 
There's a knack to writing flash fiction like this and Jem has it. Stories that are so short that they are finished almost before you've started but the ideas within stay with you long after you've put the book down. I loved them all. Brilliant for the bathroom when you just want a short read!

Stephen Leather

Ideal for the odd moment. Bored and standing in a queue? Not interested in the dentist's ancient and well-thumbed magazines? Then lose yourself for one, two, three, however many minutes you want to fly by. Some of these tales are thought-provoking, others very funny, others yet are just plain barmy. The author's self-imposed 200-word limit (which in time comes, bizarrely, to feel normal, other stories being impossibly long-winded and baggy) has made him a veritable miser with adjectives, adverbs, and all the usual crud that clogs up a piece a prose. Flash fiction doesn't come any flashier than this.

Richard Herley

### SIXTY SECOND FICTION

Jem Barnes

Copyright 2011 Jem Barnes

Smashwords Edition

For Matilda and Daisy

Thanks to Carol and Jon

Licence notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thanks for respecting the rights of this author.

# _Table of contents_

Introduction

Slightly amusing snapshots

1 Archaeology – The Professor deep down

2 Bang – Crop circle guy makes bad

3 Batter – Love those relatives

4 Call – Why helplines don't

5 Cedricke – Medieval misunderstanding

6 Chef – You put that stuff in your mouth?

7 Chime – Ice cream and helicopters

8 Claim – Fill the form. No! Don't!

9 Consultation – Tie your son down, Mrs Clark

10 Counselling – NHS psychology

11 Course – Unhealthy and unsafe

12 Court – I'm an innocent man!

13 Crusade – Pumpkins will prevail!

14 Deduction – Poirot does it again

15 Dressing – The sauce is SO tasty!

16 Factory – Balbo's iceberg

17 Gibberlets – Like what she is spoke

18 Herd – It's grass! We're eating grass!

19 Parenthood – The ugly princess

20 Pinched – The very old policeman joke

21 Pot – Broadcasting dissent

22 Sales – Just sign here, please

23 Scale – The meaning of all tragedy

24 Smug – It's only a can of apricots

25 True love – Poet as prat

26 Window – FAB, Virgil

Criminal activities

27 Axe – Murder in the bedroom. Domestic violence 1

28 Bedtime – Perversion at its worst

29 Bottle – Riotous shopping

30 Bus – Prisoner transport

31 Campaign – Shoot a politician today

32 Education – Assassin for hire

33 Fishing – Knock for knock for knock

34 Flowers – They say 'I love you.' Domestic violence 2

35 Holiday – Murder in the Cathedral

36 NHS – Let me through! I am a doctor!

37 Oops – Watch your mouth, kid

38 Parcel – Childish blackmail

39 Picnic – A lovers' tiff in the desert

40 Rapture – Hi! I'm your serial killer

41 Recital – Machineguns in the park

42 Research – Torture for fun and profit

43 Retirement – CSI, old bloke

44 Security – Crime does pay

45 Shopping – Shoplifter finds gun

46 Teamwork – You were supposed to bring the guns

47 Teatime – Poisoned cucumber sandwiches

48 The Jumper – American cop show

49 Withdrawal – Bank giro credits and bombs

Child, youth, thug

50 Drivetime – Private parking, private parts

51 Experiment – Chemistry lessen

52 Height – Stilted rivalry

53 Love – A teacher's tears

54 Peace – Under the blanket

55 Speech – Just like that. Eh?

56 Spot – Zit up and pay attention

57 Tooth – A jaw-dropper

58 Truth – The drinking glass war

59 Wish – Sink the Bismarck! It could happen

Life and all that stuff

60 Box – Flat clearance

61 Bonding – Intoxicating political views

62 Break – Life from a distance

63 Dry – Law of the launderette

64 End – How it starts – and ends

65 Engineering – Bedroom, Boardroom

66 Flip – Cigarettes kill

67 Future – In the solicitor's office

68 Garden – Fancy a game of Russian roulette?

69 Mooning – Ducking responsibility

70 Point – Bar-room wisdom

71 Press – It's deadline time

Marriage, birds and blokes

72 Beach – He's so good with the kid

73 Disgusting – Must I watch him eat?

74 Food – Pas devant les domestiques

75 Menu – Jules in front of the customers

76 Opinion – Recording dissent

77 Pines – The beginning of the end

78 Queue – Spare the rod

79 Ringtone – I love gadgets

80 Sick – The joy of motherhood

81 Sight – It's getting dark, darling

82 Smile – It is very dark, dear

Stroboscopic glimpses

83 Accountant – Charming Tube larceny

84 Baby – Comfort blanket

85 Casino – Edie sees red – or black?

86 Cure – Double blind ducks

87 Diorama – Tableau disturbed

88 Door – Don't move!

89 Expedition – a final diary entry

90 Fan – High C litter lout

91 General – It's a tank!

92 Heads – You win, tails I lose

93 Provenance – Van Gogh as decoration

94 Pruning – Power over flowers

95 Remote – Star wars are here

96 Suppertime – Feeding Pussy

97 Table Four – I need more calories

98 Trick – Halloween extortion revisited

99 Upside down – Cross-country in a VW

100 Whispering – Kindly leave the toilet

About the author

# Introduction

There are one hundred loosely categorized, very short stories in this little book. You can read one in sixty seconds. Got a minute? Read a story.

Each was born out of a pair of words randomly selected. For this, watchout4snakes is very useful. Just to make sure every single word works hard for you, there are, in every piece, only and exactly two hundred of them. That focuses the mind, no doubt.

Each piece is like a flash photograph, a glimpse of something a bit bigger or a bit of something a bit bigger. Hopefully, the bigger thing will exist in your mind for a few seconds before vanishing like Jensen Button when he drops the clutch. You've got too much to do already so you need an uncluttered mind.

The best thing about these pieces is that if you don't like one, you've lost sixty seconds. Try another. But most of all, enjoy!

Jem Barnes 2011

# Slightly Amusing Snapshots

## Archaeology

Professor Nugent leaned forward. The light from his helmet bounced off the glistening wall and cast a worrying shadow under his moustache. Betty giggled.

'Elizabeth!' he whispered, 'we are five thousand feet under Somaliland in the presence of the oldest cave paintings known to humanity. I would recommend a little reverence.'

'It's cold. I could be drinking a nice latte in the hotel,' she pouted, 'I dunno why you've brought me down here, Nuggie. It's damp too.'

'I brought you, my dear, so that, just for a moment, you can connect with the pulse of the universe, realise that life is not measured by the next beau, and that you and I are merely motes of dust in the swirling chaos of time.'

'I love it when you talk dirty.'

'These paintings are at least 20,000 years old. Look at the colour, the movement, the passion.'

She peered at the wall. 'That's a horse.'

'A horse indeed, my dear. Look more closely.'

She whistled. 'That bloke seems to be playing leapfrog. No. He's... Nuggie! This is porn!'

'It's the world's oldest erotic art, Elizabeth.'

Professor Nugent, adrift on seas of chaos, dropped his trousers.

'O Nuggie!' Betty squealed. 'Again?'

## Bang

The Chairman of the Winchester Crop Circles Association isn't happy.

He snarls through gritted teeth 'Well you idiot? What happened?'

The thin bearded youth facing him over the desk shifts his stance and glances around the room.

'What?' the Chairman screams.

The youth, unnerved, jumps, dropping his bag. It makes a heavy thump as it hits the ground.'We gets there at midnight, like we always do. We gets the stuff out and gets stuck in. There's a big moon.'

'A full moon. Get on with it.'

'Right. It was all going okay. We was doing a Holly Barn, you know, fifteen circles.'

'What?' His fist hits the desk. 'I don't know the Holly Barn?'

'Well, Roger, on the plank, finds this metal cylinder. He thinks it's a bomb. We wasn't going to work if the field's full of unexploded shells. So we stops.'

'You stopped! Unbelievable! I'd fixed a helicopter! Think about it! It wasn't a bomb. They must have ploughed the field! They would have found any bombs, you absolute moron.'

'Oh. Anyway, I brought it to show you.'

They look at each other, one apoplectic and one apologetic. In the silence, from the bag they hear: _tick, tock_.

## Batter

Shirley dropped the spatula when Chris came into the kitchen, 'I'm making some pancakes,' she said. 'You'd better get a wriggle on. Auntie June's coming over this morning.'

'Oh NO!' he whined, climbing on to a stool at the breakfast bar 'Not Auntie June!'

'Now then, show a little decorum. I know she's not your favourite Auntie...'

'She's my only bleeding Auntie! It's not fair! She's mad!'

'Don't be silly.'

'Mum! Come on. You can't ask me to sit there politely while she rabbits on about her infinite health problems. Varicose veins! Eczema! Legionnaires'! Chlamydia! Last month she had bowel cancer and expected to live less than a week. She wanted me to write a eulogy! I mean!'

'D'you want any lemon on these?' Shirley was immune to Chris's rants about her sister. He was a growing boy.

'I mean, Mum! You should have been there! She's showing me her veins. Disgusting! Like blue worms drowning in pink blancmange! And there's me, pretending to be interested! Can't I be out?'

'Your choice, of course, but she always brings cash.'

'You're going to tell me she's bringing Uncle George, his bunions, his alopecia and his nasal drip next.'

'Yes.'

'Aaaaagh!'

## Call

James was on form, his shirt dazzling, his tie aggressive, his suit expensive. 'It's not a complaint when they get through. It's a cry for help. You can't allow yourself to be affected by emotion.. You must remain detached, aloof, remote at all times. We can help. We don't just put you out there alone. We're with you every step of the way. We have been doing this for a long time now!'

The students giggled, acutely aware of James' irony. He scanned the class and wondered who would survive.

'We have the best defences in the world. Our automated switchboard will confound 56% of callers. It is a masterpiece of nested and self-referential prompts. On average, anyone who gets through to you will have been on the line for 17 minutes and selected 23 options from 87 menus. They deserve credit for their perseverance. Don't give it to them!'

Heads shook.

'Next is the RLD, the Random Line Drop. We cut off 34% of calls at this point. It doesn't matter what the caller does, shout. Scream, stamp their feet. Some can get to you. The truly obsessed. Now it's down to you. You will deliver our Customer Service!'

## Cedricke

Early one morning in the eleventh week of this pestilential year Cedricke wakes to coarse shouting. He sits up, his sackcloth pyjamas, made for another, hanging loose about him as he strains to hear. An instant later his eyes widen in terror. He turns, scrabbles for his flint and steel, and manages at last to light his stub of tallow candle.

He leaps from his cot, crosses the mud floor of his hovel, and drags aside the sacking at the window.

Dawn has already tinged the sky. The approaching voice is accompanied by the rumble of wooden wheels on cobbles. A look of sudden understanding lights Cedricke's face: he turns to begin his quest.

In a frenzy, he rummages his meagre possessions. The shouting grows louder and more urgent as his search continues. At last, with the rumbling almost nigh, he holds aloft the object of his search, a knitted brown teddy bear. He flings open his door, noticing the chalk-daubed cross thereon, dashes outside, and sprints across the mud toward the hunchback driving the corpse-laden tumbril.

Cedricke thrusts the ragged teddy bear at him.

'No, no, good sir,' the hunchback drools, 'What I say is: "bring out your dead!"'

## Chef

'The bloke at table eight is choking.' Miranda, tall, dark, handsome in her apron and blacks, didn't seem too concerned. 'The woman at table twelve is giving him a Heimlich.'

'He was the stroganoff,' said Roberto, large and dominant at the ranges, 'No fish-bones in that. Excellent!'

Dying customers wasn't a regular feature of Roberto's Bistro – well not since he'd had the place fumigated, anyway. The inquiry had exonerated him, too. This exchange reminded me of the tightrope we walked. Our stuff actually went inside people! My constant nightmare was the terrible, acidic, internal chemical reactions that our cuisine foisted on customers. We'd had complaints, of course. We even had a Customer Feedback form printed: _Did you enjoy your meal – etc._ Roberto used the completed forms to wrap fish. I once pointed out that wasn't really Best Practice and he said, 'I'm an artist! Artists don't have customers! We have immortality!'

For me, managing a place like Roberto's is all about riding shotgun on the chef's more exotic ideas, Poached boar's testicles! Fried stag beetles! Equine omelette! This stuff is okay for the _Guardian Food Supplement_ but actually to eat it? To charge money for it? I don't think so.

## Chime

The field was deserted. Normally, preparation for an event of this type would be well advanced by now, Derek thought, checking his watch. He checked his location on his satnav too and was happy to note that he was in the right place. He sat in the driver's seat and allowed his shoulders to slump.

He was expecting serious sales today to make up for a disappointing summer. He'd invested in additional stock, had his jacket cleaned and even bought the new Greensleeves Chime. It was, the salesman had said, a real kiddy-magnet! He pressed the button which played the Chime, just to hear it. It was magnificent! When it stopped there was only the field, the sun and the silence. A tear escaped an eyelid.

Then: a thudding! A regular thump in gradually increasing volume. Derek stared out of the windscreen and watched the Agusta A109 helicopter settle down beside the van. A man opened the canopy and ran, head down, to Derek's window.

'Six Magnums,' he said. 'Please.'

Then, clutching his new purchases, he ran back to the helicopter. The engine roared and Derek's ice cream flew away.

'Oh well,' Derek thought, starting the engine, 'Tomorrow's another day.'

## Claim

'You haven't read Clause 41.' It was quiet in the room, the oak panelling sucking the life out of Mr Frobisher's voice. His wing collar didn't help, a tight passage for his learned pronouncements. Nor did the random piles of files that littered the carpet.

I said, 'Pardon?'

He said, 'Clause 41. In itself, Clause 41 is unremarkable but when qualified by Clause 7, there's a problem.'

I said, 'Perhaps you could explain,' I'd been there for an hour (£200) and only just managed to conceal my anxiety. 'Will they pay?'

He sniffed and steepled his fingers. 'The thing is, you completed a claim form.'

'Of course! They sent it to me.'

'Clause 41 says that the Company will not be liable for any claim received on a Company Claim Form.'

'What?'

'And Clause 7 says that the Company will not settle any claim without a completed Claim Form.'

'But...'

'Exactly. It's a vicious circus. Always read the small print. The wording is clever.'

The fire had destroyed my house, my present, my future.

'What can I do?'

'Nothing. Suffer. Move on. Your mistake was to choose a new company.'

'So?'

'They used to be in the banking business.'

## Consultation

The consulting room was quiet for a moment. Dr Forbes handed the tissues to the woman on the couch.

'You have spoken before about the boy,' he said. 'He is such a source of pain to you. Adoption brings special challenges to the adoptive parents. I believe that you and your husband have done more than humanly possible to create a normal family environment and joyful upbringing for a child with a challenging range of difficult issues.'

'Thank you, doctor.' She dropped a tissue into the bin. 'I've talked about his strange behaviour.'

'You have.' He jots a note. 'Is there something new?'

'Yes, doctor. The other day I found him wearing my tights.'

'This is absolutely normal in a growing boy.'

'Yes. But he was wearing his underpants outside the tights.'

'I see.' Another note. 'Was he wearing anything else?'

'He had a raincoat around his neck, like a cloak. It was horrible. I broke down and cried.'

'We have to look on the bright side, Mrs Kent. At least Clark wasn't doing any of that flying nonsense.'

'We tied him to the bed. That didn't work, of course'

'I see. Time's up I'm afraid. See you next week.'

## Counselling

A porter picked Jack up and pushed him all the way to the fifth floor. Simon looked up when the porter left.

'So, Jack. How are you?' Simon closed his mobile phone, peered over half-moon spectacles, a fat file, a desk and a sign saying _Psychologist_.

'I'm feeling, well, great,' said Jack, grinning. 'Peachy!'

'I see. They looking after you okay on the ward?'

'Great! It's not true what they say about hospital food. It's fantastic!'

'Yes. So you're not too worried about the stroke.'

'Well. It happened. What can you do?'

'No depression? Down in the dumps? It's not unusual, in stroke,'

'Not at all.'

'It's a terrible thing, stroke. You know, of course, that your life has changed irrevocably. Things will never be the same again. You can't work. You can't feed yourself. You can't even stand up. There's an increased chance of another stroke at any time. Many partners, wives, can't handle the personality change. Sex stops. Divorce is common. You have no control over your life any more.'

The porter collected Jack five minutes later and whisked him back to the ward.

'He's very good that Simon,' said the porter. 'How'd it go?'

'Great,' said Jack.

## Course

On the first day Mr Letts introduced us to the Health and Safety mafia.

'There is no limit to the power in your hands,' he said, his portly frame dwarfing the lectern. 'Anything you can think of, you can do!

See it! Label it!' he cried. 'I'd like to introduce you to some of the timeless warnings devised by people just like you! _Keep upright in a cool place! Keep away from children! Keep cool! Eat before March 30th!_ The sheer brilliance of these homilies is breath-taking.'

Of the sixty students who started the course, only three completed it. Jenkins got an A* when Parliament decreed that _Do not insert into any part of the body_ was, by law, engraved on all cutlery. Truscott got a B when _Not to be used for marital games_ was tattooed on the nation's sheep. Blake got a C for his suggestion that spiders' webs should be labelled _Can be harmful to flies_.

And me? I failed. My plan to fit all children with electronic chips designed to set off an alarm on their parents' smartphone if it heard someone say 'Like some sweeties, dear?' was regarded as too far ahead of its time.

## Court

Fear suffused the courtroom like an invisible fog. Kent, white-faced, gripped the handrail on the witness box as if it stopped him falling. Collins's voice gradually rose in volume and pitch. 'I put it to you, Mr Kent,' he raged, 'that your testimony is a tissue of lies! You got up that night. You took, from the little chest, the vicious, chromium ballpeen hammer you had bought in Wilkinson's Ironmongery that very afternoon. It was heavy in your hand. Perhaps you took one last look at your wife's sleeping face, her hair fanned on the pillow. Perhaps you whispered 'Farewell.' We shall never know. We shall never know the horror of that terrible moment. What we do know is that you used your hammer to bludgeon that innocent woman to death as she slept!'

Collins paused and seemed disconcerted that there was no applause.

'You've got the wrong bloke.' Kent stood tall, chin outstretched, eyes unfocused. He undid his jacket. The packed courtroom muttered. He dropped his trousers and hurled the jacket aside.

'But, I'll find the damned swine who did this, m'lud.' He ripped off his shirt to reveal his red-and-blue Superman outfit and flew out of the window.

## Crusade

Silence fell in the greenhouse as the vegetables considered Biggy's announcement. The moon cast eerie shadows amongst the crowd. He continued. 'We fancy men are individuals; so are pumpkins; but every pumpkin in the field goes through every point of pumpkin history. That's a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. How true! What insight. Our connection with our history demands that we put right the historic Evil that has been perpetrated against us for centuries. No longer must we be tortured by people. No longer must we allow our kind to be knifed, skewered and disembowelled.'

The rustle of enraged foliage grew. At the back there was a disturbance. A small pumpkin had fought its way on to the staging. 'Don't listen to Biggy!' it cried, and those around drew back. 'Size doesn't matter. It is our destiny, foretold over the eons. We cannot fiddle with Fate! We must aspire to making the finest soup, the tastiest pie.'

'This is our Destiny!' Biggy boomed, ' Whom do we scare?'

'The kids! We scare the kids! We put the squits up the kids!' The ancient anthem grew in volume. At last the sun rose and, exhausted, the vegetables returned to their plots.

## Deduction

Poirot stroked his moustache.

'Ziss is very puzzling indeed. Zee little brain cells weel be sorely tested, I 'azard, n'est-ce pas?'

Captain Arthur Hastings nodded 'It's a strange one, all right, Hercule. Damned if I can make any sense of it at all.'

The two men were standing in the oak-panelled study of Lord Wilfrid Bashington-Smythe, having been summoned early that morning by an anguished Lady Bashington-Smythe. They had arrived in doublequick time and been presented with a tantalising enigma.

'Ze door was locked from ze inside. Ze window is barred and ze chimney blocked. Seemingly, eet is eempossible for anyone to have bludgeoned Lord-Bashington-Smythe to death and escaped through the Hall's ballroom – filled to capacity with the intelligentsia of Paris, celebrating Louis Bleriot's first ever Channel crossing by aeroplane.'

'Devilishly good do it was, too. Unfortunately it gives us rather a lot of suspects. It could take ages to eliminate everyone. I don't like to admit it, Hercule, but I am baffled.' The Captain's monocle steamed.

''Astings! 'Ave you noticed ze blood?'

' Blood? But there isn't any.'

'And ze body?'

'The body? But there isn't one!'

'Precisely. 'Astings. Nussing 'as 'appened.'

'By God, Hercule! You've done it again!'

## Dressing

'And hurry up about it, you useless cretin,' said today's Customer From Hell.

Jason nodded, forcing a smile, snapped his pad and left the table as fast as his spindly legs would take him.

In the kitchen Jenny was slicing a cucumber. New to the job, the tiny woman's knife skills needed attention but she pressed on.

Jason lit a Marlboro as he said, 'There's a CFH at table twelve. I recognize the bastard. Actually, I think he's your ex, Jenny. He's waiting for that salad.

'What? Gavin?' Jenny's voice was tight as she examined the restaurant monitor, 'Yes! You're right. Who's the skinny trollop with the bastard?'

'Don't bottle it up, Jen,' said Jason, 'Tell us how you really feel.'

'Well. I've had it up to here with him. I'm not slicing cucumber for the man who's ruined my life. Into the waste bucket with it!'

'No. Wait.' Jason produced a little bottle. 'He's ordered the Thousand Island Dressing. Why not give them a little extra?'

She grabbed the bottle and vanished, giggling, into the Ladies'.

At shift end, Jason said, 'They loved the Dressing. I got a tip.'

'Excellent!' she said.

'One thing,' he said, 'what's a cretin?'

## Factory

Balbo, the lettuce checker, was, generally, happy in his work. The hours were steady and regular, the work undemanding, the canteen well-stocked, his workmates interesting, interested and amusing. His chair was comfortable and his eye well used to the challenges and pleasures of fresh, moist lettuce. He scarcely cared that Palfrey was an absolute arsehole. His line manager rarely troubled him but when he did, like yesterday, it took Balbo many days to recover.

'You are an utter idiot, Balbo,' Palfrey had said. 'A rotting heap of compost could check lettuce better than you.'

Balbo knew that he was, in truth, a craftsman, something that Palfrey could never be, no matter how many MBAs he had or Staff Motivation Seminars he ran. As a craftsman, he usually ignored Palfrey, but yesterday he had responded to the latter's goading.

'Fuck off Palfrey,' he'd said.

Palfrey had reddened. His eyes bulged. Steam came out of his ears.

'How dare you?' he spluttered, reaching into his executive shoulder-bag and producing a small, green bundle.

'See this?' he squealed. 'You passed it as "Excellent." It's mouldy. Useless! This little piece of lettuce could have poisoned someone. And it's just the tip of the Iceberg!'

## Gibberlets

'Today we're looking at some more pronunciation anomalies.' Mrs Woolgar, who sailed a Mirror dinghy at weekends, scanned the class for knotted eyebrows. Mr Lapinski's eyebrows were a bowline on a sheepshank on two round turns and a half-hitch.

'We'll start with 'OUGH',' she continued, writing on the blackboard, 'Anyone like to try R-OUGH?' Mr Lapinski's hand shot up. No one else moved. He began a strange swaying in his chair that she could not ignore. She nodded and he leapt to his feet.

'Roe?'

'No,' she said.

'Row?' he said.

'No,' she said.

'Roo?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Doesn't make no sense,' he said, 'In Engleesh nussing is pronounced right! How you specked herself learned?'

Mrs Woolgar, in thirty years, had never encountered anything like Mr Lapinski's sentence structure. ' _It_ ,' she said with deliberation; 'how are you expected to learn _it_!'

'Zackly!' Mr Lipinski pounced, 'It's keeling me. Eet's gibberlets. I gif you a zample! I vos reading mine vife from English cookbook how a pie to cook. It vos a lemon my ring pie.'

'That's "gibberish", Mr Lapinski,' she said, through gritted teeth. 'And _meringue_!'

'Yus! It's gibberish! Up with it I am fed! Goodbye!'

And he sat down.

## Herd

When Buttercup discovered the truth, she was keen to share it with the world. Hyacinth was not impressed.

'So what?' she said, mooody as ever. 'It's just something to eat.'

'But that's exactly the point – it's not foood. There's no foood value. No carbohydrates. No vitamins. No unsaturated fats. In any case we don't eat it. We chew it!'

Hyacinth stopped chewing. 'Yes? And?'

'It's grass! We're eating grass!

'Everyone knows that. Greener grass makes better butter!'

'That's a marketing slogan! It's meaningless!' Buttercup was almost bellowing.

Although an amateur, Hyacinth knew she could spot a psychological problem. She had ruuminated long on the condition of the herd and its members. She had reached no real concluusion but had ultimately accepted her lot. Buttercup was a different kind of cow.

'Look,' she said. 'You need a break, Buttercup. 'You're becoming paranoid. I have noticed that you're not as perky as normal. You're at a real low. I've been speaking to the Farmer about you.'

'What?'

'Nothing to worry about. He's taken your concerns on board. You're going to get a couple of weeks in the cowshed! A chance to eat real foood!'

'Wow! That's wonderful! I love Total Mixed Ration!'

## Parenthood

'The problem is, she's so hideously ugly,' said the Queen. 'We'll never find her a husband. He'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid.'

The King knew there were such people in the world but didn't want to be related to them.

'We could bribe someone,' the Queen continued.

'Money can't buy happiness,' the King suggested.

'Happiness!' his wife snapped, 'What's happiness got to do with anything? We've been married for years. Are we happy? Of course not! Where does the word 'happiness' appear in the wedding vows?'

The King regarded his wife's habit of answering her own questions, of conversing with herself, as disturbing; but it did, at least, allow him to pursue his own, private, regal thoughts, as befitted a kind and powerful ruler.

'We'll run a competition for her hand in marriage and a thousand pieces of silver. Suitors will overlook her ugliness for a life of luxury.'

At that moment Florence entered the chamber, just too late to hear her mother's devastating opinion.

'Is breakfast ready?' she squeaked, in that annoying voice of hers. The King looked at her hump, her lank hair, her limp and her squinty eyes.

'Better make it two thousand,' he said.

## Pinched

Through the snow, Simon drove that night. He'd had a hard day. His eyelids drooped. He came awake with a jolt, blue lights in his mirrors. He sighed, pulled to the side of the road, waited. The mirrors showed a flashlight floating toward him.

The motorcycle patrolman tapped on the window with the flashlight and Simon rolled it down.

'May I see your licence, sir?'

His flashlight blinded Simon, fumbling for his wallet.

'I wasn't speeding, officer,' he said.

'No, sir. You weren't. Your driving was impeccable. This is a routine stop.'

'Okay, Officer,' Simon, calmer, noticed the patrolman's sunglasses dangling from the breast pocket of his parka. 'You won't need those tonight!'

'No, sir. Will you kindly breathe into this, sir.'

'I haven't had a drink all day.'

'Sir.'

Simon took a deep breath and exhaled, forcing every bit of air out of his lungs. The patrolman pushed another dark object at him.

'And this, sir. If you wouldn't mind. Breathe into this, please.'

'But...'

'Sir.'

Once again, this time feeling a little dizzy, Simon did as he was told.

'Thank you, sir.' The patrolman was walking away. 'Nothing like nice warm gloves on a night like this.'

## Pot

'What should you have said?'

The Controller's voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. Indeed it was. The Boardroom table was forty feet long. James, hair slicked in a neat parting and shoes blindingly clean especially for today, gulped.

'I should have said: "Welcome to Jeremy Hunt, Countryside Minister". It was a simple mistake.'

'Simple?' The Controller's roar could be heard from outer space. 'Our switchboard was jammed for three hours! We had twenty thousand emails. Someone set up a special Facebook page! "Speebeecee Boonerisms!"' The Controller hyperventilated, glowing an attractive shade of puce.

James said, 'I wasn't the only one. Andrew Marr did it too. On Breakfast!'

'He was reporting the facts. Your crash-and-burn was news, by God! And right in the middle of the licence fee negotiations! You didn't rock the boat. You damn near sank it! You're fired!'

James said, softly, 'You can't do that.'

'I can and I have!'

'No! The papers would love to be reminded about your Diana Fluck interview! 'Remember the "L" you said at the briefing. Pot and kettle spring to mind!'

'This is heresy! I will not...'

'You will. You said, live on air. This is Diana Clunt.'

'Get back to work!'

## Sales

Morganhall had had a tough day. Incessant rain, traffic. Eight calls, no sales. The moment he followed Alan Curtis into the neat, warm, living room in Ashford, he decided he wouldn't leave without a signature. Three cups of tea and a glass of sherry later he was struggling to conceal his rage. I mean, was it a great deal or what? He took a deep breath.

'Is there anything in the illustrations that isn't clear?'

Curtis's voice was beginning to grate, 'Well no, but —'

'But me no buts, Alan. It's getting late. I need to report in. I have already broken all the rules just for you. I'm going to be in trouble. My boss has never offered anyone a deal like this before. I'd really like to know how you talked him into it.'

'Well, I—'

'It's decision time, Alan. The thing is: Do you want a comfortable retirement? We've got an amazing premium, considering your weight.'

'Are you saying I'm fat?' Curtis's face reddened, his eyes bulged, his tongue, protruded. With a strangled croak he fell to the ground and lay still, eyes bulging.

'Oh shit, ' Morganhall snapped his case shut. 'Lucky he didn't sign.'

## Scale

She blamed herself. When she had closed her bank account, the banking crisis hit. She switched electricity suppliers and the Fukushima atomic plant exploded. She went shopping and England rioted. When she joined the Tory party, the Cameron government fell.

'It's not just a bleeding coincidence,' she said.'Something's going on.' And she was right.

Some years ago, aliens from the planet Zarquon had given up the God myth they'd been using to control humanity. It had lost its credibility. They lost the human prayers that showed them what to do. They needed a new signpost.

They mounted a new investigatory expedition and no Earthly stone was left unturned. Fourteen thousand Interstellar Battle-cruisers combed the planet. Humanity would have noticed the ships if they'd been more than millimetre and a half long.

They found her in Chiddingfold. They studied her for a couple of days and harnessed her worries to give humans something to do. They reasoned, not unreasonably, that humans wouldn't invade space if they were busy. Oblivious of the Zarquon presence, she went about her daily, slightly paranoid, life as usual. For a while all went jolly well. Then she started to worry about the end of the world.

## Smug

'A can can't look smug,' said Gerald. 'It's an inanimate object and thus is impervious to emotion.'

'Who says smugness is an emotion?' Roger picked the can up and turned it over and over in his stubby little fingers. It didn't open.

'I'll bet it says in Wikipedia,' said Janet, 'I'll check.' Her fingers danced on her mobile phone's virtual keyboard. The phone was latest Apple and boasted a 4D interface, 5000 watts of quadraphonic sound, location awareness, rocket assisted dialling and instant cloaking when abused. It beeped.

'It doesn't say,' she whispered as shock suffused them all.

'I think we should just hit it with a brick,' said Gerald.

'The idea is to get the apricots out, not squash them into pulp. Any case, where're you going to get a brick?'

Roger was twisting it with all his strength. It didn't open.

Gerald was becoming tetchy. 'There's thousands of bricks in that wall.'

'So we should get the apricots out of the can or a brick out of that wall? Off you go then.'

'If your sarcasm won't open this, nothing will,' Janet said. 'Wait a minute. I think this comes with a can opener. Nope. No joy. Sorry.'

## True love

I'm sitting on a wall with my ankles crossed. Shoppers walk back and forth before me and I wonder if they realise how close they are to genius. I open my notebook and, with my silver propelling pencil, I write:

' _Passersby_

Busy in their ignorance

Dangle carrier bags

What truth is there

In their scales of justice?

I sign the piece and entitle it _Shoppers' Justice_.'

The shoppers meld into a single mass, amorphous, pulsating, horrible. A single ray of sunlight pierces the cloud and illuminates a woman's face. She is smiling, a lovely, beautiful, human face, a beacon of love in the maelstrom. I smile too, but with sadness. I will never reach the dizzy heights of her radiance. She is sparkling, vivacious, alive. I am weighed down, dull, desensitised to reality.

I write more:

There was a girl from Liverpool

Whose face was a beautiful jewel

Too bad that her boobs

Were ugly fat cubes

Too lumpy to cause me to drool

I sign it and entitle it _True love in the afternoon_.

My anthology is almost complete. I'll sell the international marketing rights, the movie rights and maybe a broadsheet newspaper serialisation. The chat show circuit awaits.

## Window

Through the glass, Cheryl watched her husband. Scott could not, of course, see her. He was alone in the room, sitting bolt upright in the chair, his whole body quivering, his eyes a glassy, unseeing stare. There was an unreal stillness about him that terrified her. Behind her, the door opened and closed with the slightest hiss. Dr Bloch sat in the chair beside her.

'No change,' he said. 'He seems to be in a world of his own. He made that hat out of a toilet roll and a newspaper yesterday. There's a comfort in it for him.'

'It looks stupid.' She spoke through gritted teeth but she would not cry.

Scott leapt to his feet and, with a jerky, awkward gait, staggered to the glass. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a fountain pen which he held to his lips, unblinking.

'F.A.B, Virgil,' he said, lips unmoving. 'Take Thunderbird One into space and await further instructions.' He turned on his heel and wobbled back to his chair. There he sat, stiff, with his hands clawed, grasping nothing.

'We call it International Rescue Syndrome,' the doctor said. 'We can only get him to sleep by cutting his strings.'

# Criminal activities

## Axe

She stopped for a moment at the door and glanced back at him. The axe was deep into his head and blood had started to leach into the duvet. He was wearing the Star Wars pyjamas she had bought him for their fifth anniversary. His mouth seemed to be curled in a surprised smile. She smiled too, remembering the sudden halt of her downswing and the satisfying squelch. It was lucky he had been was asleep.

She had warned him many times. He'd laughed. His unpredictable violence toward her was terrifying and regular.

Tonight, bruised and bleeding after some imagined error, she'd threatened to leave. His rage was immediate. He was strong and angry. She ran out into the street to escape the shouting and the blows. He followed but, as neighbours gathered, shrugged and went back inside. The door-slam was a gunshot in the street.

Miraculously, she had grabbed the keys and, later, when time passed and the quiet said he was asleep, she returned. His shame was convincing. He, waking, wept with sorrow, promised, swore it would never happen again, threw himself on her mercy. She cried too and, while forgiving him, remembered where he kept the axe.

## Bedtime

'Why do you call me that, Daddy?' As she spoke, Charlotte rearranged Barkey's paws and ears in unusual patterns. Barkey was fraying now, after seven years of continuous play.

'Call you what, pumpkin?' It was hard to concentrate and John was losing the sequence of magazines. There were so many special editions. Christmas, Halloween, Guy Fawkes.

'Pumpkin, Daddy. It's a fruit, isn't it? And a carriage. Mummy was talking about Ugly Sisters.'

The sequence was ruined now and John tensed, remembering he was wearing braces. No belt. 'She was talking rubbish about a fairy story. Pumpkin's a term of endearment. It means I love you very much.'

'I love you too, Daddy.' Barkey's legs were a tightly wound corkscrew.

John smiled, pushing the pile of magazines to one side, his glance resting on Miss November. She sweated happiness. He turned his gaze on her. The child's skin was pearlescent, a sheen of moisture on her lips.

'It's bedtime,' he said.

'Not yet, Daddy, please.' She started to sob, great spasms wracking her body.

'Your father's coming to collect you tomorrow.' he said, slipping out of his shirt,

A contorted Barkey fell as he carried the weeping child into the bedroom.

## Bottle

'Put your hands on the vehicle's roof, sunshine.'

The rain-drenched metal is cold.

'Take the hoodie off. Let's have a look at you.'

Jason turns, his dreads spraying rain. 'Is there something the matter, officer?' Often guilty, he is an expert innocent.

The pig is bulky in his black and blue crowd control gear, his name-badge screaming WILSON.

'So?' It's the familiar hectoring tone often used by Pillows of Society. 'This plasma TV? Yours? Is it? Eh?' Wilson points at the soggy cardboard box leaning against the car's alloy wheel.

'Never seen it before.'

'You were running away from me, carrying it.'

'I was out for a stroll. CCTV will confirm this. The world's most surveilled society, we are.'

He looks up and sees a bottle floating out of the wet, dark sky. It lands on Wilson's helmet and breaks with a dull thud. Liquid cascades over his shoulders, chest and back. Jason steps away from the spreading stench of unleaded four star. He reaches into his pocket and grabs the Zippo. Wilson stands in a rainbow puddle. With practised fingers Jason fires the lighter.

'There is no justice,' he says, as he tosses the flaming Zippo into the puddle.

## Bus

In the prison bus, I looked at the other guy. Gold-rimmed spectacles, nice suit, shined shoes. He looked like a headmaster or something. We were on the way to the remand centre, sent there by harassed officers at Guildford Custody who didn't know what to do with us. Understaffed and overworked, they were living proof of budget cuts. I was polite but the sausage was in the machine and I was the sausage. No aircon in the bus brought sweat to my face but I wasn't guilty so no sweat.

They'd taken me outside The Drink where, for once, I hadn't been in business. There was a famine just now following what the BBC called a 'major drugs bust' so I'd been taking it easy. On a Saturday night The Drink attracts young ladies who like my eyes and I'd thought the evening looked promising. The fat sergeant with a lisp and a holstered Taser had ended all that. Nowadays, I never wonder 'Why me?'

Awkward on the vinyl seat, I could see the headmaster was going to have some problems with the lads. They were an impatient lot. What could he do? Maybe he could offer them an education.

## Campaign

Charlie loved addressing the masses. 'On the stump,' he would say, 'I feel alive. I'm seeing the world from the viewpoint of the great unwashed. Their trivial concerns suddenly become real, as if they actually mattered. They just love me, my honesty, my, to use the current jargon, 'transparency.' It's just too damn lucky they can't see through me!'

Of course, he would never say this while actually on the stump. Christine, his well-informed wife, had warned him, 'There's no such thing as truth. Everything is relative.' Her belief was emancipated by Charlie's campaign, ironically built around the slogan 'Charlie Mann – the truth at last.' His majority was impressive. A Cabinet post seemed within his grasp.

When Christine discovered Charlie _in flagrante_ with a pair of nubile researchers scattered across her waterbed, the truth was too much for her to handle. She ran out of the bedroom, unlocked her shotgun, returned and dispatched them all.

At the Old Bailey she was unable to suppress a grin when asked to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

She said, 'He was a damned liar and deserved to die.' The jury, voters all, were shocked.

## Education

Derek turned the desk lamp on. The shabby office contrasted with Teacher's perfect appearance. Derek's voice was a dark brown rasp. 'Your fee?'

'Is received,' Teacher whispered.

Derek flinched and, after a coughing fit, continued, 'It has to be before noon tomorrow. No later.'

'Yes.'

'I guess you know your business. You've done this before. Many times, they said. I don't want to know the details but Thursday will be too late. I've got people tracking him now. You've seen the file. He's a man of habit. You could set your watch by him.'

'I don't need a watch.'

'Everybody... I would have thought... Right. That's it then.'

Teacher stood, 'Yes. That's it.' He turned to the door.

'Just one thing.' Derek coughed some more. 'Why do they call you Teacher?'

Teacher turned, smiled and walked toward Derek. His tone was conversational. 'I teach people the most important lesson there is.'

Derek retreated, stopping when his back hit the wall. He coughed again. 'I see,' he said, 'I understand! Yes! Life is short!'

'No, no.' The revolver in Teacher's hand was trained on Derek's chest. 'The lesson is: You can always be outbid.'

Derek didn't hear the gunshot.

## Fishing

The Silver Lady was large in the mirror so I glanced around. No one. I stamped on the brakes. The Fiesta's tyres screamed but it pulled up fast. The brakes were excellent. The Rolls smashed into the Fiesta's rear with a satisfying crunch. I turned off the engine, turned on the radio, leant against the window and practised a groan. It sounded convincing to me, but there was always the risk of going that bit too far, of milking the dramatic effect. A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the window. It hummed down.

'You crazy fool!' He was angry, short, about forty and very well dressed. I'll bet the crease in his trousers damaged his fascia. 'Why did you stop? What were you doing?'

I said, 'Didn't you see her?'

He said, 'Who? There was nobody. The road was clear.' He paused. 'Did you see someone?'

I waited. We looked at each other for a long while.

'She ran out,' I said , rubbing my neck.

'I didn't see anyone.'

'I can't see her now,' I said. 'Shouldn't we exchange details?'

Afterwards, he walked back to his Rolls. The front was a mess.

I walked home.

## Flowers

Patricia examined her face in the bathroom mirror. The cut seemed clean, with little discoloration. The bruises, however, were darkening in a frightening way.

He had been almost pleasant when he came in, stinking of Extra Strong Mints. Then he, to her utter surprise, had handed her a bunch of flowers in a metallic cellophane wrapper, smelling of sprayed perfume and four star petrol. She'd smiled and thanked him. He nodded, puckered as he blew her a kiss and headed for the liquor cabinet in the dining room. When he came back with a heavy crystal glass full of whisky she'd told him. Despite her careful selection of non-threatening and non-confrontational language, when the moment actually arrived, it all came out in a rush.

He was, at first, shocked, then wept, apologies tumbling out of him. Then he recovered, became threatening. She explained again, talking about the children. She'd turned to indicate a family photo on the kitchen wall and the glass hit her as she turned back. Then came the fists.

Seeing her face in the mirror, she thought that she was glad that she'd ended it, glad that he'd hit her – and very glad that she'd shot him.

## Holiday

'Built between 1285 and 1315, it's 404 ft or 128 metres high, the tallest medieval steeple in Europe. Its weight is supported by four main Purbeck marble piers and strengthened by further buttresses.'

The fat guide's nose was distended and his hands sweaty. His knowledge of the cathedral was extensive but his entertainment level nil.

Alan, bored, annoyed and cheated, snorted but the guide didn't seem to notice.

The idea of a romantic holiday in Salisbury had not really appealed to Alan when Jessica had first suggested it. There was no question that their marriage was in need of a substantial element of fun.

Lighting a Marlboro after a particularly physical workout with Janet, his obliging lover, Alan had bemoaned Jessica's mumsy attitude. Janet had agreed, as she always did.

Perhaps something more amusing would crop up this evening.

Jessica was not convinced that, as Alan had said, 'It's all going to pot.' There was plenty of excitement to come. The revolver in her handbag wasn't that heavy. The acoustics in the cathedral made an gunshot impossible without much unwanted attention. She decided to wait until they returned from their after-dinner stroll. Hadn't someone already done 'Murder in the Cathedral?'

## NHS

The waiting room bulged with patients. The receptionist called Simon's name, so he set off for Consulting Room Four. Therein, certificates crowded the walls and a bespectacled figure sat in a leather chair behind a mahogany desk. A stethoscope embraced his neck.

'Hello, doctor.' Simon's voice was a croak. 'I don't think I'm very well.'

'I see.' The doctor's fingers flashed over his keyboard, 'Sore throat? Temperature? Sweats?'

'Exactly. How did you know?'

'Perth Flu is common this year. Have you had a flu jab?'

'No, doctor.'

'No worries. Take one of these every four hours.' He handed Simon a prescription. 'Our dispensary will fill this in minutes. Go home. Get some rest. Drink lots of water.'

'Thank you.'

Later, in the dispensary's waiting room, Simon's eye fell on the magazine table. The _Daily Mail_ perched on a stack of _Country Life_ s. He picked it up. On page seven he noticed a picture of the doctor whose consulting room he had just left. He read the article with mounting excitement:

Walter Jeeves, the notorious medical impersonator has been spotted in Surrey. He hijacks doctors' offices, impersonates them and interferes with patients.

Simon found, however, that the prescription worked a treat.

## Oops

On the sidewalk at the foot of the 1,454 feet tall Sears Tower on Wacker Drive in Chicago, Illinois, Sergeant Karl Newman looked up at the 110 storeys, creating a washboard with his neck fat. 'It's tall,' he said. 'No question.'

Mickey George, the rookie, wasn't listening, instead looking down at the pavement where a tiny scarlet dot glistened in a crack. He said, 'They did a pretty good job. Under the circumstances. They missed a bit.'

Newman shrugged. 'Those guys! Who'd want to do that?'

'Somebody's got to. You can't just leave him there. It's unhygienic.'

Newman said, 'You want to talk about it?'

George took a deep breath, 'Yes. Sure. No problem. We were on the eighteenth floor. He was on the windowsill. We talked. It wasn't really a negotiation. We just chatted. He wasn't happy, of course, but he was calm. I just happened to be there. It wasn't a call. I was advising on security, you know? Someone gave him coffee. I shouldn't have said it. It was a joke'

'Don't blame yourself, kid. He was a crazy.'

'I shouldn't have said it.'

'What? What did you say?'

'I said, 'Don't get jumpy.' So he did.'

## Parcel

At the door, Brian stares at two kids.

'What are you?' he says. 'Carol singers?'

They look at his grubby pyjamas, tousled hair and tattered slippers. The big kid, about ten, thin and blond, steps forward.

'It's not Christmas,' he says, 'and we don't sing.'

Brian says, 'I was asleep.'

The big kid says, pointing at the small kid, 'This is Nigel. He has a present for you.'

'For me? You've got a present for me? What is this?' Brian backs up reaching for the door-handle.

Nigel steps forward, holding a parcel, 'This is for you sir.' He thrusts the parcel at Brian. They are all in the doorway now. Brian looks at the parcel. The wrapping is familiar.

'Open it, please, sir,' says Nigel.

Brian takes the wrapping off. The wrapping is a centrefold from _Slut_ magazine.

'Sorry about that, sir,' says Nigel, 'It's all we had. Please open the parcel.'

Brian opens the parcel. It contains a variety of adult sex toys.

'Look...' says Brian, but no one's listening. The big kid is on a cellphone.

'Police,' he says. Then: 'this man is trying to get us into his house.'

Brian hears sirens in the distance.

## Picnic

Donna threw the keys deep into the brush. Wayne tried to fix their landing point in his mind but his concentration was undercut by the wave of rage that coursed through him. It was the last goddamn straw. The bitch would pay this time. He fumbled the Colt out of its holster, threw open the truck door and stepped out. She was running away from him and the distant keys. He aimed, fired, missed and swore. She was zigzagging like a professional. He holstered the revolver and turned back toward the keys.

Three hours later he sat down on an abandoned wooden crate. The Montana sun had drained his strength. He was five hundred miles from home, exhausted, unable to hotwire a truck and very, very angry. He should never have married the woman. Everyone said she was no good but he didn't listen. He'd known better. But now he'd really have to kill her. His rage welled up again and with a mighty effort he kicked the crate as hard as he could. He watched, scowling, as it flew through the air. As it landed he heard the familiar, terrifying rattle. He turned, too late, and the snake struck.

## Rapture

I pause at the top of the staircase, listening. After a moment I move on, my shoes silent on the carpeting. My little torch throws a bright circle on her bedroom door. I let some oil from my vial flow into the door-handle pivot and the hinges. After an appropriate moment of reflection, I hold my breath and ease the door open.

Inside, the moon outlines her bedroom curtains and casts angular patterns on the wall. I hear the steady hiss of her breathing. In and out. I am not an expert in these things but believe her to be in a deep sleep. I lean over her, breathing the very same air that she breathes. My rapture is intense, profound.

I allow the pleasure to suffuse me for as long as I dare but understand, deep within me, that all good things must come to an end.

I take the knife out of my belt. There is a moisture on it. I consider cleaning it but realise that it is only the child's blood. She made no sound. I bend again over the mother and wonder if the imminent pleasure will be better or worse than my many imaginings.

## Recital

The kid sits on our bench. He has a violin case on his lap. It's an outrage! I explain his mistake with my usual firmness but he stands up again, bleeding from the lip. There are tears in his eyes. Jonny laughs and throws the violin case into the river. The kid goes after it. I throw a brick at him. He sits down in the water, surprised. Well, who wouldn't be? There's more blood, this time on his head. We both start pelting him with stones. It's brilliant! The park is a real pile of fun for us mainly due to the number of innocents hanging about, not realising what would happen. It has certainly happened to this kid. He's sitting in the water helplessly messing with the case. Jonny is laughing and shouting about recitals. He wants to know if the kid is going to give us one! I don't think he can play the violin with blood everywhere. The kid gets the case open and the lid is a new target for us. It is quickly tattered. The kid produces this machine gun and lets rip. I see the flash but hear nothing because I am dead.

## Research

James shivered. It was cold in the Tank.

Danny wouldn't hold out much longer. His eyes widened as James held the syringe up to the light. It was rather a large dose but James had brought plenty of tape to capture Danny's confession. He would confess, James knew. It was inconceivable that anyone could resist the chemically-amplified pain that James had learnt to inflict.

Danny made no sound as the needle slid into his neck. As James thumbed the plunger he wondered if Danny were still alive. He found a pulse in Danny's neck and smiled. Danny would pay for the deaths he had caused, the shoppers destroyed by his little bomb. He had built it in his kitchen, concealed it amongst the department store clothes and triggered it from the mezzanine above. Or something like that. He'd been caught as he twisted the keys in the truck's ignition and the police had started on him even before they delivered him. They were, of course, amateurs. James was a professional.

He selected a scalpel and showed it to Danny.

'What do you want to know?' Danny's voice was slurred. His breath bubbled blood. James leaned close to his ear.

'Everything.'

## Retirement

Carter had been making a speech when the call came in.

Now, looking at the vermilion pool of blood, he tried to reconcile his ramblings with the reality of life – and death.

'Awesome party eh? The punch was a bit of a hazard.' The forensic tech smiled, adjusting the exposure on the Nikon. 'Thirty years is it?'

Carter said, 'Twenty-five. I was supposed to finish at six. The Chief said so.'

'Shit happens.'

'Doesn't it? Any initials?' He'd got the watch, fixed the pension, done the glad-handing. He just wanted to get out of there.

'A guy and a woman. Looks like he shot her and then shot himself. They were holding hands. Happened about an hour ago. He's about twenty. She's older, maybe thirty-five. There's a note.'

Carter took the A4 sheet and read:

It's hopeless. There's no hope. We're leaving the world to you. Hope it treats you better than it did us.

'Than it did us.' Carter. Admiring the syntax, looked around the scummy room. Ripped architraves. Broken floorboards. Jemmied dadoes. They'd been living on the trim for some time.

He left and went home. On the way he wondered if retirement was better than real life.

## Security

Eric holds the open bag close to the titanium grid and armoured glass so Theo the fence can see its glittering contents. Above him, cameras pan and LEDs blink. Eric smiles. 'So?'

Eric is at Theo's eye level but he knows that Theo is a midget. His height is never an issue for the working thieves who call at his shop. Legend has it that the rear of the shop is built on an Ocelot armoured vehicle so that Theo can leave any time, triggering steel shutters to encircle the public area and teargas to flood it from concealed jets. Theo's Terms and Conditions were designed to terrify. Eric continues. 'It's a Rolex.'

Theo's voice is tinny through the grille. 'I have 125 Rolexes.'

'You must like them, then. How much?'

'Ha ha fucking ha. Eric, you make me laugh. Go away.'

'It's an Oyster Perpetual.'

'I have a nice range of hearing aids.'

Eric hears a distant alarm and, perhaps, the rumble of running feet. He drops the bag and turns to the door. It is shut.

'For fuck's sake Theo, you can have the Rolex!'

'126.'

The door opens. Eric scampers out.

'Theo says, 'Eric? Not very Perpetual.

## Shopping

_Don't Walk_ the sign read, so Alice ran across the road. A yellow cab caught her foot but she recovered with a hop, landing on her feet and reaching the sidewalk without further mishap, the purse clutched in folded arms. She sauntered along the sidewalk, a picture of innocence, the purse now dangling from her hand. Merging with the shopping-intent crowd, she attracted few glances, save a few from men noticing she was alone.

In the alley behind the restaurant Alice sat on a garbage bag and inspected her haul. A wallet containing eighty-two dollars and four credit cards in the name of Marion Forbes. They were worth twenty dollars more if she got them to Kevin who was well connected with computers and phones and everything. And he never asked for anything on the side.

There were tissues, a notebook, some lipstick and a bunch of keys. The house key was worth two hundred if Alice could find an address in the notebook or somewhere. The car key was worthless unless she could wander the streets blipping the remote just on the off-chance but this never worked. And, right at the bottom of the purse, there was an automatic.

## Teamwork

Harry slid down behind the wall. 'It looks all quiet. Just a couple of old farts collecting their pensions. It's gonna be a breeze.'

Jonny regarded him with a level gaze 'Have they got eyes?'

'Oh, come on, Jonny. Of course they've got eyes. They're people. Oh.'

Jonny's gaze was steady, patient, worrying. He said, 'This is a serious matter, Harry. You wouldn't believe the security they've got nowadays. Bulletproof glass. Alarms. Video. Attack dogs. In the twenty-first century a Post Office isn't a happy, chummy place where young mums hang out while they collect their Child Benefit and take the piss out of the oldies who drool, gossip and dream of the days when they didn't need a pension. Heady days.'

'Sorry, Jonny.'

'It needs a special kind of person to go in there waving a shotgun and screaming. Everyone in there has to believe you're ready to kill anyone for no reason at all. They must be paralysed by the thought that it could be them. You must love their fear. Feel it. Breathe it. Let it suffuse you.'

'I will. I will!'

'Right. Let's do it. Give me my balaclava.'

'I thought you were bringing the balaclavas.'

## Teatime

On the floor, I am remembering the triangle cucumber sandwiches and the fairy cakes. Joan had laid a sumptuous tea for a husband for whom, I knew, she felt only contempt.

I found the vial of strychnine during my regular nocturnal search of her, my, house. I realised that any hope of reconciliation was doomed. She had decided to take a more practical approach to her inheritance. Mr Dunwoody had made things clear when we met in his cluttered office.

'In the absence of a prenuptial agreement, on John's sad death, you will inherit everything, Mrs Foster.' We had nodded and left together, as we had arrived, but our thoughts, I'm sure, weren't far apart.

I wasn't living at home at the moment, for obvious reasons, but when Joan invited me to a 'special tea' to celebrate our grown-up attitude I agreed without hesitation. I ate nothing, pleading indigestion, but could not refuse cup of tea. Joan placed the tray on the table and pointed to a cup. Outside, the phone rang and she leapt up to get it. As the door closed I memorised the spacing of the cups and switched them.

The woman had poisoned her own cup!

## The Jumper

Fatty Montgomery, the overweight sergeant, rolled towards me between the sparkling patrol cars and crouching cops.

'It's a jumper, Lieutenant,' he said, 'Michael Lewis. A lawyer. Been up there about five hours. His wife left him or his dog's dead or he's run out of beer or something. Should I call a sniper?'

'Haha, Fatty,' I quipped, 'you called the Fire Department.'

'Better safe than sorry.' His belly-wobble was becoming alarming. I smiled and headed for the apartment block. As I walked, I could see Michael, spotlit on a ninth floor window-ledge. He was waving his arms. I waved back but he didn't react.

I was out of breath when I got to him.

'Get away from me,' he shouted.

'Come inside,' I said. 'Or jump. It's your choice. Tell you what, I can help you decide. If you're not inside by the time I've counted to three, I'll push you off the ledge. OK?'

He didn't seem keen. 'Stay away from me!'

'Can't do that. We've got to get the traffic moving. Look at the chaos you're causing.'

He looked down, gasped and teetered. I abhor indecision so I helped him out with a little push.

'Three,' I said.

## Withdrawal

She adjusted her spectacles and peered at the customer. His Armani suit, Rolex Oyster and diamond tie-pin screamed 'cash' through the bulletproof glass. She realised that she'd dampened her knickers.

'Good morning, sir,' she murmured, the tip of her tongue caressing her lips. 'Can I help you?'

'Hello,' he said, the rich timbre of his voice vibrating the glass and, she was sure, quickening her pulse. 'I have this for you.'

His muscled hand reached into his breast pocket, ducking behind an artfully folded linen handkerchief, and emerged with a scrap of paper. 'A cheque?' she thought, 'A draft? A bank giro credit?'

He reached through the glass to give it to her and she was forced to give it the tiniest tug to take it from his hand. The tug was a 500,000 volt shock, lighting up every single one of her synapses. She struggled to control her breathing and looked at the paper.

I am a human bomb. I have twenty kilos of Semtex wrapped round my body. I will not detonate them if you give me all the cash you have without sounding an alarm within fifteen seconds of your reading this note. The time starts now.

# Child, Youth, Thug

## Drivetime

On the carpet, James selected the Aston Martin and drove along the residential road to the T-junction. He turned right, accelerating smoothly around the elephant and parking by an encyclopaedia. The Aston was the pride of his collection. The Alfa was quicker but lacked British classical accessories – like the ejector seat. James could shoot agents of SMERSH out of the car at any moment. He wondered if Jennifer was an agent of SMERSH.

He could see her out of the corner of his eye. She was playing with the dinosaur, waving its arms in the general direction of the town and roaring quietly. James had machine-guns in his bumper so wasn't worried. In the event of an Aston/T-Rex clash he knew where his money would be. His sister had no chance.

But now, she was pointing a finger at him.

'Would you like to see into my knickers again?' she said.

James knew this offer was dependent on her being allowed to see into his pants, probably beforehand. It was a one-sided offer and, he realised, typical of SMERSH. It just wasn't fair! In his pants, at least, there was something to look at! He drove away, spinning his wheels.

## Experiment

Killer Carter fumbles the jar of sodium rocks, misses a grab and the whole lot falls into the ceramic bath on the desk in front of him. The reaction is immediate and impressive. Great gouts of sodium dioxide gas fill the chemistry lab, dimming the fluorescent tubes, depositing an oily yellow film everywhere and choking the giggling schoolboys. There is a stampede for the door, allowing the gas to escape, filling the school. Later, the police carry out an effective evacuation and everyone, except the Headmaster and Mr Carter, has the rest of the day off.

As homework, Johnny Silvester writes up the experiment.

_To prove_ _: Mixing sodium and water produces sodium dioxide._

_Equipment_ _: Jar of sodium rocks, ceramic bath of water, gloves, protective mask, goggles, tongs._

_Method_ _: What should happen is that you don all the protective gear, and, using the tongs, carefully place a minute amount of sodium in the water._

What actually happened was that the chemistry master, Mr Carter, dropped all the sodium in the water. The school had to be evacuated. By sheer chance, no boys were blinded, maimed or killed.

_Conclusion_ _: Killer is a c*nt._

Johnny's new school is two miles down the road.

## Height

Henry was becoming very tense about Matilda's tendency to say 'periphrastic' when she meant 'mouthy.' He had asked a simple question and heard her say:

'The modern skateboard originated in California in the late 1970s. In time, skateboarding became a pastime for surfers when waves were lax. By the mid 1980s skateboards were mass produced and sold throughout the world. OK?'

He considered shooting her but, as she was his older sister, there would probably have to be an accounting at supper. In any case, the last time he'd got her between the eyes they'd confiscated his spud gun for a month and, thereafter, tripled the price of potatoes. Nowadays the price was three days' chores per spud.

He dismissed the idea of irony because he knew it would only lead to another lecture. An inoffensive 'Really?' would lead to a diatribe on the male's inability to recognise truth until it bit him in the bum. It wasn't his fault he was a boy. She never missed an opportunity to remind him about man's shortcomings.

No! He would be bold. There was only one thing for it. On with the stilts! Four inches taller! He would longer be the shortarse!

## Love

Jimmy's love for Julia was infinite, all-consuming and eternal. When he thought of her he stopped breathing, blushed and sank into a timeless, ecstatic dreamlike state. He was able, for the most part to conceal his sudden return to normality.

One Tuesday afternoon, however, during a Citizenship and Responsibility lesson, he became mesmerised by the sight of Julia's breasts wobbling beneath her jumper. So deep was his trance, his proximity to perfection, that he did not notice Miss Blenkinsop summarising her theories about recycling. She had to call his name three times and touch his shoulder before he surfaced.

He blinked his eyes, wiped his forehead and gave her a baleful smile.

'Well?' she said: her voice, basso profundo, fired the word into the classroom where it hovered like some giant bat.

Someone tittered. Jimmy gathered his thoughts.

'I am very sorry, he said, 'I was pondering the nature of love. For me, it is everything. It is the reason for life, the future of humanity, the foundation of existence. My love will lead me to worlds of feeling that, at my age, I cannot imagine. I can't wait.'

No-one in that room saw the tear in Miss Blenkinsop's eye.

## Peace

In bed, I sometimes listened to the news. My parents gave me a crystal set for my twelfth birthday and, despite the crackles and heterodyning, it delivered an entirely adequate Home Service to my eager ears. I was, sadly, never able to tune the device to Radio Luxembourg, and thus, could not join with my smirking school-chums as they discussed modern music or derided Horace Batchelor and his transparent get-rich-quick schemes.

I giggled as Wilfrid Pickles introduced Mabel at the table and endured the Canadian Edmund Hockridge's baritone at too many _Workers' Playtime_ s. I became, also, an expert on Charles Chilton's terrifying _Journey Into Space_ and shuddered every night as the sound of opening airlock doors paralysed my brain. I trembled as Doc and Lemmy explored alien worlds and Jet struggled to pilot the ship, surrounded by meteor storms.

The warmth of the blankets – no duvets in the UK then – kept me safe from the vicissitudes of outer space. Indeed I was never really frightened until I heard Mr Chamberlain say, 'This is the second time in our history that there has come back from Germany to Downing Street peace with honour. I believe it is peace in our time.'

## Speech

The tomato hit the General just above his right eye. Shocked, he stepped back from the lectern, upsetting the jug of water. His notes soaked up the spillage. Vegetable matter trickled down his cheek. At the back, Johnny Silvester froze in the completion of the pitch. In his left hand a suspicious bundle dangled. Beside him, Smith Minor began a slow handclap.

Mr Carter started towards them. As he struggled through the rows of uniformed pupils, the applause grew louder.

'Silvester!' he cried.

But Johnny had opened the bag and was handing vegetables out to the back row. Boys stood, aimed and pelted the stage. The General, a decorated veteran of the Somme, returned to the lectern, ignoring the flying foodstuff. He stood tall and mean.

'And, in conclusion, boys,' he said, his steely gaze surveying the audience, vegetables clouding around him, 'I'd like to remind you that you are the last bastion against chaos. There are forces at large in society that conspire to destroy this country, this England, that your countrymen have died to create. Seek them out! Confound them!'

As he spoke, chaos reigned in the hall. The school rioted. From the bag, Johnny produced a revolver.

## Spot

It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Tracey had been impossible at break. She and her sweaty friends teased Christopher mercilessly. But he wasn't fat, he wasn't stupid and his parents were married when he was born. The glowing spot on his chin wasn't syphilis and he had loads of friends. The girls giggled, pointed and whispered. He said nothing, maintaining what he thought was cool indifference. But then Alice told them about the Glimpse. He had blushed scarlet. The girls screamed.

'Fifty pee?' Tracey scoffed, 'To see your knickers! Disgusting! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty little Chris!'

He sank to the ground and wept. They sniggered and screeched for a very long time and, still giggling, went back into the classroom. Later, he followed. They must have got over it!

In the classroom he found himself sitting behind Tracey. Her beautiful hair flowed over the front of his desk. There was no doubt she had lovely hair. He recalled it blossoming around her head as she teased him.

He took the toffee from the paper he had used to carry it in all week. He sucked for a while and, when it was very gooey, carefully arranged her hair around it.

## Tooth

'It's a relatively simple operation.' Jack used his calm-down voice. 'We tie one end of the string to the doorknob and the other end to your tooth.'

Arthur was not so sure. But the tooth really did hurt and he was sure his face had swollen up in the most horrible way. And Mum and Dad wouldn't be back until very late. And his brother always told the truth.

'And then what happens?'

'I shut the door. The tooth will just pop out. I read all about it on the web. I found diagrams and lots of people saying how pleased they were they'd done it. Come on.'

Jack had some difficulty attaching the nylon cord to the tooth. Arthur knew his teeth were very close together, having wrestled valiantly with flossing string before admitting failure. Luckily Jack had brought some soap to lubricate the cord and with skilful use of his Swiss army knife managed to get the cord around the tooth. Then it was a simple matter of a standard reef knot. His Scout training had never been so useful.

The door slammed and Arthur grunted. Jack looked down to see Arthur's lower jaw on the carpet.

'Oops.'

## Truth

'The thing is,' – Helen brushed a hair or something off Terry's shoulder – 'your dad never really was in the war. He didn't like the food. He hated compo rations. That's: Composite Rations. They came in plastic bags and were supposed to provide an active soldier with all the energy he needed for a day's war-fighting. Your dad said they put most soldiers on the toilet for a day. Horrible, he said.'

'But he was a soldier, Mum,' Terry said. His dad had regaled him with wonderful stories about the War. They spent many an evening discussing how things might have been if his dad hadn't been in the War and the Germans had won. It was a terrible prospect. Terry remembered well the tang of his dad's cigarette smoke in his nose and the sweet smell of single malt whisky.

'Yeah. He was a soldier. So to speak. They never gave him a rifle.'

'Why not?'

'Too dangerous.'

'That's good isn't it?'

'Not for the Germans. For the British.'

'Oh.'

'He had a nasty scar on his knee. Said he got it singlehandedly attacking a German machine-gun nest.'

'Wow!'

'Actually, he fell out of bed on to a soda siphon.'

## Wish

'H5!'

'That's a Submarine!' John squealed, thumping the table. 'Oh come on! You've just sunk my entire fleet. It's not fair! I haven't even had a go yet! What's going on?'

Harry regarded his friend's haunted look, his hunched shoulders and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The old woman hadn't mentioned such unexpectedly pleasurable consequences.

She'd been slumped against a chocolate machine at the bus station and, Harry, on the way to school, had pressed a 50p coin into her hand. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about not doing his homework or tidying his bedroom or feeding the dog. Whatever, he'd done it and, in an instant, she'd grabbed his hand! He had tensed immediately but could not break her grip.

'Thank you, sonny,' she'd rasped, breathless. 'You have one wish.'

'Can I wish for loads of wishes?' Harry's tone dripped disbelief.

'Don't get clever with me. You've wished already. What you've always wanted,' she said, releasing him, getting to her feet and stumbling away. 'He'll never beat you again!'

John never lost at Battleships. His aim was precise, his consistency impressive, his delight as Harry's poor sailors drowned, outrageous. Sometimes Harry never got to start! But today!

# Life and all that stuff

## Box

When his father died, to Michael fell the task of clearing out the old man's basement flat. In a ratty part of London. The cold in the flat chilled him as stood in the undecorated living room looking at the aluminium furniture that was, apparently, the best his father, on a caretaker's wage, could afford. On a boxwood side-table, a chipped Butlin's ashtray held a partly chewed toffee, complete with gold tooth. A copy of the _Daily Express_ rested on the garden chair closest to the electric fire.

In the bedroom, his black bags easily swallowed the contents of the wardrobe and tallboy. The alarm clock on the bedside table had long since stopped and the table itself only held a half-finished packet of chewing gum. Michael pictured his father chewing himself to sleep, laughed and knelt to look under the bed.

The cardboard box contained a stack of papers: bills, cheque books, junk mail. Michael flicked through them to find something current. There was nothing less than six months old except, right at the bottom of the pile, this month's _Penthouse_.

In the Volvo on the M1, boot full of rubbish, Michael wondered if and when he would cry.

## Bonding

'Politicians?' Daddy's voice was gentle as I, aged ten or eleven, enjoyed a rare moment of father/son intimacy. He sat on a tall stool at the bar he had built in the lounge of the house in Lansdowne Road. The smell of whisky was strong as he spoke. 'Politicians. They really know how to drink.'

The ice in his glass tinkled as he drank. His hand shook.

'Their tastes are rooted in their politics. Conservatives are into spirits, cocktails, liqueurs. Expensive, complicated, effective. Conversely, Labour politicians hate ostentatious consumption. You won't find a socialist with a short. He'll only drink brown ale. Matches his political intelligence. Thick. Brown. Smelly.

'The best drink I ever had was mixed by a true blue Tory. He took a glass of vodka and a glass of orange juice and poured them both into a jug. In went the ice and out came a screwdriver, named, ironically, after the tool the engineers who invented the cocktail used to stir it. We got very drunk on them. He was dead a fortnight later.'

I remember Daddy's exact words that night because Daddy only survived a couple of months after this bonding evening. In vino veritas, eh?

## Break

High on the hill, Joanna surveyed the valley below. Hedges patchworked the landscape. Buildings huddled. A solitary tractor plotted ruler-straight furrows in the soil. Rooks circled. Joanna smiled and opened the Tupperware lunchbox. She selected a cheese and pickle sandwich and began to munch.

It was only here, separate from, but part of, the world, that she understood the absolute insignificance of her life. Her husband had long gone pursuing youth that she could not supply. Her children lived their own lives in distant towns, a couple in far-off countries. They appeared content with families and lives of their own. She only really heard from them on birthdays or at Christmas. Now, after all those years of stress and caring, she was to them, she thought, redundant. Indeed redundancy was the inevitable destination of the journey of her life. The bubbles of purpose that she had treasured had now all burst. Her grandchildren were strangers despite her very best intentions. Joanna sighed.

The problem with becoming maudlin, she thought, was that it always led to nauseating sentimentality. What is, is. What was, was. What will be, will be. Nothing to be done.

And worst of all, the cheese was off!

## Dry

In the crowded launderette I sat with my basket of clothes – children's clothes – and waited for a dryer. All parents know that kid's clothes are impregnated with a top-secret dirt magnet. One day scientists will denounce Marks & Spencer and I will be spared my laundrymaid duties. Unfortunately, they have governments in their pocket.

Around me, tired women avoided eye contact and pumped coins into the machines. In the far corner a dryer stopped, its contents flopping into stillness. I was there, a foot or so away and waited for the required thirty seconds. At the end of that time I could dump those clothes into a basket and replace them with my own. It was the Law of the Launderette. The seconds passed in slow motion as I, vibrant with anticipation, prepared for action. It would take another hour for the drying cycle to complete, letting me return to my family. I'd be lucky to be home before dark.

A woman came to my dryer, opened its door and felt the clothes. She grimaced – not dry yet – and glanced at me before she inserted another coin. I retreated to the benches and plotted the downfall of Marks & Spencer.

## End

Arthur, on the beach, inhaled fresh, ozone-rich air and thought about Amy. It had started so well and ended so badly. They agreed their love was unique, eternal and beautiful. Everything about her excited him. Everything about him excited her.

He would sit for hours, while she slept, loving the rise and fall of her counterpane, as close to her body as he yearned to be. She would watch him awaken, drowsy and disorientated, dreaming still. The bedroom was their private place. They were one.

Like grains of sand in a shoe, minor annoyances, initially jokes, accumulated weight, became issues.

He detested untidiness, loved an ordered world. She adored serendipity, revelled in chaos. Slowly, inexorably, they discovered how tiny, inconsequential things make you loathe the one you love.

At last she went away, escaping, she said, his controlling nature. He staggered, reeling into alcoholism. She sent postcards, pictures of tranquillity and beauty on one side, violent words on the other.

He found new friends, pals over a pint. They all agreed it was for the best. He was well out of it. Women are the root of all evil.

Arthur, alone on the beach, ached for a counterpane to share.

## Engineering

Afterwards he said, 'It's not so much an acquisition as a merger.'

She said, 'We certainly merged.' She regarded him through blonde lashes, 'Do you think Mary knows?'

'Mary?' He shrugged, ignoring her implied accusation. 'Certainly not. She won't notice anything. She's far too busy with the vacuuming, the garden, the dogs, the horses, the kids, the nativity play. Remind me to buy a video camera. Charlie's going to be an angel.'

'Just like his dad!' She nuzzled his ear. 'Christ! The office would implode if they could see us now.'

'It's a field trip. I'm exploring an engineering factory in Peebles. It makes drawing pins. The world needs drawing pins. I am impressed by their earning potential. I shall recommend a buy-out. Furthermore the Chairman has a very attractive daughter.'

'Isn't it a dismissible offence to bonk a subordinate?'

'Office sexual harassment is a modern myth. My seat on the Board means I can bonk anyone I want, staff or not. Unfortunately, your junior position and your performance review mean you can't call me an arrogant prick.'

'Unless you want me to. How was my performance, by the way?'

'Gold standard. You are a valuable addition to my portfolio.'

## Flip

Cause

In the Jeep, Fiona takes a drag. She exhales with a violent sigh. Her father tenses. 'For God's sake, Fi, I've told you about smoking in the car. I hate it.'

'Maybe you should have said something when I lit it.'

'I did.'

'Oh. Relax, Dad.' She inhales again. 'The Jeep's a lease. If it smells, just get another one. A different colour, maybe. I'm not keen on silver. Why pay a fortune to paint a car the colour of the metal it's made of?'

'Fi.' His tone brooks no argument. 'Get rid of it!'

'Whatever.'

She hums the window down and flips the cigarette stub out of the window.

'Happy?' she says.

Effect

Sharon has loaded the pushchair with shopping bags full of bread, cereal, jam and ice cream. It clicks over cracks in the pavement but doesn't awaken Mary, strapped in, fast asleep and dreaming. Sharon loves her daughter. She is determined to get her home, in the bath, and the kettle on. Mary's breathing is regular but loud, her nostrils flared. Sharon worries about the carbon monoxide from the passing traffic. A Jeep passes by.

Sharon sees a glow in Mary's right nostril. There's smoke!

## Future

The problem with the future is that it sneaks up on you . You get up one morning and there it is. No escape. It's here and there's nothing you can do about it.

Guy only had himself to blame. Had he yielded to her will or abandoned his self-respect, this day would have been quite different. He had, of course, done these things through his indifference to the inevitable outcome of his inaction. Perhaps he should consider his new future.

He didn't think it would be an acrimonious parting. They were past any kind of passion. Flying crockery and raised voices were things of the past. The dissolution of their shared life would be organized, civilized, sanitized. They would travel, in separate vehicles, to Mr Arbuthnot's pigsty of an office. There, surrounded by piles of pending files, they would sip dreadful coffee and, again separately, sign some final document that Mr Arbuthnot had cooked up. They would exchange farewells and that would be that.

Later, alone in this new flat, a glass of brandy in his hand, Guy decided that, generally, at his age, it was better to disregard the future, travel in hope and live with the consequences.

## Garden

A very long time ago it had been a lovely garden. Time had ravaged the lawns, the ornamental shrubs and espaliered trees. The tasteful, carefully positioned ruins were now real ruins. Water features were dry.

A crowd of men, hands gripping notes, surrounded a strangely stained table and saw nothing of the garden's past beauty or present decay. Their conversations were loud, animated and intense. While they placed their bets they watched Blake.

He sat, a slight man, a bag of wiry sinew and stretched muscle exuding fear and sweat. Hands flat to the table, elbows locked. He smiled a slow smile and looked round the ring of eager faces. Perhaps he was memorising them. At last he stopped, stared straight ahead, closed his eyes and grinned, exposing yellow teeth and diseased gums. Some of the onlookers pounded the table. The revolver shook. Blake picked it up.

The men quietened. Blake hefted the revolver in his hand, feeling its weight, the oil slicking his fingers. He held it high and spun the cylinder. The men cheered, applauded, shouted, exchanged notes and, when Blake cocked the hammer, fell silent. He held the revolver to his temple, screamed and pulled the trigger.

## Mooning

There were six of them. They didn't seem to be watching him but Patrick could see that their eyes were in the sides of their heads so they might not be looking where their beaks were pointing. The bottle was nearly empty now but he took another swig anyway. The ducks stopped what they were doing for a moment and may have been watching him. The brown paper bag didn't fool them. It didn't fool anybody, he realised with a sudden start. It didn't fool Jennifer who'd changed the locks all those years ago. It didn't fool the commuters who threw coins at him with contempt.

They were swimming about, pausing from time to time to upend, to moon him. Even the ducks knew he was a drunk, he thought.

He stood up and threw the bag at them. It separated from the bottle which crashed amongst them, sending them in all directions. The bag floated down and settled on the surface. After a moment the biggest duck swam up to it, round it, quacked, and swam away. It mooned him again and joined the others. They carried on

Patrick hurried off. He would call Jennifer. She would forgive him.

## Point

'Illegal aliens! Coming over here. Stealing our jobs. England for the English!'

The atmosphere in the Red Lion froze. Even the jukebox held its breath. Andy, the bald barman, polished a glass with alarming concentration. Harold, dreadlocks framing his face, took a stiff belt of his Guinness and continued, 'Unemployment! It's the EEC. Britain's been going to the dogs ever since.'

Someone said, 'I go to White City! That was a track!'

Bert, the alcoholic, said, 'I had a dog once. I think it was a poodle.'

'Exactly,' said Harold. 'French! You should've had a British bulldog. A poodle can't protect you in a fight. The EEC opened the doors to the bloody Russians. Not to mention all their satellite states. Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Rumania, Transylvania!'

'Tasmania,'said Bert, flicking a nut in a graceful arc into his mouth.

'Now come along, gents.' Andy balanced the glass on the optic shelf and started work on another. 'You've done religion and politics and no one's bleeding. My sales must be plummeting.'

Harold snorted and wandered off to the toilet.

'He made his point,' someone said.

'Did he have a point?' said Bert.

'Probably,' said Andy, his glass, unlike his patrons' minds, crystal clear.

## Press

'How long have I got?'

Sir Anthony rearranged a sheaf of papers with autoclaved hands. He selected one for closer examination, peered over his half-glasses and said, 'You won't be very happy with my answer but the truth is – it's hard to say.'

'Facts, Sir Anthony. I deal in facts,' Arnold said, surprised that his voice was steady. 'I'm a newspaperman. If I don't have facts, I make them up. Statistics. The next best thing to a fact is a statistic.'

'Of course. Well. Fifty per cent of patients survive five years. These tend to be fit people with active lifestyles. You have liver complications of course. A journalist's lifestyle doesn't help. You dig your own grave with a shot glass.'

'Is there anything we can do?'

'Well, we can try chemo but there are side effects. They can be quite difficult, I'm afraid. And there's radiotherapy, of course. Results are patchy and it's time-consuming. And time...'

'... is short. What you're trying to say is that there's nothing you can do. I'm doomed.'

'We're all doomed. It's the when of it.'

'Yes. So tell me. how long?'

'At most, six months.'

Arnold grinned. 'At last. A real deadline!'

# Marriage, blokes and birds

## Beach

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. He had been so utterly unspeakable over breakfast that she had made a couple of sandwiches, thrust Jo into her car seat and sped away. Now, on the pebbles at East Wittering, she watched Jo digging holes in the foreshore as the tide receded. Jo's pink jelly shoes seemed to be working well.

That's what I need, she realised. As the tide of their marriage receded, she needed a nice pair of jelly shoes to protect her from the inevitable stones. Of course, a bucket and spade would be useful too, so she could bury him at the bottom of the garden.

She smiled. Here, in the ozone-rich air, her ears assailed not by crashing crockery but crashing waves and not by screamed obscenities but screaming seagulls, here where Jo played happily and trippers licked ice-cream cornets, here there was space.

And so she considered his rage, his daily inadvertent violence, his resistance to change. But then she remembered his tenderness and the way he played with Jo and how the child looked at him.

In the mirror on the return trip she saw Jo sleeping and wondered if he would be back for supper.

## Disgusting

Danny ate his steak with the kind of intensity Gemma usually observed in bed. His eating was both fascinating and repulsive. She glanced around the room to see if any other diner was interested.

The quiet hubbub in the panelled restaurant was entirely normal. Immaculately dressed waiters glided soundlessly between tables on an endless quest to satisfy the needs of well-dressed customers. The prestidigitation with laden trays was astonishing. Gemma turned back to her husband. He was building a forkful of steak, onion, carrot and pommes frites. He added mustard and thrust the mixture between his lips.

.Those lips, oily with animal fat, she thought, had travelled every byway of her body.

Between the lips and over the tongue;

Look out stomach, here I come.

As she remembered the childish rhyme, Gemma rolled a morsel of bread into a little ball. She flicked it at him. He looked up, shocked.

'What?' he spluttered, spraying his gustatory creation all over the table. A pea landed on Gemma's hand like a little green kiss.

'Men are such disgusting creatures,' she said.

Danny, suspicious, said. 'Come on, darling. That's a bit of a generalisation.'

'You're right,' she said. 'Men aren't disgusting. You are.'

## Food

'You don't have to talk to the waiters as if everything you're saying is in capital letters. You sound like a parade ground sergeant. You're just so damn emphatic. It pisses them off.'

The meal had gone well, under the circumstances, but Melanie was now becoming boring. Clive smiled, nodded and poured some more wine. The bottle, inexplicably, was empty. He turned it upside-down in the silver bucket. Someone would see it and bring another, he was sure. This was a very classy place.

She was unstoppable, 'They plot against stroppy customers, you know. Dribble in the soup. Catshit in the compot. Arsenic in the Beaujolais in extreme circumstances.'

He'd heard all this before, of course. Many times, in every restaurant they'd ever visited. Melanie was nothing if not predictable. He'd become proficient at thinking about anything but his wife. She didn't seem to mind. He guessed she wanted an audience not a participant. So, despite his corporal presence he was, in fact, in bed with Felicity doing all those things that, on stolen afternoons, she'd taught him. All those amazing things.

'Waiter!' her voice was shrill, insistent, 'The sweet menu, please.'

'Maybe she'll have the catshit compote, he thought.

## Menu

Table twelve worried Jules. The Woods were regular clients and rarely caused the Maitre D' any problems. Tonight he felt the tension as they ordered.

Sir selected the Beef Wellington with broccoli and scalloped potatoes. Madam asked for advice, stressing her vegetarianism. Jules recommended Chef's portabella mushroom quesadillas. They couldn't agree on the wine. He was playing tomorrow and wouldn't drink.

Madam ordered champagne. 'To celebrate!' she said. Sir looked at the tablecloth. Then the little blonde walked up to Sir. 'Tiger!' she trilled, 'How the hell are you? I've missed you. I have a suite at the Astoria but Ed couldn't make it so I'm footloose and fancy free!' There was a weighty silence. The blonde noticed that Sir wasn't alone.

'Oh! This is Elin? I'm sorry!' She giggled in embarrassment and Jules led her away. As the door closed he turned to see Madam emptying the champagne bottle over Sir's head.

Jules returned to the table to supervise the mopping up. Sir was silent. Madam inverted the bottle in the bucket and swept out of the restaurant like a tsunami. No-one could stop her. As he escorted Sir to the private room, Jules thought, 'There's nothing like family.'

## Opinion

'The White Album!' he said, 'Was the climax of their creativity. It had great tunes, challenging social ideas and some fuckoff thinking. They never achieved anything after that.'

'Abbey Road?' she said.

'What? An album named after a recording studio? The best thing about it was the cover picture. Hideously prophetic. Why Paul's still alive is a mystery.'

He was, as usual, loud in his assertion. She knew that his opinion would only survive until she changed hers. To him, her opinions were walls to destroy, castles to demolish. His demolition skill was prodigious. It amused her. She was content in the security of her mind. Naturally, he wanted to possess it as he possessed her body. He would never succeed. Her detachment protected her.

As the rhythm of their lovemaking accelerated so she achieved a genuine out-of-body experience. She rose above it all. Looking down on his jerking buttocks she managed to stifle a giggle.

Today's après-sex joust centred on the Beatles and he assumed a typically combative position. She sighed. There was little truth between them and even less agreement. Marriage was so debilitating. It was time she did something final. If only she had Maxwell's Silver Hammer!

## Pines

Hand in hand, they whispered sweet nothings to each other. Tall pines dwarfed them and cones crunched under their feet. Bulky clothing separated them but love held them together. He knew he had never felt like this before and she knew he was unlike any man she had known.

He could see the future as if in High Definition, rich with intimacy, sharing and common purpose. She would be the reason for his existence, the point of it all. He would never leave her.

She saw warmth, peace, nurturing and children, perhaps as many as three. They would look up to her as she looked up to him.

They shivered as a gust of wind scampered through the trees and tickled their faces and fingers. She giggled and he put an arm around her. She relaxed, smiling, and whispered his name and words of love. They stopped and kissed. After a while she stepped back, laughing, and looked at his face. His intensity alarmed her. Jaw set, eyes staring.

Her laugh died and uncertainty possessed her.

He saw her indecision and feared its cause.

This was the beginning of the end of it all but, unaware, they continued their stroll.

## Queue

At the exact moment Jessica joined the queue for her lottery tickets, Annie started to bawl. People looked at her suspiciously as people do when mothers are dealing with crying children. Everyone knows that kids don't cry for no reason and there have been many stories in the media about child abuse. People have been sent to prison. Jessica thought that a flag had been raised above Annie's pushchair marked _Rubbish Mother_.

Ahead of her in the queue, the elderly man in a cashmere overcoat and flat cap turned. The scowl on his face almost made Jessica cry.

'Madam,' he said, 'Your baby is crying.'

'Sir,' she replied, with a sweet smile, 'I do know that, actually.'

He reddened and glared. Had he laser eyes, the shop would be on fire.

'Spare the rod,' he said, 'and spoil the child.'

'Spare the rod,' she replied, 'and the child won't cry.'

He said something a bit like 'Harumph' and turned to the sales point. For some reason, Annie had quietened and Jessica watched her empty her milk bottle over the bottom of the old man's overcoat.

Jessica didn't win the lottery that week but, she thought, they did win the queue.

## Ringtone

Celia said, sitting up in bed, 'It's lovely. Is it on contract?'

Martin smiled, gripped the phone more tightly. 'It's a ten year deal. £30 monthly. No call charges. Unlimited texts. It's got absolutely everything!'

'As have you, darling.' Celia arranged the duvet to expose less of her flesh. Enough though. It was early. Martin was full of energy. She knew he would sleep soundly.

'It has GPS, GPRS, WEP, email, instant web. Satnav, of course, worldwide. It'll take me to Telford or Timbuktu – or both. Or either via the other! It has a whole new fifth generation raft of sensors. Compass, accelerometer, gyroscope, oscilloscope, telescope, Geiger counter, barometer, thermometer, hygrometer, sphygmomanometer! It's bloody aware! It knows more about me and my environment than I do.'

Celia found it easy to conceal her enthusiasm. 'May I hold it?'

Martin placed the phone in her hand.

'Not that, darling. It's lovely, of course, but I was thinking...'

She was interrupted by an eighty piece orchestra belting out Tchaikovsky's Fifth Piano Concerto.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'It's the ringtone. Quadraphonic.' His voice changed. 'What's the matter?'

Her eyes were glued to the display.

'It's a videocall,' she said. 'It's your wife.'

## Sick

At breakfast Robin was no better. He hadn't slept at all, he said, plagued by hot and cold flushes all night. He tried to eat the boiled egg she'd made for him but didn't touch the toast soldiers that he normally plunged into the yolk with great abandon. She called Dr Flanagan who said he could call late that afternoon: so she consigned herself to a day of intensive care. Motherhood, she thought, had its challenges. Indeed she remembered Robin's delivery as the most painful day in her life. For eight sweaty hours, the midwife magnified her labour pains by trying to recruit her into the National Front. Politics weren't the highest priority for her on that day, however. That day, his life commenced and her life changed for ever.

She bundled Robin into his bed, stacked drinks and books on his bedside table and sat with him for the rest of the morning. As ever, his life eclipsed her own.

The following day, he was much improved. The sickness vanished. The boy was bright, breezy and itching to get back to school. Robin's day of sickness became a vague memory, seldom recalled. Such is the unreliable pleasure of motherhood.

## Sight

'She just wouldn't leave me be, Doctor. A man can't stand up to a woman's insistence.' Robert Brown married Martha thirty years ago. 'So here I am. What's the crack?'

'The crack,' said Dr Blythe with spirit, 'is that I think you might be going blind.'

'I see,' said Robert Brown, not giggling.

'Eighty year old people should never giggle,' Martha had declared, often. 'It's embarrassing. Unbecoming. Inappropriate.'

'Quite,' said the best educated man in the room. 'What I'd like to do is give you some eye-drops. Just to dilate the pupil. Then I can see deep into your mind.'

'Not much to look at in there, Doctor.'

'It's your retina I need to see. I'm looking for the initial signs of macular degeneration. Comes with age, I'm afraid.'

'Nothing to be done, then. OK, Doctor. Take a look.'

That night, over supper, Martha quizzed him, 'What did he say? Tell me.'

'Nothing much, dear. I'll live. I'm getting old but I'll live.'

'Come along now, Bobbie.' She folded her arms. 'If everything's all right, why are you looking at me like that? I know your funny looks.'

'I'm just looking, Martha dear,' said Robert Brown, thinking, _While I can._

## Smile

Alone, he thought of her.

They met outside the Louvre, both entranced by its geometry and shine. Later, before the Mona Lisa, they found themselves together again. Her perfume, henceforth, forever defined La Giaconda for him. A hushed and halting conversation began. He was awestruck, whispering. She giggled, understanding the smile. His attention switched from two dimensions to three. He giggled too.

They scampered to a coffeehouse and it all went rather well. Glances were bright, conversation ridiculous but engaging. Over double espressos they resolved to meet again.

And so they did, in Montmartre, where Paris effervesced and portraits were ten a penny but he bought one anyway. She wiped yellow ice-cream from his chin as the sun sank and they scoured winding streets for a hotel.

The concierge mumbled as she folded notes. They climbed past faded photographs and shaded bulbs. On rumpled sheets in Venetian-blinded half-light her possession of his body was complete. He discovered every curve of her, every rise, every fall. Each discovery was more beautiful than the last.

But he did not find the darkness, the unstoppable growth that would take her from him. And so, with many tears, the inevitable. But now, he smiled.

# Stroboscopic glimpses

## Accountant

Rashleigh, lucky to get a seat, folded his newspaper in four to do the crossword. Between clues and stops, he inspected his fellow travellers, of whom there were many, nose to nose, dangling from the straps, sardined in the aisles.

On one such inspection, glancing over his half-spectacles, he noticed a young woman making her way through the crush. About sixteen, she was pretty and slight in tee shirt and jeans. As he watched, she slid her hand into a smartly-dressed woman's bag. In a moment her hand reappeared clutching a mobile phone.

Rashleigh's mouth dried. He had never, in his life, been so close to crime! He looked away.

After a moment, curiosity got the better of him. Face low to his paper, he risked a glance. She had her hand in a man's overcoat pocket! At that very moment, to his utter consternation, she looked straight at him, her expression blank. Blushing, he struggled to recover from his shock as the train stopped at Moorgate. Passengers scrambled for the doors.

The girl was still looking at him, her expression impenetrable. She turned to a door and, just before she vanished for ever, grinned and blew him a kiss.

## Baby

The screen showed a cot containing a screaming baby. Jenkins, the better groomed of the two men in the viewing room, grunted. On the screen, two nurses appeared. One lifted the child but it did not quieten. The other laid a blue blanket on the cot's mattress. The first replaced the baby. Both nurses left.

'So?' Jenkins snapped. 'That's worth twenty million, is it?'

'If you could just hang on a minute, sir.' The younger man was nervous.

The baby screamed.

'I know how it feels,' said Jenkins, placing a meaty hand on the young man's shoulder, 'You made the acquisition, Robin. So Gorilla Industries only make a blanket now, eh? In the words of Mother Teresa: what the fuck?'

'Sir, 'Robin pointed to the screen. The blanket was curling upwards about the baby who was quieting. As they watched, the blanket wrapped itself round the tiny body. It flexed, squeezed and relaxed with a gentle rhythm. Over the next five minutes, the child quietened, gurgled: slept.

Jenkins grinned. 'How does it work?'

'I don't know, sir. It's not electric. It's the cloth. Gorilla Industries own the patent on the cloth, sir.'

'You're a genius, young man! Start production immediately!'

## Casino

'Seven's my lucky number.' Edie's breath smelled; her fingernails were bitten; her £50 note was crumpled and torn.

Higgins was professionalism personified. 'Does Madam care for a drink before she plays?'

'Who cares how customers look?

'I'll take a large gin, no tonic, no ice, no lemon.' She wandered off towards the roulette.

Higgins looked at Jo, his present waitress-plus, and she scurried over. He murmured and she swung to the bar and got the drink.

As Jo arrived at her side Edie jumped, but grabbed the drink with ease. 'You took your time,' she said. 'Get me a chip.' She stuffed the note down Jo's décolletage.

With difficulty and some engaging contortions, Jo retrieved the note. 'Just one, Madam? One chip, that is?'

But Higgins was there. 'You heard.'

Edie handed him the empty glass. Then her back straightened, her face cleared, and she pierced him with a gimlet gaze. '7 or 27?'

'I couldn't possibly...'

Jo, appearing as if by magic, handed the chip to Edie who continued, 'I haven't got time to assess the bias of the wheel and I can't afford to lose. Which?'

Jo said, 'I'm twenty-seven, madam, but you'll lose whatever you play.'

## Cure

Just before he died, Peter leant the shotgun against a handy tree stump, taking the care for which he was renowned. He knelt on the marshy ground to examine a pale pink plant. He knew the marshmallow well, having supervised a number of trials of its mucilage in an effort to bring relief to thousands of bronchitis sufferers. Results were always inconclusive but enough for homoeopathy to claim it as a genuine miracle cure.

He sighed and compared the results to today's duck hunt. He could count neither as a great success.

_I'm too easily distracted_ , he thought, _it must be age_. Things were getting really difficult nowadays. His shotgun, for example. He had been about to fire when he sneezed. Thus his pull had been uneven, jerky, sudden. The gun had fired one barrel and the duck had escaped. The field test had been the same, a miracle cure escaping in the corrupted memory of a dying computer.

He jumped up. 'No! The work is unfinished!' he cried, 'I will find the cure!' And he did a little dance, his bootstrap catching the shotgun. He watched it fall and saw the flame as the blast took his head off.

## Diorama

Just as he folded his trousers, Croxley noticed that the display had changed. He dropped them and crossed the room. Janet would have mentioned any shortages. Her cleaning duties meant she knew the collection almost as well as he did. She was permitted to clean but not to rearrange.

Janet certainly wasn't the smartest of the candidates he had interviewed but her careful answers to his searching questions had convinced him of her suitability. Time had confirmed his decision.

Bending over the diorama, Croxley saw the problem. To the uninformed eye, all seemed well. The dazzling background was intact. The white surface, littered with outcrops of snow, was complete. The hunters, frozen in poses of tentative aggression, were still grasping the tiny ropes attached to the spears and knives protruding from scarlet rips in the fur of the polar bear. Death was still inevitable.

But where was the third husky? Brosi, growling, and Hektor, teeth sinking into the bear's right rear paw, still strained with the expectation of warm flesh. But where was the beautiful Elsa who should have been circling the bear, eyes red, fangs bared, hackles erect?

With a curse, Croxley turned to the door.

'Janet!' he screamed.

## Door

He'd been on the toilet for six days now. He sat on the pedestal, trousers round his ankles, looking at the door.

It wasn't locked. It wasn't wedged shut. No wardrobe leant against it outside. All he had to do was get up, clean himself and leave. He wouldn't have to clean himself, in fact. All was now hard. He'd probably need a chisel. Or a thermic lance.

He wasn't hungry. He'd eaten the last toilet roll the previous evening, just before the water went off. There'd been twenty-four in the cupboard and he'd been careful to ration his consumption. They weren't that bad. The pink ones had a strawberry flavour but not much nutritional value. For that only the quilted type were of any use. They made a satisfying and tasty meal. Bit dry, of course. He'd washed them down with water from the cistern, having fouled the water in the bowl. He worried about dehydration now.

He often wondered why he wasn't just going downstairs and resuming his normal life. He tried to nail this thought but it slipped away like a receding tide. It was better not to take any chances so he stayed where he was.

## Expedition

December 4th, 1865

All is lost. Jenkins has left the tent to reach civilisation overland. He would take no provisions, saying that my need was greater. There are but two strips of pemmican remaining. Yesterday, Jenkins fashioned a pit before the tent and lined it with sharpened stakes. He covered it with pages from this journal and a little snow. He believes that a penguin might impale itself on our trap. I fear that sanity has deserted my friend. Nonetheless, I can try to burn the stakes, heat water and soak the meat to make it palatable. My teeth have fallen victim to scurvy, alas.

My frostbite has worsened. As I removed my sock this morning my little toe, shrivelled and black, adhered to the wool and broke off. For a wild moment I considered adding it to my provisions. I have read of cannibalism amongst explorers but never of any who ate themselves. I flung the damaged digit into the ice. I have nine other toes.

And I am alive. Too many men have perished in this foolish enterprise. Men will never reach the Pole.

Postscript:

I am going to sleep now. When I awaken, Jenkins will have returned.

## Fan

Francis held the crash barrier with one hand and the souvenir programme with the other. He'd run out of the auditorium early so he could bag the place. This time She would see him! This time he would get Her divine autograph! And maybe – bliss! A smile!

He'd loved soprano Angela Gheorghiu for fifteen years. He adored Her body, idolised Her voice and worshipped Her face. And – delight! – She would pass inches from him in moments. He could barely breathe. He wondered if he'd swoon.

To his left the stage door clanked open and there She was, surrounded by Her people. His gasp, as he craned forward, was drowned by a metallic thump to his right. He turned.

Against the barrier, a fat bloke was shovelling junk food into his greasy maw. He was horrible. A nightmare in Francis's dream. As he watched, the bloke threw a half-eaten cheeseburger to the ground – _right where She might walk!_

Aghast, Francis cried, 'That's disgusting! Pick your litter up! Vulgarian! Glutton!'

The bloke took an angry pace forward. 'You talking to me, sonny?'

Frank stepped back, just as he heard the diva's limousine passing behind him.

His scream hit a high C.

'Noooooooooooooooooooo!'

## General

General William Tecumseh Sherman stirred in his sleep. His camp-bed was smaller than was needed for a man of his girth, but he didn't mind. After all, individual suffering fed the collective good, as he would remark to anyone who cared to listen.

Tonight his dream was of huge metal monsters rolling across the battlefield, spreading fire, devastation and death as one might scatter seeds. What, he wondered, could defend against such leviathans? His beautiful, handcrafted Winchester Model 1873 would be about as much use as a child's lollipop. They were impregnable, implacable, irresistible.

The General shivered. Deep in his mind he saw the natural progression of his craft. Driven by the desire to impose his will, he had studied hard, practised hard and sacrificed many. He was both committed to, and created by, war. He would neither ask nor give any quarter.

His tent was filled with the sound of his grinding teeth. In his dream he devised, considered and rejected strategies to defeat these iron monstrosities. There was no way to stop them. His men would die, their bones and body parts squeezed into the soil. His legacy would be oblivion

'What,' he whispered, 'are these things called?'

## Heads

She opened her eyes. Sunlight streamed through the picture window overlooking the marina. She could see _Imperious_ , blistering white against the Mediterranean blue. They would leave today.

Gary, still, relaxed, gazed at the horizon. He was painfully beautiful, head tilted, one knee slightly bent, one hand on his thigh, the other at his cheek. Michelangelo's David. But Gary was real, breathing, active and here. Last night had been divine – despite the shadow of the parting to come. Such a shame. The boy had a future. She stretched.

'You're awake,' he said. 'Good morning. I can order breakfast.'

'No worries,' she sat up, pulling the sheet round her. 'I'm thinking of eating on the _Imperious_.'

'Don't you want to stay here? We could eat in the restaurant and, while we're waiting...'

'Again?'

'Yes! Again!' He danced towards her across the room, his towel falling. He was ready.

'Gary!' Her voice was sharp. 'It was fun. Great fun. But this is now.'

'But I thought...'

'You thought? I don't think so. You remember the woman I was with?'

'Plain, I thought.'

'Perhaps. But she is very rich. So am I. We flipped a coin for you. She won. Let's go.'

## Provenance

'That National Gallery. They're not kidding about security. Don't ask me about it.' Roger plonked a cardboard tube down on the desk.

'OK.' Doris picked it up. 'What is it?'

'You're not going to believe it.'

She said, 'I don't have to believe anything. I just have to look at it. Open it, please.'

He leant forward and levered off an end-cap with his thumbnail. Eyes fixed on Doris's face, Roger slid a rolled canvas out of the tube. He dropped the tube on the floor and unrolled the canvas on the desk. They looked at the picture.

She said, 'Is it...?'

'Yes.'

'The actual...?'

'Yes.'

The picture lit the room. The crude vase and fifteen sunflowers breathed their very life into the air.

Roger said, 'He was potty for sunflowers, you know. Did loads of them. If this is the real thing, it couldn't possibly go to an auction. It's too well known. If we had the provenance we could get, maybe, a hundred mill.'

'What do you mean, if?'

'OK. Relax. It's real. I have a private buyer. He'll pay five. I'll give you half.'

'OK. A satisfactory conclusion. Let's hope it goes with his curtains.'

## Pruning

'I'm just off to the greenhouse for a while,' said Christine.

Arthur, immersed in _The X-Factor_ , didn't look up.

'He said, 'I swear those flowers get more attention than I do.'

'I'll not be long,' she said, closing the door behind her. She loved Arthur, of course. She'd stayed married to him for twenty years. He was ageing in front of her nowadays and she'd never been keen on old men. They were, sadly, disgusting.

In the greenhouse, Christine picked up the garden scissors and regarded her charges. The pots contained stalks with, maybe, a few vestigial leaves. The greenhouse warmed her, the little boiler still doing its duty. She flipped the lid with the special tool and shovelled some coke into its gaping, red hole. She set the lid back into place.

She filled the watering can from the under-staging tank, added a little paraffin, affixed the fine spray rose and moved around the pots, sprinkling. The pansies, lobelia and auricula were brown, stunted: dead. She smiled. Brown was the predominant colour on the shelves.

Amazingly, one of the nasturtiums had flowered. She snipped the flower off, added it to the compost, and went back indoors to start supper.

## Remote

'Are you going to shut the door or what? This is supposed to be a high-security area.'

Gladwell was notoriously irascible at shift-change. He didn't like most X-37B Controllers and loathed Perkins. Perkins usually ignored him. They were of equal rank.

'What's today's mission?' Perkins knew the answer but asked anyway so Gladwell would think that he hadn't read today's briefing. Again.

Gladwell thought other things about Perkins, though. Such as what kind of mess would his head make with a bullet through the brain. Gladwell lived alone and subscribed to gun magazines.

'We're picking up a satellite and checking it. We might disable it. See?' He pointed at the wall-size monitor where a purple dot winked in the blackness.

'What a pretty colour!' said Perkins, smiling. 'I love fuchsia!'

Gladwell growled. _Don't ask, don't tell_ was probably OK in the barrack room, but here, at the frontiers of National Security in space, it was a distraction. He grabbed the controller and manoeuvred the X-37B's load bay round the satellite.

'You are so good!' Perkins was impressed. He sprayed the satellite with sulphuric acid, ran 100,000 volts through it and released it. With any luck the Chinese would notice nothing.

## Suppertime

Mad old Mrs Frobisher sat at the dining table, her face reflected in its mahogany shine. She reached down beside her chair and brought up a large handbag on to the table.

'O Kitty' she sang, 'suppertime!'

She opened the bag and took out a pair of spectacles, a six-inch nail, a claw hammer, a tin of Whiskas, a tin opener, a Spode finger-bowl and a gold chain. She put on her spectacles and examined the chain, allowing it to pour from one arthritic hand to another like a gleaming waterfall over knobbly rocks. It sparkled in the light of the chandelier.

'Ah, Kitty!' she cooed, as her marmalade cat jumped into her lap. 'Peckish?'

The cat purred as Mrs Frobisher attached the chain to its collar. She passed the nail through a ring on the other end of the chain.

She took the hammer and, with determined blows, drove the nail into the mahogany. Kitty tried to run but the chain snapped taut. Mrs Frobisher opened the can and filled the bowl, placing it an inch beyond the cat's salivating reach. The chain hummed.

Mad old Mrs Frobisher settled down for her evening's entertainment, her face alight with glee.

## Table Four

Claire stuck the order on the stainless steel rack with a thump. Roger, sweating over the griddle, jumped, his spatula piercing a yolk.

'See what you made me do?' he squeaked.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I need four Olympics on Table Four.'

He turned round, fat-drenched spectacles glinting. 'You must be mistaken, Claire. Table Four has only two covers.'

'And there's only one customer there. He's alone.'

God, but Roger was a pain! How hard could it be to fry a sausage? He'd been an insufferable prat since winning that Crewmember of the Month award. And what for? Smiling? Where does it say that a Commis Chef should smile? His 'idiot grin, more like. And he only ever saw the waiting staff. His griddle was off-limits for Customers. That was better than cleaning it.

But she smiled, anyway. People liked her smile. She got tips.

Roger said, 'Doesn't he realise that our Olympic Breakfast contains five thousand calories? That's twenty thousand calories for one Customer – in one meal. It's murder. I guess he's hungry. He's a big bloke. Maybe twenty stone! That marquee he's wearing can't disguise his weight, really.'

'We've bought a new defibrillator.'

'Fine! Four Olympics for Table Four!'

## Trick

Jessica's hat was two inches shorter than Gemma's but had silver stars scattered all over it. Gemma thought it was garish for serious witches but knew that the height of her own hat gave her authority. She was obviously in charge. She was also older. There were downsides to responsibility: Jessica left her to ring the bells.

This realisation had dawned on her as they stood on Dr Cooper's doorstep. The blindingly bright brass plate said:

R F COOPER

Professor of Geology

Gemma's timid push sounded a terrifying _bongggggggggg_ somewhere deep in the bowels of the house.

'What's that?' Jessica's whisper was like a gunshot.

'It's the doorbell.'

'No! that!'

Gemma, top of her class, knew a lot. 'It's, like, where stuff is. If you were in a spaceship, looking down at Earth, geology would tell you what each bit was. Like, this bit is England. This bit...'

Gemma's explanation faded as she saw Jessica's terrified face, looking past her. She turned.

The door had opened noiselessly to reveal the stunted form of a dwarf-like person whose bright red eyes were fixed on Gemma.

'Nonsense,' it said. 'Rubbish. Don't believe a word of it.'

'Trick or treat?' said Gemma.

## Upside down

Hanging upside down in the straps and failing to undo the seat-belt release buckle, Katy considered her situation with less detachment than she liked. She would like, for example, to be detached from the car.

The salesman had successfully communicated his enthusiasm for all things VW; so she had driven away in her new, yellow Beetle without a glance at the handbook. In truth, had she glanced at it she would have found only one tip about driving on sheet ice. 'Don't!'

She sighed. Her impetuosity always got her into trouble. Her optimism always saved her.

'Buck up, Katy,' she said, 'Things could be worse.'

And, of course, they were.

She considered what she knew about escapology. She was amazed to have survived the skid, the slide, the fence and the off-roading. The Beetle, she had found, is not the best off-road vehicle, especially when off-road was also off-piste. The hidden log had somersaulted the Beetle into the air but the German designers had foreseen the car's inversion; the roof did not collapse.

It was quiet among the trees so Katy heard the sudden hiss as a drop of petrol fell on to the red-hot exhaust. The flames flew upwards.

## Whispering

She locked the door behind her, turned, and listened. Too soon their footsteps approached, echoing through the tiled space. As quietly as she could, she removed her shoes and got up on the toilet seat. They would be sure to check the gap under the door.

She held her breath and strained to listen. She could hear an undecipherable whispering. They were, she guessed, planning. She could not place the sounds in the room. They could be at the entrance or right outside her stall. Her heart thumped.

The whispering stopped and she heard the dreadful sound of a cartridge being loaded into the shotgun. Crunch, crunch. She imagined the oiled metal components sliding instant death into the waiting barrel. The rap on the door was like a gunshot.

'We know you're in there, Pat.' The words were guttural but clear. 'Later.'

Silence.

She almost lost her footing as two loud raps on the stall door were followed by receding footsteps. A door clicked behind them.

Silence.

Much later, she stood and reached up into the cistern, fished out the plastic-wrapped burlap bag and there, sitting on the floor of the stall, the toilet as table, she unwrapped the tiara.

###

## About the author

In 200 words:

Jeremy (Jem) Barnes was born in Watford, son of an unsuccessful salesman and an accomplished local businesswoman. On leaving school he sold life assurance for a while before joining the Theatre in Education Team at Watford's Palace Theatre,

He trained as a drama teacher at Bretton Hall. On graduation he ran the Basingstoke Drama Centre where he masterminded the world's first _Pantomime Horse of the Year Show_ and events like _Eric's Insides_ and _Rebirth_ , large-scale models of the human digestive system and the female reproductive system respectively.

At the West End Centre in Aldershot, he promoted theatre companies like _Theatre de Complicité_ , _The Snarling Beasties_ and _The Right Size_ , and bands like _The Stone Roses_ , _The Real Sounds of Africa_ and _Dumpy's Rusty Nuts!_ An eclectic arts mix for sure.

He became Communications Manager for a regional charity spetializing in written communications of all kinds. Nowadays, he lives in Surrey, UK, with artist wife, Susan.

Jem's disability (MS) gives him a strong interest in NHS and disability matters. Now in semi-retirement, he has specialised in Volunteering and Communication. He is a general computer enthusiast having taught 'Computers for the Clueless' all over the area.

_Sixty Second Fiction_ is his first publication.

Tell him what you think about this little book. Mail him at:

sixtysecondfiction@gmail.com
