale and human flesh was just another commodity. This was a base Wall Street, a primitive trading floor. The bar was packed. The really long counter had a guy every yard, eyes up, gazing at the tall, voluptuous South American woman who gyrated lazily on a narrow stage behind the bar. There were more guys, and a few hookers, seated at round tables that were scattered across the dirty, unswept floor. The lighting was low and the music, Meatloaf, was loud. Tom shouldered his way to the bar and ordered a beer.

'Seven bucks,' said the middle-aged woman, who'd been a dancer until her breasts sagged beyond that invisible line that all strippers know and fear.

'Seven? Guy at the door said five.'

'That's Happy Hour. Six 'til eight. Starts in a half hour. Seven bucks.'

Tom paid, just glad to be off the menacing street. He drank three bottles of beer before the Happy Hour bell rang, to a mildly enthusiastic cheer from the customers. He didn't know if the cheer was to welcome the reduced beer price or the fact that three women now danced behind the bar. And each one of them was actually attractive. He caught the eye of the South American beauty, who rolled her hips, and took off her bra-top while staring right into his eyes. She threw her bra and he caught it.

After two more songs, the set ended and the dancers left the stage, replaced by a young black woman with massive breasts, undoubtedly silicone, but Jesus! Tom sipped his beer and the Amazon came for her bra.

'Thanks for catching it. It would have been unwearable if you'd missed.' She had a cute accent and brown eyes so big, he could have gone for a walk in them.

'Glad to be of help. Where are you from?'

'Lower East Side. You mean originally? Brazil. Sao Paulo.'

'From Brazil to Pussy Galore, eh?'

'Nothing wrong with this. I make good money.'

Tom realised that he hadn't tipped her, hadn't made it clear how she pushed all his buttons. He fished in his wallet and tucked a fifty into her tiny, white G-string.

'Thank you so much. What's your name?'

'Tom. Tom Swan. Pleased to meet you.'

'My name is Annabella. Nice to meet you, Tom Swan.'

She took his hand and kissed it lightly. Tom bought her a beer, which she drank quickly. Then her break ended and she was back on display. She worked the stage, but always kept a close eye on Tom. Her dance companion was the black girl from mammary heaven, but Annabella ensured she didn't stay close to Tom for too long. The night faded into a beery, breasty haze, its tired monotony broken only by Annabella's infrequent breaks, each of which she spent with Tom.

'We're closing early tonight, Tommy boy. Before midnight. You sticking around?'

'I don't have much on,' he slurred.

'You want to maybe come back to my place after? For a drink?'

'Do you...?'

'You can stay the night for a hundred dollars. Interested?'

'Yes. Interested. Please.'

'You just hang on in there while I do the last few sets and then get changed. Okay?'

He nodded his assent. His head had been dropping, but it felt less heavy now. He was really drunk. Long, hard day. He went to the bathroom to freshen up. The cracked and dirty mirror showed him a cracked and dirty man. He was filthy, blood crusts on his nose and mouth, hair dishevelled. His white shirt was a mess, covered in dust, sweat and stains, plus his own blood. There was no towel, paper or otherwise, in the toilet, so he decided to leave the clean-up for now. Maybe freshen up in Annabella's. He urinated into a blocked and leaking toilet, then returned to his nine dollar beer.

After some more Meatloaf-accompanied stripping, the show was over. Annabella disappeared with the other girls and the bar stopped selling overpriced booze. Nobody was hustled out yet, though. The dancers would have the opportunity to make some after-hours money before the place was emptied by the sleazy muscle that lurked in the shadows.

Tom drained his beer as Annabella reappeared. She looked fabulous, in skin tight black leggings and a low-cut turquoise blouse. Her rich, black hair flowed in curls over the shoulders of her brown leather jacket.

'Let's go, baby' she whispered into his ear.

They walked east, past Broadway. The streets were quiet now. The day had been too much for most people, so they stayed home and watched the news on TV. Over and over. Passing Times Square, the news screens and illuminated tickers flashed the same news. They found a cab, which brought them to Annabella's apartment. It was one of those ex-tenement jobs with old, small windows and dirty, great fire escapes. Straight from a movie. A cop movie with murders in it. He followed her up four flights of steps, marvelling at her ass.

Her apartment was small but clean. He'd half-expected to find her kids and babysitter waiting up for her, but the place was, thankfully, empty. He used her shower, paid her the agreed fee and had fast, empty sex with her on her large but lumpy bed. He fell asleep quickly, holding tight to her curvy, warm body, so tight she could hardly breathe. As he slept, she gently released herself from his embrace, propped herself up on an elbow and watched him closely, enjoying his presence, smiling wryly at how this man with money had landed in her life, today of all days. Sure that he was asleep, she found the remote on her bedside locker and turned on the news with the volume low. Tom slept heavily, the TV showing the horrible impacts again and again, as his addled brain tried to make sense of it all.

9. NINE TWELVE

New York, USA - 2001

The day after it happened, she began to detach from life. Things didn't feel different exactly, just distant, unimportant. Irrelevant.

Her kids, normally driving her to love and rage in equal measure, simply faded into the background. No longer did they manipulate her emotion, determine her state. They became irrelevant somehow. And her husband, never a hugely emotional or expressive person anyway, just sat before the TV, made the odd comment. She just said Yeah or Whatever. And when he wasn't around, she couldn't picture his face, which she thought was odd.

One morning, watching TV and eating Cheerios, the kids started giggling loudly.

'Did they say what I think they said?' she asked

'Why, mom? What did they say?' asked her son, laughing more.

'I thought they said - . Oh, whatever.'

So she went to her husband, who was fixing his Italian blue silk tie in the bedroom.

'You know, I could swear I heard a cartoon character say Fuck just now.'

He stopped to look at her.

'Jeez, honey. You're too stressed.'

'But the kids laughed.'

He shrugged, to say And? So she went back to the breakfast counter and listened intently to the rest of the show. Then they all left, the kids to school, he to work downtown.

She smoked cigarettes and drank espressos until afternoon came. Then she found herself in front of the bathroom mirror, suddenly felt like she'd been staring at herself for hours.

She said 'What are you doing, exactly?'

'Just looking,' she answered.

Life was on fast forward, but there was no pause button. She became a spectator, aware of what she was doing - mostly - but that sense of detachment growing stronger. She had little interest in food, wine, fashion: all the things that used to mean so much. Even the sky outside looked different. Was it always so grey, bubbling grey like there was a hidden fire up there, somewhere? And all the time, like for months now?

Months. What did that mean? She looked at the clock. Like it always was. But different. She stood before it for a long time until she realized. No ticking. No motion. Time frozen at seven-twenty. AM or PM, she didn't know: it was an old grandfather clock. Literally, her grandfather's, a wedding gift.

So she forgot about the clock and went in search of her wedding photographs.

Later, the family sat down to dinner, the TV yammering away on low volume. Always the same stuff: people talking; music videos; ads for things and services that simply didn't make sense: Are you sick and tired of having a colon that just won't listen? Where's the street that's good to eat? Did you know that eleven out of ten kids don't? Why is Rex?

Always questions, no obvious answers.

There was little conversation over dinner. Shortly after the dishes had been cleared and put in the dishwasher, she felt a void in her stomach.

'What did we have for dinner?' she asked.

Nobody could remember.

Another day, another question. The city outside looks and sounds the same as ever: car horns blaring; people moving; choppers buzzing; jets soaring. But why does everything seem slower? She went to the clock again. No ticking, time same as it ever was. But the pendulum was swinging now. Silently. It occurred to her that this style of clock used to be known as a coffin clock.

She watched daytime TV again. In one of the shows - a panel quiz where contestants had to tell lies in order to win prizes - she heard mention of work.

'Why aren't I in work?' she asked herself. 'What do I work at? Where?'

She went through the family documents files, her tired eyes flicking across her history. But nothing made sense, the documents just didn't add up. She got bored and put all the papers in the garbage chute. They didn't matter anymore.

Later that night, while watching a movie - a comedy which wasn't at all funny \- with her husband, she stood in front of the TV.

'Honey?'

'Tell me something.'

'Anything. What?'

'Do I work?'

'Of course you work. How else could we afford the rent on this place?'

'Okay. What do I do?'

'You work with money don't you? You're an accountant, or a broker, or something like that.'

'Why haven't I been going to work lately?'

'Haven't you?' His face showed that he was puzzled, a little scared even.

'Fine. Where do I work?'

'Look, you can see it.'

He walked to her and took her hand. Then he led her to the window and opened the drapes. There, glistening in the middle distance, downtown, were two gleaming golden towers, illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun.

'You work in the World Trade Center. You love it there.'

Next day, alone again, she did some research. On the web, she learnt about the city in which she lived, as if discovering New York for the first time, like some old Dutch explorer.

It began to make sense, at last. She looked at all the news sites. All the news was just like on TV, crappy, mindless stuff. Okay, so the penguin in Central Park Zoo had five chicks. Great, but hardly a headline grabber. So there would be a full moon tonight. Was this really news? When she read the breathless copy about an amazing exhibition by second year photography students at Parsons - breaking news! - it clicked.

So she went back into the archives of the New York Times. Back a couple of weeks and the news was the same: no news. Then, the hammer blow. From nowhere, talk of imminent nuclear war. Seemed that America was on the verge of launching a nuclear strike against seven countries across the Middle East. Pakistan, Libya, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan. This wasn't just sabre-rattling; there were dozens of pages of reports and commentary. Eyewitnesses spoke of US aircraft launching pre-emptive strikes on radar posts in Iran, of commandos destroying naval vessels in the Persian Gulf, of the assassination of the Syrian dictator. All this happened on one day. The reports of widespread panic didn't gel. She looked outside, down at the street. Normality. Could this have been the scene of mass panic just a couple of weeks before? But the reports seemed so real, utterly believable. But why? What had made everyone fear nuclear war? And why had the fear dissipated like a ghost at sunrise?

She went back a day earlier, half-afraid of what she might discover. The images screamed at her: the Twin Towers - her place of work - engulfed in bright orange fireballs against a piercing blue sky. The smoke and dust of the collapses. The pain and confusion on the streets below. She sat and stared.

'What in hell does it all mean?' she asked.

'What, honey?' said her husband, who'd come in without making a sound. 'Hey. Where are the kids?'

'I don't know. Look. Do you see this? The Twin Towers were blown up!'

'You're kidding me! What? Now?'

'No. Before. I don't know when. Look.'

She got up from the computer so he could scroll through the unbelievable news. She thought hard about how any of it could make sense.

'I think I'm dead,' she said. 'I'm a ghost.'

'What are you saying?'

His face was pale, showed no emotion. Not even confusion. He turned back to the screen.

'I was in the Towers when the planes hit. I didn't make it. I've been here since. This is my purgatory. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

He wasn't listening, clicking through the news reports, going on to the day after, the nuclear tension.

She went to the window, looked out, more confused now.

'Honey, there are reports here of missile launches in Pakistan and Iran. ICBMs, maybe nuclear. And a submarine spotted off Long Island.'

'Yeah?'

She stared at the clean geometric edifices. The Towers are still there. Still there.

'It's not just me who's dead,' she said quietly to her reflection in the window pane. 'We're all dead. All of us.'

10. COORDINATES

Coalition Survey Report

Completed by

Survey Master 722, Ergo

FAO

Procurator General, Ergo

Date

234/22/14/0

System

17235

Summary

Mid-size, mid-life star. Eleven planets, many moons. Semi-developed life on two planets, interesting evidence of activity on one moon (gas giant). Some useful elements in retrievable quantities.

Conclusions

Recommend detailed analysis, probably leading to exploitation. Civilisation/Empathy assessment required. Proceeding with random sample procurement.

Dublin, Ireland \- Tuesday, February 5, 2002

It was a beautiful evening. A typically miserable, rainy February afternoon had given way to a crystal clear twilight. The sky glowed a deep purple and the last storm clouds rushed east.

'Go piss on someone else for a change', said Tom Glass to the clouds, as he smoked his last cigarette of the working day on the steps outside his office. As he gazed straight up, he could see Jupiter shining brightly, not far from the new crescent moon, which looked as delicate and beautiful as a swan's feather. While enjoying the sight and thinking about leaving work ASAP, two tiny ice crystals gently drifted down, landing on his left eyeball.

Tom was not aware of this event, though it would have profound implications on his life from that point on. As with all viruses from space, these tiny life forms entered his body by the quickest means possible. In Tom's case, they went through his tear duct, found a warm, moist crevice in which to plan their next moves and began to multiply rapidly. But this was to be no simple flu.

London, England

A pleasant morning had turned into a disgusting afternoon. The rain fell in sheets; each sheet consisting of a lot of large drops of H20. Every drop contained dust particles from the city's grimy atmosphere. Some drops contained dust particles from Mina, which had fallen into the massive cumulus clouds which blotted out the sun, making evening fall even a little earlier than usual.

One point four million office workers left their desks almost simultaneously at five. Everyone felt grim; the weather gave everyone seasonal affective disorder to some degree and Tuesdays were typically the day that most office workers felt sickest about their job.

'Half day, huh?' smiled the reception security guy as Mel Martin left work half an hour early, gripping her umbrella and a plastic carrier bag filled with stationery bits and bobs that she'd just nicked from the supplies cupboard.

_Up your arse, you moron_ , she thought, while muttering 'Mmm-hmm' with a half-hearted smile tagged on.

When she reached the street she was instantly soaked. Her umbrella was jammed shut. As she fumbled with it, without having the sense to step back inside, a raindrop containing a virus hit her nose, dripped down to hang from the tip and entered her nose, and system, when she inhaled.

She tossed her umbrella into a bin, to join three more sad specimens of its type, then trudged towards Farringdon tube station, getting wetter with each step until she could not absorb another drop of that essential, beautiful, depressing, enraging water.

Lanzarote, Canary Islands

Stan Reilly stepped out of the massive, domed telescope tower and into the night. He gazed across the Fire Mountains' volcanic landscape and down to the distant, glistening sea, the lights of the Puerto del Carmen tourist strip glistening along the coastline.

'2am and all's well', he muttered to himself.

His shift would last until dawn, about four hours away. He was using the powerful telescope to observe the red giant star Betelgeuse in an attempt to detect the wobble associated with orbiting planetary systems, watching the light that had left the star six hundred and forty years before, exactly when Vlad the Impaler of Wallachia, Dracula, led the Night Attack on Mehmed's invading Ottoman army and forced their retreat.

Stan's secondary duty was to focus a radio wave detector on the same patch of sky as part of the SETI programme, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. This NASA-funded project was something he had no time for, being very rationally-minded, but it did help to cover the running costs of his planet search. He needed to prove that Betelgeuse had a planet or two going around it in order to make his master's thesis stand out from the crowd. He had two more nights of observation ahead, to be followed by about three months of computer analysis back in Cambridge.

After filling his lungs with crystal clear mountain air and spotting a shooting star, he returned to his studious monitoring, quite unaware that alien life did indeed exist and was now happily multiplying inside his lungs.

Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Fatum Anaya huddled in a corner of a dark room. The room wasn't big - about eight metres square - but forty-one other human beings were crammed into it with her. They had nowhere else but this damp, derelict building in which to sleep. Their homes had been destroyed by the latest eruption of the local volcano. But the volcano was the least awful nasty thing in this dirty little corner of Africa. Civil war, genocide, Ebola, starvation, Joseph Kony; these were worse. At least the volcano gave some warning and you could generally outrun its lava flows. When the eruption subsided, the earth would be more fertile and the threat of famine would recede a little. Fatum would return to her destroyed cottage, rebuild it and then plant some corn and sweet potatoes. Life would go on.

Water dripped on to her face from one of the many leaks overhead. As she turned her face from the shivering bodies all around her, a silent tear flowed down her cheek and kissed her lip. It carried with it a viral organism from space.

Bar La República, Figueres, Spain

The bar was unusually busy for a Wednesday night. Besides the scattering of locals, a few Dalí-obsessed tourists had decided to stay locally for the night, before setting off for Barcelona next morning. There were also some unusual strangers; three women, who had arrived in town that day. Having spent the day in the Dalí Theatre Museum, they had been in the bar all evening, drinking San Miguel beer, vodka shots and absinthe.

'How many do we expect?' asked a woman, their leader.

'Based on experience, anything from twelve to twenty. Fifteen is good, it gives us a broad sample.'

'This Dalí gives me hope.'

'But what about his crucifixion obsession? Religion has such a grip, still, on these creatures. I worry that they're still only a step up from the slime, unable to think for themselves.'

It suddenly occurred to the proprietor at about 3am that they weren't even slightly drunk.

'Mind if I join you for a nightcap?' said Miguel to the group. They sat at a table beyond the bar counter, from where there was a clear view of the door.

'Of course not', said the leader, pulling a chair across from an adjacent table.

'I brought a bottle of the finest brandy Spain has ever produced. It's made not far from here. This bottle is twenty-seven years old. So tell me,' he ventured, 'where are you from?'

'Very far away,' she said, knocking back a shot of Stolichnaya Russian vodka, without even the vaguest grimace. She immediately poured another, also topping up any slightly un-full glass she saw and filling a fresh glass for Miguel. The others smiled at her answer.

'From your accent, I think America, yes? East coast? New York, New Jersey?'

'Not exactly. We don't really consider ourselves to belong to any country. We like to travel.'

'Free spirits, yes? I like that. Now let's have a drink,' said Miguel as he poured six generous measures of brandy into six fresh glasses.

'Salud!' was exclaimed repeatedly by all. Glasses clinked. Wine that had been fermented into a stronger beverage was drunk greedily.

He wasn't exactly comfortable with the strangers, but he found them likeable. They drank for two more hours, by which time Miguel was very tipsy. The strangers were in good form, in complete control as they said _Buenas noches_. Miguel staggered around the bar, checking the ashtrays and locking the windows and doors. He normally swept up after closing, tonight he felt lazy. But his mind raced drunkenly, veering, leaning, twisting. He didn't know it, but an alien virus was the mixer in his vodka.

Tom woke in a cold sweat. A glance at his watch told him that it was 5.30am. The sun wasn't yet up and a cold wind howled against his bedroom window. His head ached and his mouth was dry.

'Don't tell me it's the fucking flu coming on again!', he exclaimed.

'Huh?', muttered his wife, turning to face him.

'I feel like shit,' he answered, 'could be the flu or something.'

She rubbed her eyes, switched on the bedside lamp and looked at him intently.

'You look like shit, honey.'

'Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.'

'Why don't you take some painkillers and vitamin C - you might be sorted by morning?'

'Good idea.'

He crawled over his wife and slipped out of the bed. The house was as cold as a tomb, so he put on a dressing gown and his wife's pink, fluffy slippers. The journey to the kitchen - all ten metres of it - seemed to take forever. His head just wasn't right and every bone ached. Looking for the pills, he rummaged through every cupboard in the kitchen, checking cereal boxes, biscuit barrels and empty pots. Only when he was looking in the fridge, did it occur to him that he was behaving strangely.

'What the hell am I doing looking for headache pills in the damned fridge?' he asked himself. No answer. While he searched vainly through his short-term memory banks for the answer, some critical mass was reached within him and everything was changed, changed utterly.

Waves of colour flashed through his mind. Bizarre patterns, like some forgotten language raced across his eyes; numbers emerged in pairs from floating clouds. FOUR - TWO. TWO-SIX. SEVEN-NINE. ZERO-TWO. NINE-FIVE, EIGHT-EIGHT. His brain felt... well, he could actually feel his brain inside his skull, for the first time in his life. It wasn't like a headache; it felt like he was on drugs, acid maybe. But Tom had never taken drugs in his life.

'Could someone have spiked me?' he wondered aloud. His mind raced back to the local pub where he'd had a quick pint of Guinness after work. He looked around the pub in his memory: old man with pint and cigarette watching horse racing on TV and muttering _fucking pricks_ at the end of every race; three young builders sitting at the bar, covered in plaster and swigging pints of lager so as to squeeze the gypsum from their pores; small group of office workers huddled together around an old butcher's block that had been cleaned of blood, varnished and turned into a table. Nobody threatening stood out in his mind.

He realised that he had never left his single pint while in the bar. It then dawned on him that he could often only remember his name after much concentration. How had his memory suddenly become sharp enough to visualise everyone who had been in the pub almost twelve hours previously?

'Fuck! What's happening to me?' he exclaimed, loud enough for his wife to call out.

'Going mad, Tom?'

'Quite possibly', he replied, walking with slow, deliberate steps back to the bedroom. 'Honey, have I been acting a little weird tonight?'

'No more than usual. Why do you ask?'

'I have this bizarre sensation in my head, like I'm on drugs or something. My memory is better than it's ever been and there are numbers floating around my mind that I can't make sense of.'

'Do you feel particularly bad? How's your headache?'

'No headache, no pain. I actually feel great!'

'Then how bad? Maybe those numbers will win us the lottery? Come on back to bed and try thinking of six numbers. Grab a notepad and pen so you can write them down when you wake up.'

'Good idea.'

Tom got back into bed. Even before he rubbed up against his wife, he was feeling desperately horny. Typically, they had sex once or maybe twice a month so, with only two hours left to _rise and shine_ , he knew he had his work cut out to achieve the three orgasms he knew he needed.

He had his three orgasms, she had five. They did it all 'til they were raw. All this and time for thirty minutes' kip before the mobile phone alarms began chiming in unison at 7.30am.

Tom immediately rose to an upright position, grabbed the notepad and began scribbling down the numbers that came into his mind's eye.

'Forty-two, twenty-six, seventy-nine, two, ninety-five, eighty-eight... that's it... six numbers!'

'Lottery only goes as high as forty-two, sexy. You've only got three.'

'Shit.'

Mel woke in a pool of sweat. Her night shirt, which said _You sexy thing_ across her breasts, clung to her body while beads of perspiration flowed from her forehead into her eyes when she sat up. _Damn eyebrows, earn your keep!_ Her bedroom felt cool. She rubbed her eyes, got her dressing gown from the hook on the inside of the bedroom door and headed for the bathroom. As she sat on the toilet, her robe and night shirt held up on her lap, she suddenly felt very dizzy. She clutched the sink beside her and used it to support her fading body. She stood up, turned around to face the toilet, then vomited her guts up.

After a few minutes, she was dry-retching

Mina, one of the beautiful planets orbiting Betelgeuse, the giant red sun on Orion's shoulder, a star so big that Jupiter's _orbit_ would comfortably fit inside - Early evening, 1462.

It had been yet another perfect day on Mina. Its three billion inhabitants and further five billion holidaymakers had spent their time in all the usual ways - swimming in the warm, orange seas, relaxing on the cool, black sand that fringed the oceans on all sides, drinking cocktails from across the nebula in any of the million or so beach bars or just finding somewhere quiet with a loved one and making squelchy noises together, or all of these and more.

The giant sun was setting on that day like any other, at least for the lucky ones on the side of the planet that had actually had a day. The poor saps on the other side were just about to get the nastiest wake-up call imaginable. The sun generally filled about ninety-five percent of the sky over Mina and, as it slid over the horizon each day, flanked by palm trees from every possible angle, about six billion glasses clinked in salute. The clinking was audible to the tiny, multi-winged fly as it sucked blood from a Malerian root salesman, who had arrived on Mina with his family just that afternoon. The sound meant nothing to the creature, who continued exchanging bodily fluids from the offworlder - Universal anaesthetic in, sweet blood out.

The clinking crescendo faded as the last of the sun became warped by atmospheric effects. But the warping continued after the solar disc should have disappeared. It grew in size. To the casual observer, it looked as though the sun was rising again, back from where it had gone. However, by this time, there weren't many casual observers left on Mina, at least on the sunset side. People were starting to get a little bit worried. As well they might, for Betelgeuse had reached the end of its fusion cycle. It had simply run out of fuel, as all suns must. This had greatly reduced the forces at work in its heart and, with a subsequent loss of gravity, the sun expanded to three times its normal diameter. All this took about the same amount of time as it takes to finish a cocktail and ask for another. Nobody got that drink

The massive shockwave of the exploding sun hit the planet like a hammer hitting a grape. One second there was a living planet with lots of confused holidaymakers from a dozen different worlds looking for drinks and the whole societal system that's needed to make such an situation possible. Next second, there was a smouldering ball of hot, lifeless rock. Mina's entire atmosphere and all its surface material were vaporised and blown into space.

You could say it was the Mother of All Sunsets.

Deep space - After the Betelgeuse event

Not too much happens in deep space. At least, not on a human scale. On a molecular and quantum scale, though, a cubic metre of apparently empty vacuum teems with activity. The cubic metre of space that we're currently concerned with contains tens of billions of molecules, packets of energy and mysterious forces.

The molecules are generally hydrogen; the most plentiful substance in the Universe, the element that powers all suns. There are molecules of almost every other substance too, especially helium - what suns turn hydrogen into, giving off immense quantities of energy as a by-product - and oxygen, iron and carbon.

The energy packets we find in our 'empty' space include photons of light rushing headlong from an unknown sun - a sun that may no longer exist, yet its light continues through the Universe. There are also X-rays, cosmic rays and lots of other kinds of rays. Then there are the signals from information and entertainment broadcast systems - zigzagging around the Universe from a huge number of developed planets, capable of being received and decoded by anything out there with rudimentary signal receiving and decoding apparatus.

Mysterious forces. The gravity that causes stars to ignite and burn for millions of years also causes apples to fall from trees on Earth, yet no Earth scientist truly understands what it is. It is the fundamental mysterious force of the Universe.

In the middle of all this activity, a cloud of dust rushed towards Earth, propelled by light. It contained water, soil and organic molecules. It also contained molecules of blood and viruses from the assorted blood-sucking creatures that had been dining happily on Mina when everything went bang.

Earth orbit - Monday, February 4, 2002

One race that does understand gravity developed from the swamps of Ergo, an Earth-like planet about two and a quarter billion light years from Sol. Three important things here: One - the Ergons evolved intelligence about three million years before Neanderthals were wiped out by Homo sapiens on Earth. Two - when you've mastered an understanding of gravity, distances of up to a trillion light years are like walking from your living room to your bathroom. Three - they've been tuning in to Earth broadcasts ever since Marconi sent his first signals across the Atlantic Ocean.

An Ergo ship had been in orbit around Earth for decades. It was manned by a small crew of fifty and its key role was to monitor, observe, analyse and report on all the system's life forms. Nothing happened on the planets and moons between Jupiter and Venus that wasn't seen by the impossible variety of receivers that bristled all over the ship's hull.

The ship itself was cube-shaped, a kilometre on a side, and so matt black that only a supernova would glisten on its surface. Completely invisible to the people of Earth.

So the cloud of dust from Mina approached Earth. Before it began to interact with the planet's atmosphere, resulting in the usual shooting star displays and cosmic rain, the Ergon ship positioned itself between the cloud and the planet. A wide hatch slid open. The dust cloud drifted in. The hatch closed. Inside the ship, each particle of dust was analysed and collated by type. The virus-containing particles were each injected with a small piece of DNA, just enough to alter their effect on human hosts. Another hatch opened on the opposite side of the ship and the dust passed out, as if nothing unusual had just happened. In fact, the second most far-reaching event in Earth history had taken place.

Within two hours, the dust motes had entered the Earth's atmosphere. Six hours later, they fell to Earth, found their hosts and began to compel each of them to make their way to grid reference forty-two, twenty-six, seventy nine, two, ninety-five, eighty-eight.

Then the sky lit up as the Betelgeusian supernova's shocked photons finally reached Earth. Any host who had been doubting was instantly sold. So four went to Dalí's hometown, to see the eggs on the battlements, to taste the art, _to feel_ , but not knowing why, to find the bar and their fifth, unaware that their actions and behaviour and natural levels of empathy, _of humanity_ , would lead to a decision.

Will earth live or die?

 42.2679, 2.9588

11. GHOST IN THE GRAIL

Dublin, Ireland \- 2003

My senses fade. Nerves switching off, withering. Confused sensations. My right eye is free. When I open it, I see a dark orange panorama of colour. Like a glorious African sunset. But it's my quilt cover, an inch away from my pupil. My hearing is still okay and easily picks up the melodies from the CD playing on my computer across the bedsit. Set to repeat on an endless loop until I'm found or the power is cut off again. Some U2, _Best of 1990-2000_. Those were my best years. _Even better than the real thing._

I wonder what tune will be on when they break down my door. My sense of smell is limited, my nose pressed into the quilt. I detect the vague mustiness of sweat, skin, semen and the emissions of the invisible hordes of arachnid mites that share my bed. All yours now, boys. My fingers are blunt, like when they're frozen from playing snowballs. I know the bony springs are there in the mattress, just under my fingertips, but I can't make them out. My mouth has the dry taste of chalk and sour grapes. My stomach and bladder groan from the pressure of two pint glasses of water, thirty-six dissolved paracetamol-codeine tablets, a bottle of fairly pleasurable and expensive Bordeaux, a few large measures of cheap vodka and, for luck, five Valium, which slid down like oysters.

Before I collapsed on the bed, I smoked a large joint. Irish-grown, hydroponic skunk. Not bad. Just to take the edge off the poisons. That was ten minutes ago. Now, face down on my rumpled bed in my squalid bedsit, I know I'm dying. You could say I'm totally fucked here. _It's alright, it's alright, it's al-right._

I'm lying in bed with my parents. Sunday morning. I'm about two or three. The sun's gushing in through a roof window. We're at the top of granny's house. I'm playing with a Dinky toy. It's a little red combine harvester and I'm harvesting my dad's chest hair. Mam laughs. Beautiful.

I want to piss, but I can't move. My thumb twitches. That's the sum total of my body's response to my brain's command to push myself up off the bed. Wasting away. Does it matter that I've pissed myself when they find me? Hardly. It comes out anyway. Vague warmth in my crotch, but I'm barely aware. Don't care. My complex mental processing system, the most powerful tool in Creation, begins to switch off. I sense that the sphincter that holds my bowel contents in will quit soon. I still don't care.

School. Plenty of alienation, but no more than anyone else. The time when one of the lads glues all the classroom doors shut over lunch hour. The raging, red-faced Brothers and the handyman taking the doors off the hinges. What a laugh. It was me.

The Grail is within reach. Take me to that other place. I expect feelings of warmth more intense than from pissing myself, but they don't come. The most powerful sensation is a stabbing pain in my lower back. My liver. Choking in vast quantities of paracetamol and alcohol, it's in danger. Without a functioning liver, my blood becomes poison in minutes. Then I die.

Sex leads me to the Grail. In a way. First time. In a tomb in a graveyard. Believe that? We're kissing and feeling. Then I say I wish we had a condom. Then she says _Well I do_. So I say _Can we?_ She says _Yes_. Dark outside, but moonlight. Her skin is silvery. I fall in love a few more times. Then I meet The One. A summer in Ibiza. Then a rainy autumn in Dublin. Then she goes away. Hates the climate. _You're in my mind, all of the time._

So I spend my abundant free time learning. I'm seeking the meaning of life. As far as I can tell, there is no secret. No meaning. I search for it. It eludes me. Nobody else seems to know the answer either. I flirt with anyone who thinks they know. No good. The internet, the library, the church, the mosque. These are my temples of questions. Also the pub and the brothel. Dianetics, Hare Krishna, Buddha, yoga, all that crap. Tell me about it.

The beach. I'm maybe ten. I catch a little red crab. He's in a pool I make by the Atlantic's edge. I'm delighted with myself. When we have to leave the beach, I cry. I don't understand. I'm told to be a man. But how? I'm only ten. The crab is left to fend for herself.

I'm aware of my heartbeat. It pounds through my ears. It's slow. The pain in my liver is intense. I'm starting to twitch. It's in my hips, my spine. Every few minutes. The piss flows in spasms. I want a cigarette. Any brand, I don't care.

While I search fruitlessly for The Answer, the ghost comes to me. Quietly. Coolly. I'm sitting on the grass in the park one day. It's sunny. Humid. Nice girls in miniskirts. Birds gathering twigs. Nice smoke. Bells ringing somewhere nearby. Kind of idyllic. This guy walks over to me and casually introduces himself as Frank. He's old, a real codger. He's wearing a beige shirt, buttoned down at collar and cuffs. He's got big, brown, old man's shades on and a straw boater. And slacks. Brown, polyester slacks. He says _Hello_ and sits right down, creaking and complaining. Then he tells me how he's a ghost. Straight out. I say _Prove it_. So he takes off his old man's shades and there, where his eyes should be, are two pools of inky black nothing. I say _Okay, you're a ghost, now what?_ He tells me that I need to find the Holy Grail, the actual Holy Grail, as that's where my answers are. I say _Yeah, how would you know?_ He tells me that he's a ghost from the future and he knows what will make me happy. I say _Okay_ and he sits there for an hour more, saying nothing. So I turn to drugs _. Take you out of this place._

I search more. I watch _Excalibur_ , by John Boorman. It's on TV the night I meet the ghost, which I take to have deep meaning. The Grail is an Arthurian legend, but the film doesn't tell me much. Just that everyone who seeks it dies. And you have to be pure of heart to find it. That's me fucked then, I laugh. I rent _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. Not as funny as it used to be. I make a mental note to avoid white rabbits. I get more facts from a Discovery Channel documentary and the web. Turns out the Grail is the cup that Jesus used at the Last Supper, water into wine, and some of his blood was collected in it as he died on the cross. Charming. Somehow this gives the Grail mystical powers. It lets you have communion with God. That's what I want. There are four or five churches around Europe and the Middle East that claim to have the actual, genuine Grail. I'm sure they're all hopelessly deluded. One is near Glastonbury and I waste weeks planning a joint Grail/Festival trip before I realise that, without a job or savings, I'm stuck in Dublin, probably forever. _What you don't have, you don't need it now_.

The light is fading. Sunset outside. With angry cars and snarling motorbikes instead of hyenas and wildebeest. Thinking about the time I find a MiniDisc player on the bus. It's a nice one. Sony. New. I put it in my pocket. I can confirm that your life does flash through your mind as you die. Bits here, pieces there. But I can also confirm that suicide is not painless. My liver is fucking crucifying me here _. Is it getting better, or do you feel the same?_ The same.

The Grail only appears in literature about the twelfth century. Then it becomes part of pop culture. Dark Ages pop culture. I think about it and figure the Grail is simply a work of fiction. There's no mention of it anywhere in the twelve hundred years from Jesus's crucifixion. Then we get Chretien de Troyes's unfinished poem _Le Conte de Graal_. The guy Chretien makes it up and it catches on with both peasants and royals. In the fifteenth century, Thomas Malory's _Le Morte d'Arthur_ ties the Grail legend to the myth of England.

So there's no physical Grail, just the idea. Communion with God. It's all in your head. The ghost comes back. I'm in a bar. Another sunny day. Quiet pint and a cigarette. He sits beside me. I order him a whiskey and water. Jameson. I just know that's what he drinks. He swallows it and we talk. I'm the only one who notices anything strange about a guy like me having a pint and a chat in a pub with ghost. He tells me about how I'm right. The Grail is just a fiction. I feel good. He goes on to say how all religion is also a fiction. Everything humans take as being real is false. Everything. I'm not too surprised. I generally arrive at the same conclusions myself. The only truth is that which is witnessed. All else is fiction. Energised by this affirmation, I discuss media conspiracies, pseudo-democracy and the class system that keeps everything running smoothly. The ghost nods at the appropriate times. I feel he is a kindred spirit.

_Your dad's dead_ , says mam. I tell her she's a liar. She says _No, he crashed the car_. She cries and tries to hug me. I run away. He'd promised to bring me to the match. The liar.

I order more drinks and he takes a cigarette. He comes closer and whispers to me. He says that the Grail is a metaphor. It symbolises the act of becoming God. And it is attainable. Easily attainable. Here she comes.

I think about this for a long minute or two, watching the smoke from my cigarette escaping lazily into the mellow afternoon. So I ask _How?_ So he tells me _Death_. Death is the transition from finite chemical life to infinite spiritual life. He knows. He is the proof. _If you could see what I've seen_ , he says.

I'm Hamlet in the school play. My friend Jack plays the ghost. Good craic. A creaky stage, old costumes, the Brothers helping the younger boys in the dressing rooms. The ghost is Hamlet's murdered father. Hamlet's search for meaning is fruitless.

Suicide is the answer, he says. No big deal. Once you're tired of being a chemical reaction with a spirit trapped inside, you toss the chemistry set aside. This is how you release the spirit. No bother. Easy. Everyone's doing it, for Christ's sake. Man enough? Man enough to take the plunge? To become a God by choice, rather than wait for the pitiful agonies of old age? By choice. _Faraway, so close, up with the clouds_.

I tell him I'm ready and he tells me to look up the internet to find the best way to do it. Then he gets up and leaves, without even thanking me for the drinks. I drink some more.

When I look it up, I see that paracetamol, alcohol and tranquilisers are the way forward. Dole day. I buy the Solpadeine in two different chemists, two twenty-fours, soluble of course. The codeine helps to numb my nerves while the paracetamol kills my liver. Some Valium I get from a mate who can get anything, even Viagra. No more need of them for me. I'm going beyond sex. I'm making love to the Universe. Then the alcohol, which I buy from the red-nosed drunk in my nearest off-licence. He says I must be having a party. I say _Kind of, yeah_. Now I'm ready.

Senses almost gone. I can move my right eyeball up a little, so I see the corner of the window. The moon rises, I think. A cold, stark light blazes onto a dying world. And this dying me.

I feel a presence. The hairs on the back of my neck feel it too. He's back. The sensation of somebody sitting down on the bed beside me. He talks. I can hear his words, but it's like he's far away, down a long tunnel. _Did you come to raise the dead?_

'You've done it now,' he whispers.

'I have,' I try to reply.

'You're a brave man,' he says, 'or a foolish one.'

'Foolish?'

'Well, why did you take me at face value so easily?'

'What?'

'I mean, how do you know I'm really from the future? You don't even know who I am.'

'You're a ghost. Your eyes - ' I'm confused. Low, heavy alarm bells begin to sound in my tired brain. Life is evaporating. My chemical reaction, the one that started with a sperm and an egg, is fizzing out. _Darling, look at you._ 'Who are you?'

'Who do you think I am?'

'I thought you were my father, like in _Hamlet_.'

'Sorry buddy, I'm just the last guy.'

'Who?'

'I'm the last guy who got the Grail obsession. Then I killed myself when I couldn't handle the truth, the nothingness. He told me to. I floated until I found you. Soon I can pass on to oblivion. That's just the way things are.'

'So, no answers?'

'None. I'm from inside your head. You brought me here. You made all this. Some would say you're mad. It's sad really.'

'What's sad?'

'It's sad that you're dying. You're stuck. Stuck badly. Listen, before you go, you want the good news or the bad news?'

'Good.'

Stuck in a moment and you can't get out of it.

'Okay. The good news is that at least you're about to find out about God, heaven, infinity and all that.'

'Bad?'

'It's all fiction. I've been around.'

A long silence and a kind of peace. My search is over.

'Heavy shit.'

'There is no heavier shit, my boy, than what's waiting for you. Sorry.'

'Stay.'

Then the fizz turns to silence. The life is gone, dissipated to nothing. The chemical husk remains on the piss-soaked mattress, already decaying.

And now I am the Ghost in the Grail. I sit on park benches. I wait outside libraries. I walk the wet streets. I witness the living, with their petty worries and their laughter and their fears and the tiny pleasures just waiting to be found in every second of life. And I feel like such a damned fool, in my slow, grey world.

So I wait patiently for a host, the imagination of one more desperate knight on a doomed quest.

12. SERVICE NOT INCLUDED

Dublin, Ireland \- 2004

Slow night. Rainy, windy, cold. Fucking nasty all round, really. There was, of course, just a hint of madness in the air. Of course. The door opened, bringing a filthy gust and two customers.

'Oh fuck,' I said.

She said 'What?'

'Mr Baldy Cheap Cunt. You want him this time?'

'You saw him first.'

'Thanks a fucking million.'

So I grabbed two menus and went to Mr Baldy and Mrs Ugly. They stood nervously inside the door. This was their big night out. I formed a smile. With difficulty.

'Good evening. Table for two?'

Or are you expecting a dozen interesting friends? Hardly.

'Two, yes.'

So I showed them a nasty table, the one beside the service area, where they'd get bumped into by the staff throughout their meal.

'Any chance of a different table?' asked Mr Baldy.

I glanced around the restaurant. There was just a few decent tables left, plus the one beside the jacks.

'This one, maybe?' I suggested pointing to the table that would give them the wholesome scent of stale piss as they slurped their soup.

'Any chance of that one?' he asked, pointing to a good table. 'For a bit of privacy.'

'Sorry. Everything else is reserved,' I said. It was nearly nine, slim chance of many more coming in. The good tables could stay empty. Fuck him.

They stood there like fools, deciding which shitty table they'd take. Other customers tried to catch my eye. I ignored them. There was only one decent couple in the place, so I looked to see that they were okay. Grand. The rest were five-percenters or new faces, unknown quantities, assume the worst. Five-percenters would leave some change behind as a tip, a couple of quid, thinking they were doing you a huge favour. Sad, deluded cunts.

_Come on, you old fuckers. Pick a table or fuck off_. Fuck. I almost said that out loud.

'I think we'll take this one,' he finally said, choosing my first suggestion.

Thanks for wasting four minutes out of my finite lifespan, you fucking dimwits. Oh Christ, you need help taking your coats off? Hurry the fuck up.

'Your menus. Tonight's soup is carrot and coriander. Our special is lobster linguini. Can I get you a drink while you look at the menus?'

'Just water, please,' she said. She could talk after all.

'Bottled or tap water?' I asked, knowing the answer.

'Tap water is fine, thanks,' he said. Yeah, push the boat out, why don't you?

I went and got a carafe of chilled water from the fridge. I poured it down the drain and filled up with a mix from the hot and cold taps. Two glasses and there you go.

Scanned the place, all happy. Time for a two minute breather before having to face those fucks. Out the back for a quick smoke. Standing at the open doorway, inhaling the restaurant kitchen smells of sudsy water, morbid rubbish and a vague staleness that's always there in the background. The fridges hummed happily and the bug zapper crackled gaily.

'You seen the boss?' asked Chang. Young chef. Chinese.

'No. He's probably doing some paperwork with Lynn.' I gestured down the dark, narrow corridor to the manager's office. A chink of light escaped from under his door.

'Shaggy-shaggy?' he asked. His face lit up. Chinese guys might put on a stupid act, but they don't miss a trick.

'Shaggy-shaggy is right. What's the problem anyway?'

'Customer complaining out front. You talk to them?'

'Couldn't be arsed. Go knock.'

So I smoked while keeping an eye on Chang as he knocked on the door and shouts something. After a long twenty seconds, the door opened. Just a crack. Chang had a chat with the boss, who looked at me with a sheepish grin. I winked and finished my cigarette, stubbing it out in a rotten melon.

Back to the floor to the one making the complaint. Lynn had served her and her fat husband. She was late delivering the mains because she was giving the boss a blowjob. So I'd dropped the food down and made sure all was okay. But Lynn should have known better. But so the fuck what? You expected bonded slavery when you came out to eat, did you? What percentage do you leave for service typically? No sign of Liam yet. Finishing off. I decided, Fuck it, to get involved, could be funny.

'Can I help you at all, at all, madam?'

'I'm waiting to see the manager.'

'I'm afraid he's involved in an emergency situation out the back. Maybe I can help?'

So she blathered on and on about the slow service, the cold food, the weather and her husband's dicky leg. As I was thinking _May the ground open up and swallow you whole_ , Liam arrived and I wordlessly announced him and made my escape. Nothing funny there at all.

Lynn came out, her face flushed, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. _Dirty bitch!_ She knew I was looking, slack-jawed. She smiled at me.

Lynn ignored Liam and the irate customers and circulated. I went and got the order from the zero-percenters. After many minutes of tedious discussion about how spicy the soup was and how much meat was in the pasta dishes, they decided to stick with their regular order. Like clockwork, same night, every week, same order, same pain in my face, same no tip. Same fucking cunts.

I thanked them for their order with a forced smile. I put the order in and checked on the other tables. Nothing doing. A flurry of something at the door and eight people arrive together. I pushed two four-seaters together and smiled at the prospect of a decent tip. Dead night brought back to life. I recognised some of the faces. Regulars. Handy tippers. Excellent.

Two middle-aged, middle-class couples. Their twenty-something kids, two hot girls and bloke, plus a guy I hadn't seen before. Within a minute of their taking the table, I made him for a boyfriend. He smarmed his way in beside a young one and put his arm around her. Menus out and wine orders in. Lazarus is in good form, calling for the best, or something approaching it. Everyone laughed. Four bottles for starters, expensive stuff, a St Emilion from France and a decent Sauvignon Blanc from Australia. Reserve. Chilled water and some baskets of warm bread, no need to ask. Service.

That was it for the rush and the place quietened down considerably. By the time my party was finishing dessert, the restaurant was almost empty, just a few dawdling couples. The staff had started drinking.

I sipped my way through half a bottle of the house red, a decent Chianti, drinking from a coffee cup. Liam and Lynn chatted in the back kitchen, seemingly smitten. What Liam's wife would make of it I didn't know. Didn't care. Another sup of wine.

I checked through the bill for my party. Six bottles of wine and everyone on starters, mains and desserts. Would add up to about four hundred. I knew I'd get at least ten percent, nice boost to the night's earnings. Lovely. I wondered if I could talk any of the lads into heading for a late pint after work.

The zero-percenters called me over and asked for their cheque. I wasn't about to let those fucks spoil my night so I gave them a genuine smile.

Their bill was only fifty and I expected nothing, but I dutifully wrote SERVICE NOT INCLUDED anyway. I underlined the NOT. Three times. Gave it to them on a saucer, like a begging plate. And walked away.

Watched them root around for their glasses while bantering with the kitchen guys. They were all on beer, winding down after a couple of hours' purposeful frantic chaos. She found her glasses. She analysed the bill and they both tried to remember exactly what they'd ordered. Oh fuck off.

I strolled back to them and asked if everything was okay.

'What's this for?' she asked, pointing a fat, ring-covered finger at the bill.

'Service not included? Well, that means that I am paid minimum wage. That's seven quid an hour, same as starting salary at McDonald's.'

She gazed at me blankly. Him too. I had their attention and it felt good to be getting it off my chest. At last.

'So,' I continued, 'if you're happy to stand in line where the sum total of your staff interaction will be 'Super-size?', you should stick to fast food. If you want decent food with proper service, that's someone fetching you whatever you want, making sure your meal is cooked exactly as you'd like, clearing up your mess after you, then you should pay that little bit extra. You with me? It's how we earn a living.'

The both gawped, nodded imperceptibly.

'So anyway, it's customary to give a minimum of ten percent. Easy to work out. Divide your bill by ten. Less than that and you're a tight arse. That's what people in restaurants will call you. Give nothing at all and you're the lowest of the low, the filthy scrotum that drags behind a century-old pig as it frolics in shit. You are scum.' I let it sink in. 'You will be known as such by all the staff and even some customers. You will never get special treatment and staff will never go out of their way to look after you, even if they easily can. That's how it works.'

It was good. Spilling it out had an energising effect. I looked around and spotted Lynn and a couple of the girls looking over, laughing. I smiled back. The big party was done. One of the men called me for the bill. I told him Two seconds. I had to finish.

'On the other hand, in America, anything less than fifteen percent is an insult. They've a service economy, y'see. We're only getting there, take a while yet. And if you're really happy with the service, pay twenty, twenty-five, whatever. You'll be thanked and remembered for it. One final thing. Some restaurants don't even pay minimum wage. And some will automatically add on a service charge and then pass on only a fraction, if anything, to the stuff. They're complete scum, but known about in the trade. Their day will come. And in many places, like here even, the waiting staff share their tips, however meagre, with the guys in the back who do all the shittiest work, y'know, bringing up the rear. Okay, I'll be right back.'

I gave them a broad smile and left them to ponder my words, she with her ugly mouth open, finger still pointing at the bill, he with his head in his hands.

Totted up the big bill. Four-thirty. Sweet. A couple of the sous-chefs were up for a club. Mad fuckers, but good for a laugh. Perfect. And I now had a good story to tell.

Put the bill on a saucer, threw on a handful of hard, white mints. Then, catastrophe.

Young guy who's shagging the daughter suddenly appears beside me, almost causing me to spill my wine.

'Sorry, you can't come behind here,' I stammered.

This was ominous. Whenever a guy from a large party came to you on his own, that meant he wanted to pay the bill and come off as Mr Fucking Fantastic to the rest. Unfortunately, this apparent largesse almost always concealed the fact that he was a tight cunt and wouldn't, or couldn't, pay any tip. My heart sank as he offered me a credit card.

'Can you keep it quiet,' he asked, 'I want to pay the bill.'

His French accent annoyed me, like he was putting it on. I took a deep breath as the till printed out the whopping bill. Slowly, deliberately and right in front of him, I wrote SERVICE NOT INCLUDED on the bill and handed it to him without a saucer. He gave it a quick look but was too drunk to know what it said. It was bang-on, so he needn't have worried.

'Fine, can you take MasterCard?' he asked.

'Certainly, just hang on there a second.'

I went down to the machine, passing Lynn and the other girls. They'd changed and were putting on lip gloss and eyeshadow. Christ, they were hot.

'We're heading down to Miss Mandy's for a late cocktail,' said Monita, an amazing beauty from Brazil who'd been there a couple of weeks but had never been so forward with me. Christ!

'Sounds good to me,' I smiled. 'I won't be long, ye can head on.'

'We'll wait.'

The card went through okay, so I rejected the transaction and brought it back to him.

'Sorry, the machine won't recognise this one,' I said.

He went red for an instant, but recovered and offered me his Visa. I got a look at a few more cards in his wallet and decided just to take it, mention the tip and get out fast. I could have just kept rejecting his cards all night, but I was in a rush.

He signed the transaction slip and put nothing in beside GRATUITY. As he handed the slip and pen to me, I reminded him that service wasn't included. He just gawped at me and said something in French. Then he returned to the table, announced that he'd paid the bill and everyone cheered his generosity. Fucking prick.

I totted up the rest of the night's tips. I gulped some wine when I saw that it just wouldn't be enough. Just not enough. No Miss Mandy's for me tonight if Frogboy doesn't change his tune. My head began to throb and pulsate. Not pain, just the drink having an effect. I got a kind of tunnel vision and my focus landed on the zero-percenters' payment. They'd sat patiently while I did up the other bill, like they were waiting for change. Let's see.

I picked up the saucer. The bill was forty-nine seventy. On the saucer was a fifty and a five. My head throbbed faster.

'That's for you,' said the woman.

'Thanks a million,' I said. It was ten percent. Unbelievable.

They got up with difficulty and wrapped coats around complaining bodies.

'Good night,' I said.

I put their money in the till, took the extra thirty cent tip and told the waitresses about my success. They were delighted and swore they'd do the same from now on. Maybe a waiting revolution had begun.

But there was still the matter of the lack of tip on table four. Time to stand up and strike another blow for waiters everywhere. In most restaurants there'd be a mandatory service charge for more than six people, but Liam and his bosses had just dropped that. Idea was to make us work harder for our service payment, the cunts. Still a sore point.

They were up now, putting on coats and kissing each other goodnight. The bill sat on the table, no pile of money anywhere. The French bollocks was still taking his plaudits, worming his way into her knickers via Mum and Dad's admiration of his generosity and apparent financial success.

My Dutch courage propelled me towards her father. A regular customer. Decent bloke. Generous.

'Was everything all right for you tonight?' I asked.

'Yes,' he smiled, 'as per usual.'

'Good. Just to let you know that he didn't pay any service.'

He looked at me dumbly. Drunk.

'Not a cent. Would you believe that?'

'Not a fucking cent?' he slurred.

'Nada.'

'I never liked the bastard anyway. And she's only brought him home from Brussels last week.'

'Don't tell me he's Belgian,' I said, dizzy with that momentary zooming vision effect, an intense buzzing in my head.

'Yeah. He's from Brussels. Don't like him one bit. Hang on there a second.'

He turned away and made for the Belgian. _History!_ He said something accusatory, a certain harshness to his voice. The others stopped to hear. The Belgian stared at me, his face reddening, his embarrassment palpable.

Suddenly Lynn was at my shoulder.

'Come on, are you ready yet?'

'Just a sec, Lynn. You won't believe this. See Belgian dude there?'

She nodded.

'Well he picked up the whole tab and stiffed me on the tip. So I told prospective father-in-law, who doesn't like me man anyway.'

'Fucking nice one,' she said.

She went and got the others. We stood and gaped and drank while the kitchen porters cleaned around us.

I almost felt sorry for the Belgian. Almost. He stood there and took it as his girlfriend's old man ranted about his lack of manners, his sexist remarks, his body odour, his poor dress sense, his general unsuitability and his underlying sleaziness. The girl stormed out, followed by her mother, who looked plain confused.

After a relentless bollicking, the Belgian apologised like a little girl, almost crying. There would be no future for him with these people now. He could see that. His head hung, his arms dangled.

'So what about the tip?' screamed his oppressor, sensing victory. Final and complete humiliation.

Everyone winced. Everyone looked at the Belgian. He mouthed something. Inaudible.

'What? What was that?'

'I said I have no money, only cards.'

'Could you not have put a tip on the card?'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'I suppose so. Well, now I'll have to put my hand in my pocket to cover for your bad manners. Right?'

The Belgian nodded and stared at the floor. Liam appeared and couldn't suppress a laugh when I told him the story. The Belgian heard him and looked our way, a kind of burning anger in his eyes. A quick collection was made, a wad of notes put into the Belgian's hand and a thumb jerked in my direction. The Belgian walked slowly to the counter. He handed me the money.

'Your tip,' he said.

'Thanks a million,' I said, trying to sound chirpy. 'See you again soon.'

'Were you laughing at me?' he asked.

'Me?' I asked back.

'All of you,' he replied.

Nobody said a word.

'Were you laughing at me?' he shouted, slamming his hand down on the counter.

'Fuck this,' said Liam, 'I've had enough.'

He moved around to the front of the counter, calling for Chang and Freddy, our two biggest, maddest chefs.

'I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, please,' he said patiently.

'You were laughing at me,' he cried indignantly.

'Yeah, right, well the show's over. Okay?'

That Okay? is the last thing I can remember with any clarity. The Belgian took a swipe at Liam, clocking him on the jaw. Not too hard, but hard enough to put him down. Chang and Freddy jumped on the Belgian and tried to manhandle him out the door. He fought them like a crazed bastard. Maybe he sensed that there was no going back for him now. Not after this. Some primitive switch was tripped in his brain and he was fighting now for his very survival. In a second, I was in the thick of it all, punching the fucker to quieten him down, lashing in a few kicks. The boys pummelled him with hard blows. We pulled and dragged him to the door. Liam got up off the ground and waded in with fists and feet flying.

By the time we had him outside the door, he'd stopped fighting back. In fact, he was limp. Liam checked for a pulse. Nothing. I called an ambulance. It arrived quickly, its flashing blueness pulsating through my numb brain. The remaining members of the Belgian's dinner party stood around wailing and screaming. I sat inside the door, a bottle of wine in my hand and a cigarette on my lip.

Before the ambulance guys said it, I knew the Belgian was dead. We never made it to Miss Mandy's that night. The following weeks were a blur of court appearances, work, drink and drugs.

So now I'm in a squalid cell in Mountjoy with three other blokes, all inner city hard men. We share our pornography, phone credit and hash. It's not so bad, I suppose, still better than back home in the Democratic Republic of the bastard Congo. I'm helping out in the kitchen, spooning slop onto trays, but with a flair. That's what service is all about. I'm trying to come up with some sort of _Shawshank Redemption_ scheme to get out, but that's just a fantasy. I'll be back in the real world in less than two months, anyway. Funny how I was the only one who did time. Pain in the arse, actually. But I'm sure Liam will look after me when I get back. Back to what? What life after this shit-hole? Nothing will be the same again, that's for sure. But at least I got my tip that night. Sixty-five lovely Euros. That's nearly fifteen percent!

13. THE ERASED MAN

Limerick, Ireland - 2010

He first noticed that his life was being erased on the long drive from the city back to the town of his childhood. The new motorway sliced through the countryside at one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour and, yes, it helped you get there faster. But the events were gone. All those little places that he drove through for twenty years or more, the sleepy country towns and villages, often no more than a pub and a crossroads, but places nonetheless. Were they still there? Like a tree falling in the forest, he mused, if I don't witness them, are they still there?

Back in the place where he grew up, he passed the school where the teachers used to slap him with rulers or drumsticks or leather straps. A new building now. Still a school, but the musty old building where he learned to multiply two by four was no longer in existence. The little sweet shop where Mrs Cavanagh sat on a high stool behind rows of big plastic jars full of liquorice allsorts and bulls' eyes and pear drops, now a printer cartridge refill place. The patch of waste ground behind the factory where he snatched a kiss from that girl on the way to the match, now a lump of unsold apartments with their windows smashed.

Progress, he figured. Anyway, who am I? Every seven years the cells in my body are completely replaced by new ones. I have been six different people. Six-and-a-half. Forget about the traditional 'milestone' birthdays, a result of our obsession with tens. We should make a big deal of every seventh birthday. A new you! The sharp autumn sun hung low in the sky, brought on a dull, squinty headache.

He got to the house where he grew up, a melancholy cloud sharing the car. A smell of bonfire smoke from somewhere nearby. He rang the doorbell, a reflex. Nobody home. Nobody would ever be home again. He fished in his pockets and found the key. The house was still, just a vague musty smell betraying the lives that once cooked and ate and played and prayed in there. He turned on the lights, tried to give the place a lift. He looked out into the back garden, noticed a pillar of grey smoke climbing into the shockingly blue sky. Curious.

He found the back door key on top of the fridge, which was open and empty and off, just a half-consumed jar of pickled beetroot in there. Not even a feeble glow any more. Outside and through the overgrown garden, the potato plants and lettuces gone to seed. The smell of blight. There, beside the rotting compost, was a pile of stuff, papers mainly, turning to ash. That feeling, the hairs standing on your neck, the goosebumps. He looked around quickly, expected to see the ghosts of his parents. Nothing. _Then who did this?_

He squatted beside the fire and looked at the blackened fragments. Bank statements, insurance reminders, the paper junk we collect. But there, a photo, just the corner of it. That was the family portrait from a Christmas long gone, the one his grandfather took with the timer, everybody smiling at the fourth attempt to get it right. _Who would burn that?_ More. His school reports. His first homework copybooks, full of innocence and enthusiasm. I would have wanted to keep those, he said aloud. He stood and looked around again. That vague feeling of being watched.

He ran back to the house, up the stairs to his bedroom. The posters were gone from the walls, just little blue stains in fours there. All his comics and toys were missing, the wardrobes empty. He knew there was little point in keeping those things, just it was somehow comforting to know that they were there. He sat on the bare mattress and watched the smoke fading outside. But for his own memories, his childhood was gone, there was nothing tangible remaining, nobody left to tell the stories or to laugh at his boyish adventures.

There was nothing left for him there anymore. He locked up, glanced at the For Sale sign outside as he walked to the car. His phone buzzed. The message was from his wife and explained how she was taking their son and leaving and that he shouldn't bother trying to contact her. And good riddance.

He dropped the phone. Hands shaking, he called her. Funny tone, on-screen message: This number does not exist. He fumbled with his keys, scratched the paintwork, got into the car and drove like a lunatic until he reached the motorway, kept to a steady one-forty and damn the speed cameras. Halfway home, the niggling feeling about the little towns that had been bypassed just wouldn't go away, so he left the motorway, just to check. Up the off ramp, around a roundabout, then another, then another. And he was back on the motorway.

He fought the urge to take the next exit, drove on, wondered where his wife could be. Without a palpable childhood, without parents, without a job, a family, a family home, without any anchors to reality, what then was he? He sped through the night, no other traffic on the road, his headlights splashing a pool of light across the sullen blackness. He wondered if the city would still be there.

14. COME PARTY AT THE END OF THE WORLD!

Dublin, Ireland \- 2015

OFFICE BUZZ

Work was work and it was busy. Not the normal and everyday busy, but some new kind of a buzz. Their fancy social media web hub was live two weeks. Already one point two million registered users. The programmers frantically maintained it while the operations team frantically bought up server space to expand, expand.

'Server twelve's just packed up!'

'Fuck. Okay. We've got that one mirrored. I want everything doubled up from here on in,' said the boss. 'And check the damned load balancer. This shouldn't be happening.' He wore Converse sneakers and a Nirvana t-shirt. Every day.

This is how the site was supported: fat internet lines connected a small number of load balancing servers to the active servers, as many of these as possible. As a request for interaction with the website is received, the load balancers decide which server has the most capacity to deal with it. Ideally, the load balancer will send the request to a server in the same country as it's come from. What this means is shitloads of servers and damn good load balancers.

'Bad news, boss,' said an analyst. 'We're starting to take off in Asia. China. South Korea. Japan.'

'Again, fuck. Okay, it's time to get on to Amazon, use their AWS cloud servers, let their tech-heads worry about this shit.' He glanced at the clock on the far wall. Five-thirty. Friday. Okay. 'Guys,' he called. 'Guys!' Every face in the open plan office turned to him. 'Can someone turn the music down, please?'

An Italian intern went to the stereo and paused U2's _Joshua Tree_ , right in the middle of _In God's Country_. An unfinished jangle hung in the air.

'Okay, I might as well let you know now. I've been offered a lot of cash for the business. Some venture capital crowd from the States. They want to move fast.'

Collective intake of breath.

'Once any site hits the Alexa Top 20 instantly after launch, that's all they care about. We've built value, connected millions of people. People love what we've done. I've run through the numbers in our bonus scheme and it looks good for you guys too. You'll each be getting in the region of one-fifty k if the deal goes through.'

Applause.

'What about our jobs, boss? I mean, thanks for the money and all - '

'I understand. I know you could piss through the one-fifty in a Vegas week, Danny. '

'That's right.'

'It'll be part of the deal that everyone who wants to stay on can.'

Louder applause.

'I'm throwing a little thank you party, few weeks' time, country mansion down in Wicklow. You're all invited. A couple of friends will be there too, maybe a special guest. I guarantee it will be fun.'

Even louder applause. They liked to party.

'What are your plans, Steve?' Danny asked.

'I won't be staying on. I fear burnout and my work here is, as they say, done. I'll let you know at the party what's what. For now, let's throw some more servers at our users and get a price on the cloud servers. I'm buying.'

Then he went to the American-style fridge in the kitchen and got the half-dozen bottles of Möet that he'd hidden earlier, down in the salad drawer where nobody would see.

DOMINOS

Gert Müller had enjoyed a good fifty-five years. Sitting at his mahogany desk, Gert gazed out at the setting sun as it lit up Frankfurt's western suburbs. As president of the European Central Bank, Gert had pretty much everything a human could want.

But the report that lay before him, on that expensive, shiny desk, shattered his world. He poured a glass of Petrus 2005, inhaled its smell, savoured its remarkably complex flavours. He finished the bottle. Then he used his security clearance to quietly access the roof area of Eurotower, forty floors up. The sun had disappeared, leaving watery streaks of red across the dirty sky.

He worried for a moment about his wife. Then Gert jumped.

***

The suicide bomber sat on the bus as it chugged towards his target. The morning was clear and ordinary but the bus was really hot, the air conditioner switched off to save on gas. His fellow passengers sweated, read the depressing stories in the papers, listened to music on headphones, talked shit or texted on their phones. He hated them all.

The bus shuddered to a halt then, making one final lurch. The driver got up.

'We're out of gas,' he said.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and opened the doors for them. The bomber thought to just do it then, get it over with, just do it. But he decided to get closer to the target on foot. He was part of a bigger plan.

So he walked along International Drive, enjoyed the air, the feeling the sun gave his skin as the relentless traffic powered by, on its way to Disney World or Sea World or any of the fake worlds on offer.

A bluejay landed right in front of him, looked up, its head cocked to one side. It whistled something incomprehensible, then hopped twice and flew away. This made the bomber smile. Maybe it wasn't such a bad world after all, really. Still, it had to be destroyed. Oh well. On.

When he reached the Prime Outlet mall, he was disappointed that there were so few shoppers around. He went into the Converse store for a few minutes, to enjoy the air conditioning. He touched some of the sneakers but didn't buy anything. So he went to the food hall, bumped against an old lady as he went towards the Burger Guys' counter.

'Watch it,' she said, but she turned away when she saw his face, his expression.

Then he blew himself and everybody else - and their wet noodles and loaded burgers and firm sushi and drooping pizza - to aromatic dust.

***

The garbage sat in great, stinking piles all along the pavement. Paris reeked, even more than usual. Madame duBarry walked her dog - a bijon frise - to the boulangerie, as she did every morning.

This morning, the decades' accumulation of saturated fats in the arteries around her heart reached critical mass. The bloodflow was finally pinched, then stopped. Mme duBarry felt a fluttering in her chest, then a weakness in her right arm. Then she collapsed on the ground, the dog yapping.

Most of the passers-by passed by, as would be expected. Then a young man - a student of philosophy - stopped to help. There was a pulse, a faint one. He called the emergency services on his mobile phone. The call was answered after a couple of minutes, and he was put on hold.

While waiting, he massaged the woman's chest, like he'd seen so many times on TV. She was mumbling, slurring, dribbling. The dog continued barking.

The operator came on. So Matthieu described the situation, requested an ambulance, urgently. The operator asked for more information about the patient, her approximate age.

'I don't know. Eighty?'

'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm not sure,' he shouted. A few people had gathered by now, standing around. A man wearing a pinstripe suit took control of the dog, quietened it.

'I'm sorry. We cannot send an ambulance. The woman is too old. We just don't have the resources. If you can take her to the nearest hospital?'

'On my bike?' he shouted.

The operator hung up. The old woman died. The man in the suit took her dog home. Everyone carried on, Mme duBarry's body just left there with the sweating piles of rubbish.

***

Alice was tired, but she kept smiling.

'Come, mama. We're nearly there. Just a few more kilometres.'

Her mother was very sick. The baby was nearly ready to come out, but there shouldn't be so much hurting. Something was wrong.

'The clinic is near. The European doctor will make you better and the baby will be ok. Ok?'

'You are a good girl, Alice. Thank you.'

The day was hot and dry and like every other day. But the thudding agony made it stand out.

It was early evening when they reached the clinic. The sign said GOAL CLINIC FOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN. FUNDED BY THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND. A painting of a happy mother and her child, a flag of green, white, orange. Cote d'Ivoire? A small number of people sat around the entrance. But the gate was closed.

Alice brought her mother to the wall and made her sit down. A lady from the group stood and brought a bottle of water, which she offered to them both.

'Why is the clinic closed?' asked Alice.

'It's finished,' the woman said. 'They're all gone. Back to wherever they came from. They said _No more money, no clinic_. Since yesterday.'

There was a tear in the woman's eye. She was in pain.

Alice, too, cried. Her eight years of trial, her life, had just gone from impossibly hard to plain impossible.

A RECORDS

Steve worked late again. DNS. A and CNAME records needed updating for all the new servers. This was forensic work, requiring utter concentration and attention to detail. One mistake and everything would come crashing down. He didn't trust anybody else to do it right.

_Fuck_ , he thought, _hard to concentrate with Raquel there._

The programming intern from Barcelona sat beside him, watching everything. She took notes, jotted down IP addresses in case they had to roll the changes back, rescue the servers. She prompted Steve to take a screenshot after every alteration.

He could smell her.

'Steve!' she called. 'Stop! You've got that IP wrong.'

His fingers froze over the keyboard.

'Shit. You're right. Well done. I don't know how my focus slipped. I'm nearly ready for bed. Let's finish this one and grab a drink, yeah?'

LET IT OUT

The office was quite dark, the blinds drawn against the morning glare, just one table lamp glowing.

'So can you tell me more about how you're feeling?'

'How I'm feeling? Jesus. If I wasn't such an optimist I'd kill myself. I mean, the country's fucked. Fucked. Those cunts in the banks and their pals in high places, they screwed us all. And we fucking bail them out? Come on! It's the kids I feel sorry for. Their future's gone up in smoke. And it never stops fucking raining. And everybody's going around with a long face on them like they never saw it coming. That bugs me the most! Nobody gave a fuck about the emperor's new clothes when their properties were turning them into paper millionaires. Now they're all fucked and it's like some sort of shock. _Fuck them_.'

'But what can you do about it, Steve? Why bother with all this anger?'

Steve sat up on the chaise longue then, looked at his shrink. He shook his head, bit his lower lip.

'Why bother? Maybe you're right. I'm just going to get the fuck out of here, I've been thinking that. Yeah, this is one of those times when saying something out loud makes an idea more real. You know?'

'I know.'

'Why fight it? Why drive myself crazy? I'm fucking off. That's sorted, so. Thanks.'

'You're welcome, Steve. Where will you go? Where's better?'

'The south of France, I reckon. At least it's sunny. Maybe I'll set myself up with a little vineyard, blog about it, turn the blog into a book. What do you think?'

'I envy you. I envy your freedom to be able to do this.'

He said 'Envy? That's hardly a positive emotion, doc.'

'Can I come with you?' she said.

Steve laughed at that. _Sorry. You're beautiful, rich and smart, but I couldn't live with the constant analysis._ 'Hey, why don't you come down to my party in Wicklow tonight? It's my last hurrah for Ireland. I just signed a deal. A big deal. We've got a whole estate to ourselves, all weekend. I know a shitload of people who could do with talking to you.'

'Thanks for the invitation. Will I call you if I can make it?'

'Perfect. Thanks for everything. Now I'm off to get - how can I put this politely? - utterly bolloxed.'

Midsummer in the Garden of Ireland can be heaven, once the weather plays ball. And it did. Approaching midnight, the sky was that deep azure blue, a gigantic pink moon kissing the horizon, the warmth of the evening sun still lingered in all the short-term memories gathered outside the mansion. They sat on the wide stairs that led up to the entrance hallway, the programmers lived in the bar tent, the rest were on the grass, the green carpet sweeping down to a view of the Wicklow Mountains that had reduced landscape artists to tears of joy. Fatboy Slim stood at the decks, his cheeks red, left arm in the air, the hundred before him enjoying the best party of their lives. _I want to praise you like I should._

Steve wore the t-shirt that Norman had given him on arrival. I'M #1 SO WHY TRY HARDER.

'This is great, Steve!'

'Loving it, Raquel. Loving it.'

She put her arm around him, squeezed for a long second.

'Did you see the news?'

He looked at her, wondering. 'No. I actually turned my phone off when I got here. Why? Something happen?'

'Leave it. Let's enjoy tonight.'

'No. Tell me.'

'Shit. It looks like everything's finally crumbling. The Fed's taken control of the money supply in the States. Just announced it once the markets were closed.'

'Surely that's a good thing? Take control back from the bankers who've been pushing debt on us? Fractional reserve lending's a load of old bullshit. People just don't know what it is.'

'I hope you're right. But the banks have started shutting down the ATMs, say they're not opening on Monday.'

'Even here?'

'Especially here.'

'Shit. This could be it. Come on, let's have a glass of Champagne.'

So he woke on the last day of civilisation to a perfect, sun-filled room of gilt and ornate plasterwork and the smell of summer and the beautiful girl spooning him and her hand on his chest. And, for a long bleary second, he felt like the Sun King.

Then he remembered. The desperate attempt to neutralise the shock with alcohol, the foolish hours before dawn. The panic bubbling as broken fragments of news, speculation and wild delusion seeped into the collective consciousness. Some people left in the chartered buses, driving back to Dublin as the sky began to glow, the drivers delighted with the extra cash. _As long as they come back._ Then the perfect little bubble was popped with the exclamation _Twitter's seized up!_

'Oh fuck.'

He walked to the window, enjoying his nakedness in the sunshine. On the driveway below, a bus, some cars. Some people rushed about, looking dazed and stupid. The fear was obvious. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He waved but nobody saw him. Raquel dozed and he watched her for a long time as she enjoyed the perfect, innocent sleep of a child.

He found his laptop, thanked Christ that the hotel wifi was still functioning, dipped into his favourite news sites. Three minutes later he was sweating, shaking and lighting a second cigarette off the first.

He ran to the window as the bus was pulling out. He fumbled with the catch, pushed the sash frame up.

'Don't go back!' he shouted. 'It's up in flames already!'

Nobody heard.

'What's in flames, hon?'

'Hey.'

'Look at you.'

'Sorry, Raquel. It's all happening crazy fast. I mean, it's all over.'

'What?'

'Dublin's in flames already. Same thing everywhere. It's like the banks are trying to take over before they're made extinct, show us who's boss. You know what they say about humans being three meals away from savagery.'

'No. I don't know that saying. I'd well believe it, though. The absolute state of some people never ceases to amaze me.'

He checked the Champagne bottles, poured a drink. It was flat. She took one too.

'So. I'm thinking.'

'Go on.'

'I'm thinking, I'm thinking. I'm thinking this might be the best place to hole up. Let things cool off up in town. Do something useful. I'm thinking we could lose the web. Actually fucking lose it. Could you imagine that? Humanity plunged back into the information Stone Age? So I'm thinking we get a few of the programmers, set up the few fat drives we brought for the graphics and shit, and just start dumping stuff onto the hard drives.'

'Wikipedia?'

'Yes, exactly. Just over four million articles, allowing a megabyte per article should be plenty if we pull them as plain text and JPEGs. Looking at maybe four thousand gigs for a pretty good stab at the approximation of human knowledge.'

'Do we have that much storage?'

'We might do. We might do. We just need to write a few lines of code to automate the process, keep the wifi live, hope the power doesn't fail. Then we'll need to start working out ways to start generating hard copy.'

'I'm with you. If the shit does hit the fan, as it seems it must, we can't let knowledge be controlled by the fuckers who control the money supply. Replace religion with finance? Fuck no.'

'Okay. Let's go and find some programmers before they all flee to be barbecued. And let's pray to fuck that nobody's taken the hard drives.'

Standing there naked in the hot sun, drinking, just the two of them, as their world turned to ashes, and they felt giddy. Like kids on an adventure.

They would eventually get as far as <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decline_of_the_Roman_Empire>

15. BLITZKRIEG IRELAND 2016

Dublin, Ireland \- 2016

It was a dull warm day in April, and the clocks were set to Berlin time. The Kommandant of the Central Bank of Ireland stood before the long window on the top floor of the Brutalist pile and gazed east, down the grey River Liffey and into Dublin Bay, where water and sky met in a fuzz. He searched the clouds anxiously, checked his watch.

The air conditioner hummed.

'Where are they?'

The full wall digital display churned out numbers and symbols. The Euro was dying and the shocking red pixels could lie no more, the spinmeisters had tried every trick, every damned crazy scheme. Debt piled upon debt piled upon debt. The house of cards had collapsed. Simple physics, really. But the new currency would soon be unveiled, turning lead into gold.

Tiny dots formed at five thousand metres and the Kommandant allowed himself a smile. His assistant entered the office with a silver tray and two double espressos.

'Anything?'

The Kommandant inhaled the coffee as blue sky broke to the east and said 'They're here.'

Lots of lovely little dots.

Six RAF A400M tactical transport aircraft, four F-35 stealth fighters and a dozen helicopters flew unhindered over red and white chimneys, up the river to the port. King William flew the lead transport, smiling as he did his duty for himself and his riot-torn country. There was no resistance to the attack formation, as the Irish Aer Corps relied on UK radar and satellite data and had been supplied with dummy images since midnight. Two fighters peeled away from the attack force and dropped gentle sparkles towards the port and the oil tanker sitting low in the water. Then the jets accelerated and screamed over the Central Bank, south to hit the army garrison in Rathmines, then on to destroy all helicopters at the Aer Corps base in Baldonnel.

Black explosions. Bad noise.

The remaining fighters watched over the slowing, circling, fat-bellied transports, each loaded with one hundred storm-accountants from the 1st Combat Wing of the European Central Bank. Armed with sub machine guns, laptops, calculators, asset seizure orders and impenetrable contract documents, their role was to aggressively take control of all the Irish assets that had been put up as collateral for European bailout funds. The funds were a contrived, fractional fantasy and the bailout a disaster. But these truths were irrelevant. This was about the rule of financial law and the protection of the bondholders, the hedge funds and the German and French banks that _really_ mattered. _We want the assets. We want it all._

The sound of the tanker's death reached the office as a low rumble, a column of oily smoke filled the morning sky. It was ironic that the last time this part of the city had been bombed from the air was during a Luftwaffe attack in 1941.

'Can we trust the British, Herr Kommandant?' asked the assistant.

'Of course, Gunter. There is your proof,' he gestured at the chaos unfolding across the city. 'They can only continue to fight their endless war by hiring out their remaining assets and selling their military hardware to the highest bidder. Some would argue that it has always been so.'

'And the Irish?'

'The paychecks come from Frankfurt. They're fine. We will need them to maintain order. The police will get double overtime to maintain order once I assume command of the State and declare Emergency Law. The politicians? Well, I don't know if anyone can truly understand them. They have been paid off and offered powerless but well-salaried positions in Brussels and Frankfurt, as has always been the case. Those that decline will be fed to the population.'

Gunter gaped. The smoke from the tanker obscured a quarter of the sky. Nearer, the transports lazily circled the Irish Financial Services Centre like sharks while the storm-accountants drifted slowly to ground under pinstriped parachutes. The helicopters hovered, then veered south. The transports followed, crossed the river towards Government Buildings.

Looking down at the street made little point from the top of the Central Bank, they were just working ants below, so the Kommandant looked to the screens to see the breathless breaking news. There was some panic, but calm resignation too. The fluoridate-doctored water supply had numbed the peasantry into submission, exactly as imagined by Nazi scientists in the 1940s. Since the Bubble Times, each of Ireland's economic shocks had been greater than the last. Somehow, the idea of the European Central Bank repossessing a country using military force was now acceptable. The Greeks had fought harder but they fell too. For the countries which had insisted on the centralisation of European power after The First Bond War, Greater Europe was taking shape. The European Ministry for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda controlled the media. Between gameshows, the populace was bombarded with the mantra that managing debt was the most important shared task and that elected representatives had obstructed this.

So Greater Europe's western flank was now secured, along with Ireland's fish and her cattle and her gas and her debt slaves. Then attention could focus to the east. Russia.

They stood and watched as each objective was taken and then took a long conference call with Berlin, Frankfurt and Paris, which was mainly concerned with short-term bond yields.

The numbers quietly marched across the screens.

Some gunfire. Nearby. The Kommandant raised an eyebrow, but he always did this.

'And Shannon Airport?'

The assistant checked his tablet computer. 'The American garrison has taken it, not a shot fired.'

'Good. Good. I want preliminary audit reports from the banks and the asset management agency on my desk in the morning. Tonight we will dine with the mission leader, an actuary from Dortmund.' The Kommandant was framed by the window then, a horrible masterpiece as the evening sun toasted the Dublin Mountains. 'It's time to broadcast my assumption of command. To the media studio. And then time for a brandy, perhaps?'

A very loud explosion then and the office shook. A long crack in the window. Dust and smoke and screams.

'What was that?' Then, quietly 'Sheisse.'

The assistant tried to contact security on his headset, failed, brought the ground level cameras onto the screens. At the rear of the building, the fortified ramp into the basement, a scorched and smoking cave now.

'There!' cried Gunter, pointing to a screen which showed fuzzy armed men enter the cave, firing calmly into the void.

The Kommandant lurched towards his desk and scrambled at the bottom drawer. It slid out as he grabbed the Napoleon bottle and struggled with the cap. There was shooting within the building and another explosion. The tv blahed about a large British aircraft that had come down on Croke Park and the assassination of two bankers in town, but these events didn't register as they cowered and gulped the brandy and listened to the shooting.

And when the fuzzy men with guns came to take them hostage, before they would level the building with an ANFO-nitromethane truckbomb, all the Kommandant could ask was 'Who?'

'The IRA. We're just looking after our investments. Can't be having everything wiped out by your New Deutschmark. Surely you can appreciate that.'

'But you were gone away!'

'Ha. Up! On your feet the pair of you.'

'But what do you want?'

'We'll make a deal. Maybe. Get everyone out of the building.'

The terrorists set up a pair of remote cameras and a web transmitter. Then they filled a bag with laptops, smartphones and documents from the Kommandant's desk. Then they posed by the picture window for SnapChat and Twitter, AKs pointed at their hostages' heads, and streamed the whole show onto the web.

Twenty-two minutes later, the explosion was heard as far away as Glendalough. The ducks there shrugged.

The rich rule over the poor, and the borrower is slave to the lender.

The Bible, Proverbs 22:7 (New International Version)

16. THE LONG NIGHT

London, England \- 2020

Most people weren't happy that the atmosphere, thick with pollutants, had stopped letting sunlight through. Earth was cast into perpetual night. Crops withered, trees died, society crumbled.

But some creatures thrived. Foxes and owls, bats and moths. Temporarily, the world was theirs. All of it. And the nocturnal humans. They too relished the endless night.

'How long have we been here?' she asked, shouted.

His gaze fell from the naked dancers, rested on his watch for a long minute.

'Eight days, give or take. You want to dance?'

She shook her head, made the drink gesture. He lifted himself from the leather couch, made his way to the bar. His head nodded in time with the music, a remix of _Purple Haze_.

Eight days. He smiled. He remembered the sensation of wanting the night to never end. Now it was real and it felt good. Alcohol, stimulant drinks, narcotics coursed through his veins, maintained his high. And the music. DJs were liberated by the eternal night, there were no more limits. This party would never end.

A wheelie bin was full of discarded smartphones, tossed in waves as each network died. he threw his iPhone 8 onto the pile and that felt good.

He ordered the drinks, fumbled for money, remembered that there was no need to pay. With society finished, the old currencies had ceased to function. The party would continue until they drank the bars dry and the power generators ran out of fuel. Until then, the meek stayed home and called it hell, but the young partied, called it heaven.

They drank. Then they danced to an hour-long set of slow sounds. Then they went outside and made love on the crunchy yellow grass.

They lay on their backs and watched the sky, all boiling clouds, varying shades of black.

'I love this,' she said. 'Is that wrong?'

He raised his arms, looked at her with an easy smile.

'Excuse me while I kiss the sky.'

The music stopped.

17. NOTHING BUT TIME

London, England \- 2020

The end had come suddenly. Events. April was fine. Unseasonably warm, otherwise normal. In August's withering heat, civilisation and society finished. It was just events. But the crash was terrible.

He stood by the window, peeked into the street below, edge of the curtain. As he had done for days. She sat on the floor in the far corner, twisted the tuning knob on the radio. As she had done for days.

'There's nothing today. Not even static. That's bad isn't it?'

'It's the batteries darling. They're gone. Anyhow, I don't think there'll be any broadcasts for a few years.'

'Are you hungry?'

'Starving. What have we got?'

'Nothing really. Nothing.'

'Jesus. How did it come to this?'

'Events.'

There was no movement outside, though it had been gloomy daytime for hours. The heavy pall of smoke deadened the sun. Yet the heat was still oppressive.

'The fire in the City's still burning.'

'Will it reach us?'

'Maybe.'

There was no hope left. His mind raced through their options. Survival instinct. Only problem: there were no options remaining. Just one, which he'd put off until the hunger drove him.

Watching, watching, he thought of time and how his perceptions of it had changed with the collapse. There had never been enough time before. Hurried breakfasts, the Tube crush, the tedium of the office, the Tube crush, dozing in front of the TV, restless sleep without dreams. Typical life, always wishing for more time.

Now there was time and little else. What he'd give to exchange all this empty time for a sweaty Tube journey, crushed by normal - _yes, normal!_ \- people. Self-obsessed, nervous people, yes. People all the same. He remembered the occasional smile from a blond woman who often crossed his path on the walk to the office. He imagined the smell of traffic and coffee and flowers and a small tear trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away. _Must be stoic. God, why did it have to come to this?_

He gazed at his wife. _I promised you so much. A future. And now?_ She looked gaunt, pale. She needed food or she would die soon. Time. Too much, yet not enough.

'Movement outside.'

'People?' She perked up at the first event of the day.

'Scavengers,' he replied angrily.

A small gang had captured a woman. Poor thing. One scavenger walked proudly in front, held a shotgun over his head, called out that his gang ruled the street. He wore a priest's robe over his fatigues, a huge crucifix on a heavy chain around his neck. His face was painted. He was like a kind of monster from some old movie. A few steps behind him, the woman was carried high. Her clothes - just rags really - were torn and she was screaming but no sound came.

She would be terrorised during daylight, roasted at sunset. He knew this from his observations. And from the smells. The painted man glanced towards the watcher. Both froze.

'What is it, darling?'

'Don't move. One of them's looking in this direction.'

Long, slow, painful seconds passed.

The dying sun pierced the filthy air, lit up the scene. Shocking to their eyes, like you could almost hear the photons.

The gang moved again, went away for their pleasures.

'I don't think they saw me,' he said. Breathing again.

She said nothing, horrified at the prospect of becoming prey.

He decided that he would have to venture out. _Do it now while they're occupied. Poor woman. What was her story?_

'I'm going out. I have to find you some food. Maybe a weapon. Anything.'

'Please don't. Please!'

'It's time.'

18. THE X-GAMES

London, England \- 2022

The matt black jetcopter descended rapidly over the Chelsea skyline. Nightfall over London. With her laser-guided tube trains gliding fifty feet above her glistening wet streets, her multiple, sharply-pointed, glittering skyscrapers strung along the Thames, her once-shocking pipe bomb explosions and tracer fire from the endless ghetto battles, the megacity's nightfall was a special time.

The fading star leaned back in her dolphin leather seat - so smooth! - and tilted her ersatz-champagne glass as the 'copter banked sharply and lost altitude like a falling investment banker during the final crash of 2015. I'm back, she thought. And I love it.

'Approaching the studios now, ma'am,' crackled a voice in her oversized, calf vellum headphones, as the shining pyramids of XWHY-TV, the world's greatest entertainment factory, appeared among the dark trees of Hyde Park.

'Call me Shaz, I told you.'

'Ten seconds, Madame Shaz-Oz. And you promised to sign a piece of skin for my grandmother...'

'Of course,' she said, rummaging in her wheeled handbag for a scrap from her last facelift, the current trendiest memento. She found a wad, worth a fortune on _sellanyfuckingthing.com_ , but the pilot was worth it: he'd diverted from their assigned course to hover beside the hottest rooftop restaurant in the city so she could wave down at the whowhatwhy people, the TV stars, the producers, the media stooges who'd stopped taking her calls after she was canned.

'I'm back!' she'd cried giddily, waving like a kid.

So she signed her name with her Mont Blanc marker. Then she zapped the scrap of skin with a cold, green beam from her patented, pocket-sized DNA Destroyer, just as the wheels kissed the giant, yellow H.

A lackey was waiting, the word Lackey printed across his chest, another glass of fake champagne on a silver tray. He ushered her off the landing pad and through a long Plexiglas tunnel and into the world she loved so well.

'We have thirty seconds in make-up,' he said, the numbers lighting up his fly's-eyes goggles. 'Then we're on.'

On? I thought this was a meeting with The Man? 'Great!'

The makeup crew coated her with Liberace-grade TV foundation, plied her creases with molecular diamonds, zapped her with an ultrasonic ray to firm up her implants, then checked her jacket for hairs and lint. She glowed. Literally.

She was quickly ushered to the PseudoCoke (TM) station, white lines on a silver tray, a fat, laser-toting rentacop standing there: this stuff, all the way from the World Government labs in Geneva, this was for the talent only. She inhaled a line, and another, and she was ready. If only the sweaties knew that everyone on TV lives on stimulants and synthi-booze and adulterous sex and orgies and Apepi worship and endless credit from the Corporations and the favours, oh, the favours.

Her communicator was pushed deep into her right ear, its hair-like transmitters gently puncturing her eardrum, fusing with her, no escaping the Voice now. The Voice, screaming. 'What the hell were you doing up there? You put this entire show in jeopardy!' _Him._

'I, I'm sorry...'

The lackey took her arm and they marched down to the airlock, the chamber that was the gateway to the other life, the fake life, the TV life. She had five seconds to inhale deeply, deeply, deeply, then the fingers closed into a fist and the hatch hissed open.

It was a full house, as always, Studio 1, fifteen thousand screaming, sweaty, drugged-up lunatics, the better-looking ones to the front, the noise raucous and overwhelming, lights overhead like the sun in a desert. She felt like she was walking into the Roman Colosseum, the wall of body odour hitting her like a dead skunk. Dizzy for a second, the voice in her ear egging her on.

They love me still!

'They love you! Now find your mark, centre-stage.'

'What is this?' she said, the stage empty.

'Remember the contract? You signed, in blood, your acceptance that you would do everything the producers required in order to maintain ratings. Until death do us part and all that. Correct?'

'Correct.'

'Now shut up and do what you're told. This is your best and final chance.'

She strode to the centre of the wide stage, smiling, blowing kisses and they loved her for it. Roses were thrown. Her face flashed across multiple screens around the soundstage. Fifty metres high, she looked simply marvellous, darling.

She was quickly joined by two more of the ex-judges from the X-Show.

Jed-Oh, the little Irish fellow with the sparkling eyes and the distinct absence of depth, did a pleasant jig as he bounced across the stage and gave Shaz-Oz a big hug.

And Gaz-Baz, the boyband singer who was no more a boy, put a nervous arm around Shaz-Oz's waist. She, too, was trembling.

The music stopped and the crowd was silenced by a visual signal on the screens.

The Voice boomed.

'Welcome Ex-Judges, welcome to the greatest show on earth. Welcome to... The X-Games!' The audience went crazy, like they knew what was happening. The three stood in the middle of the stage, smiling their rigid, botox smiles. 'In exactly five minutes, you will be released into our custom-built battle zone, right here in Hyde Park. Your every movement will be watched by billions across the planet. We will be with you every step of the way as you fight for survival, for your very lives. For five minutes later, we will release... the hunters!' The smiles were still fixed in place as the brains attempted to process this new information. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the hunters!'

From both sides of the stage came the hunters. Maybe twenty in all. Shaz-Oz glanced at them from the corners of her eyes, saw some vaguely familiar faces. What the hell is this?

The hunters stood to either side of the ex-judges, fidgeting, nervous, smiling crazily. They were obviously pumped full of Buzzy, the latest street narc, made in the legal basement labs, taxed by Big Government, useful for culling the plebs, who felt like kings for a couple of months, squandered every last globo-cent on the stuff. Then their hearts exploded.

'Oh no,' said Jed-Oh. 'Now I get it.'

He'd spotted the crazy guy from up north, the guy who's accent he'd made fun of, the guy he'd humiliated as a talentless, unintelligible waste-of-space in front of two billion viewers. That guy.

The other ex-judges also saw familiar faces, the nobodies who'd come to the auditions, full of hopes and dreams and fantasies and the chance of fame, stardom, wealth, a better life, any kind of life. And they were cut to ribbons, here, here on this very stage. When their egos were torn, some cried, some threatened, some screamed. But all returned to their utterly futile and pointless lives. All were broken.

And now they were back on stage. Now they were the stars. The audience loved it, this failed-underdog-gets-second-chance narrative. The ratings, displayed live on the studio's screens, jumped, blurred, nined, as the proletariat used social media to tell their friends to turn on, tune in, pig out. They were in virgin territory: this was the greatest show ever told, high nineties. _Nineties!_

Shaz saw the sweat pumping out of Gaz's face, as an unscripted tear rolled down her face. Jed was also crying. But still he smiled, a true professional.

The booming voice talked about the rules and the weapons and the battlezone, but Shaz heard none of it. A little backpack, bottle of Go-Water in there, was fitted to her shaking frame, a hunting knife, cruelly-serrated edge, deadly point thrust into her perfectly-manicured hand.

The voice in her ear.

'This is your moment, darling. Keep smiling. You're a winner!'

'I, I... '

'Don't talk, for Christ's sake! A close-up of you, _you_ , is being watched by ninety-two percent of the global TV-watching population. This is history. _You_ are history!'

So she smiled a surgically-enhanced smile, literally ear-to-ear.

Numbers, counting down. The audience screaming.

'Three, two, one!'

'Run for your life!' screamed the voice. 'You've only got five minutes!'

They exchanged nervous smiles, waved jerkily to the cameras, Shaz even thinking to blow a kiss. Then they were off, panting, slipping, following the course from the studio, lackies indicating the route with waving clipboards, pointing to their fake smilemouths. All this, every microsecond, would be repeated endlessly during the quiet minutes that would inevitably trespass on this twentyfourseven media orgy.

The cool night air, crunchy path, trees ahead.

Shaz wondered if they should stick together, fight as a team. She turned to ask the others, but they were gone, shadows in the flowerbeds.

'Bastards. You're headed for the water.'

So she ran in the opposite direction, up towards Marble Arch and Oxford Street, the nauseous reek of polyester drifting south on the night air. She glanced behind, at the X-Games Studios, the giant, gleaming pyramid, the temple of television. She remembered that pyramids were tombs for the dead.

She ran, thinking that her only chance would be to hide and, if any of them got close, use the knife. _And then what? Let the whole world see me go down, hacking, like an animal?_

'You did sign the contract, Shaz,' she said aloud, smiling.

Her mouth was dry, so she stopped by a tree and drank some water. A helicopter hovered overhead, very nearby. A blinking LED in the branches caught her eye, so she smiled at the camera. Put on a brave face. _But what is a brave face, exactly?_

A nerve-shredding klaxon then. And, seconds later, the feral baying of those who would be stars. There was real fear on her face, she couldn't hide it, that sudden, shocking reality. She hoped that it would make the audience empathise with her. _Love me. For I would die for your sins._

And she ran.

Into a wooded area and the ground erupted. A trap! No, a hatch, a lackey there, beckoning her down.

She jumped. A swift shadow passed her, up and out, and the hatch closed behind her. She was sitting on a huge beanbag, in a dimly-lit chamber. A lackey held a silver tray with Champagne and PseudoCoke which she accepted with a nod.

'What the fuck is going on?'

'Your double's gone up,' said a producer, emerging from the shadows. 'You didn't think we'd let them kill you, did you?'

Her bones turned to jelly then. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

'Oh, thank Christ. I thought it was all real.'

'Haha. You're too valuable, darling. No, we'll just use you for a couple of close-ups here and there. This tunnel network covers the whole park. We'll just transport you to the next close shave, pop you up, get you back down. You hungry? No? Okay. We're hoping to get twenty-four hours out of this. The hunters are the only ones who don't know what's really happening. They'll get picked off and we'll work towards a grand finale showdown.'

'It's brilliant. You had me. A hundred fucking percent.'

'Haha. All _his_ idea, of course.'

'Genius! What's next?'

'You can relax for a couple of hours. We have plenty of close-ups to cut in with your double's movements. Then we'll shuttle you across to the Diana Memorial. Lovely setting for a close escape. You good?'

So he left her there and went off down a tunnel to a secure room, where he spoke to the man.

'She doesn't suspect a thing. It's perfect. You should've seen the relief.'

'Yes, I'm seeing the feed. We'll use every second of this later. Everything's getting set up at the memorial. I want a long, slow, messy kill scene. When she pops up, two hunters will be waiting. I want extreme close-ups of the surprise on her plastic face as they skin her alive. I want it to be beautiful, yeah?'

'Beautiful.'

19. THE ZOO

Dublin, Ireland \- 2032

She couldn't help checking on him every thirty seconds, like when he was a newborn. He was fine, his breathing deep, hair tousled, twitching in dreams, just exactly like a healthy eleven-year-old ought to be in the middle of the night.

His room was just like you'd expect: dirty food plates piled on the desk, dirty underwear in the corner, game posters across the walls, bits of droid blinking in the dark, petri dishes yawning to life.

'Let him be, honey,' said her husband, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 'He'll be fine.'

'I know. It's just, is he supposed to be doing science experiments in his room? Is it safe? God, I just worry.'

'Don't cry. You'll wake him. I'll use all of our fifteen minutes web allowance today to check that out. Let's brew some coffee. Sun'll be up soon.'

He passed his hand over the BrewKing and the machine chimed as it woke and set to work grinding some coffee beans while it heated filtered water to 93 degrees C. Another signal and the polarising filter on the picture window faded from black to transparent. Dawn had broken, but feebly, just a pink smudge above the city wall, its dull grey Plexi-perfect honeycombs protecting The Pale - civilisation - from the unmentionables.

They paced, drank coffee, talked about it.

'I know he would've done well in the PPT, Pre-adolescence Personality Test. I mean, he does have a well-adjusted personality, doesn't he?'

'He has to go through this and there's nothing you can do about it.' She turned to him, pained, like he'd stuck a knife in her guts. 'I'm sorry, it's just that I don't know what to say.'

What else can we do? Run away with him? Over the wall?

So they said nothing as the minutes slid by until Jeff's alarm squawked, some cartoon character catchphrase.

'Morning,' said their son, rubbing his eyes. 'Hey! It's zoo trip today!'

'Wow!' said his father. 'I'd forgotten about that. Excited?'

'Oh boy! We're getting a special bus, police escort and all, we're so close to the wall. We're going to see the tigers, the gorillas, the cows. And even, even the...' The word caught in his throat, took away the joy.

'The what, Jeff?'

'The broken people. We'll see the broken people.'

'Sit down, son. Eat some patented-frosty-cracklin'-top-o'-the-mornin' breakfast cereal. Would you like some mammal juice on that?'

'Sure. But I don't know if I want to see the broken people. It just doesn't seem fair.'

His mother came and sat beside him, poured the milk-blend, handed a spoon to him. 'But it's part of your education, babe. You have to see how lucky we are. We're well-adjusted, the elite, the biological winners. After The Fall, society had to take some tough decisions. Like we can't afford to look after everyone, there just aren't enough resources. Understand?'

'I guess.'

'So we joined the World Programme, pooled our resources and built the wall around the city, all the cities. Outside the wall are the savages that caused the old society to fail, the addicts, the breeders, the freethinkers. They are detached from us forever. We monitor them, they try to break though the wall, we kill them when they get too close. That's just how things are. But in the zoo, we have a special, secure place for people who don't fit into our perfect world. We call them the broken ones because they're like us, just not _suitable_. We let them live together in the Phoenix Park, and we watch them really, really closely. If they develop into what they should be, we take them back into proper society. If they stay the same, we leave them in the zoo. So we can study them, learn from them.'

'And if they get worse?'

'Eat up darling. I'll get your lunch ready. Bus'll be here soon.'

Jeff's father gestured to the TV and it snapped to life, tiles showing news of wall repairs, a large fire outside The Pale, weather (grey, as always) and the ubiquitous plastic faces that told the elite what to think, how to think, why to think. There was a panel discussion which drew his attention, the tile recognising this, increasing its volume accordingly.

'They're breeding like rats and statistics illustrate this. It's only a matter of time before their sheer force of numbers will cause a breach.'

Extreme close-up. Beads of sweat.

'I disagree. Brute force can never get through the wall. In my opinion, our greatest risk comes from the pre-teen zoo trip. If we send somebody out there, from us,' she pointed to her head, 'with some kind of special skills, knowledge that we haven't yet identified, I don't...'

He made the hand across throat gesture and the TV went to sleep.

That was close.

'What was that, dad?'

'Hnh?'

'About the zoo trip? They were talking about the zoo trip.'

'Nothing, kid. Just boring old news. Hey, you're going to get to see the cloned Neanderthals today. That should be really exciting, huh?'

'Yawn,' said the boy. 'Cloning is so old-school. Anyone with a chemistry set can do that.'

Is he kidding?

His mother's HandiMac buzzed and she checked its face.

'Bus is here, baby. You set?'

'Jesus-fucking-goddamn-christ-in-hell, no I'm not. I'm still eating my goddamn-motherfucking breakfast here!' he said, in a sinister, restrained way. He gripped the edge of the veneered table so hard his knuckles whitened.

His parents exchanged the glances. The acceptance.

This would be the last time they ever saw their son again.

20. GAIA'S EMBRACE

Orlando, USA - 2049

Much colder now, the sun just a ghostly smudge, low in the murk. Dirty snow - polluted globs - drives into my face. I want to open my mouth, take the tumbling flakes into my parched throat, but fight the urge. My dog furs, taken from a corpse in an old gas station, keep the worst of the weather at bay, but at the cost of a Labrador's petrified stare.

After the fall, the lights went out, the grass stopped growing, the hope evaporated. Carnivores took over, cannibalism thrived. But the meat wouldn't - couldn't - last forever. The pyramid needs foundations. I pick at my coat, search out blackened fragments of dog meat, grind the hairy nuggets with sore, black teeth. I trudge through the black foam, seek some kind of shelter before the black horror of night.

Four days since I've met a living soul. That suicide camp I skirted near Disneyland. The corporates and the feds, those who ruined the world now help us to die, so that they can skin us and pick our bones and commodify our flesh in the final, grand insult. Pity those who give up. We must fight on, survive, pray that the planet will forgive us, let the flood of darkness subside. Down there, deep down, seeds sleep. And in the oceans' depths, plankton hibernate. This I pray. This I beg the Goddess.

There's a ridge ahead, maybe a cave to spend the night. I imagine a warm place, with an electric heater, a microwave, a fridge full of convenient snacks, an incandescent lightbulb, a TV or a newspaper to pass the dead hours. I smile at the memories of the easy life, the life that didn't require a thought about where the energy, the food, the commodities came from. Nobody cared, easy gratification was the thing. And did we do the thing. I used to write a blog about dogs, that was my productive career.

My body tenses, blood petrified. Howling - the corporate screams of cannibals - not far behind. The animals have my trail. No time for analysis, I run, fall, take a mouthful of acrid sludge. I pick myself up, muffle my choking cough with a furry arm. The snow falls heavier now, the sun gone. Look, a hollow, sheltered from the worst of it. Take it. I curl into a ball, cover my body with handfuls of frozen muck. A long-dead branch helps break up my outline. Can they smell me? Oily black all around now, it's the end of the day. By my confused reckoning, Independence Day. I can smell fireworks, taste a hot dog. I suck at the fur.

Just my eyes look through the poisonous blanket. Part of me wants to give up, just go, just let some new generation have a clear shot. The shrieking monsters are nearer. I slowly close my blistered eyes, ease down into Gaia's embrace.

21. REVERSE TAKEOVER

Near Jupiter, Planetary Space - 2201

The moon jumped from the stellar background. Her icy surface captured slivers of the brilliance of the mother planet, Jupiter, which dominated the forward viewing windows, even at double the distance. At over three hundred times the mass of Terra Mater, the gas giant's gravitational effect was almost palpable.

'Unfortunately, it's you we're headed to, Ganymede. I hope you have some surprises in store for us,' mused Dana Hopper, as she drained the last drops of pseudo-caff from a recycled cup.

The moon hung in space ahead of the exploration craft. Though it was still many weeks' travel distant, its bulk dominated all forward views. _A year to get here_.

'Getting excited?' asked Lena Horn, the mission doctor, as she paused for prayer at the large screen, the permanent live feed from SOHO-16. Her sun god. Sol Invictus - The Undefeatable Sun. Some messages and trinkets on the little altar before Her; a ring, a rag doll, a dried apricot.

'Well, when it first became a distinct blob, as opposed to an indistinct blob, I got a little bit excited. But that was four months ago. I'll get excited again when we're on our way to the surface', answered Hopper.

'Navigation says that should be inside five weeks, with Sol's will.'

'Funny how we've gone full circle, back to the old gods. Did you know that Jupiter was the Romans' top god?'

'Hnnn?'

'Forget it. What if this is all a big, stupid joke? Every survivor back on Terra Mater is so into what we're doing. The hopes and delusions of the whole damned planet are depending on this mission. Isn't that crazy? What if nothing happens? I don't know. But I do know that I'll go crazy if I don't get off this damn rustbucket soon,' said Hopper, as she crushed the cup in her hand and casually threw it into the recycle chute.

'Captain Hopper, you will be charged two tokens for not re-using that item. Thank you for your custom,' said the recycle chute, in its lazy, mechanical tones.

'And I'm so looking forward to being where every damned thing doesn't talk back at me, cost me money, or both' said Hopper angrily. 'I'm going to bed for a few days. Wake me if anything happens.'

Some time later, Hopper was woken by the sound of her bedroom door sliding open. As on most spacecraft, there were no locks on the ship, discouraging illegal activity and allowing for easy socialising between crewmembers. She opened an eye, to see the welcome shape of Dr Horn. She quietly stepped out of her one piece shipsuit and sat on the edge of the bunk as she slipped off her regulation white knickers.

'What kept you', asked Hopper.

'I took some extra watches so I could get this', she answered, proudly holding up a half bottle of red wine.

'Mmmm - Chilean merlot, 2040. Not bad. Did you have to sleep with the quartermaster too?'

Lena didn't answer. She just got under the sheet and slid a thigh across her captain's groin. The captain liked Lena best of all. During the first six months of the journey, Hopper had slept with almost every member of the all-female crew. And one droid, just to see what that was like. Cold. She'd had a period of introspection after that.

But in the last three months, she'd been with Lena almost exclusively. The UNASA policy of encouraging casual sex among crewmembers on long trips was one she supported. It helped to pass the time.

But the nagging worry, always chewing on her third eye, the why?

'Why would somebody bother to fake such a thing? Why would an entire race be so gullible as to swallow it whole? There was no science fiction until Kepler's _Somnium_ in the early seventeenth century, but fantasy drove every god myth from the Greeks on up.'

'Is this a mission to meet our mother race or to work out the origins of a literary genre?'

'I wonder.'

A single document, unearthed from the foundations of a villa, first century Rome. A detailed, lengthy manuscript which told of how an alien craft had come to the Empire.

How humanoid visitors had spoken in Latin to a group gathered at a dinner party. Artists, politicians, soldiers, slaves: all had witnessed.

All had listened to the message.

They, they from the greatest moon of the greatest planet, Jupiter. _They._

They had previously brought slaves to Terra and overseen their mating with the indigenous creatures.

They had instigated human civilisation.

They had given technology, politics and art to the nascent master race.

They wanted to leave a message for future generations.

When you understand the message, come to us.

If you want to _understand_ , come to us.

So we're going.

THE END

So, what was your favourite story? What are your conclusions? What next? The author needs you to tell him. So please connect with Gary J Byrnes on Facebook.

Like the smell of a good book in the morning? You can have a copy of THE WRITER AND OTHER STORIES on your bookshelf, in environmentally-friendly, print-on-demand, paper format. You can purchase it direct from CreateSpace here or from any good online bookstore.

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About the author

GARY J BYRNES (Dublin, Ireland) is an Amazon number one bestselling thriller writer whose stories are edgy, controversial page-turners. Nominated for the Crime Writers' Association Debut Dagger Award with acclaimed Limerick crime thriller PURE MAD, published in 2009. Has also published atheist/DNA conspiracy thriller THE GOD VIRUS (2011), THE DEATH OF OSAMA BIN LADEN - AN ALTERNATIVE HISTORY (2012) and THE WRITER AND OTHER STORIES shorts collection (2013). Has also written a series of kids' thrillers about witches and magic in Ireland, WITCH GRANNIES. VAMPIRE STORY is his debut short film, as writer and director. Gary actively promotes secularism in SECULAR IRELAND. Currently working on a New York thriller about food, art and Nazis.

Gary says: "Stories are what make us human. The beauty about writing fiction is that there really are no limits. Fiction is so powerful that the world is controlled by it, from the Bible to political manifestos. But my fiction is about escape, entertainment and excitement.

"Pure Mad, my crime thriller, is set in Limerick, Ireland and was nominated for the UK Crime Writers' Association Debut Dagger. I've since revisited the work and published The Author's Cut. The God Virus is a wild conspiracy thriller about an atheist forensics scientist who gets hold of DNA samples that raise huge questions about the origin of humanity, the power of religion and the ultimate questions of life, gods and where we're going as a species.

"I try to focus on building strong and interesting characters and letting them breathe in plots that have no limits. My stories are epic, controversial and, I hope, like nothing you've read before. If you like my work, please give it a rating and review wherever you find it.

"What's most important to me is that you're reading, so good job you!"

Gary J Byrnes, February 2014

Interview here: <https://www.smashwords.com/interview/garyjbyrnes>

Discover other titles by Gary J Byrnes

The X-Games

Ireland Trilogy

9/11 Trilogy

History Trilogy

Pure Mad

The God Virus

The Death of Osama bin Laden - An Alternative History

The Writer and Other Stories

Connect with Gary

Follow me on Twitter: <http://twitter.com/GaryJByrnes>

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Subscribe to my blog: <http://garyjbyrnes.blogspot.ie/>

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The End

