

Transhumance

some small stories about some big things

by Andrew Shilcock

'Gods always behave like the people who make them' - Zora Neale Hurston

text copyright © 2017 Andrew Shilcock

all rights reserved
Contents

'The Lake'

'Dear Headmaster'

'The Turk'

'The Fall'

'Cold Rainbow'

'Dangerberry'

'Angels'

'Transhumance'

'Trouble On The Buffers'

'Leaves'

'Bob'

'The Eternal Roadworks Of The Southbound M5'

'Down By The River'

'Leaving The Nest'

'A Garage Of One's Own'

### **The Lake**

A year ago, Hambleforth was an ordinary village. If it was famous for anything, it was probably best known amongst the coarse fishing community for its remarkable carp lake. One fine August morning a year ago, this lake became remarkable enough to be known around the world.

John Aikin's family have lived around here for as long as anyone can remember, probably since the Conqueror fetched up on a beach not far from here. As long as he left the fishing alone, it's doubtful John's Saxon forbears would have noticed the change in ownership. 'Fishing's been the biggest thing for Aikin men for as long as I can remember. Coarse fishing mind you, none of that fly nonsense round here' says John. And indeed, he'll talk about the struggle he and his ancestors have waged against the wily carp, Queen of Rivers, for as long as you'll let him, assuming that any right thinking man will be as enthused and dedicated as him. 'I'd been after the Pig all summer' he explains. 'The Pig is the biggest fish in the Mill. Fifty pounds they say. Never caught him myself. Seen him, mind.'

So, after a few fruitless visits to the lake, John headed down on the 4th of August to the Mill, armed with some new groundbait and tuna. He wasn't prepared for what he saw there. The surface of the lake had assumed a dome shape. It was curved upwards to a maximum height of about five feet in the centre, coming down to normal level at the edges. Stunned as he was, he knew that it was several hours until the post office opened, which in the absence of a police station counted for governmental authority, and so, not wanting to waste the morning, he started casting. 'It was just like normal. In fact, better in some ways, because the sun came through the water like a fish tank and you could see them swimming about. No Pig though, that morning.'

Sam Cherton opened up the village post office as usual that morning. A little after 10, John Aikin stopped by. After exchanging some small talk, mostly about what was biting, John went to leave, but then turned back. 'Sam', he said, 'you might want to put the sign in the window for a minute and come and have a look at this.' Together they walked down to the lake. Sam stood for a minute. He noticed that the surface of the water was rippling in the light breeze blowing, just like it normally would, and, like John, that the sun picked out the fish swimming close to the surface. It reminded him of nothing so much as a giant jelly turned out onto a plate. He could find nothing to say. 'I've got nothing to say, John' he said. 'Never seen anything like it. Who do we tell?' 'I thought you would know' said John. 'Bugger me John' said Sam, 'if I can't put a stamp on it I'm lost. We'd better get Colin over from Longton.'

Baffled, both men retreated back to the Post Office and rang the Police Station. It didn't escape their notice that there were a number of fishermen calmly sat around the lake fishing away as if nothing unusual were happening. In fact, this set a pattern throughout the rest of the day, as more and more people arrived, starting with the local police, fire service and GP, on to local councillors, county councillors, MP, army, GCHQ and research scientists from Aldermaston. At this stage, the remaining fishermen who had tried to hold onto their prime lakeside seats by shushing and glaring at the increasingly excited villagers were moved on and the area cordoned off with police tape. As night drew on, the surface of the lake glittered with reflected blue light from the emergency services vehicles parked up nearby. Men and women used every scientific instrument they could find to probe the lake's secrets long into the night, and as the dank grey light of early morning came on the scene it revealed several rows of satellite trucks squatting on the adjoining rugby field. The world's media had come to see this most baffling of lakes, from a distance mind as the boffins were still interrogating the hummock shaped water feature and they would not let anyone else near.

'I heard them chatting between themselves' said Bill Easton, volunteer fireman. 'One of them was all for hiring a canoe or rowboat and heading out to the centre. Someone else pointed out that they would as like just slide off. I could tell they were baffled. Some would argue very loudly about what they thought it was, others would gently shake their head and stare out into it. Then they all packed up and hared off, probably back to their lab or something.' By this time on the second day, what could be described as special interest groups were starting to appear: UFO enthusiasts, New Age hippies, Druids, Socialist Workers, Pro and Anti Hunt campaigners, Atlanteans, Anglo-Israelists, Truthers, Birthers and people protesting about the nearest A&E closing, all jostling to get their placards seen by the TV news cameras. The village bakery had long since sold out of sausage rolls, the local roadside snack bar was in meltdown, vegans were going hungry and runners were being sent to the industrial estate in nearby Concreton for supermarket baguettes and hot drinks. Enterprising hawkers set up trestle tables from the back of their dowdy estate cars and began selling hastily printed up t-shirts, scarves and sparkly spinners, wands and torches for the kids who dodged in and out of the trucks and police tape, repeatedly killing each other with cap guns and flashing swords and being reborn to fight again.

As this day dragged on people started to take a furtive glance at their watches followed by a scan of the horizon, as if to say 'this is all well and good, but if I'm still going to be here tomorrow, something had better happen'. No word had come from the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory, the whisper being that the verdict was 'no military application or threat'. Mainstream science was still baffled, but unwilling to pronounce or investigate too much for fear of not coming up with a believable and non paradigm threatening answer. Fringe science however, was making hay while the sun shone. Alien spaceship at the bottom of the lake pushing the water up with an antigravity forcefield? Check. Local gravitational anomaly caused by Mother Earth kicking back against climate change? Check. Disruption caused by building works for the new palace long planned by the King of the Faeries? Check.

By the end of the week, all the satellite trucks had gone. Some local print reporters were still kicking around and Dave's Snax's was seriously considering hauling his trailer back to the layby on the A281. 'Be holiday traffic on there soon. Things are cooling down here. Maybe I should hook up.' he told Bill Easton, his brother in law. Bill nodded his head in agreement. 'Those townies will be on their way soon' said Bill. 'TV men all gone already. One of the Queen's corgis got run over yesterday, by some pop star. They've all gone back for that. Fishing will start again soon, mark my words.' Dave nodded and went back to his trailer to unhook the gas cylinder and load up. By this stage, a handful of New Agers in tents, one of whom seemed a little more commercially minded than his cohorts and was selling small perfume bottles topped up with lake water for its 'magical mysterious properties', a local policeman, two or three estate cars with flustered families stopping off on their way to or from holiday lets and some tattered 'Police Do Not Cross Line' tape flapping in a desultory manner in the summer breeze were all that was left of the human circus that had descended on Hambleforth.

A year later, there is still one dedicated Faery acolyte camped out near the lake. 'He's quite friendly' says John, corkscrewing his finger round his temple, 'but mad as a box of frogs. He doesn't mind us fishing, and we don't mind him camping out there, he's quite respectful of the lake and all. Clever chap, but something's definitely been in the oven too long.' The villagers of Hambleforth have come to accept their convex carp lake, and are most happy that the rest of the world seems to have forgotten about them. 'We get a policeman from Concreton every week' says Sam, 'but all he does now is get a sausage roll from the bakery and then bugger off. He knows if anything had happened he'd get to hear about it. The lads are all down there keeping an eye so if that spaceship does take off he'll know soon enough.' He gives a hamfisted wink and breaks into a wheezy cough that goes on longer than he would have liked, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 'And they've worked out how to get a boat out there. Young Timothy that were, thinking of that ferry in Lord of the Rings. They've stuck a swimming pool lane divider right the way across and the boat holds onto that to stop from sliding off. Genius.'

Almost back to normal then. Except for the lake, which has maintained its unnatural shape since that morning. Fish continue to swim in it, ducks on it, and the rest of the world goes about its business as well. Even John, in his business of trying to catch the Pig. 'Have you got 'im yet then?' Sam asks him every morning. A rueful shake of the head is the only answer.

### **Dear Headmaster,**

I write to you as requested to formally apologise for my outburst in class two days ago. It was very unprofessional of me, and I do normally pride myself in remaining professional in the face of what can sometimes be quite remarkable provocation from some of my pupils. I have of course written to the Mother of James Dunstan to apologise to her as well. Though I realise that the rampage that he went on through school after our disagreement precludes his return to lessons in the short term.

I have given my position some thought, and have decided to take retirement. It was very kind of you and the governors to let me stay on for this year, being as it is after my official retirement date, and I did think I still had it in me to teach, but it would seem not. I have in the past managed to refrain from articulating many of the feelings that I have regarding some of the less than well behaved pupils (though I stress these are not born of just irritability or a lack of empathy, indeed, as I shall make clear, I have too much empathy with these badly behaved pupils and find not being able to help them deeply frustrating) and now that I am perhaps too old or too tired to keep from speaking my mind (a crime which too many commit nowadays) I feel it is best that I spend more time in the garden and with the family from now on.

Many of us have a poor start in life, and most of those do not have the intellectual or emotional equipment to better their own lot, feeling but perhaps not knowing that no one else will do it for them. It may surprise you Headmaster that I was one of them. I have not spoken of these things for many years, so I hope I do not seem as if I am being overdramatic - it feels so far in the past, so remote, that I could be reciting from the Odyssey or some other legend. In today's terms, it may seem as if I am recounting the plot of a recent 'Play for Today', but I assure you I am not. I was born the last of seven children, and shortly after my birth, my father, who had been in and out of prison for years, generally conceiving a child each time he was on the outside, did his final disappearing act, never to be seen again. My mother kept on doing her best for us for a few more years, but the only way she felt she could earn money was by prostituting herself. As I'm sure you are aware, this is a very dangerous occupation, and shortly after my fifth birthday she was murdered. This led to us children being taken into care. Fortunately, although the care system attracts many people who only wish to gratify themselves at the expense of the occupants of said system, it also attracts some genuinely good and caring people, and so although the workers at my home were perhaps a little cold and unemotional they were basically good folk who while not nurturing me made sure that I came to no overt harm. As education had failed to excite me, I considered joining the armed forces, although the wisdom that comes with age would have told me that a child who is prone to rebel against authority at every juncture should not seek to have rigid authority imposed upon himself.

Perhaps I was challenging them, to see if they could break me, and for a few years it was a close run thing. I paid a number of visits to what was then known as the Glasshouse, and generally picked up the very worst fatigues. Indeed, whilst working as a butchers assistant in the regimental kitchens with another lad who was also on a punishment detail, an idea was planted in me which would not show itself again for some years. He was shucking bulls testicles into a large bin when he turned to me and said 'They told me at school I was clever you know. They wanted me to try. Said I could go far. I told them to go fuck themselves. I'll do things my own way.' He half spread his arms as if to say 'and look where it's got me'. 'I've got to get out of here' he said, turning back to his work, 'get trained in something. I've got a bloody brain you know. Soon as I'm out of here, I'm going to the CO.' He turned back to his work. Two years later, while I was stood next to him on the beach at Dunkirk, he took some shrapnel to the chest and bled to death in front of me. He wasn't the only one that day.

So, I got off the beach, only to be back on a beach again a few years later. More men, some good, some bad, were fed into the war machine and didn't come out of the other side. Again, I did. Every time I close my eyes I see them, at their best and at their most desperate, clinging to their last little bit of life as it flowed away from them into the dirt. However stubborn, however cocky a young man you are, the bitter experience of war flushes that unpleasant strain out of you and, if you survive, gives you a hard found view of the world. And because it is so hard won, you tend to be rather sure of it. I tell you, I did nothing clever in surviving, and many better men stayed there, many men who I would have swapped places with. Sometimes I think both the world and even myself would have been better off if that had been the case. Anyway, I don't wish to be a bore about it, so I'll start to get to my point.

When the end of the war came, I found that the courses and qualifications I'd set my mind to getting in the Army (for you see I had discovered that like young Peter I too was intelligent) meant that I could become a teacher when I entered civilian life. It took me a little while to discover that I had some small degree of self confidence, which came as a surprise, and that I could actually teach, which also came as a surprise. You cannot try to inspire, you cannot force it into the unwilling, but when I saw young people as set on a course of failure as I had been, I did try to gently show that there might be a better way. Every one of these children, that became an adult, full grown and alive, a good person against all the odds of their youthful inexperience and their appalling surroundings, well, I wear them like medals, for they are my life's work. Teaching as you will know Headmaster is challenging, sometimes heartbreaking and short on conventional reward. Some children I have never got through to, and I grieve for them as I do for my fallen friends, for I fear they will in some way have become the cannon fodder that I once was - not just in a war between empires, but in street gangs, crime or being manipulated and used up by those more wicked and devious than them into hating others for their race, creed or colour. I hoped to give them the tools to become independent human beings, more ready to give than to take, and I weep for those I let slip through my fingers.

I see much of myself in young James Dunstan, and I do not mind if he knows that, though I am not sure right now that he would find anything in common with me, chalky stooped old fool that I am. When I told him that he was cannon fodder, it was the first time I'd ever done that in a classroom, and I knew as soon as I had said it that I had lost him, that I had exposed all my despair and made myself look a fool, that I could go no further. I hope that he will come to understand in the years to come that I bear him no malice, indeed quite the opposite.

Nearly forty years on then, the end. Thank you, Headmaster, for giving me the chance to try and explain myself, I only wish I had been more articulate in doing so. Please keep an eye on them for me, won't you?

### **The Turk**

'Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth' - Disraeli

'I have them all' he said, 'somewhere here'. As he spoke, he absently patted the pockets of his waistcoat. 'I should say, that they are dead now, all my old companions, of course, died just as the Turk said they would, but you don't have to believe me. Aha, here.'

He held up a small bundle of very dog eared looking cards. I reached over and took them and he relaxed back into his chair. As I took them, his eyes widened and he seemed excited for a second, then he relaxed.

'Such friends' he said. 'I am sorry, still I miss them to this day, but when we were young, my, what times, what times. And now, here I am, the last of them, sat here in this club, the oldest member, trapping you youngsters as you go past, boring you to tears with my old man's stories.' I opened my mouth as if to deny the slur, but he smiled at me from under his snowy brows. 'I know, I know. I see the little smiles. Normally it's for a bet, but that's not you is it? You really want to know if what they say about me is true. They do say it, don't they? It is. True. And if you still want to know, here is the story.

When I was a boy.... what beautiful words they are, don't you think? When I was a boy, we lived, positively lived for the travelling fair. At Midsummer, the wagons would arrive at the common, the travelling folk would circle their caravans, set up their stalls and all the young folk from villages around would flock to the fair. Sometimes there would be a bear, to dance for us, Lord how we did laugh, though I believe now this kind of thing is frowned upon. Skittles, a Gypsy fortune teller, the Helter Skelter, the stalls and the floss candy, they were good times to be young. As I got older, I became more interested in the girls there, and let my younger siblings run amok. But one year, one year, well, we had all heard about the Turk, the chess playing automaton. It seemed everyone had to have a Turk. And usually they were a shabby affair, I can tell you, some young ruffian with a mask whose intent you could divine clear as day. And not one of them was bright enough to beat a four year old girl at chess, or any other table top game, though they made fair enough game of Find The Lady of course, there will always be a fresh crop of bumpkins to be harvested by the confidence men and the sharps. We friends, we were wise to their games and it was as much sport to us to watch the lubbers get fleeced anew as any amount of coconut shying or boxing.

But this one was different. It had a tent to itself, with a sign outside, and what the sign said was enough to frighten away the most faint hearted of us. 'Teller of Fate this fearful engine will compute the manner of your demise never once prove to be wrong dare you take the test?'. I have it by heart you see still. We dared. Inside the tent, there was what looked like a young man, dressed in the manner of a sultan. He was seated at a large bureau. Behind him was his operator, or attendant, who spoke to us, and took our money. I remember the first time, he was a Cockney mudlark, for sure, 'Teller o' Fate guvnor, tyke the test woncher, only a farthing, results guaranteed ain't they, don't be shy, step roit up, camorn nah!' My friend Thomas was the first, and I watched avidly. He took a seat in front of the young man, or what looked like a young man. I fear I have not described it fully for you. It was the most remarkable contrivance I have ever seen. In a half light, surely one would have taken it for a man, but as one looked, the unnatural skin and unblinking eyes, the jerky clockwork motion convinced that this was some kind of automaton. As Thomas sat down, the Machine seemed to turn its attention to him, and reached out a hand, as if to shake it in greeting, and Thomas automatically reached out his. It grabbed and shook his hand, and as it did Thomas's brow clouded and he looked puzzled and bewildered for a second. The Machine closed its eyes and rocked back and forth slightly, then opened them again, and deliberately moved its hand to a pocket tucked inside its shirt. It plucked out a small card, and handed it to Thomas. 'What does it say?' I asked him, but Thomas just gave me a queer look, got up and left the tent. Well, the others weren't short of pluck, and they all had a go, with much the same result, and then it was my turn. The feeling was more like a tingling or buzzing than anything else. Then it handed me my card. I looked, there was nothing on it. It was blank. 'What is this!' I roared at the attendant. 'Do I take you for confidence men? Confound you and your infernal machine! I demand the return of my shilling!'

'What's up chief?' he says. 'Don't get in a lather mate, let's 'ave a butchers.' I hand him the card and he emits a long low whistle. 'All my born days, I ain't never seen nuffink like that. 'Ere's yer money, and yer welcome to come again, any time.' He gives a peculiar look to the Machine which sits there, unblinking, but I feel its stare upon me. 'Very well then' I say, my pompous rage leaking from me, and leave. Outside, in the sunlight again, we compare notes. Each of us has something upon the card, and though we laugh, and make sport of what has happened, I can tell each of them is thinking, what if it were true? And me most of all, what did it mean, that the Machine refused me? This ate away at me, and I resolved to try the machine again, as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The first was Bill. His card had just said 'WIFE'. We joshed with him of course, that he should never marry, and go into a monastery, but he had always loved Emily, and when he finished his apprenticeship he set up home with her and married her, and for a couple of years, all seemed well. But she was carrying on with the local carter, he caught them one day, in the back of the cart, and before he had a chance to try on his horns poor Bill dropped down dead of the shock. At his funeral, we talked, of course, and it was then we realised that maybe this infernal Machine had a sense of mischief.

The years passed. I eventually took over the post of schoolmaster at the local Board School. None of us moved away, and I scoured every fair for a sign of the Machine. Ten years later, there it was again. The sign had been rewritten, slightly less flowery language, and the young guttersnipe had moved on, doubtless to the Clink, but the result was the same, and I was choked. I did not make the same fuss this time, as I had expected it almost, but still, it began to gnaw at me even more.

Then it was Harry's turn. His card had just said 'CAT'. You can imagine the mockery the poor man faced through his life, and of course he kept a houseful of cats, just to show that he had no fear. But, poor Harry, he had exotic tastes, which he indulged at a specialist establishment in the nearby town, and one of the younger doxies failed to prepare properly for his regular discipline session, heaven knows, he paid them enough, but there we are, the cat o'nine tails was not properly cleaned, his wounds were infected and he died shortly after. At the funeral, we friends looked at each other wonderingly, each sizing up who would be next, and each finding the adventure a little less light hearted.

But, life goes on, and it went on for us. I took on a school mistress at the school, and as I headed towards middle age, I married her. We had a boy, and then a girl, and although this only takes a few seconds to say, it gave so much to our lives. For anybody else, life would have been perfect, but I envied the lives of my friends who had a card with words on. I know that for humanity through the ages, it has been the usual thing to not know the manner of your impending doom, only to know that one day there would be the Reaper, and ready or not there you would go. I found myself in a different position - I did not know, and it was ruining my life. Having young children was a perfect excuse to trawl fairgrounds looking for the Machine, and a few years later, there it was again. The tent had changed, the sign had changed again, and the Machine itself was dressed differently, dressed as a gentleman, and the assistant was a young woman, so the overall effect was of a magician and his pretty young helper. I would have thought that there would be signs of wear and tear on the thing, but it seemed even more fresh faced and young than before. With the help of a thunderflash and another prick on the finger, it produced for me yet another blank card, and I would swear I caught the flicker of amusement across its face. The assistant was once again astonished, never happened before, so sorry, would the gentleman like a refund, please do come again, it won't happen again I'm sure.

The children grew up, and left home. Thomas died, well into middle age, his card had said 'SPEAR' so we had thought there wasn't much chance of him accidentally wandering onto an assegai in the quotidian course of his wanderings, but no, he bolted a spear of asparagus at a dinner party and choked to death and there were the two of us, Joseph and me, and I began to consider in my darker moments ending it all, just to wipe the Machine's eye, but I still had my work, though I was nearing retirement, and the love of a good woman, and the time never seemed right.

She had always refused the Machine, and I think was secretly pleased that her own death would come as a surprise (I do so love surprises, she used to say to me, and bless her she did), and also she had hopes for me that I might never die, that a blank card meant just that. I do so miss her.

I woke up one fine May morning, and she didn't, and she had a look not of surprise on her face, but of peace. I envied her that, it felt like I had no peace, and I threw myself into my work, and charitable works, anything to keep me from the house, for as soon as I rested, like the great Shark, I sank to the bottom of my dark ocean. After a while, the Parish Council employed a younger man, and I was put out to pasture. I had seen the Machine several times since then, and each time it had appeared more human, but each time the result was the same. Once I saw it being walked to its tent, and I became sure that it was some kind of a creature, fashioned to look like a machine, but I did not know how this could be, for although the times change ever faster I have never heard of this being possible.

Joseph died. His card had said 'TREE', and we scratched our heads over this one. Late, very late in his life, he took up Motoring, and drove his De Dion into a tree and expired on the spot. Of course I went to his funeral, the last of us. Where I lived had changed out of all recognition, all my friends had died, my wife, my family moved on, and there I was, waiting my turn, a turn that never seemed to come, is it any wonder that I felt out of sorts, at odds with all I saw? And that bloody machine, twice more I saw it, but now it did not have a stall at a fair, it worked in the theatre, still with an assistant, with the prediction coming after a fairly run of the mill magic show. It walked, and talked, and I began to doubt my memories of what it had been. Nowadays I suppose, one would call it a robot, but when I was a boy that word did not exist. It could not have been any ordinary man, for it lived as long as me, and had been full grown when I was a child, and when I was over a hundred years old it still looked like a young man.

I am now over one hundred and eighty years old, can you believe? I am old and worn out. All I can think of is all that was dear to me, that has now gone, and I want to go and join it, but still those damned cards with nothing on seem to shape my destiny. Toy with me no longer. Look into your pocket, and take out the card that is there, and tell me what is on it. Please, please, let me go.'

The old man spread his liver spotted hands and looked at them, unable to look at me. Mechanically, I reached a hand into my breast pocket, and to my surprise found a small card. I took it out and looked at it. There was a word on it, and the sight of it bought it flooding back to me what I was.

'There is a word.' I said. 'Do you want to know what it is?'

(originally written for the 'Machine Of Death' compilation but rejected)

### The Fall

It's the knock on the door I look forward to most these days. Not to say I don't enjoy the rest of what I do - of course. But the challenge, the thinking on your feet \- that's where the thrill is. You might say I've fallen a long way, if you knew more about me. I couldn't deny it. But here I am, still doing it, when everyone else has packed it in or pegged out. That's what counts, if you ask me.

When this one comes, I make sure I answer. With a house full (and it's a big house), it's not always easy, but I've got time on my hands. We're set back from the road a bit here, and it's not always easy to find though we are on a residential street. However, everyone knows where we are, so if anyone wants to find us, they only need ask and someone will point out how to get here. Usually it's the pub they come on from, the kind of person who makes their way here will normally drift into the pub first, and John the landlord does a good job weeding out the needy and sending them my way.

I've not always been in this game you know. I've had a few jobs, true. My first job was kind of an entertainments officer, but everyone who does that job is a born showoff, and I was no different - being the centre of attention was something that my boss reserved for himself, so it was cheers then Nicky boy, on your way. I was out of work for a while after that, till I found my niche. More of that later, but that's pretty much in the past now, I've retired into this kind of halfway house business. My old boss packed it in years ago, more's the pity. All those years his continued existence spurred me on, into my own business, kind of a bit like a holiday camp, if you're asking, is the closest I can think of to what you might be able to liken it to. Got a few retired camp staff living with me here now, as it happens.

Like many I've seen before, the chap coming up the path now. I take a peep from an upstairs window as he goes under a street light, big chap, not too tall but turned his hand to a fair bit of manual labour, floppy blond hair, sandy, painter's jeans and a t-shirt and an old canvas military surplus kind of rucksack. He dings the bell and I go down to meet him. Chatty, says his names Ricky, looks like he's been drifting around carpenter's shops and building sites and wherever else he can do something unskilled for a few quid. I walk him round the house, show him to a room - he says he'd like to stay for a few nights if he can, fine I say, that's what we're here for. We always have an empty room. I'm really not sure how many rooms we have actually. I've tried counting and lost count each time, so I don't worry about it any more.

I've run the house rules past him. Common sense stuff really, but the only thing we're funny about here is staying out of the other lodger's rooms. Not because of thieving, believe me, we don't have a problem there, but you know, they all like their privacy. Don't ask, don't tell. They'll tell you what they want to, as long as you don't ask, is my experience. We sit in the lounge, and sooner or later I reckon the sun's well enough past the yard arm to offer a drink. Here's my thing at the moment - sake. Can't remember where I picked the taste for it up, but it sorts the men out from the boys. I like it hot too - the stuff I can get on import is just gogo juice really, it's not good enough to drink cold. I like to see what their reaction is to it - no one's ever tried it before. Ricky takes to it like a pro. Sure enough, Fat Steve gets a sniff from upstairs and appears, like he does whenever anyone eats or drinks anything. He's skinny as a rake, before you ask, despite eating all day. Tells me he's a student, which he has been for as many years as he's been lounging around here, doing nothing in my semi-professional opinion.

Talk and drink, drink and talk. Ricky tells me he was once British stock car racing champion. I believe him, I have a feel for when people lie to me - not that I'm much given to correcting them. I like a lie as much as the next man, maybe more. Let them dig themselves in, I say. Let's see what we dig up. Steve can talk about anything to anyone, turns out he went to a few races, saw Ricky win. Seems however Ricky lacks the application to stick at anything, though he doesn't out and out say so. I'm familiar with the drifter type as you might imagine. With a house full. As well as Steve, at the moment I've got Clive, Felicity, Brian, Diamond Lil and Dustman Jack. Actually, here's Clive now. He's been out for a walk, and no, he wouldn't say no to a small snifter before turning in. Clive works, although he didn't when he first came here, I think he's quite tricky to get along with as he'll only really get on with those he thinks are close to being his intellectual equal - true enough, he is working in a library at the moment, but he'll not tell you that he's the building handyman. He sits cross legged on the floor and his trousers, already half mast, ride up alarmingly, showing alabaster shafts of leg, a man who has never felt the kiss of the sun on anything except his hands and face. Like the gun turrets of a Dreadnought his attention turns to and ranges on Ricky. He'd like to know how clever Ricky is of course, but he knows he can't assume anything by appearances, having been caught out once or twice in the past, not least by me...

Actually, it turns out Ricky is fairly smart. He is able to join in with everything Clive brings up \- interesting to watch as it leaves Clive happy that he has someone to talk to and unhappy that he cannot mentally dominate him. You can almost see him squirm. Steve provokes similar emotion in Clive \- Clive however does not know anything deeply enough to work out that Steve is even more shallow. For the moment, this is as big a group as I want drinking in here. Brian is an army deserter - keeps himself to himself in his room, for fear of being shopped I suppose, but he does himself no favours by only wearing fatigues.... and it's an hour or two till Flick gets back from the pub. I'm at the stage of the evening where I will kind of take a back seat, seeing as how the conversation going on is self supporting now. I have to be careful not to daydream too much, but I do have a lot of memories and sometimes they do get the upper hand.

Usually the TV is running in the background - it is now, and there's a film on about runners, athletes. Steve and Clive have started arguing about their respective running careers. Both of them, it seems, were County athletes in their prime, and still keep pretty fit. It's the first I've heard of it, I have to say. Clive is a strong man, no doubt, but he runs the risk of being asked what I once heard William the Conqueror be asked - 'when will this fat man be delivered of a child?'. He's a big boy. Steve however despite his incredible eating habits is whippet thin. He looks as if a strong breeze might snap him. He's now appeared back in the room wearing shorts, challenging Clive to a race. Honestly, I've seen better legs hanging out of a nest. Clive is up for it though, whips off his shirt leaving only a raggedy looking vest and ties it round his head like a sweat band. They agree a route, and head off out of the door, Clive's legs stomping up and down like pistons, Steve floating along like tumbleweed. As they disappear, Felicity arrives. She has another old boy tagging along with her, brought back from the pub. Normally, we find them sitting at the breakfast table in the morning, wearing one of her dressing gowns, smoking a roll up. If they ever say anything, it might be 'alright' or 'cheers'. You never see the same one twice, which is a great source of fascination to me I have to say. Where do they all come from? Perhaps there's an underground of stringy middle aged blokes who can communicate to each other where the best pickup pubs are? Maybe. I have to say I'm well enough off out of that game. She doesn't hang around downstairs, so I go back into the sitting room. It's closedown on the TV, national anthem and all. Ricky is looking out of the window. Do you think they'll be alright, he says. They've done some similarly stupid things in the past. I say, and somehow always come out of it OK. Anyway, I say, time to put a record on.

When the house has quietened down, Brian normally appears and creeps around, face blackened, as if he's on a commando mission. The few times he makes sense, I gather that he decided to desert because he couldn't get into the SAS. I expect that's the reason why they wouldn't have him, right there. He's another one who thinks he's something a bit special. What you have to be careful of, I tell Ricky, is if you decide to come downstairs when it's dark, that you might walk into Brian practicing throwing his commando knives about. I'll not be able to help you if you get stuck with one of them, I'm afraid. Has he ever hurt anyone? asks Ricky. No, mostly he does it outside after I got fed up with the holes in the furniture I tell him. In fact there he is now, I say, as Brian creeps downstairs. Oh no, he says to us, not bloody Classic Rock again. I'll be in my bivvy. With that he disappears off again. My what? asks Ricky. His bivouac, I say. He's got one out in the garden. I don't think it's just the fact that his room is next to Felicity's that makes him want to spend all night out in a twig house, more that he's still in training for the SAS. When they find out about him, they're sure to take him. They may find out about him for the wrong reasons though.

Quite a house you have here, says Ricky. I smile in a deliberately mysterious manner. Well, that's the idea, but really it probably looks as if the sake and pickles (did I not mention them?) are starting to repeat on me, which is not the suave look I try to perpetuate around my boarders. At this point Steve reappears, not looking as if he's been on a cross country run at all, but more like he's popped into the Freemason's Arms for a quick half before trotting back. Clive not back yet, he asks. No, says Ricky. Where did you run? Run? says Steve. Do I look like a mug? Don't answer that. Just had a nightcap at the Freemasons. I don't think running's that good for you, to be honest. Look at Jim Fixx. Run run run thump. Dead as a doornail. Still, good for a Clive windup. Steve goes over to the window and twitches the curtains looking for Clive. He's a prannet, he says, I bet he's only gone and done a cross country course like he said he would. Hasn't he worked anything out for himself yet? Size of him, he'll probably drop dead, and then who'll feel guilty? Muggins here. He looks in silence for a little bit, back and forth up the black and orange sodium lit road, then starts. Bloody hell! There he is! He rushes out of the door and comes back in with Clive's arm round his shoulders. Clive, to be frank, looks like a freshly washed rat. His hair is sticking up in clumps, his face the colour of a swept out grate and his breath sounding like a bicycle in dire need of oiling. Did I win? he says and collapses onto the living room floor face down and starts twitching. Oh Christ says Steve. I flash a quick look at his face to see any hidden meaning that might be there, nothing. Then I see Ricky's face. He's undergoing a considerable internal struggle. Something clearly wins, and he goes over to Clive and kneels down next to him. I don't see what he does, but suddenly Clive starts coughing, then moaning gently. His extremities turn back from blue via grey to a soft pink. Steve looks at me. I'll call an ambulance, he says. He goes out into the hallway to the telephone table and makes the call.

I sit down, looking at Ricky the whole time. I'm not going to be the first one to say it. I want him to say it. He looks at me, and gives me a little shrug. You didn't know it was me, he says. No, I say, and I'm surprised at myself. I've been too long amongst people. I meant to take a bit longer, he says. I was always going to give you the message, was just planning to take a bit longer about it. But I couldn't let him go in front of me. If it had have been me, I say, I would have. He smiles. I know, he says. But do you know, I detect an faint flicker of kindness in you know. Sorry. Not trying to be insulting. Perhaps I just can't believe no one could be totally without. That's your weakness, I say, and our Father's. Well, look, he says, I'm not going to go through all that with you again. How many thousands and thousands of years? I've got a message for you, from Father, and that's what I'm going to do, give that to you, and take back any answer.

I'm silent for a few moments, although it seems like an eternity, looking into the face of Gabriel, my oldest friend and oldest enemy. It's been such a long time since the fight went out of us, since people learned to get along without us any more. I know he feels the loss of that too. Our hot war became a Cold War, and like the Soviets and the Americans, we found that when our war stopped much of our reason for being seemed to go. Father (am I calling him that again? How much I've softened) felt it worst of all of us. He couldn't die, but he retired to whatever the Almighty retires to, beekeeping probably. Much as I find fault with Him, and His creation, I never could fault bees. We all had to find something to do with ourselves, and all that time, and there hardly seemed any point ruining lives and claiming souls any more when it was only me left to it. Lets face it, I've always been drawn to lost souls, and them to me, and perhaps I've realised what a lost soul I've become just spending time with them, and even helping them a bit. Humble? Me? A few years ago I would have laid waste an area the size of Morecambe Bay if someone had even dared to suggest it.

Gabriel is talking. Lucifer, he says, Lord of the Flies, Prince of Darkness, Father of Lies, sorry to be so formal, but you know. Our Father still feels a pastoral duty of care towards you. He's never stopped hoping that one day you might come back to His side, even. But I have one question for you, from Him, and I will take the answer back to Him. He wishes to know, are you happy, now?

It's at this moment I realise that Steve's phone call seems to be taking a long time.

### **Cold Rainbow**

In here, I have got much better at thinking, and at listening. Too much time. Before, I never did much of either. I have a story, and maybe I should tell it now. It is too late to make a difference to anyone. But all I have now are stories, all other people's stories. One more thing - in this story, when it's me who was wrong, I will say. Nobody else here is ever wrong about anything, I notice, and after a while, that stinks.

I'm not going to say that things are any better on the outside now. But perhaps without contradiction I can say that things were worse then. Things are different, that I know, but what would happen if the same things were happening to me now I don't know. Not much use, is it. Please help me not to write such a pointless sentence again. Get to the point.

I only wanted to be the same as everyone else. I know now how stupid that is, but I was young and stupid, which is the acceptable kind of stupid, I think. To get married, to bring up kids, not to think, to coast along. I wish it had happened, it started to, but too much thinking then got me into trouble, and way too much now is not helping.

I got married. In fact, I got pregnant first, so of course I got married. It was what you did. I have thought about love too much to know what it is any more, but I felt then that if it was not love, then it was alright. Even I suspect love would not have been enough though. We got along fine, house, car, baby, he worked nights so we did not see that much of each other but were both busy. Years passed. He was what became a favourite phrase, a 'typical man' however. Dedicated to being looked after, the head of the house, my word is law, bring me this, do that for me. With less thinking, I would still be topping up his beer in front of the TV even now, not to say that is right, no, I do not think it is, ha ha that word again but you know what I mean. What is it with some people, that they can not settle to something without immediately wanting to change it. That is me, I am afraid. So with two kids, one day he asks me to get something for him that he can just as easy get for himself. I said two kids, not three. I tell him to get it himself. He gives me a look, then gets up and gets it himself. He is not a clever man, but he knows that it has changed, something has, what can it be, this is how it is supposed to be and now it is not. Perhaps I am not enough of a man, he thinks, keep her where she would be. No I would have said to him you are too much man and not enough person.

Now he never misses a chance to do me down, make me small in front of others or just him. He the same size but me small, makes him big I see now. Perhaps the future is that we are no longer married one day, so maybe it is time for me to start to do some things on my own, get a job and some money. I say it is to help out with the household, which he cannot disagree with although I am sure he would much rather that I stayed at home.

Always, be able to look after yourself at least.

I get simple work, after all I left school as soon as I could and before I got married worked as a clerk in an office but do not have those hours now, just those when the children are at school. It is just a job in the local supermarket, in fact in those days it is the only supermarket for miles around. The only people I have talked to for the last eight years are my family, so it takes a while to get used to other people, especially when you are low in self confidence. We would have called this shy then. But I find I can get on with people, but my lack of experience tells against me here. Now I would know about the tiger people, who smile and are friendly but all the time look at you as if you are a meal for them, not to eat, like chops, but for everything else they do. They are in real life as empty inside as you feel, and they fill themselves with other people. They learn how to laugh, how to charm, win people as friends. The people they conquer are weak in some way, like the animals the lion or tiger picks out from the herd. Lonely, worthless, needy rather than lame old or slow, but do you see what I mean?

When Billy stayed behind to talk to me, when he gave me compliments, it filled a need I did not know I had. I was lonely. Surrounded by people, taking things from me, the worst kind of lonely, and one man starting to put things back into me it seemed, I fell hard. What was in it for him, I wonder? All those things you could get, just by actually being a good person, instead of pretending to be, but the tiger person does not see it that way. They only think about what they enjoy. Like a thief, they plan, they stalk, they rob, they take your treasure, they hold it in their hands. Then they are bored. Only the game makes them feel as if they have something inside, not just the hollow howling emptiness that is the only thing that frightens them. Worst of all, I was growing and thought he might help me grow, so I gave him the best of me. He took it all.

Of course, Jim found out. I knew he had had affairs, just bits of fun with young girls from the pub. But I must never do this, I knew, and I did. Things are different for women. There is no good reason for this, but if you want to keep out of trouble, you play by these 'rules'. He did not know what to do - whether to keep me for the sake of it, because he was a man, a winner, fight for me, or give it up as a bad job, say he did not care about me, which he did in the end although something inside him was put out like a busted headlamp. He kidded himself that he could be young and free and single again so that he did not have to destroy me, to make it acceptable and to seem to have won and not to have lost, and for that you know, I thank him, it was not an easy thing to do, there is some good in him. He was more right here than me, I know.

Actually, the divorce went as well as they can. The children saw it as a bit of an adventure, I think, though maybe not. They were still young at least. It was the stupidest thing that I ever did in a life of stupid things. We got married and moved into a house, with the children. Straight away after the wedding he hit me for the first time. Now the chase was over, and I was trapped, he could cause me as much pain as he wanted, whenever he wanted. Tigers sometimes play with what they have caught. And cats. They are so excited from the chase, they want to carry on chasing, and it takes them some time to calm down. It looks cruel, but it is nature. Wanting to hurt people because it makes you feel better in yourself, that is not nature, that is something only people do. It is something Billy did. I do not know if knowing I could in time be as broken inside as him made him feel better, or if he just liked to hurt, I do not know, I do not care, and neither would he I think.

The first time, his brother tried to stop it, and his friend said no, leave it, it is none of our business. As if we were none of us people. I talk about this as if it were not me, it does not feel like it was me when I say that I loved him madly and I could not understand why he was doing it, why he had made me feel so good inside and now wanted to break me. Perhaps it was obsession rather than love, but what difference does it make. It ruined the love I had for him, but the love he carried for himself never. Nothing could touch that. After a while, he did what he had done when he met me - he went out and started to chase other women as he had chased me and things became if not normal a bit more bearable.

He was an alcoholic, for sure. I had never seen anyone start drinking at breakfast and go on till they passed out at night. I started to drink as well, because it helped to cope, because it was the only power I thought I had. We started to get visits from the police, the same police who if I were being beaten and dragged around by my hair would say is it domestic and the answer was yes they would put the phone down, but not about this, about some lies that were now thawing out from the ice. Billy had never had a driving license, despite having driven for years so I had to take him to take his test. Billy had lied about the qualifications needed to do his job. He had none, except being a great liar. So he lost that, and went to court and was fined. Then he decided that he would have a nervous breakdown, to everyone except the doctor. Then he decided that I was mad (and I was not happy, but mad no) and told my children that he was worried about me and that I may have to go away for a while.

I am not proud of this - I had to work because he never gave me a penny for anything, and in that work I met men who liked me. I was not going to make that mistake again, no, but they knew him, and they knew me. One of them I had known since school, he knew some people. He said to me one day I can sort it out for you. Sort what I said, Billy he said, that needs to get sorted out. I know people who sort things out. It wouldn't cost you, it would be a favour he said. God help me I thought about it for a long time. How could I.

I am not proud of this either - drinking helped me too. It did not help any one else. I would beat my own children, because I was angry, sometimes angry at what I had got them into. I know it makes no sense. But they still sided with me, because the alternative was worse. Things got worse, of course you have something that looks like a family life, but it is not, it is like a cardboard wedding cake, hollow, a disappointment, but the fights were coming more and more often. The house crackled with human despair like an electricity pylon, you could almost hear it. That is hard to bear, for everyone. Sooner or later the storm will break. I some ways I think I had already broken. Goading him into fighting, attacking verbally every time I had the chance, perhaps I was pushing for the final break, even if it literally killed me.

On my parents wedding anniversary then, there was a party in the evening at a church hall, Billy of course was drinking through the day, he insisted on driving us there, all over the road. He had more to drink and so did I and he flirted with all the women there which normally I had given up caring about but this time I must have thought that if I pushed things to break something bad would happen and it would all be over. I could not bear it any more. I needled him again and again and he snapped and knocked me down right there in the hall. I do not think anyone could quite believe that was what had happened, maybe they convinced themselves I had tripped, I got up and the evening went on. When it was over we went home, and I stayed quiet on the way back. I wanted the fight to end all fights, I wanted to break it all so much that nothing could be the same. Does this make me seem like the monster? Maybe that was what I needed to be.

When we were all in, I started to shout at him. He was still angry too, and started to hit, and I fell. But this time I got up, not so he could do it again, but to keep pushing. I was angry do you see. I did not know my son John was there watching, normally he kept away in his room. As Billy started to kill me, John hit Billy over the head. Then or just after when he hit the ground Billy died, and in a way so did I. We looked at each other, and to save John's life I took the blame for it. I took the blame for all of it.

I never told any one anything except my version of what happened, and that is why I am here, and I know no one will read this for it is safe in my own head and now I am dying as well and not before my time. The children could never bear to come and see me after a while, but to be honest I made sure that they stayed away so they could try to repair themselves and I think they have and with that I think it's alright for me to go.

### **Dangerberry**

Of late, I have taken to rising early, which is most unlike my contemporaries in the social whirly-gig of London, for I find the early morning hours conducive to the fiendish fretting of my mind that I have been forced to undertake. My man-servant Carter brings me a lightly boiled egg, and a dish of coffee, and whilst partaking I let my mind work. Soon the used china is discreetly whisked away and I can prepare my first pipe of the day. Do you smoke? Of course, you realise I am not referring to that noxious weed tobacco. No, what our oriental friends refer to as 'chasing the dragon'. I find it helps to soothe the troubled brow, and at this moment, it seems we all have much to be troubled about. Dining last night at Old White's the talk was all of King George. It seems he has descended into madness and some days must be restrained, other days walking in the grounds holding conversation with the larger amongst the majestic oaks and beeches to be found there, or planting beefsteaks into the soil in the sincere belief that they might grow and thereby enrich the diet of those less fortunate members of our society who might dine upon the roast beef of Old England only on feast days. As ever also, we discussed what sinecures may become available, and there also it seems there was much to discuss. The King has taken to reassigning them to a member of his court whom I must confess had not heretofore intruded upon my consciousness, Sir M. Malagrowther. Sir M. is now not only the Paymaster Of The Works, a post once held by my good friend H. Walworth, but also the Clerk of the Irons and the Lord Of The Bedchamber, which has left Sir P. Burrow bereft and in dire danger of having to cast off one of his households, be it his patient lady wife or his less patient doxy has not yet been decided. After much pleading from the gentleman concerned, and indeed in fear of my post of Surveyor Of The Meltings In The Mint, the loss of which should only leave me with a curacy in East Dene and my parliamentary seat in Old Ludgington to keep the tipstaff from the door, and mindful of course of my previous successes in the fledgling science of deduction, I have as it is said 'taken the case'. Or at least as it will be said in years to come when other more famous gentleman detectors find themselves in the lime-light.

I must apologise, for I have not introduced myself but merely gone on and on without getting to any kind of point much as the most tedious of preachers might take up your Sunday with barely audible bletherings. My name is George Barrington, fifth Earl of Dangerberry. I wear many hats - wit, flaneur, raconteur, bon vivant to name but a few (it is no small coincidence that all of these terms are en francais!). I occupy my time with cards, horses, social engagements, fine foods and wines and the most exquisite gentleman's tailoring to be found in this metropolis. Oh, and thief taking and the solving of mysteries, for which I have gained no mean reputation amongst all strata of society.

But first, to-day's entertainment is the hanging at Newgate, to which I must hasten as it promises to be a particular spectacle. Jack Hodges the butler murdered his master the Hon. Geo. Spencer, and for that he must swing. On arriving the crowd is very large, and it is not easy to push my way through. Soon enough I come in sight of Burrow and Walworth, also keen devotees of this class of spectacle. There is another fellow with them, who I do not know.

'Come, this is our great friend and proprietor of the greatest store-house of wit that England has, Dangerberry. Dangerberry, fresh back from the colonies, oh I know Walworth, but they shall always be so to me, O'Reilly.'

'My good friend Burrow will puff me up like a veritable Cocks-comb if I let him' I say, well aware how hard it can be to produce the quality and spontaneity of wit when it has already been advertised - the element of surprise fair being gone.

'Oh, really?' says he, and in an instant I see my chance.

'Forgive me, but I believed it to be O'Reilly?' I say. Of course, the effect is near instantaneous. Walworth and Burrow instantly grow puce in the visage and start sputtering and backslapping, whereas O'Reilly looks as if he would cheerfully see me swinging in place of Hodges. I allow myself the ghost of a smile and turn urgently to take in the sight before me, and Lord help us if the creature Hodges does not put on a show and a half. Dressed in his finest, which does not go un-noticed by the hangman, who of course stands to inherit said outfit, with a white cockade in his hat, showing no fear, he doffs his cap to the ladies present. A word is quickly exchanged with the hangman, who no doubt will try to make this go quicker than usual, and Hodges has a chance to address the crowd, which he does in a loud clear voice without a trace of fear.

'Now I go on ahead to meet my maker, and yours. If any-one has a message for me to take on to him, well, you'll just have to do it yerself! I'm a bit tied up!'

With that he's through the trap-door and swiftly dispatched with the laughter of the crowd roaring in his ears, and what finer send off could any man have, I think to myself. Why, I would be proud to have half as good myself.

We then retire to a tavern for luncheon. Talk naturally falls to the devilish Sir M., and to wondering just how exactly he has got the favour of the King. On hearing the name, O'Reilly pricks up his ears.

'Malagrowther, you say? It is a deuced uncommon name, but I have heard it before. I had cause to undertake business in Georgia and Florida when in the Americas and heard tell of a man who travelled widely both South and West of the old colonies, through the deserts and into Mexico and so forth, learning much of the plant lore of the natives and using it to his own advantage, many spoke of him and I believe that was the name he went under.'

This is interesting, I thinks to myself. It does not register with the others, but perhaps this fellow is using some kind of native medicine-man flummery on the King? I must of course gain access to the man somehow, perhaps not to accuse him of devilry out-right, but to at least gain more knowledge of the situation. Knowing the fondness he has for acquiring paid positions that entail no action on his part, I may be able to dangle my sinecure in order to draw him out? I must contrive some sort of visit that he must make, perhaps to the Mint if he has some notion of taking charge of that post.

And so I find myself paying my first ever visit to the Royal Mint. It causes quite a stir, as you might imagine, but my purpose is to perhaps locate myself some kind of fake office that I may appear to work in, which will draw him out and repel him, which will involve no loss for me, but should give me the opportunity to speak with him at length. What a fuss is made of me I can tell you. When I present myself to see The Master Of The Mint at The Tower, in order to perform my duties, it is all the man can do, once he has stopped boggling his eyes at me, to refrain from asking me what in goodness sakes I think I am doing and why am I the first surveyor to ever trouble the honest workmen of the King's Mint with my irksome presence? I carry it through with some panache, you may well have been proud to see me. And in the end, there I am with my office, if you can call it that, ready to receive Sir Mungo and attempt to plumb his machinations.

I pass message, via contacts in the Royal Household. The King has worsened they tell me, must be forcibly restrained and will only take medicine from the hand of Sir M., who seems to have installed himself as the King's doctor, much to the dismay of the genuine doctors around him - although as I am sure they may only prescribe leeches and purges and other such nonsense, all of which only serve to evaporate whatever good health a man may cling to, perhaps this is not such a bad thing, and my resolve weakens. But then I remember the poor sad face of Sir. P., unable to choose between wife and mistress, or Walworth, and how I do enjoy to pluck money from him at the gaming table, and I am strong again. Message reaches me that Sir M. will pay me a visit, and I prepare a story to tell him with which to hopefully gain the truth.

'Well, my lord Dangerberry, I do confess that I was surprised, if not a little intrigued, to receive your missive. I must confess also that I had a mind to your post here, but it seems that it is not a true sinecure, not like the others I have, and so I may not press the issue with His Majesty, generous as he has already been to me.'

Malagrowther has obviously the knack of entering, talking and continuing to talk so as to gain the upper hand. I however have my own routine, which is to shoot my fine lace cuffs a few times whilst tutting, blinking and dabbing my brow with a kerchief fringed with finest Mechlin lace, appearing distracted and flustered. It gives the impression that I am both a man of taste, and a ridiculous nincompoop within a short few seconds. For most of my adversaries the idea that they are dealing with a high class buffoon affects their composure in a way not unlike the appearance of a fox in a beagle kennels on Boxing Day, it goes straight to their heads and all reserve is lost. And so it proves with Sir M., for like all rascals his preferred subject for oral examination is himself, and were the old Universities of Oxford and Cambridge to offer Master's degrees in himself he would indeed be Senior Wrangler.

'Ah my dear Sir Mungo, how good of you to pay me a visit here! I had heard of your singular work with his Highness indeed. Have you been long in the doctoring game? I thought I knew the names and reputations of London's finest quacks and sawbones but I had never turned up your name. It is my father, the old Duke I wish to consult with you about. He has, much like his Highness, quite parted company with his senses it seems, and we are all driven to distraction. He is out of the way on his estate, but his servants are quite helpless to deal with him. Did you have any physick you were using with the King you could recommend?'

With that, he looked sharp at me, and for a second I saw the fox.

'I had heard' I went on 'that you had travelled widely in the Americas? Perhaps you have uncovered the use of some new medicinal root or herbal poultice? As you will be aware, we would be able to recompense you in a most handsome manner for any assistance at all? I am of course no man of science, but purgings, emetics and the repeated application of leeches have not assisted him and I do not believe that redoubling these efforts would help. What sir can you say? Do you perhaps need a consultation?'

'My Lord, I would be honoured to consult. I must of course meet with the Duke, at a time convenient, we can of course discuss fees when I have advised a course of treatment. You are correct in your surmise, I have bought back from the old colony a treasure house of preparations, most notable of which is the dried cactus of the Chihuahuan Desert, often used by the Indians there. I have found it most efficacious with our King, and would be most likely to prescribe it for your father. Let us arrange a time to meet again, with the Duke, and we may begin.'

We make the arrangements, and he skips the light hearted skip of the greedy as he leaves. Making sure he is well away, I whistle softly, and there emerges Dr. Willis. I did not tell a lie when I said I was not a medical man, but that does not mean that I do not know any, and the good Doctor comes highly recommended, and I have engineered this meeting so that he may judge just exactly what this rogue Malagrowther is all about.

'My good doctor, what say you?'

'I am in your debt my Lord for letting me hear this. My suspicion would be that this new preparation has unmoored the King from his faculties, but I must consult further to be sure of this - I know an expert in these preparations. I will make haste with this and call on you when I have something to report - in the mean times I remain hugely in your debt.'

And with that he is gone, and I return back to my life of entertainment with which I slow the fearful whirring of my conscious mind for several weeks. In fact, I am breakfasting again, on kippers this time as I am famished after a night at the tables taking on all comers at the gaming tables, when Carter brings me Dr. Willis's card. Of course, I say, send him in at once.

'My dear Doctor' I cry, continuing to push kipper into my mouth, 'Come in, come in, what news? Would you care for some breakfast? These kippers are superb, quite superb!'

'I have broken my fast some hours past your Lordship, thank you for your kind offer. I come bearing news as you rightly surmise. My investigations led me to suspect that the fiendish Sir. Mungo was drugging the King with the mind-altering drug known to the Indian as Peyote. Sir. Mungo's nerve has broken and he has flown the coop, for where I do not know, and as long as we do not see him again I do not much care. I have taken over the care of His Highness, and he is beginning the slow process of recovery. The Queen, whose faithful servant I believe you to already be, sends her heart-felt thanks to you for your intervention in this matter. Another triumph for Dangerberry! I am of course afraid that no word of this must reach the world outside our small circle.'

'Of course', I say. 'I am only relieved that the charlatan has been unmasked and that His Highness begin his return to health.'

'Well' says the Doctor, 'he will recover, but I understand that one of the long term effects of this noxious preparation is that he may experience the effects of having taken it now at any time in the future, his chemical balance having been irretrievably changed. We will of course continue to keep close to him and step in should this flash-back ever happen.'

Another triumph for Dangerberry! And, best of all, another kippered herring I think.

### **Angels**

Despite never having been a soldier, or come closer to a war than the Odeon, he convinced himself that the noise he was hearing was that of a battlefield, and he a wounded soldier on it. Won't they just leave me to die, he thought. I've done my duty. Maybe I'll get to see my mother and father again, wherever they are. But the loud thumping and grinding noises continued, and the confused shouting and yelling also, as he subsided back into unconsciousness. This was in the most part because the noises of shouting and banging were an ambulance crew and fire crew attempting to extract him from his car. They were doing this not out of any mean spiritedness, but as part of their civic duty.

This was because he had briefly woken in his car, having passed out for a few hours after he had climbed into it, started it and attempted to drive home. This had only led him to drive into a large telegraph pole, crumpling up the front of the car and cracking his head against the windscreen, causing it to frost crazily and sending him back to his well earned rest. A rest so deep that the first passerby, a fully qualified doctor, assumed he was already dead. Rest for the wicked, but none for his guardian angels, who extracted him from his car and placed him in an ambulance for the journey to hospital before going on to help those more deserving.

When he woke, he was not in a car on the way back from a party, nor, as he had been a few times before, in Casualty. He was sat on the other side of a desk from a pale looking man who was looking at him with his head cocked, in a slightly quizzical manner, regularly popping a biro up and down on the desk.

The pale man's face brightened. 'Ah!' he said. 'You're with us. Then let us begin. We need, Johnny, to have a bit of a catchup, and now seems to be a good time. I've been looking through your paperwork.' He looked through the paperwork, as if to emphasise the statement, and certainly to illustrate it, then let it drop to the desk. 'Would you like to start?' he said.

Johnny's face flushed. He looked at the pale man as if looking for answers, then said:

'Who the bloody hell are you?'

The pale man pursed his lips.

'Johnny, we try not to use that kind of language in here. Now, look closer, Don't you remember?'

Johnny looked closer. His eyes still weren't quite right. It had been a legendary party. He leaned back.

'No' he said.

The pale man looked a little disappointed. He got to his feet and wafted to the door. He opened it a crack and leaned out and called. 'Tom! Tom! Yes, take a note. It's another one doesn't remember. Yes, at the last meeting. Yes, we were supposed to note all of them. Thank you Tom.'

He closed the door and returned to his seat. Johnny didn't ask the question, but as he still looked puzzled the pale man thought he should explain a bit.

'Before you're born, we meet briefly. We have to agree, we can't be forced on you. Trouble is, nobody seems to remember. In the last thousand years we've had several meetings about it. I'm all for changing it, but change here is glacial.' He did a mock shiver to show what he meant.

This did not clear things up for Johnny. He looked back at the door, checking whether if he was quick enough he could bust out through it. The pale man misinterpreted his gesture.

'Tom is my secretary. Tom Eliot. We get poets for secretaries. Oh my! Their faces! It's _not_ what they expect. But they _are_ so good with words. What letters he writes! Thank goodness I didn't get Milton, anyway. We're not as prepared for the disabled as the regulations would have it sadly, building's too old. Oh, and the secretaries get to be poets. Do all their own typing and everything. Anyway, I digress. Johnny Moore. We've come to the part of your life where you've used up all your chances.'

'Chances?'

'Yes, it's like cats and their lives, you know. That's all true by the way. Anyway, it's not lives, it's chances. Really, what we hope is that after we've signed our agreement, and you're born and everything, stay with me here, you do your best to live a reasonable life. It's all about managed expectations. We would all love a saint, even the priggish ones, but very few of us get one. So really what we hope for here is you not being too bad in your life. You know, just about all right. If you don't listen to what we say here, or make any kind of effort, then we'll have to hand you over to the other side.'

'What. Is it a war? I thought it was a war. Am I a prisoner?'

'Well, kind of. And no. You could even go over right now, but I wouldn't recommend it. Listen, before you pop out, we check we've fitted you with what you might call a 'conscience'. Now, we know you'll always care about yourself, but what we want is for you to be able to care about other people as well, isn't it Johnny? And, lets be frank, you've shown yourself in the last few years to be a bit of an arsehole haven't you. Sorry.'

He leant over his desk and popped a couple of coins into a swearbox.

'Marriages. Two, both failed. I am detecting a pattern here. Children, abandoned. It says here "he circles those he is to exploit, looking for weaknesses, much as a bespoke tailor might measure a person for a fine suit". Oh yes, we've we've got quite the file here.' He smiled. 'Shall I go on? Drinking to excess. Ah well, we all like a tipple don't we? Bullying. Mental and physical. "Careful not to engage in physical confrontation unless sure of other party's weaker status." Who wrote this?' He flicked to the cover page of the report. 'Well, I suppose that's what happens when you put _them_ in the field. Anyway, onwards, onwards. Women, children, animals. There's a whole section on pets here. Well, actually, looking at this, it's all quite boring. The trouble with you people is, no imagination.'

'I'll do better, I promise.'

'Now you're just weaseling. You don't believe you've done anything wrong, not for a second. Show me the way out, anyway I can, and I'll say it or do it, that's what you're thinking. Then once you're out the door, straight back to it, Johnny the King. Look, it's not going to be that easy. If this were a film, I'd send you back as a cat or something, and let you get kicked around, but I can do better than that.'

'I'll do anything.'

'That's the spirit, Johnny boy. But you don't have to do just anything. I'm going to do worse than send you back as a cat. I'm going to send you back as you. Then we'll find out if you can be fixed, or if we just hand you over to the other team. And I'll say, they've got no shortage of people just like you, it's only contractual obligation that'll make them take you.'

'Hang on. I don't fucking believe you. This is some kind of gag innit, one of the lads has put you up to this. Where's the camera? Jacko? Tel? Come out you fat bastards!'

As Johnny started to rise from his chair, the pale man clicked his fingers. Instantly, they were suspended in a velvety black void. Tiny stars shone steadily in the infinite distance. The office, chairs, floor, everything was gone. Johnny started to whine softly.

'I'm sorry Johnny. But if things seem as if they're going to get out of hand I am licensed to perform one small stunt to impress you. I'm always worried that if you feel humiliated, it will make things worse, as it does tend to do with cowards. And you are a coward, aren't you? At least you haven't wet yourself, that does happen.'

Johnny nodded, not at all sure where to look. The pale man clicked his fingers again, and the room was back as it was. He let Johnny regain his bearings for a second and then began to speak again.

'We're going to try to work with you. We are going to try to find out what happened in your past that humiliated you and that you've never recovered from, and that has made you a bully. We're going to see if you've got what it takes to become something more than an empty pair of trousers. If you hate that feeling, if you want to feel good without someone else feeling bad, work with us. You only get one chance.'

### **Transhumance**

I heard it said once that there are unfamiliar words, whose meaning is utterly different to what their sound implies. Some words I know sound like what they are - bang and crash and what have you. I am sure that there is a word scribes and university types use for that - there are more words than I can know, and that is just one of them. There is no need for that word though - everyone knows what those are. But those other ones - that mean nothing like what they sound like - there's something we need a word for. That can be dangerous. And people like that can be dangerous too.

Another thing there is no use for - the name of the year. For people like us, who live by the weather, there are seasons. There is the time to plant, the time to move animals, the time to harvest. One sky can bring happiness, another fear. We have our heads down, sniffing the earth, while the vault of heaven wheels over our heads. No years are different for us, they are all the same. I am young, then I am not. That is all. Someone else will be young, instead of me, because I will be old. I will die, and then they will be old. The graveyard will fill up, that is the only way to tell where we are.

Well, that was what I thought, back then. I was happy with it too, if not being unhappy is the same thing. Things are different outside, now. Now there is no use for us, who used to work outside, in the fields. I thought, everybody thought, that it would go on forever, but it hasn't, something broke or we broke it and now the crops don't grow and the animals die and if we spend too long outside it goes bad for us as well, so we spend our time inside. Even the clever ones do. They made everything work, in the first place, so they tell us, so if it has all stopped working, and they can't fix it, what chance do we all stand, simple as we are?

Maybe it's not that they don't want to go outside, but maybe that they can't. I know we can't now. Except at night. And even then not for long, because here it never really gets properly dark, there's always something in the sky. I first noticed the change a while back. Should have been quicker you might say, and you'd be right, I should, but when you are used to things being the same for generations, it's quite hard to wake up to it. All the watching, listening I did, like all of us, was aimed at figuring out how to get the most from our land. The machines we used, the power they needed, everything that went on in the city, we left to them. We've no interest in the country, and we wouldn't go there if you paid us.

I should have listened to the cows. One of them said there was something funny about the suns. Well, they should know, outside all the time like they are. Pretty soon, they wouldn't leave the shed to get some grass. Which was probably just as well as the grass started dying off not long after. After we realised what was going on, it all came at a mad rush. The pigs had always been moaners, but then they stopped complaining, they went into themselves, and nothing I could say would draw them out. They just went into their little huts and lay there. The wheat was stunted and blackened, the potatoes withered and died, so it wasn't just the animals. Things under glass held on for a bit longer, but it's the same there now.

So, what with the farm not really running at peak efficiency, we started to get visits from the Ministry to try to work out what the problem was. Fairly soon, they saw it wasn't our fault. They didn't talk much, and we didn't really notice the special gear they were wearing when they came out to us. Of course, no one suggested that we wear any special gear. That sort of thing wouldn't occur to them, to tell us anything about that, or even to get us to help. Never mind help us, in any way that didn't directly benefit them. They would talk amongst themselves, and of course, we would try to listen in, but we didn't know their technical talk, the words they used, they were so different from the ones we use. I mean, we understand each other, but I suppose they don't understand us. So it's only fair they don't take the time to talk to us at our level. there's not a lot of trust there. Just because we are so different I think, not that we would stop doing what we do - I mean we love it, really, and people have to eat, as well, don't they? Anyway, they took some samples of this and that, went away, came back, recommended that we try this and try that, it didn't work, more animals died off, more fields went barren. I felt at the time they could have used our knowledge, what we passed down to each other, but knowing what I know now, I realise that it would be of no interest to them. When we talked to them, they just blanked us. It's hard to change your ways, when you are used to being right all the time, and everything you ever did worked.

When the dog died it was the worst for me. He was a farm dog, a working dog, no nonsense, you know. We see life and death all the time here, it makes no difference after a while, as long as it's in the right time and place. But he was young, I had just trained him up, he hadn't been working for long, and the outside got to him. He came in one day, and laid down in his basket, and that was that, there was nothing more we could do. He got thinner and thinner, and then he called me in and said it was goodbye. He said I'd been a good friend to him, as it went, and he hoped he'd been a good friend to me, and I said yes. Then he died. You see, at the end of his days, after a full working life, it would have been OK, but this wasn't, it really wasn't. We aren't mawkish here, but we know when something is wrong.

People tell me, they say that once a long time ago animals couldn't talk. I can't imagine that, not for a second. How would we work with them?

We heard not long after that that it wasn't just our farm, going under. That everyone was in the same boat. And after a while, when food stocks started to run low, and the clever people hadn't come up with any answers, we were told that we should think about going on to synthetics. Well, there were legends about how nasty that stuff was, and I have to say, it was all true, so we've stayed on the fresh stuff for as long as we could, but that's just about run out now.

We've had another visit. I had to put this away for a bit, as we aren't supposed to write anything. well, we aren't supposed to think at all actually, but how can you stop that from happening I ask you, even if we do end up not much more than beasts ourselves. I'm glad I can read and write, and I've taught a few around here, it really does help with running the farms, sorting out work rotas and the like. I know there have always been a few who can carry all that stuff in their heads, but I can't. We keep it a bit quiet, I don't think the Ministry would like the thought of us all writing things down, but what harm can it do know I ask you? None at all. So we don't tell them.

Apart from my tendency to ramble, to go off topic, of course. When I'm talking to people, at meal times, I'm always the one to go off at a tangent, people are used to it, sometimes it leads to something interesting but more often than not it doesn't. I see their heads dip, almost into their soup, I think to myself, he's had a long day, baby's kept her up, but they're bored, and more often than not, I'm boring. And that's what I've been doing here, going on and on, I don't see any way this could be interesting for anyone who doesn't live here. So I'll tell you about what they left behind today, that they shouldn't have left behind, that they will come back for, and that they will think that I have not read, but I will have done, even though I'll wish that I hadn't.

They broke the planet we're on. They keep doing it. Every planet that they've been on, they break it. The things they use to make power, to keep the lights on, make the synthetics and everything else they use, well, it turns out those things break the planet. But because they are so clever, they can just move to another one. Who knows how many there are? How many planets. Millions. And time enough to fill them up, and make them home, and burn up everything good there, and then move on. Who knows how many times they've done that? Not me, and not even them, now, they don't even bother giving the planets a name any more, it's just 'planet' and 'sun' and so on. I wonder why if they are so thoughtless about everything, why they even bother.

When I said they weren't going out and about, well, that's because they were getting ready to move on. I don't now how many times they've done this, it wasn't in the papers they left here, but the oldest memories we have here are of being here, on this planet, which we never even thought of as being a planet like any other, with its two suns, one red and one yellow. So maybe, when they were back on their first planet, maybe the animals couldn't talk. And maybe we could talk to each other, outside of our castes.

When the clever ones go, they will leave most of us behind. In some ways it will be easier, because we won't have to feed them when they are gone, and maybe when they have taken their nasty ways with them, things will get better here, but I don't really know. We will all try, us and the animals that are left, we will try. There was nothing in the papers about how the previous planets they left behind got on after they left. I suppose they had no interest really - keep on moving, that's what they do. I realise that we aren't clever enough to do that - and thank heavens for that. We are only just about clever enough to grow things to eat, and look after ourselves. It would take a very special kind of cleverness to keep destroying where you live without thinking that maybe it would be better not to. A kind of cleverness I can do without thank you.

So it had something about their plans, the ships they will build to leave - well, I say will build, it's all pretty much ready, seems they knew a while back but just went through the motions here. They've even given it a name, what they're doing, isn't that just like people. Transhumance they call it, but I'm fairly sure that's not what it used to mean. I think that used to mean something very different. But then what didn't?

### **Trouble On The Buffers**

It was the want of some bubble bath that drove her out of the house that morning. Two weeks of self enforced solitude had left her store cupboards low all round, but still she had no appetite for food, just the faintest glimmer of self indulgence showing in the need to not just have a quick cold water bath, but something more pleasant. Her local supermarket was fifteen minutes walk away, but still she did not trust herself to drive. Too many thoughts swirling, black thoughts, taking over, and then she'd be in a hedge or something worse. Not worth the risk, and walking was one of those things she had been told would help lift depression. It was a clear bright spring morning, the kind that made most people feel glad to be alive, the slight warming feeling from the weak sun on your back, greenery pushing up all round. Not enough for her, not even after a walk.

Not really in the mood for any contact, she dove in, found what she wanted and used the self checkout machines. Even a person on a till was too much for her. On her way out, she passed a row of children's rides, diggers, trains, boats, all of which randomly pooped, chirruped and called out to attract toddlers driven beyond the edge of boredom by their parent's weekly shop. They hardly made an impact on her until she passed the last one. 'Hello hello' it said. 'Hello Alice'. She stopped dead. Did the machine call her by name? She pivoted round and looked at it. A cartoon train with large appealing eyes and a broad smile silently rocked backwards and forwards, lights flashing. It made a rhythmic rocking sound and clanged its bell again. It did not speak again however, so she gathered herself and rushed back home. I have spent too much time alone, she thought to herself. Perhaps I wanted to see a ghost, perhaps I wanted to hear from him again, instead children's automata are taunting me. I need to stop this, get back to work, try to be normal, instead of feeling like I'm trapped under the ice the whole time.

And so she did. Time passed, her doctor said she could go back to work if she wanted. If she thought it might help, get her out of the house and everything. After a week back, people weren't walking on eggshells round her as much as they had, and she had plenty to think about to keep her head above water. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, even for one, it still needed to be done, even if she still felt guilty for letting some normality back into her life. Or indeed guilty for anything that felt nice. Once again she found herself in the supermarket, and this time she filled a (small) trolley, and bought some new reusable bags, and paid at a manned checkout, and pushed out through the automatic doors, all the while planning the next few days. Getting back to normal.

As she skated along, swinging the trolley from side to side gently, a voice piped up. 'Hello Alice. Hello hello.' She stopped and turned back to look at the train, still slowly rocking from side to side. This time, a clanging bell rang. She smiled and turned back to carry on out to the car. 'Are you OK?' said the voice. She looked around, more slowly this time. 'Alice, do you want to talk?' She stood rooted. No no no, she thought to herself. I was doing so well. I was doing OK. I was getting stronger. But all the while, I've been going insane. If I turn around and look at my trolley, it'll be full of bath toys or socks or something else I didn't buy and don't want. She looked. It was what she'd bought. 'Sorry Alice' said the train. 'Is it too soon? I'm sorry, but you were so sad.' She gripped the steering bar of the trolley. She felt tears coming. I'm not mad, she thought. I came through a terrible thing. I cried like a baby, and I prayed to a God I've never had, and here I am, outside a supermarket, being psychoanalysed by a child's animatronic train. So, what do you do, you go and talk to it, and it will be real, or I will be mad, and I don't want to be mad, I've tried very hard not to be mad, but if I am mad, I have to know.

So she turned the trolley round, and parked it as out of the way as she could. As the train flashed its lights and rocked backwards and forwards slowly, she squeezed herself in to the cabin and waited. The silence continued, broken only by the clanging of a bell. I have lost it, she thought to herself. Someone I know will come out now, and see me, and they'll say hello Alice, what are you doing, and I'll say hello there, just you know talking to a robotic train about my life and stuff ha ha you mean to say you never do this and they'll give me the crazy person on the bus look and back away slowly and call an ambulance, and wait nearby to make sure I don't start self harming or something, and then some strapping blokes who sound ever so calm will come and put me in a special jacket and then throw me into a rubber room where I can't hurt myself or anyone else and no trains will ever talk to me again. She sighed. 'Hello hello' said the train, as it started rocking again. 'Yes bloody hello to you' she said. 'Answer me this. Am I round the bend?' 'No Alice' said the train 'just very sad. And why wouldn't you be. If I were a person I would be sad too, after that.'

She sat in silence, coming to grips with the whole thing. 'How do you know what happened' she said. 'How do you know about me?'

'Always the first question Alice. But not the most important. Not how. Why. Why are we talking now. Why do you need to talk so much that you are talking to me, why do you need to talk so much that that lady is watching you talk to me slack jawed, and you don't care. Talk to me, if it will help, you have time, you have nothing frozen in your shopping.'

So they talked. And talked. When she got out, the woman watching her stammered 'were you...' 'yes' said Alice unashamed, 'yes I was'. She grabbed her trolley and set off towards her car. She kept on walking with the trolley all the way home, lost in thought. Only when she got back did she remember the car. Meanwhile the woman she had spoken to next to the train was edging closer to it. Suddenly it clanged and whistled and rocked backwards and forwards. 'Hello Jean. Hello hello' it said.

She returned a few times, and doing so seemed more and more natural. After a couple of times she noticed that she wasn't the only person doing it. In fact, at certain times of day a queue formed next to the machine, and if an excited child was rocking about in the driver's cabin, the faces of the adults waiting patiently would start to look more and more frantic, as if some dreadful malfunction would flip the engine back into being purely child's entertainment and not the wisest most caring and insightful steam train they had ever spoken to.

As time damped the seismic waves of Alice's grief, she found she no longer needed the unusual counselling the train had provided her. She was able to spend time with people without feeling guilty, or without cringing in expectation of another crass comment, even if well meant.

Later that summer she had invited a few friends round, the first time since, and needed to nip out to the supermarket for some last minute ingredients. She didn't notice the row of rides as she went in, probably the first time, but as she came out with her bag she noticed someone crouched next to the train. He had a briefcase of tools laid out on the ground, and had taken the side panel off exposing the internal circuitry. She had to know, so she walked on up and in her most disinterested but interested voice said 'is there something wrong with it? Only it's my son's favourite.' 'Well, we've had a few complaints' he said, 'but I'll be honest I can't find anything wrong with it. Not a thing. Well, I've done a factory reset anyway to be on the safe side, just getting the side back on now.' He screwed the panel back on as she slowly moved away. It rocked and whistled as it always had done for the children who enjoyed it so much. 'Hello hello' it said. 'Would you like to ride?'

### **Leaves**

### one

There were some aspects of his dreams over which he found he had near complete control. Though it was always the same house he went back to - the house he had lived in as a young boy - he could explore every part of this house, even those parts which had never really existed but were as real as the rest of the house which had. He could not however choose who he would meet, and so looked forward with some trepidation to the dream. Once again, they would always be somebody he had met (only dreams which occurred outside the house might involve strangers) or known, possibly a family member or some woman he had been close to. With this control, only slightly more than in his waking hours, but still preferable to the uncertainty contained in his day to day life, he began to look forward to his dream time more and more. He began to recognise the possibility that he may be able to choose to stay asleep, that his dream self may be able to overpower his waking self, but did not fear this as many might. He took some precautions against it, by for example having a particularly powerful and loud alarm clock which did not shut off over time and by also having neighbours who would not tolerate this continued noise pollution and would certainly intervene in a physical manner.

Although he had a normal seeming relationship to those he worked with, and socialised in the prescribed manner to an extent considered normal, he was considered perhaps a little withdrawn by his colleagues. This did not stop them from inviting him to functions and events, though each time he accepted was a surprise to them as much as to him. Each time he thought his withdrawn nature would get the better of him and force him back into his 'shell' some inner voice would push him into doing what had been asked of him, and against his better judgement he would find himself enjoying his situation. After whatever party he had been to had finished however, and he returned to his solitary mode of living, he began once again to think of dreams, and who he might meet in his dreams. He found that he was able to polish conversational skills that he found useful in real life by conversing with his dream mates, very often choosing to rehash conversations that he should have had many years ago, but had failed to, leading to a cessation of relationships or at the very least a cooling off.

He had deliberately moved away from his family. He had initially wanted to move to another country, but was unable to decide which, and also unable to focus on learning a language. Even as a young man, with no control over his ability whatsoever, he found that he spoke perfectly the language of whatever country he found himself to be in, only to lose this singular ability on waking. He was also seduced as a young man by the ease of creation in his dreams. Entire pages of writing of the deepest philosophical profundity effortlessly wrote themselves before his eyes as he lingered in the half state between waking and sleeping - if he were on a train for example he would be rudely awakened by a ticket inspector and rapidly shift moods from exhilaration at his own unassailable genius to mild irritation as the golden words shifted and crumpled as autumn leaves before his emerging consciousness into meaningless pipings and half articulated soundings. It did not take him long to realise that this was unsatisfactory, and that an attempt must be made to find something real and lasting in the world of dreams, if anything could be found. He realised that to make this so, he would have to remove from his conscious world the things that he knew well, friends, family and the like and examine his internal world in isolation. So he moved to the other end of the country and took a job as a local government officer. He could no doubt have tried harder, and made a career, for he was intelligent enough, but much as this would have pleased his parents (and he did not dislike them and would have pleased them if he could) his internal world was always of more interest than his external world. In a job such as this slight personal eccentricities were more tolerated than in many other more high pressured careers, and he considered that he would find it hard to mask all external trace of his internal wanderings, though he was careful never to dream outside of his own house.

In the beginning then, a dream would begin like this: He would be on the staircase of his old house. Architecturally, it was the same as the one he had lived in as a boy. The doors, windows and rooms were laid out as he remembered them to be, before conversion and extension work had been done to the house. The paintings on the walls, though only reproductions, were the same. Very often, one small detail would be different, such as the carpeting. He would ponder what this meant, and begin to explore. One time he entered the old master bedroom to find two large single beds made up in the old fashioned style with blankets and a shiny over-sheet, the bedside table would be dressed with flowers, quite possibly artificial. It would occur to him that this was like an old person's room. There was a sense that the occupant might return, but that they were not old. He did not understand this, but at this stage of his dream explorations would realise that he did not want to meet whoever it was - this would change later when he would actively seek out those detected presences. As he walked out of the room he realised that he was no longer a man, but a small boy. In relation to the house, he would usually become a small boy's size at some stage during his explorations.

After many years of this, as his control grew, he began to meet people who he had never before met. Some of them he had no doubt existed in the waking world, though he did not know where, nor how he knew this. Others he felt sure only existed for him, and it was one of these who took him to a place he had been to before in the house, but never seen, and shown him a door.

### two

They began a conversation.

'This door is for you' began the doorkeeper. 'If you choose to go through it, I cannot tell you what is on the other side. Of course, you will be able to find your way back, but I cannot tell you how.'

'Is there anything you can tell me?' the traveller asked.

'Very little. As you yourself understand, what I know comes from you. What I can tell you is what your inner mind chooses to divulge, and right now that mind is not ready to explain itself. Maybe part of the explaining process is going through the door. Doors can be very symbolic. They can also sometimes be just doors. If you wish to think about it some more, it will be here the next time you come back to the house. I will also be here, of course. I am also there during your waking life, but we cannot communicate then. Perhaps you need to go about your normal business in the office, and I will see what you see, and then maybe the next time you visit I will be able to explain more about this door.'

'I understand' he said, even though he was not sure that he did. But, the doorkeeper seemed friendly, and also seemed to wish to be helpful, and he had no reason to doubt his words. He also recognised the underlying truth of what he said, that the words the doorkeeper spoke came from himself, or at least a part of himself that he had no direct communication with. He resolved then to let the doorkeeper see him go about his daily round, in order that he might help. It did not occur to him then what his problem might be.

He continued to wander the house, although he now found it slightly unsatisfying. He had now contrived a way to make himself grilled cheese on toast, as he remembered his parent doing from time to time, using the old gas cooker that for some intangible reason he loved, possibly as a symbol of a childhood that he could no longer reach. As he sat at the kitchen table to eat, he noticed that it was light outside, and he resolved to go outside into the garden and look around a little more. After finishing his snack he left the house through the conservatory at the back and entered the garden. By now however it was dark again, and although he knew that he had control of the situation it still made him feel uneasy. For the first time in some months he found himself wishing to awaken and take some kind of action in his life.

A short while after thinking this he stirred from his sleep and began to get ready for work. He found himself a little excited, as he thought of the day ahead, which was unusual, as he had not looked forward to anything outside of sleep for some while. He noticed this feeling, and began to speak with himself. 'Perhaps I am a little afraid' he thought. 'Though I am not sure of what. Perhaps there is a meeting or project about which I have forgotten, though I have been conscientious in my work of late. It must also be considered that I am excited to be showing the doorkeeper my day, though he will find it very boring I am sure. For I do, this I know. I have little interaction with my colleagues during an ordinary day, though I am sure they do not dislike me. But, I feel he must meet them all. Even if they start to feel that I am a little more peculiar than they already think. Perhaps they will think that I have a terminal disease or some such, and am making a final round of good byes before crawling off into the woods to die. I can see this would possibly make things a little awkward.'

Musing in this manner, and all the time playing with the notion that he was not only speaking to himself, he continued to eat, for despite his grilled cheese he had awakened ravenously hungry. He then dressed himself and headed on out to work. On the stairs of his apartment building he encountered a near neighbour who he knew in passing, Mrs. North. She was not an unfriendly woman, who had never yet stopped trying to uncover more details then she knew about the explorer's life, and was a little taken aback to find him in the mood to exchange conversation. Although it was only a brief discussion about rubbish collection from the underground basement of the building, and the difficulties caused as ever by some tenants lacking in the public spirit of Mrs. North, it was still more than they had ever spoken, and she would have been even more taken aback to discover that all the while they were talking the explorer was annotating their conversation for the benefit of the doorkeeper who he believed to be listening. 'This is Mrs. North' he thought to both himselves. 'She is basically a good woman, but like so many who live alone she is a bit of a busybody, and attempts to live through the lives of others. This is not something I do, though I also live alone. Perhaps the difference here is that she does not choose to live alone, but her husband has died and family moved away. Clearly she does not wish to live alone though. At the moment this also is unlike me. Well, you have met her now, and there she is.' 'I must rush on to meet my train now Mrs. North. I will bear in mind what you have said' he said to her and moved on. She remained standing on the stairs, ruing a little her missed opportunity to ask him about any pets he might have, or any girlfriend, but then continued up to her apartment, grateful at least for the small discussion they had had about rubbish, and choosing the best parts of it for re-enactment during any further encounters she might have later on that day or week.

The explorer was in the habit of buying a newspaper from a stand on the way to the station every morning. He had lost touch with why - he now found this paper boring, and the standpoint it took on issues he once found enervating now merely irritated him. He and the news vendor exchanged greetings and also engaged in a brief discussion of the weather or sports results - which the explorer paid attention to merely for these chats, as he normally took no interest in sport. He had in fact begun to feel that the news vendor would miss their morning chats, despite the fact that he must chat like this to most of his customers over the course of a day. The foolishness of this attitude impinged upon his consciousness but the fact that he realised it was foolish did not stop him from holding the opinion.

### three

He approached the news stand and waited his turn. The vendor acknowledged him and turned to reach down his normal newspaper. The explorer held out his hand, fingers raised skyward and palm towards the newsvendor. 'How long have I been taking this particular newspaper?' he asked. The vendor appeared lost in thought. 'Dunno mate. Been a few years. I've been on this patch twenty-five years though boss so you'll have to forgive me if I don't remember exactly. Thinking of changing? I agree it's gone right downhill in recent times. What would you like? This?' He pointed to a more reactionary broadsheet. The explorer moved to pick it up but checked himself. What side of himself was he showing to the doorkeeper? The slow drift from youthful idealism to reactionary conformism was a classic journey undertaken by many of his age, but, if he considered carefully, he had been quite misanthropic in his youth and only now was beginning to find worth in the larger mass of humanity, indeed in many ways to become envious of it and wish to emulate it in a number of aspects. He looked over the shelf containing the neatly stacked newspapers. He still shrunk from the more lurid tabloid newspapers, but chose a slightly more respectable (he thought) left leaning tabloid. 'My reactions to this' he thought 'may enlighten the doorkeeper some more. Interesting also, how little this man knows about me, despite how often we see each other. I reveal nothing of myself to him however, so this cannot be surprising. It may also be the case then that if I reveal nothing of myself to others, they may also assume things about me that are not true, indeed predictable. I do not consider myself to be predictable, and yet in hiding myself it seems I have become so.'

As the explorer ruminated so, the vendor held out his hand for the money for the newspaper which the explorer automatically tendered correctly without changing the focus of his thoughts. He then moved away allowing the queue which had built up behind him to shuffle forwards. Tucking the newspaper under his arm he then re-entered the stream of commuters also traveling to their places of work. he looked around himself with more interest than usual, noticing how the low slanting early morning sun lit only the top halves of the tall buildings with a glittering golden light. His mind went back to when as a young boy he had often seen the sun rise and set, indeed had made a special effort to do so, for this sight had never lost its wonder for him. As he opened his mind to further reminiscences it occurred to him that he had lost his interest in nature and the natural world. Part of this he was sure was due to living in the city, but even though he knew that he could still take an interest if he wanted to. Nothing seemed to amaze him any more, and the days were there only to be ticked off. This thought did not upset him, merely intrigued him as he wondered what the doorkeeper would make of it. He was fairly sure that the door he was offered was not that to a nature trail, but something altogether more mysterious. The irony of his increased self absorption following this thought did not escape him and he smiled a little.

Soon the subway entrance to the underground railway drew near and along with many others he walked down the steps towards the turnstiles. he noted the stream of people passing through and thought to himself 'Many many thousands of people, all different, pass through here on their way to work, or some other place, every day. Yet they leave no trace of themselves. Even the parts worn smooth by touching, like some lucky part of a statue repeatedly stroked by the faithful seeking good fortune, only promise a degraded form of human community, and fail to deliver even that. People here do not wish others to know how they are, even though many of them may be lonely. I only wish to know how I am, and how I have become what I am.'

With this, he took out his pass card and went through his turnstile. After he had made his way to his platform he remembered the doorkeeper and made an effort to show him all the people on the platform. 'I realise that you are as human as me' he said to his silent watcher 'but perhaps you would learn more from watching these people if you were not. It is all too easy to forget that humanity's greatest achievements come very often from co-operation, yet here you think this to be a purely solitary race'.

Sometimes it was true he encountered a colleague on his way in to work, this was not the case on this day. After riding on the underground train he got off at his stop and walked up through the station to the exit. It was possible for him to see from there his place of work, and he stopped for a moment to take a further close look at his surroundings before moving on. Ordinarily, he would plunge straight on through the crowds, but today felt different to him, and the world appeared to him as if being viewed through a different lens to normal. After taking note of what he considered to be relevant about his environment, he again began to walk. He buzzed himself in through the glass doors of his office building and altered the frequency of his stride as he wondered whether to engage in conversation with the receptionist of the building. She however did not notice him and his nerve failed a little. 'Never mind' he reassured himself 'it is more important to talk to my co-workers. I have already done well.' He then rode on up in the lift to his office.

### four

As he walked through the double doors to his office space he looked around him to see who was already in. Only two people so far, as the office worked on flexi-time and he was usually amongst the first in. Walking through the open office, he noticed an unusual thing. There was a man sat at his desk, facing away from him. Normally a private, if not fastidious man, he did not like the idea of anyone sharing his workspace, and walked faster towards the desk. Walking around, so he could see the man's face, he stopped dead, not able to understand. It was the doorkeeper. 'You', he said. 'Me', the doorkeeper agreed. 'What do you think it means?' The explorer answered, 'perhaps I should be asking you that'. 'If you do,' answered the doorkeeper, 'I will answer. Though you may not like the answer that I give you.' 'I need the answer' said the explorer. 'Very well. You passed through the door. This is your waking life, dreaming. It was what you wanted, but not what you needed. Your sleeping body will begin to waste away, and your dream life will continue much as it was. Even if you are found, and someone tries to wake you, they will not succeed.' He smiled, and got up from the desk. 'You're out of staples, too' he said.

### **Bob**

Being born intelligent is not necessarily a gift. Bear with me while I explain - and first of all, let me say, I have nothing against those born beautiful, charismatic or any combination of. To paraphrase Rhodes, each makes you a winner of God's lottery in life. But to be born bright, sharper than those around you, without ever really meeting anyone like you, up against suspicion and mistrust because you're a bit weird (they say) - that's not a gift. Everyone knows someone like that. I remember Bob, who was like that, and who was not happy, well, not very often I'm sure. This is what I remember about him.

I think Bob liked conversation. But he didn't get much of what he might think was intelligent conversation. Not to say he was a snob, or looked down on anyone, far from it. Like someone who really loves a band that no one else has ever heard of, his ears were always tuned to pick up anything out of the ordinary, and if he ever heard it his terrible need to talk to someone, anyone, would take over. I know he'd never married, and I know people though he was weird, probably even some kind of pervert, but I'm not sure that that was anything more than just he was interested in more than birds and booze. With the people he usually ended up keeping company with, this marked him out. Bear in mind though that people who drink accept others that drink unquestioningly, so he was always welcome to drink with them. It's a very strong bond, and it's hard to do anything so bad as to find yourself not accepted any more. He never did do anything to my knowledge, even though they all thought that he might, but they accepted him anyway. And you'll have gathered that Bob drank. Whether this was the cause or the result of his poor life choices I don't know, and maybe he didn't either.

He was intelligent enough to have had a good job, a career even. He didn't. He dressed almost like he did. Not like a wino, he never fell that far, he always wore a suit and tie. But the suit trousers were always too short, which combined with sitting cross legged on the floor whenever the chance arose made him look a little ridiculous. He also wore his black hair glossed back, looking for all the world like Bela Lugosi's Dracula out hunting for an off licence. I imagine that small boys shouted at him from across the street, to run off if he ever looked round. A friend of mine had at about this time a grandfather who lived with them. He was old, Polish, didn't speak very much English, spent his days asleep in their lounge with the curtains drawn. I could hear him snoring from the garden. He also had Bela Lugosi hair, jet black, and I was terrified that he might have been a vampire. A blood sucking one, that is. Not an emotional one, as Bob may have found himself. He was smart enough to know not only that he was lonely, and alone, but that he would probably always be so. I don't think he could have started a relationship with anyone who wasn't able to have a good conversation with him. Not that there would have been anyone like that in his circle of pub dwellers, party goers, late night people, leeches, bores, hangers on, wife beaters, layabouts, fantasists and just plain drunks. Few people hide their neediness well, if at all. He didn't, but he never imposed it on anyone, never pestered women as far as I knew, it just hung around him like a really depressing aftershave that someone had got him a really big bottle of and he had to work his way through it before getting something he liked.

One short conversation carried him through the drearier days of his life like a blood transfusion though. I think maybe the few that I had with him, when he was sat cross legged on the floor drinking sake or spirits, when I was just twelve or thirteen years old and also intelligent and also not sure what to make of it all, whether to be cocky and arrogant or quiet and self effacing, maybe they did carry him through a few days at a time. I hope so. Before it all got too much. I heard a few years later he had killed himself. Maybe a good talk would have helped him, maybe not. I still think of him sometimes though.

### **The Eternal Roadworks  
Of The Southbound M5**

Miriam Shortman took the works exit from the motorway, which, whenever she did it, never failed to give her a small surge of specialness. Not that she wasn't special, in her own way, qualified civil engineer, young, good looking, successful, liked and even sometimes loved by all who knew her, but sadly no one knew her well enough to know that her critical inner voice was in need of feeding a little by such small victories. She curved round across the hardcore parking lot and came to a halt next to a small white van plastered with 'Motorway Maintenance' stickers and, charmingly, a small teddy bear cable tied onto the grille. Getting out, she popped on her site shoes and cast about for the site office.

Having found what she was sure was the right portacabin, she headed towards it, and gave a small tap on the door. A muffled 'come' came from inside, so she poked her head around the door and spied a large rather ramshackle man inside rummaging through papers on his desk.

'Ah, so you've been sent here from the civil engineers yes? And you've been told to report to me for site induction. Which we all have to do, from Dukes to dustmen, safety first and this is a busy site. Remind me of your name?'

She shuffled slightly closer to the desk, which was not easy in the portacabin, and took a closer look at the site boss. At first glance, she couldn't tell how old he was, or place his accent, things she normally liked to do with people she met, more as a mental exercise which helped to build a profile, rather than being nosey. 'Miriam' she said, 'can I..'

'Oh yes, we'll get to all that' he said. He looked up and fixed her with a beam that made his face look like a screwed up crisp packet, all in the name of reassurance she felt, unreassured. 'Last chap from your company was here a few years I think, Tony, erm, yes, I have it here, here for, oh ho ho, that long, well, we'll get to that. Well, here's your pass, and your hard hat. I take it you've got work boots on? Not heels?' He started to lean round. She nodded, and slipped the lanyard round her neck. 'Pop your hat on then and lets go for a look see, shall we, let you see where you'll be working, meet the chaps and so on.'

He came out from behind the desk, put his hard hat on and they both stepped outside. 'Good to see everyone working so hard today. Working like oh well no, you don't say that sort of thing these days do you, ha ha, like worker bees, there, that'll do.' She looked around. There was no one to be seen. Row after row of cones stretched into the distance, as far as she could see, mostly orange, some green or yellow, very occasionally blue. Diggers, rollers, earth movers and other machinery lay idle. No doubt he noticed her puzzled look but chivvied her on across the site. 'Here' he said, tugging at the door of a slightly newer portacabin. 'This will be your office while you're with us. The wifi password is taped onto the desk, plenty of power points, tea, coffee, even some biscuits I think. Obviously we'll get you to do the interactive health and safety DVD shortly. In the mean time I'm sure you've got much to do!'. And with that, he left her.

A week passed. Occasionally someone would walk past, but very rarely - no one seemed to be doing any work at all. Including her - had she not had various other projects to work on, she would have developed (porta)cabin fever. Nothing ever seemed to get done, and were it not for the steady, distant thrumming of traffic through the roadworks to which her site was attached, she might have thought she was dreaming. At the start of the second week, she had just begun to be aware of some slight changes in the way the cones were laid out when he knocked and came in. 'Ah Miriam yes, all going well? Sorry to have left you for a few minutes there' - she frowned, it had been eight days but maybe he was just the forgetful type - 'so would you like to come and do your induction and what have you?'. Lost for words, she nodded that she would, picked up her phone and bag, slipped off her comfy shoes and slipped on her work boots, popped her hard hat on and followed along, as he was out of the door already.

It wasn't easy to keep up with him, work boots or no, as he glided across the ground to a single cabin surrounded by cones somewhat to the edge of the compound where the plant was kept. He opened the door and disappeared inside. Slightly put off her stride she paused, and then opened the door and followed him in. And then stopped dead. It was raining. He was just inside the door, fumbling with an umbrella. 'What I normally say to people at this stage, is Narnia' he said, handing her the umbrella. 'I won't say it's helpful, or that you'll have any idea what I'm talking about, yet, but it does kind of get you oriented in the right way. I can't tell you how helpful that book has been to me since it came out though. Come on, keep up now, important that we don't lag behind as not everything here is friendly.' He set off at a clip. She did her best to keep inside umbrella length while stealing glances around. They were on a path, in a lightly wooded area, in the rain. He came to an enormous oak and threw open a door. 'Dramatic, eh?' he winked at her and led her down a spiral staircase to what looked like the inside of another portacabin. 'Sit yourself down' he said, gesturing to one of the swivel chairs. 'My boss will be here in a second and will get you indoctrinated ha ha inducted of course.' He beamed and flopped into another chair and started to pull his boots off. If the idea had been to stop her from having the time to be amazed, it had worked up until then but now she sat motionless, stunned into silent confusion.

Just then the door flew open and a scarecrow of a woman burst in. 'What have we got then Cog?' she said, strewing hoods, cloaks and rain garments about her. 'This is Miriam' said Cog. 'New on the southbound M5. One of our oldest sites' he added, looking more than a little pleased with himself. 'Yes yes' said the woman. She focussed her gaze on Miriam. 'Well, young lady, welcome aboard. I expect you need some things explained, and well, of course you do, because you have a long and important job ahead of you. My name is Aethelflaed, but you can call me Effy. We don't stand on ceremony, do we Cog? No, not in here, no rankings in here. Why you, you must be thinking? Aha well, we choose carefully so we do think you've got it in you. And what is it? Well, we are putting you in charge of your site. Ever notice much in the way of digging and what have you going on?'

Miriam found the resources to shake her head.

'Well, there isn't. The southbound M5 is a very important site. Not the only one in the country or round the world, far from it. Not all roadworks are like ours, but we find the roadworks are the perfect concealment in your day and age for what we are the caretakers of - people are far from surprised that they never seem to finish.'

'I'm really flattered, really. But what exactly is it if it's not roadworks? I mean, I know motorway widening, bridges, roundabouts, it's what I do. If it's not that, what?'

Effy looked at Cog. ' Have you done any prep?' she said to him. He seemed to look bit surprised for a second, and then started back. 'Ah no. Turns out when I nipped back home for a second I was gone eight days, and it was time to come here. I only meant to be gone half an hour. But I couldn't wear a timepiece, and you know what my lot would think if they saw a timepiece. So no, sorry. Would you like me to, or are you happy to go on?'

'I'll go on' said Effy. 'What made you choose engineering, Miriam? The practical side? But you did like physics and all that, yes?'

She nodded, slowly regaining her confidence.

'So you'll be aware that there are some odd things about time, and space, and all that kind of thing, that people rather skate over? And who can blame them. After all, what works, is what works. Well, we can't skate over them here. What they are called seems to keep changing, but there are a number of discontinuities in the world. Cracks, or tears, fissures, whatever. Between different points on the timeline. Still in the same place though. Which we don't want to widen anymore than they already have. So we look after them. You'll be aware that there are a number of roadworks, building sites and what have you that seem to have been there for ever. Well, in a sense they have. These places are where the cracks are, and where we stop them from spreading. You'll become aware of how, if you take over managing the place, if you do. The cones have a lot to do with it. So, we, Cogidubnus and I, have been at this a while. Cogidubnus since Roman times, myself since Saxon times as you'd have it. What happens is this you see - when we're in here, in the crack itself, not in your time our ours, time doesn't move for us. We don't age. It takes a while to get used to being hale and hearty in our own times, but dead in yours, heh Cog?'

'Hah! Yes indeed' he said.

'And we need a new manager here, and we think you can do it, if you want to. We'll go through the details, but the big perk is this: in here you don't age. Time moves at different rates outside, and you'll get to learn how to manage that, but you can spend as long in here as you want. You won't age on site. Nobody we find can do without the outside world at all, however, but it does lead to this job not coming up very often. The last fellow was here for three hundred years before he retired. Loved his sunsets. So, what do you think? I promise you this at least, you'll never get cross with roadworks again'.

### **Down By The River**

Here the River is all of our lives, to the point where none of know what is beyond it, or if there is a beyond. On a bright summer's day with no fog or haze at the highest point of the town, we can see what looks like the far bank. I say looks like, for there is no way of being sure. Any effort to take a boat over there has failed, or seems to have failed, for some have not come back. The ones that came back never saw the other side. The others may still be there for all we know, we like to think so. People dying for the sake of curiosity seems wrong to us, somehow. Wasteful perhaps, and we pride ourselves on being a practical people. We have also travelled away from the river, but after many days of travel, guided by compasses, the sun and the stars, find ourselves back on the bank of the river. Upstream or downstream, it all seems to be the same.

Please do not come away from this thinking that I am complaining. I mean what I say, it gives us water, and power for the mills, and food, fish and plants. In every generation there are some who question our reliance on it, who believe there must be something else to life, somewhere else to live. Good for them I say. We must not stagnate here, we must continue to ask questions of who we are, and what we do. But, these questions have all been asked, and those that can be answered have been, and those that it seems cannot, well, those that ask them grow weary and throw their nets out into the river to see what they can catch.

You can imagine as well that the River dominates our art, our stories and songs. At our annual festival, it is a brave citizen who draws something that is not the River, sings about something that is not a large body of flowing water or the brave men and women that risk their lives on it, paints a scene where one would not need at least some galoshes to traverse it. It fills every need we have seemingly, parents may bring their children into line by telling them the River will come and take them (though to my knowledge there has never been a flood), lovers compare their resolution and constancy to its unceasing flow, our leaders invoke its power and strength. Perhaps our sun is just as constant, and certainly as vital, but our sun leaves us for half the day, which our river never does.

This much we do know though, there is a large city some way upstream. None of us alive has been to it. There was a name once, I think, but it seems to be forgotten, if that ever was the name. How can we know, now? What I can say for sure is this. Sometimes things are carried down to us, parts of machines, wood, metal, other materials we know nothing about here. We salvage what we can - we have the best system of booms and nets that we can for a river of this size - and put these things into use to improve our own simple machines. I have heard it said, but I had never seen it, that sometimes people from the city came down the river. I don't know why they would have wanted to, perhaps they didn't. Anyway, it seems from the stories that they did not adjust well to life with us. Perhaps they were afraid, had heard stories of cannibals and river monsters. They tended to die soon, or run away, either inland, or back on to the river, which amounts to the same thing as far as I know.

Older stories say we sailed down from the city, that we did not come from here, but travelled down and made our life here. I personally find this hard to believe.

Well, it seems now something has changed upstream. And not for the better. Larger and larger pieces of debris have floated down past us, some of them large enough to cause damage to our piers, and we have taken in our fishing pots and nets for now, until this subsides. They look, those who have seen them say, like pieces of a city being tumbled past by the current. I do not know what this can mean. I am told some have people on them, by those fishermen brave enough to venture out into the fastest part of the stream, where the biggest fish battle up against the current. The fishermen hailed the people clinging to the wreckage, but those souls just looked at them without responding. I have heard it said that our languages have drifted apart, if we were the same people once - but people are people, are they not? Even in the past, if they never liked it here, they did at least communicate. Something seems to have broken their spirits.

This morning, further developments. I started by trying to tell you how we lived, so that you might see who we were. Now I have a story to tell you. Maybe our reaction to these events will tell you more than any story I could spin for you. A giant raft came down the river this morning, loaded with people. These were city people, whole families, who had clearly planned their departure, but whose departure was still rushed and undertaken in desperation - they each clutched the bare minimum of belongings and their eyes told the story of the disasters that had overcome them. This raft flung a line out to the pier, the people disembarked and we have housed them as best we can. They still do not seem to understand a word we say however, so misunderstandings arise, but we seem to be getting on.

One of the things they have not told us is this - that every day for weeks a fresh raft full of what I can only call refugees would come. It seems their city has been attacked and destroyed by peoples we have never even contemplated the existence of before, from maybe even further up the river. While this is worrying news for us, what is even more worrying is that the sheer number of people coming in is making it difficult to cope. It is hard, and already there are some who are questioning how many more we must find room for, and how long the river will feed us all. They are worried that these people will change our way of life, will make it worse, that people here will suffer and go without, and that we should put our own people first.

This argument works, if you believe that there are different kinds of people. Clearly some do. Already they are forming themselves into groups to 'look after their own' and making noises about taking action against either our leaders council, which is doing its best to cope with the influx, or to take action against the new arrivals, whose only immediate discernible differences, apart from obviously living in tented villages along the side of the river, are their language and the way they dress. The language problem is solving itself, as the better linguists on both sides break down the barriers there. As for the way they dress, well clearly they are a proud people who value how they look but having lost everything it is not easy for them to live as they once did. This I suppose makes it easy for those of us inclined to bullying to find things to hate them for. They have had to adapt to eating different food - it seems we are much simpler in our tastes - and to living in much reduced circumstances. I suspect that being city dwellers they viewed themselves as being better than us River folk, and some I hear are not taking this well. Most of course are grateful for our help, but many hate to be helped, and view charity as the very bitterest poison to swallow. But, here we are, we must pull together as although this disaster has not happened to us directly, it is affecting us as it affects those from the city, we cannot just throw them back into the river, that would be against everything that we think we are and have been, we must find a way to make things work.

But maybe we are not what we think we are. That would be the hardest thing of all to cope with.

They have stopped coming for now. We understand that this means that many, even most of them are dead now, everyone who is here seems to have lost family members and although they are the stronger of their people, with a greater will to survive than most, they are still bewildered and lost. Resentment grows here amongst some of us, but these were always the worst of our people, who complained about everything and took no responsibility for their own lives. Before it was the immigrants it was the weather that tore down their houses and ruined their crops \- not the lack of maintenance or the failure to sow in time. It was wild animals that broke into their larders and left them short for winter, not their inability to mend their own fences and to remember to lock up. It was our leaders that taxed them into the ground and made it impossible to achieve their full potential, not their aversion to making any kind of effort. They would say all this, and then refuse to be of any help when we had crises. They would then, and do now blame anything but themselves, and in a way I can't help but feel that having people settle with us who want to pick themselves up and get on with it may be a real shot in the arm for us, and leave these people outnumbered and wallowing in self pity while we get on with the business of coping and living. Let us hope so.

### **Leaving The Nest**

I write this by way of apology, although there would be many who would be surprised that I may feel the need to apologise. And yet, their memories are short, and mine is long, not just because I am old, but because of the changes that have come have come from my work. So, though everyone knows the story, no one but me knows the story.

When I was a young boy, I liked to wet my beak in everything, to use an expression I have heard. 'Why' was my friend, 'It just is' was my sworn enemy. I know that I pushed my mother to the edge of endurance with my constant questioning, tinkering and disappearing into reverie. So much so that she sent me to the countryside to stay with an uncle, my father being dead perhaps she felt that a male family member would understand and sympathise with this incorrigible boyness.

So there I was, with the run of a large country house, a tolerant if disinterested adult eye cast over me occasionally, regular meals and most of all a large library. My first winter was spent there, a book upon my knee, another cracked upon on the table, another knocked to the floor. Even then I took from them the notion that the ancients were masters of bluff, that one or two of them had some idea of how things were, but that the rest of them just made it up. And because those works were the ones that survived, and because most do not question what they are told (and no, I have not forgot that some do question too much!), many adults were hidebound with acquired but not learned knowledge.

The time came soon when the days grew longer and the weather welcoming enough for me to start to spend all my days outside. Keen to understand more, I had to plunge my hands and mind into things. Sometimes it was enough to sit in the orchard and think, sometimes I would build, teaching myself crafts and solving little problems for myself that many had solved before me many thousands of times. I was fond of the wild creatures that lived around, particularly the birds, and would make a point of leaving out a few scraps from the kitchen, perhaps some seed or grain, a scrap of fat that had proven unchewable in the morning before starting my project for the day. Soon enough, it became apparent that some of the birds were paying attention to me as well. One or two would fix one eye upon me, following every move I made but making sure, as wild animals do, to stay a safe distance away. I thought nothing of this, knowing some like to steal the odd gewgaw that glitters like their quick black eyes. But they did not steal, and I came to welcome their attention.

In fact, I found that my thoughts ran quicker when they were nearby. So this also became an experiment - I would pose myself a particularly thorny problem and take myself to the orchard where I knew I would find birds. The more that paid attention both to the scraps that I had bought with me, the more my intuitions came in leaps and bounds. Sure enough, I began to wonder if I could find some way to converse with them. It was the case that no other animals had this effect on me - much as I liked our cat, and enjoyed the sight of the field mice scampering around, they did not produce the same quickening.

Being a sickly child, I was kept from school, such as it was in those days. Occasionally I would have a week or two in bed, catered for by my uncle's housekeeper. There would, I noticed, always come a time when a bird would appear at the window to the bedchamber - it could not come in, for there was of course the cat, and also the housekeeper, a Mrs Dowgill, believed that fresh air was a danger to ill persons and kept the windows firmly closed whatever the temperature outside. Sometimes the pining for the clean and fresh smell of the trees, or for a little sun on my back, was hard to bear, but the sight of a bird always meant that I was a day or two away from full health. I do not understand how they knew, but as a man of science I say most surely that they did.

Once or twice I was working outside, a bird or two watching me intently, when I looked up and saw my uncle at the window. He would nod, and I would go back to work. Occasionally he would call me to his study to quiz my on my health and well being, possibly to discover if I were well enough to go back home. He was I believe a man who valued his solitude most highly. One time I recall, and it makes sense to me now, with the wisdom of experience, whereas previously it had not, he chose to speak to me of my apparent love of nature. He advised me to let it lead me where it may, on whatever flight of fancy it may take me and he looked at me most intently when he said flight, to see if I had took his meaning. Sad to say at the time I had not. Much more is clear to me now, about what old timers like my uncle knew without telling.

And so I pressed on, Summer came and went, the birds came to see me often, taking a little suet from the kitchen, scraps of indigestible meat or slightly mouldy soft fruit. And I took from them, step by step, as I came to the underpinnings of my work, the physical and mathematical models, the results of which are now known to all who make use of my machines. And what use they do make! But perhaps more of that later. I realise now, explicitly, what I only knew in an inchoate way, that we people, throughout the unchanging cycles of life in the countryside over the millennia, have had more of a relationship with the creatures of the field than perhaps we would like to admit. And I do not mean that because we eat some of them, that we should conceal such darkness from ourselves, they understand the need of that more than any, for do they not merrily make use of each others flesh whenever they get the chance? They would not understand or care for any other way, and though I commend those vegetarians for being true to their beliefs, I do not believe that animals feel the same way, or would blame any for not doing so. So, I digress. I must be careful not to start my preaching again.

One day in particular, I had puzzled long and hard over the bonds between matter, how to make them, break them and what properties they might bring to the materials they made. More to reduce the energies put into their creation, and usage - I have always been practical and thrifty if nothing else. I could hear the rooks in the rookery at the end of the field. During the day they were not normally so noisy, though their long protracted good nights were a source of great entertainment to me. The fuss they made grew nearer, and the trees filled with dozens of the shiny black little devils. I had an audience, that seemed to be willing me on. So I got down to it, and sure enough inspiration flowed again and again - I have never thought so successfully before or since.

So here it is - we once shared almost a symbiosis with our fellow creatures I believe, which was widespread and well known, if never discussed or written down. Perhaps it was thought that to name it would bring bad luck, or in days not so very long ago that it might bring accusations of witchcraft, which was the fate of some. Particularly the birds, I believe that have been a great help to mankind over the years, their innate intelligence and their ability to help others to focus theirs may have been responsible for much of the shared knowledge passed down to us. And I include the building of my labour saving machines, my transportation machines, my energy generating and communication machines in that knowledge - but in this case I felt it happen, and I have no fear of being thought a crazy old man even if anybody reads this. A great scientist once said that he had been told a lucky horseshoe would be lucky whether he believed in it or not - I know that this happened, and what anyone else thinks will not change that.

So I come to my sadness - I feel that this bond is lost, for ever. We get everything we need now, with little effort. Oh, listen to the soft old fool! It was better in his day! People worked to death, slaving every hour that God brought. I know what you are thinking. And I would not deny the progress wrought, the good and bad uses made of the machines. I am not so foolish as you may think. For wistful as I am for the loss of magic, I am sure that the birds do not feel it so bad - their life goes on as it always did, they have never wanted more than they have, and now they feast on our leftovers, and live on our buildings, and they do not have to help, though I'm sure they did so freely. Perhaps they feel as a parent does when their child leaves the home and makes their own way in the world.

Sometimes, as I work - I still do! \- a particular rook comes to my window. I always make sure he eats his fill before he moves on, and when he no longer comes, then I shall know my work is done.

### **A Garage Of One's Own**

In the south of England, in a location that I have promised to disguise, there is a small council estate. It doesn't matter for the purposes of visualisation exactly where it is - if you've ever visited one, or lived on one, then you know exactly what it's like. And if you haven't, well, imagine this as being a story about some obscure cannibal island in the South Seas and you are on an anthropological expedition sponsored by one of the great Universities, seeking the truth in the unknown reaches of human experience. And on that estate, unlike our South Sea island, there is a row of garages. Several rows in fact, facing each other with their once identical up and over corrugated metal doors now painted with graffiti tags and different colours that the local council has given up trying to paint over or undo.

But, even when they looked the same, they were not. There's a story behind one of them that to be frank I am still not sure I believe, having seen all I needed to in order to believe. So I am not sure that you will - but what am I doing but telling you the story, for you to make your own mind up. Back when this was all fields, back in the late 1950s, it wasn't quite all fields. There was then a tree, which was known to all nearby as an old tree. The farmer who owned the field couldn't remember how old it was, and his cattle had grazed around it for generations. Out of interest once, he had tracked back as far as he could, and every mention of that field had that tree. Back at the end of the eighteenth century the story went that a previous tenant tried to blow it up with gunpowder, but was thwarted. Another tried to pull it out with chains and a tractor, but it would not budge. Strangely, no one could agree in saying what sort of tree it was either - some said an oak, some a black ash, some even a yew.

So, when the council came to build their estate, they approached the problem carefully. They didn't want to just wantonly destroy something that had been there for so long, but nor did they want to change their plans. And that's where the Priestly family came into our story. When they heard of the plans the council had for the new estate, they went along to the council offices to inspect the plans. For reasons at the time best known to themselves, but soon to become known to you, they saw this as a problem, and arranged a meeting with the leader of the council. And, remarkable as this must sound for anyone who has ever had any dealings with a council at any level, they came out of that meeting with an agreement to deal with the tree, or at the very least the site of the tree, in a way that was acceptable to both the Priestlys and their planners.

The family had been part of the life of the village adjoining the projected estate for as long as any of the other established village families could remember - always involved, but never in charge. They never moved away, and yet there always seemed to be as many of them as there always had. They had always had I was told an ability to subtly influence any landlord or Lord of the Manor so as to remain in the house they lived in, near to the field with the tree in. There was almost an unacknowledged ownership by the family of the tree, which is why no one was surprised when they intervened with the council, and only mildly so when the council worked with them to find a solution.

So, the council built the estate. The garages were allocated to the families that moved in, and as people got cars they put their blankets down on the cold oil stained concrete floors in their little garages to stop the engines from cooling down too quickly and tucked their little runarounds in for the night. All except this one garage, which although it became widely known was rented to the Priestlys, never seemed to have a car in it. By this time they had given up their tumbledown cottage and moved into a new corner plot on the estate, proving to be good if quiet neighbours. Older villagers, who would never initially have considered moving to the estate, took their lead, the houses being warm and dry and seemingly built to withstand nuclear attack.

And so there they all are now, and while this may not seem like much of a story, what little I've told has been enough to pique the interest of their neighbours. Nature abhors a vacuum we are told, and in this case the vacuum was the complete lack of knowledge about their garage. As time went on, more and more people got cars, and more and more families got more than one car, and these families were strictly prohibited from parking in front of their houses, in fact the design of the estate made it impossible in most cases. So the cry would go up - what are they doing with it? Why can't someone who actually keeps a car in there have it instead? Why do the council ignore the waiting list and keep letting them have it year after year, when they never use it?

Well, of course they do use it, and that's what this story is about. When I was young, my grandparents lived on this selfsame estate, and kept their car in this row of garages, despite it being three quarters of a mile from where they lived. And like everyone else, they knew about the mystery garage, and so did I. But nobody classed it as anything different from the usual run of awkward behaviour that show itself when people live close to each other. I even went to school with one of the Priestly boys, and when I decided to chase this story I thought I might look him up and actually, like nobody else ever had, ask him about it.

I tracked down Paul's number and called him one evening. He did not seem surprised that I asked him about it. Just wondering why it's taken so long, he said, but people respect your privacy here to your face at least, even if they're never done talking about you behind your back. Anyway, I'll talk to the others, he said, and see what they say. And that, I thought was probably that. It certainly seemed that way, for it was eighteen months before Paul called me back. Come on over next week, he said. Can you make the Wednesday? That would be the best day, I think. Great, see you then. At the Admiral and Quagga, you know. Of course I knew.

So next Wednesday, here I am with Paul at a sticky little table sharing a packet of salt and vinegar crisps while he talks me through the history of his family's arrangement. We're both on soft drinks, which has led to a few scathing looks from the distinctly old school looking barman. By now, he's walked me through how they came to be custodians of this little garage, but not _wh_ y. And I can tell by his face, here comes the hard part. This tree, he says, it's not like other trees. Well, it is like a handful of others around the world, but not like all the others, if you see what I mean. Did you notice that nobody seemed to agree about what sort of tree it was, or how old it was? Well, there's a good reason for that, but maybe the only way I can get you to take me seriously is to take a look. Alright? I was alright, so I finished my pop and we headed out tracked by the hooded gaze of the barman.

What I'm going to do, said Paul, is take you in, and let you see. I can't tell you what you'll see, it's different for everyone, but it is the right time of year for it so you should see something. He cast his eyes around, and then rolled up the garage door. We ducked under and he closed the door from the inside. I expected him to turn on a light, but a soft glow suffused the interior which seemed to glow brighter as I looked around. The tree and its branches filled completely the inside of the garage, and yet there was room for us to stand. I found myself wondering how on earth it could grow in here in the dark, and as I did I sensed Paul watching me, almost with amusement as the tree began to move gently, as if in a light breeze, and glow even more strongly.

I can't describe what I saw next, not necessarily because nobody would believe me, but because despite working with words for a living I couldn't find the words. And anyway, it would have seemed profane to speak of it. It seemed like an experience tailored just for me, which Paul tells me it is. Look up any description of an acid trip, or a peyote fuelled journey into the desert accompanied by your spirit animal. They pale into insignificance. I asked Paul, if he came in here regularly, how he managed to stay so matter of fact and down to earth. The first time is always a bit magical, and quite kind, he said, but the longer you spend with it, the more darkness you get mixed in. We've all come across this kind of new age stuff, crystals, vibrations, the haunting melodies of the pan pipes he said, but that stuff makes us chuckle a bit. This is the real deal he said, and there are a few families around the world that look after her. She's not always a tree, but she is nowhere without friends.

What do you mean by her? I asked. Well, he said, it's not a person. But it is aware of people. It is the earth, kind of, which is why it has a dark side. It's not all beer and kittens, being the earth, he said, what with volcanos and earthquakes and hurricanes and pollution and what have you, balance that against a nice sunny day and a successful harvest and so on and you see why talking and listening to it you have to be a bit level headed. Talking and listening to it? I said. Oh yes said Peter. Something as old as the earth is still adapting to people. We've not been here very long, by her standards, and she has had to learn to slow down her perceptive abilities to be able to interact with us - normally she works on a much longer timescale, but she learnt how to communicate with people a few thousand years ago and that's where my family comes in.

A few thousand years? I said. After all I'd seen it might seem strange that I found that hard to swallow, but that's me and my human timescale. We are still people, he said, but we also have an idea of what it might be like to live a very very long time, and that's an odd feeling. And we get a sense from her of how quickly things are changing now. She's just starting to get her head round it, if she has a head, and I'm not sure she likes it, if like is an emotion she can feel. I don't think she likes _us_ per se but she is interested, and so hear we are. I think talking to us helps, in case she wanted to do anything hasty let's say. Hasty for her mind you is not hasty for us. And no, I can't tell you where the others are.

Why are there so few people who either know about this, or want to do what I've done, I asked. I mean, it seems to me that people would be round the block, and of course that would bring all kinds of difficulties, and possibly bring about the ruination of this amazing thing. Think about what people are looking for when they follow a religion, said Paul. Support. Self justification as well, I suppose for many, rules to live by, and sadly rules to exclude those who don't live like you. She offers none of that, just a glimpse of what life really is, and most aren't really interested. He smiled a little ruefully.

So, I said, just one last question \- what do you get out of it, and what does she get out of it? I mean, people are always looking for some kind of benefit, be it everlasting life, forgiveness for sins or whatever. Here's something real, and incredible. What do you both get from it?

Friendship really, for us, I think, and the same for her. And understanding, of course, of something like this, puts you in your place a bit. Not that it's a bad place. Anyway, not to be alone has got to be good. And with that, he closed down the garage door, locked up, shook my hand and headed off home for his tea.
