Nav Logan's Blog, page 12
July 15, 2015
The Hanged Man
The body swung freely on the wind, dangling from the sturdy limb of the oak tree. Crows protested shrilly to my invasion, before flapping off to higher branches.
I stepped cautiously closer, ignoring the stench and the annoying buzzing of the flies. I wanted to see who it was that hung from the tree.
No, that wasn’t really true. I desperately needed to see. I needed closure. After days of torment, I needed to know who hung from the stout branch.
My feet rustled in the crisp frost covered leaves as I approached. Finally, I could look upon the mottled face, hanging upside down from my trap. The face meant nothing to me. I had never seen this man before.
Why then had he been prowling around in my back garden, night after night?
His hair was long, greasy, and knotted in places. His tangled beard was equally unkempt. His clothes were as unwashed as the rest of him, ragged and ill-fitting. He also smelled rather badly, and probably had done so before his untimely death. There was a cloying stench of cheap whiskey, tobacco, and stale sweat about him. It made me gag and waft my hand before my nose.
I was tempted to go no closer, but I had to know. Why was he here? Was he spying on me for some reason? Was he a pervert? Had he been watching me undress each night? Had he broken into my home and stolen anything? Had he stood over me while I slept?
What had brought him here in the middle of winter? How long had he been visiting the garden while I slept, unknowing?
It had been the snow that had finally given my trespasser away. A few days ago I had woken to see a blanket of snow covering my back garden. I’d squealed in delight and hurried to get dressed, eager to be outside and play in the snow. I had plans of making a snowman as I had done as a child, when my father was still alive.
My joy had quickly turned sour, however, when I saw the stranger’s footprints in the snow.
It snowed again the following night, and again, there was fresh prints in the snow come morning.
At first I considered calling the police, but after some thought, I decided against it.
No. This was something personal. My inner sanctuary had been violated. I felt betrayed. I was angry. I wanted revenge.
I never meant to kill anyone.
Once I knew who it was, I was going to call the police and let them arrest the perpetrator … Once I’d made it quite clear that my garden was out of bounds.
In the darkest depths of my mind, I might have briefly considered some mild torture, but nothing serious. Nothing permanent.
It hadn’t taken me long to learn what I needed to know. It’s surprising the things you can learn these days, thanks to the internet.
To my surprise, the trap had worked perfectly; well apart from the fact that I now had a dead hobo in my back yard. How was I going to explain that to the local constabulary?
I analysed my dilemma, weighing up the chances of me getting caught if I said nothing and just buried the stinking tramp in my raised bed, along with the dahlias. He smelled like he’d make good fertiliser. He was already half composted as it was.
First things first. I’d have to cut him down. I hoped rigor mortis hadn’t set in, but it was hard to tell. It was colder than a nun’s heart out her.
Moving to the garden shed, I selected some gardening gloves, a garden fork, shovel, and finally, my trusty pruning shears. They were state of the art, or so I’d been told, and they had cost me a small fortune. I only ever used them once a year to prune the apple trees.
Placing my equipment in the wheelbarrow, I trundled back down the garden to where the tramp still hung from the tree like a side of bacon.
Heading for the base of the oak, I picked up the shears and started to cut through the narrow rope I’d used to make my mantrap. One by one, the threads gave way, and then with an almighty twang, the last of the rope snapped apart and the dead body crashed into the dirt.
“Oomph!”
The sound came from the dead body, and at first I thought it was just air being forced out of the lungs as the dead man fell, but then the dead man muttered, “Bugger! That hurt!”
I squealed with fright and brandished the shears menacingly as the tramp staggered shakily to his feet. He seemed disorientated.
I’m sure I’d be disorientated too, if I’d just spent half the night hanging upside down, and then landed head first in the dirt.”
Turning around, he noticed me for the first time. “Easy, Missy,” he placated. “There’s no need to get all het up now!”
Discarding the shears, I grabbed the garden fork instead and stood my ground. “No need to get all het up!” I mimicked. “I thought you were dead, for fuck sake!”
He hobbled a few feet closer, limping on the leg which was still attached to the rope of the snare. His hands were held out in front of him and spoke softly. It was like he was trying to calm a rabid dog. “It’s okay, Missy. I don’t mean you no harm!”
“What’re you doing in my garden then!” I demanded, waving the fork at him menacingly. “You scared the crap out of me!”
He stopped, taking time to finally assess the situation. With a look of bewilderment, he studied the rope, still attached to his ankle. “Is this you’re doin’?” he asked mildly.
I nodded my head, unable to answer. Adrenaline coursed through my body and I wasn’t sure if I was angry or terrified. It was one of those fight or flight moments.
“Well … no real harm done, I guess. Look, I’m sorry, I’d best be on me way …”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. To make matters worse, I still didn’t know what he was doing in my garden. Grasping hold of my courage before it fled me all together, I hissed, “What were you doing in my garden?”
“It’s been a bit cold recently, Missy, that’s all. I didn’t steal nuffin’, honest. I was just sleeping in yonder shed. A man could freeze to death out ‘ere on nights like these. I’ve seen it with me own eyes!”
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to allow him to continue sleeping in my shed. “I’ve already called the police,” I lied. “They’ll be here any minute. You’d best be gone before they get here, or there’ll be all hell to pay.”
He nodded, smiled softly in thanks, and backed slowly away. When he reached the far end of the garden, he turned and clambered over the wooden fence. In seconds, he was gone.
“And don’t come back,” I shouted after him, before me waning courage finally left me.
It was then that the nerves kicked in, shaking me to the core. I barely made it back to the house, I was shaking so badly. Locking the patio doors behind me, I staggered into the kitchen to make myself a strong pot of tea.
I looked long and hard at the phone. I even reached for it a couple of times, but I didn’t have the heart to call the police. I felt sure that my midnight intruder had learned his lesson.
I stepped cautiously closer, ignoring the stench and the annoying buzzing of the flies. I wanted to see who it was that hung from the tree.
No, that wasn’t really true. I desperately needed to see. I needed closure. After days of torment, I needed to know who hung from the stout branch.
My feet rustled in the crisp frost covered leaves as I approached. Finally, I could look upon the mottled face, hanging upside down from my trap. The face meant nothing to me. I had never seen this man before.
Why then had he been prowling around in my back garden, night after night?
His hair was long, greasy, and knotted in places. His tangled beard was equally unkempt. His clothes were as unwashed as the rest of him, ragged and ill-fitting. He also smelled rather badly, and probably had done so before his untimely death. There was a cloying stench of cheap whiskey, tobacco, and stale sweat about him. It made me gag and waft my hand before my nose.
I was tempted to go no closer, but I had to know. Why was he here? Was he spying on me for some reason? Was he a pervert? Had he been watching me undress each night? Had he broken into my home and stolen anything? Had he stood over me while I slept?
What had brought him here in the middle of winter? How long had he been visiting the garden while I slept, unknowing?
It had been the snow that had finally given my trespasser away. A few days ago I had woken to see a blanket of snow covering my back garden. I’d squealed in delight and hurried to get dressed, eager to be outside and play in the snow. I had plans of making a snowman as I had done as a child, when my father was still alive.
My joy had quickly turned sour, however, when I saw the stranger’s footprints in the snow.
It snowed again the following night, and again, there was fresh prints in the snow come morning.
At first I considered calling the police, but after some thought, I decided against it.
No. This was something personal. My inner sanctuary had been violated. I felt betrayed. I was angry. I wanted revenge.
I never meant to kill anyone.
Once I knew who it was, I was going to call the police and let them arrest the perpetrator … Once I’d made it quite clear that my garden was out of bounds.
In the darkest depths of my mind, I might have briefly considered some mild torture, but nothing serious. Nothing permanent.
It hadn’t taken me long to learn what I needed to know. It’s surprising the things you can learn these days, thanks to the internet.
To my surprise, the trap had worked perfectly; well apart from the fact that I now had a dead hobo in my back yard. How was I going to explain that to the local constabulary?
I analysed my dilemma, weighing up the chances of me getting caught if I said nothing and just buried the stinking tramp in my raised bed, along with the dahlias. He smelled like he’d make good fertiliser. He was already half composted as it was.
First things first. I’d have to cut him down. I hoped rigor mortis hadn’t set in, but it was hard to tell. It was colder than a nun’s heart out her.
Moving to the garden shed, I selected some gardening gloves, a garden fork, shovel, and finally, my trusty pruning shears. They were state of the art, or so I’d been told, and they had cost me a small fortune. I only ever used them once a year to prune the apple trees.
Placing my equipment in the wheelbarrow, I trundled back down the garden to where the tramp still hung from the tree like a side of bacon.
Heading for the base of the oak, I picked up the shears and started to cut through the narrow rope I’d used to make my mantrap. One by one, the threads gave way, and then with an almighty twang, the last of the rope snapped apart and the dead body crashed into the dirt.
“Oomph!”
The sound came from the dead body, and at first I thought it was just air being forced out of the lungs as the dead man fell, but then the dead man muttered, “Bugger! That hurt!”
I squealed with fright and brandished the shears menacingly as the tramp staggered shakily to his feet. He seemed disorientated.
I’m sure I’d be disorientated too, if I’d just spent half the night hanging upside down, and then landed head first in the dirt.”
Turning around, he noticed me for the first time. “Easy, Missy,” he placated. “There’s no need to get all het up now!”
Discarding the shears, I grabbed the garden fork instead and stood my ground. “No need to get all het up!” I mimicked. “I thought you were dead, for fuck sake!”
He hobbled a few feet closer, limping on the leg which was still attached to the rope of the snare. His hands were held out in front of him and spoke softly. It was like he was trying to calm a rabid dog. “It’s okay, Missy. I don’t mean you no harm!”
“What’re you doing in my garden then!” I demanded, waving the fork at him menacingly. “You scared the crap out of me!”
He stopped, taking time to finally assess the situation. With a look of bewilderment, he studied the rope, still attached to his ankle. “Is this you’re doin’?” he asked mildly.
I nodded my head, unable to answer. Adrenaline coursed through my body and I wasn’t sure if I was angry or terrified. It was one of those fight or flight moments.
“Well … no real harm done, I guess. Look, I’m sorry, I’d best be on me way …”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. To make matters worse, I still didn’t know what he was doing in my garden. Grasping hold of my courage before it fled me all together, I hissed, “What were you doing in my garden?”
“It’s been a bit cold recently, Missy, that’s all. I didn’t steal nuffin’, honest. I was just sleeping in yonder shed. A man could freeze to death out ‘ere on nights like these. I’ve seen it with me own eyes!”
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to allow him to continue sleeping in my shed. “I’ve already called the police,” I lied. “They’ll be here any minute. You’d best be gone before they get here, or there’ll be all hell to pay.”
He nodded, smiled softly in thanks, and backed slowly away. When he reached the far end of the garden, he turned and clambered over the wooden fence. In seconds, he was gone.
“And don’t come back,” I shouted after him, before me waning courage finally left me.
It was then that the nerves kicked in, shaking me to the core. I barely made it back to the house, I was shaking so badly. Locking the patio doors behind me, I staggered into the kitchen to make myself a strong pot of tea.
I looked long and hard at the phone. I even reached for it a couple of times, but I didn’t have the heart to call the police. I felt sure that my midnight intruder had learned his lesson.
July 12, 2015
Aélia’s Falling
They all knew the unwritten law, but curiosity can be a terrible thing, even for creature’s so pure of spirit as they. God had given mankind free will, and in a fit of recklessness he had also granted this gift to his angels.
As with Adam and Eve, there had, however, been a catch.
For Mankind, it had been the forbidden fruit, but for his celestial beings the temptation was even worse. They were forbidden direct contact with God’s greatest creation: Earth. “Not one foot shall thou place upon the land,” he had proclaimed, “Lest thou be banished from the Heavens for eternity.”
Aélia was not the first of her kind to be tempted. Over the countless centuries others had fallen from God’s grace. It was well known that some had fallen. In fact, for some, touching God’s green earth had not been enough. Once fallen, they had sought it all.
For Aélia, the slippery road to mortality had started quite simply. It happened on the platform of a London Tube station, ironically called Angel. The station held no particular significance to God’s celestial beings, Aélia just happened to working there.
Her current task was to watch over Miss Celia Beckett. Miss Beckett had been standing on the platform, waiting for the 8:15 when Aélia’s world was suddenly torn assunder.
As the train hurtled into the station, Celia’s left foot hesitantly crossed the yellow hazard line drawn on the tarmac of the platform. It was followed by her right foot, and before Aélia could stop Celia, she found herself out of a job.
Aélia should have been paying better attention of her ward. She should have read the warning signs. She knew about Celia’s recent break up, the nights in, watching weepy movies and too much chocolate ice-cream, but she had never believed that Celia would take it this far.
Of course, there was not much that Aélia could do. That was the curse of free will, after all. Aélia could give silent comfort by her presence. She could even scream a mute warning of impending danger to her ward in times of crisis, but humans seldom listened to that little voice in their heads anymore.
The problem was that at the very moment that Celia decided to take her life, Aélia was otherwise distracted.
Aélia had seen him again; the mysterious man who haunted her dreams. He had been standing on the other side of the tracks, waiting for the King's Cross St. Pancras train.
Aélia had been daydreaming, wondering who he was, where he was going. For some inexplicable reason she had felt a strange connection to the young man ever since they had first crossed paths in Boots Chemist, a week ago.
The screech of the incoming train brought Aélia back to reality, but far too late to save Celia Beckett. In the blink of an eye, Celia was heading towards the light, leaving Aélia task redundant.
Pandemonium ensued, and the station shut down for the next hour. The area was cordoned off, emergency services were called, and various people were treated for shock.
Unable to do anything, Aélia floated there for a while, an inch above the tarmac, and watched the world go by. In truth, she was a little stunned by it all, and burdened by a little guilt. Eventually, she drifted off through the crowd and sought solace in the Whitechapel Gallery. She always found a sense of peace while strolling amongst the pictures there.
A week passed before Aélia returned to the scene of the accident.
It was 8:17 a.m. on a dreary Wednesday in Islington, but Aélia was oblivious of the weather. Angels could only watch, they could not feel the world around them.
Aélia hovered amidst the crowd of early morning commuters, sending out comforting thoughts wherever she could, when all of a sudden she noticed something. On the platform opposite was the young man who had haunted her dreams.
He was sitting there, quite serenely, reading the Guardian newspaper. Without considering her actions, Aélia drifted across the tracks toward him. Peering over his shoulder, she was surprised to find him reading an article about Lucian Freud, the painter. Aélia had recently viewed an exhibition of his works and had been enraptured by the features on his portraits.
Dragging her eyes away from the paper, she studied the stranger’s face more closely. He had a rugged lived in sort of face, more of a rugby player’s face than a male model. His jawline was shadowed with a light bristle, and his nose was slightly off centre, but he was nonetheless rather handsome. His clothes looked clean, but they had clearly been chosen for comfort rather than style. His boots were the sort people used for hiking, and his corduroy jeans were starting to fade from use.
That was when he turned and looked directly at her.
People weren’t supposed to do that. She was invisible, after all. Perhaps he had sensed her presence.
His eyes locked on hers, and her spirit felt lost in the depth of his eyes. They were as blue as a summer sky.
He blinked, looking puzzled, and then shook his head as if to rid himself of an hallucination.
It was then that Aélia forgot herself.
Could this have been how Celia felt as she took that first tentative step towards the edge of the platform?
Aélia’s foot brushed the surface of the tarmac, ever so lightly. A jolt ran through her body and she gasped loudly. Had she risen quickly above the surface, she might still have been saved, but Aélia was still ensnared by the stranger’s eyes. She followed her instincts and placed her feet firmly on terra firma. A coldness crept up her body, starting at her naked feet and rising heavenward.
The chill air of February brushed against her skin for the first time, and her immortality slipped away in the blink of an eye. The cloak of invisibility that had kept her concealed for so long blew asunder on the light breeze, taking the white gossamer feathers of her wings with it, one by one.
The sudden and irreversible weight of mortality nearly crushed her, but as Aélia stumbled forward, a hand caught her by the elbow.
“Are you alright, Miss?” he asked.
The stranger who haunted her dreams was holding her arm, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.
She felt the warmth of his touch, and a almost erotic tingle ran up her arm. She had never felt someone’s touch before.
It felt good, so very, very good.
Hungry to explore these new feeling further, Aélia leaned towards the stranger, letting her fingers lightly brush against the stubble of his jawline.
It felt so good to touch someone.
Angels couldn’t feel. They didn’t get hot or cold. They could only imagine what if felt like to touch someone, to lie beside them at night. Aélia, like many other angels, had often wondered why humans put so much emphasis on brushing their lips together, or why they took such contentment from the simple act of holding one another’s hands.
Centuries of curiosity gave Aélia courage. Leaning forward, she fell fully into the stranger’s arms and planted a light kiss on his lips.
As kisses went, it was probably not a good one, but it was Aélia’s first kiss and to Aélia if felt wonderful. It felt so good in fact, that she decided to do it again.
The first kiss had caught the stranger by surprise. He recovered quickly from his shock, however, and when she kissed him again, he reciprocated …
Aélia was forced to stop kissing him, as her head was becoming lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Angels didn’t need to breathe either, but that was another thing she was going to have to get used to.
Somehow, she found herself sitting in his lap, on the bench. His paper was by now forgotten, and it drifted slowly up the platform towards the incoming train.
“I’m sorry, but have we met,” he asked, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.
“Erm, no, I don’t think so,” replied Aélia, blushing for the first time in her life. She looked around the platform, but thankfully, the other commuters’ were studiously ignoring the kissing couple on the bench.
“Do you regularly go about kissing strangers?” he asked.
“You’re my first,” Aélia replied, honestly. “I’ve seen you a few times, though, so we aren’t really strangers. We met in Boots. Do you remember?”
He was momentarily lost in thought before he shook his head, “No, sorry.”
“Don’t worry. We’ve met now anyway.”
“I’m Peter … Peter Wilson,” he announced, offering a hand.
Hesitantly, she took his hand, enveloping it in both of hers. Lifting it, she kissed his fingertips. “Nice to meet you, Peter.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
She could smell his scent, and wanted snuggle closer and fall asleep with that scent filling her nostrils. Being mortal was proving to be tiring work.
“What do I call you?” he prompted.
“Oh … I’m Aélia … “ Aélia paused trying to think of a surname to use, “Aélia Angel.”
“Nice to meet you, Aélia. That’s an unusual name. Are you waiting for the train too?”
“I suppose so,” Aélia replied. She had not thought this far ahead when she decided to break God’s unwritten command. Suddenly all sorts of problems popped up in her mind. Where was she going to live? How was she going to eat? The endless list of problems overwhelmed her. “Can we just sit here for a while though. I’m suddenly feeling very tired.”
“You do look very pale. Are you coming down with something?” Peter asked with concern in his voice.
Aélia laughed, a sweet musical sound. She had certainly come down with something, and it was fatal, but for all that, she was sure that she had made the right decision.
As with Adam and Eve, there had, however, been a catch.
For Mankind, it had been the forbidden fruit, but for his celestial beings the temptation was even worse. They were forbidden direct contact with God’s greatest creation: Earth. “Not one foot shall thou place upon the land,” he had proclaimed, “Lest thou be banished from the Heavens for eternity.”
Aélia was not the first of her kind to be tempted. Over the countless centuries others had fallen from God’s grace. It was well known that some had fallen. In fact, for some, touching God’s green earth had not been enough. Once fallen, they had sought it all.
For Aélia, the slippery road to mortality had started quite simply. It happened on the platform of a London Tube station, ironically called Angel. The station held no particular significance to God’s celestial beings, Aélia just happened to working there.
Her current task was to watch over Miss Celia Beckett. Miss Beckett had been standing on the platform, waiting for the 8:15 when Aélia’s world was suddenly torn assunder.
As the train hurtled into the station, Celia’s left foot hesitantly crossed the yellow hazard line drawn on the tarmac of the platform. It was followed by her right foot, and before Aélia could stop Celia, she found herself out of a job.
Aélia should have been paying better attention of her ward. She should have read the warning signs. She knew about Celia’s recent break up, the nights in, watching weepy movies and too much chocolate ice-cream, but she had never believed that Celia would take it this far.
Of course, there was not much that Aélia could do. That was the curse of free will, after all. Aélia could give silent comfort by her presence. She could even scream a mute warning of impending danger to her ward in times of crisis, but humans seldom listened to that little voice in their heads anymore.
The problem was that at the very moment that Celia decided to take her life, Aélia was otherwise distracted.
Aélia had seen him again; the mysterious man who haunted her dreams. He had been standing on the other side of the tracks, waiting for the King's Cross St. Pancras train.
Aélia had been daydreaming, wondering who he was, where he was going. For some inexplicable reason she had felt a strange connection to the young man ever since they had first crossed paths in Boots Chemist, a week ago.
The screech of the incoming train brought Aélia back to reality, but far too late to save Celia Beckett. In the blink of an eye, Celia was heading towards the light, leaving Aélia task redundant.
Pandemonium ensued, and the station shut down for the next hour. The area was cordoned off, emergency services were called, and various people were treated for shock.
Unable to do anything, Aélia floated there for a while, an inch above the tarmac, and watched the world go by. In truth, she was a little stunned by it all, and burdened by a little guilt. Eventually, she drifted off through the crowd and sought solace in the Whitechapel Gallery. She always found a sense of peace while strolling amongst the pictures there.
A week passed before Aélia returned to the scene of the accident.
It was 8:17 a.m. on a dreary Wednesday in Islington, but Aélia was oblivious of the weather. Angels could only watch, they could not feel the world around them.
Aélia hovered amidst the crowd of early morning commuters, sending out comforting thoughts wherever she could, when all of a sudden she noticed something. On the platform opposite was the young man who had haunted her dreams.
He was sitting there, quite serenely, reading the Guardian newspaper. Without considering her actions, Aélia drifted across the tracks toward him. Peering over his shoulder, she was surprised to find him reading an article about Lucian Freud, the painter. Aélia had recently viewed an exhibition of his works and had been enraptured by the features on his portraits.
Dragging her eyes away from the paper, she studied the stranger’s face more closely. He had a rugged lived in sort of face, more of a rugby player’s face than a male model. His jawline was shadowed with a light bristle, and his nose was slightly off centre, but he was nonetheless rather handsome. His clothes looked clean, but they had clearly been chosen for comfort rather than style. His boots were the sort people used for hiking, and his corduroy jeans were starting to fade from use.
That was when he turned and looked directly at her.
People weren’t supposed to do that. She was invisible, after all. Perhaps he had sensed her presence.
His eyes locked on hers, and her spirit felt lost in the depth of his eyes. They were as blue as a summer sky.
He blinked, looking puzzled, and then shook his head as if to rid himself of an hallucination.
It was then that Aélia forgot herself.
Could this have been how Celia felt as she took that first tentative step towards the edge of the platform?
Aélia’s foot brushed the surface of the tarmac, ever so lightly. A jolt ran through her body and she gasped loudly. Had she risen quickly above the surface, she might still have been saved, but Aélia was still ensnared by the stranger’s eyes. She followed her instincts and placed her feet firmly on terra firma. A coldness crept up her body, starting at her naked feet and rising heavenward.
The chill air of February brushed against her skin for the first time, and her immortality slipped away in the blink of an eye. The cloak of invisibility that had kept her concealed for so long blew asunder on the light breeze, taking the white gossamer feathers of her wings with it, one by one.
The sudden and irreversible weight of mortality nearly crushed her, but as Aélia stumbled forward, a hand caught her by the elbow.
“Are you alright, Miss?” he asked.
The stranger who haunted her dreams was holding her arm, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.
She felt the warmth of his touch, and a almost erotic tingle ran up her arm. She had never felt someone’s touch before.
It felt good, so very, very good.
Hungry to explore these new feeling further, Aélia leaned towards the stranger, letting her fingers lightly brush against the stubble of his jawline.
It felt so good to touch someone.
Angels couldn’t feel. They didn’t get hot or cold. They could only imagine what if felt like to touch someone, to lie beside them at night. Aélia, like many other angels, had often wondered why humans put so much emphasis on brushing their lips together, or why they took such contentment from the simple act of holding one another’s hands.
Centuries of curiosity gave Aélia courage. Leaning forward, she fell fully into the stranger’s arms and planted a light kiss on his lips.
As kisses went, it was probably not a good one, but it was Aélia’s first kiss and to Aélia if felt wonderful. It felt so good in fact, that she decided to do it again.
The first kiss had caught the stranger by surprise. He recovered quickly from his shock, however, and when she kissed him again, he reciprocated …
Aélia was forced to stop kissing him, as her head was becoming lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Angels didn’t need to breathe either, but that was another thing she was going to have to get used to.
Somehow, she found herself sitting in his lap, on the bench. His paper was by now forgotten, and it drifted slowly up the platform towards the incoming train.
“I’m sorry, but have we met,” he asked, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.
“Erm, no, I don’t think so,” replied Aélia, blushing for the first time in her life. She looked around the platform, but thankfully, the other commuters’ were studiously ignoring the kissing couple on the bench.
“Do you regularly go about kissing strangers?” he asked.
“You’re my first,” Aélia replied, honestly. “I’ve seen you a few times, though, so we aren’t really strangers. We met in Boots. Do you remember?”
He was momentarily lost in thought before he shook his head, “No, sorry.”
“Don’t worry. We’ve met now anyway.”
“I’m Peter … Peter Wilson,” he announced, offering a hand.
Hesitantly, she took his hand, enveloping it in both of hers. Lifting it, she kissed his fingertips. “Nice to meet you, Peter.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
She could smell his scent, and wanted snuggle closer and fall asleep with that scent filling her nostrils. Being mortal was proving to be tiring work.
“What do I call you?” he prompted.
“Oh … I’m Aélia … “ Aélia paused trying to think of a surname to use, “Aélia Angel.”
“Nice to meet you, Aélia. That’s an unusual name. Are you waiting for the train too?”
“I suppose so,” Aélia replied. She had not thought this far ahead when she decided to break God’s unwritten command. Suddenly all sorts of problems popped up in her mind. Where was she going to live? How was she going to eat? The endless list of problems overwhelmed her. “Can we just sit here for a while though. I’m suddenly feeling very tired.”
“You do look very pale. Are you coming down with something?” Peter asked with concern in his voice.
Aélia laughed, a sweet musical sound. She had certainly come down with something, and it was fatal, but for all that, she was sure that she had made the right decision.
The Seductress
She was smoking … not smoking a cigarette smoking, but hot. Her skin was warm chocolate, and her eyes were bog oak; dark and filled with mystery. She was giving me that ‘take me’ look, or at least I imagined that she was. I couldn’t see her body, but my imagination filled in the blanks.
I heard someone enter the room, and placed the fashion magazine back on the table. The whir of a dentist drill filled the reception, but my mind was still fantasising about the woman in the magazine. It took my mind off what was to come.
I heard someone enter the room, and placed the fashion magazine back on the table. The whir of a dentist drill filled the reception, but my mind was still fantasising about the woman in the magazine. It took my mind off what was to come.
July 8, 2015
A Golden Wonder Book Review
I’m tired of saying the same old thing in my book reviews? Thankfully, I’ve come up with a novel solution. From now on I’ll treat my book reviews like potatoes.
Some people think one potato is the same as the next, but that is far from true. Some make light and fluffy mash while others disintegrate into nothing. Others are great chippers.
I make a start on my first review: Looks promising but falls to pieces just before it's cooked; too watery, not enough substance (Two Stars), or wholesome with a nice texture. It leaves me wanting more (Five Stars).
Some people think one potato is the same as the next, but that is far from true. Some make light and fluffy mash while others disintegrate into nothing. Others are great chippers.
I make a start on my first review: Looks promising but falls to pieces just before it's cooked; too watery, not enough substance (Two Stars), or wholesome with a nice texture. It leaves me wanting more (Five Stars).
The Curse of the Luddite
“Blasted thing!” I cursed, hurling the shiny remote control across the room. I’d been trying all day to get the new television to work, but I couldn’t even get the remote control to switch it on.
The swanky new television was a birthday gift from my children. The thing was huge, almost as big as the living room window. It had sat in its box for weeks, collecting dust, until my grandson had popped around for a visit yesterday.
In minutes he had all the channels set up, and the monstrosity had worked perfectly. Then, he left to go study for some exams.
Today, I can’t get anything out of the machine. Every time I pressed the on button an O popped up on the tiny screen on the remote control, but the television remained mute and unresponsive.
I might not be gifted electronically, but I’m not that old and feeble that I can’t change a battery, so I tried that. The television remained in limbo. I even dug out a screwdriver and changed the fuse on the telly. Still no joy.
Getting creakily up from my chair, I waddled over to the huge screen and looked for an on/off button to turn the TV on manually, figuring that the remote control was faulty. I searched long and hard, looking at the front, the sides, and finally the back of the thing. I could find no power button.
I even went and fetched my reading glasses, so I could see better.
Giving up, I took a duster to wipe the fingerprints off the shiny new glass front. My grandson had left a few smears around the side of the big screen.
Suddenly, a red light appeared in the bottom right corner of the screen, then the room filled with the sound of chatter and awful music. Somehow, I’d managed to turn on the television. I don’t know how but the room was quickly filled with flickering imagery. I smiled with satisfaction, but my pleasure was short lived.
I found myself cursed to watch unending commercials on a home shopping channel, and to make matters worse, the volume was set at full blast. Even Patch; my aging Jack Russell whined in protest, and he was deaf as a post. Racing for the remote control, I searched in vain for a volume button, but couldn’t find one. I tried pressing different buttons at random to change channels, but the television and remote control were clearly from different planets, possible different solar systems. In the end, I was forced to unplug the set.
Needless to say I was relieved, if a little surprised, when my grandson popped in again the following evening. Usually I’m lucky to get one visitation a month. He was a good boy, but he always seemed to be racing off to somewhere.
“Hi Gran,” he greeted, popping his head in the door. “How’s the new telly working out?”
“Oh, hello Jamie, luv!” I replied. “Don’t even mention that blasted thing. It’ll be the death of me. I think it’s broken. I gave your father a call earlier. I’m getting him to bring it back to Ladl in the morning. I never did trust that place. You buy cheap stuff and you get what you pay for …”
“Don’t worry Gran, I’m sure it’s under warranty. Anyway, it was working fine last night. What’s it doing?”
“I can’t get that blasted thing to work, at all,” I explained, pointing an angry finger at the TV remote control, which was lying on the settee, looking smug. “I even tried to find the On/Off button to turn the television on manually, but it doesn’t have one. Then, all of a sudden the blasted thing turned itself on, but it wouldn’t change channel! I nearly died of fright. Poor Patch hid in the kitchen for over an hour, the wee pet!”
“It’s touch control, Gran,” he explained, moving into the room and heading over toward the couch. He picked up the remote control and then quite suddenly burst out laughing.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” I protested. “I tell you it’s broken!”
“Gran, I left the remote control in the drawer beside your chair, were you could get at it easily. Don’t you remember me telling you that?”
Now that he mentioned it, I do vaguely remember something about that. “Well, it was sitting on the kitchen table this morning,” I replied. “So clearly you didn’t.” Pulling the tiny drawer open from my night stand, I looked down in surprise at another remote control.
Grinning impishly at me, he explained. “This one isn’t the TV remote, Gran. It’s my science calculator. No wonder you couldn’t get it to work. I was wondering where my calculator had gone. I thought I’d lost it. That’s why I popped back round. I was hoping I’d left it here.”
“My giddy aunt!” I exclaimed, hiding a smile.
“I’ll go and stick the kettle on, shall I Gran?” he suggested. “A cup of tea will calm your nerves. We can watch Emmerdale together.”
The swanky new television was a birthday gift from my children. The thing was huge, almost as big as the living room window. It had sat in its box for weeks, collecting dust, until my grandson had popped around for a visit yesterday.
In minutes he had all the channels set up, and the monstrosity had worked perfectly. Then, he left to go study for some exams.
Today, I can’t get anything out of the machine. Every time I pressed the on button an O popped up on the tiny screen on the remote control, but the television remained mute and unresponsive.
I might not be gifted electronically, but I’m not that old and feeble that I can’t change a battery, so I tried that. The television remained in limbo. I even dug out a screwdriver and changed the fuse on the telly. Still no joy.
Getting creakily up from my chair, I waddled over to the huge screen and looked for an on/off button to turn the TV on manually, figuring that the remote control was faulty. I searched long and hard, looking at the front, the sides, and finally the back of the thing. I could find no power button.
I even went and fetched my reading glasses, so I could see better.
Giving up, I took a duster to wipe the fingerprints off the shiny new glass front. My grandson had left a few smears around the side of the big screen.
Suddenly, a red light appeared in the bottom right corner of the screen, then the room filled with the sound of chatter and awful music. Somehow, I’d managed to turn on the television. I don’t know how but the room was quickly filled with flickering imagery. I smiled with satisfaction, but my pleasure was short lived.
I found myself cursed to watch unending commercials on a home shopping channel, and to make matters worse, the volume was set at full blast. Even Patch; my aging Jack Russell whined in protest, and he was deaf as a post. Racing for the remote control, I searched in vain for a volume button, but couldn’t find one. I tried pressing different buttons at random to change channels, but the television and remote control were clearly from different planets, possible different solar systems. In the end, I was forced to unplug the set.
Needless to say I was relieved, if a little surprised, when my grandson popped in again the following evening. Usually I’m lucky to get one visitation a month. He was a good boy, but he always seemed to be racing off to somewhere.
“Hi Gran,” he greeted, popping his head in the door. “How’s the new telly working out?”
“Oh, hello Jamie, luv!” I replied. “Don’t even mention that blasted thing. It’ll be the death of me. I think it’s broken. I gave your father a call earlier. I’m getting him to bring it back to Ladl in the morning. I never did trust that place. You buy cheap stuff and you get what you pay for …”
“Don’t worry Gran, I’m sure it’s under warranty. Anyway, it was working fine last night. What’s it doing?”
“I can’t get that blasted thing to work, at all,” I explained, pointing an angry finger at the TV remote control, which was lying on the settee, looking smug. “I even tried to find the On/Off button to turn the television on manually, but it doesn’t have one. Then, all of a sudden the blasted thing turned itself on, but it wouldn’t change channel! I nearly died of fright. Poor Patch hid in the kitchen for over an hour, the wee pet!”
“It’s touch control, Gran,” he explained, moving into the room and heading over toward the couch. He picked up the remote control and then quite suddenly burst out laughing.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” I protested. “I tell you it’s broken!”
“Gran, I left the remote control in the drawer beside your chair, were you could get at it easily. Don’t you remember me telling you that?”
Now that he mentioned it, I do vaguely remember something about that. “Well, it was sitting on the kitchen table this morning,” I replied. “So clearly you didn’t.” Pulling the tiny drawer open from my night stand, I looked down in surprise at another remote control.
Grinning impishly at me, he explained. “This one isn’t the TV remote, Gran. It’s my science calculator. No wonder you couldn’t get it to work. I was wondering where my calculator had gone. I thought I’d lost it. That’s why I popped back round. I was hoping I’d left it here.”
“My giddy aunt!” I exclaimed, hiding a smile.
“I’ll go and stick the kettle on, shall I Gran?” he suggested. “A cup of tea will calm your nerves. We can watch Emmerdale together.”
June 30, 2015
The Death of Community
Weddings and Funerals; they’re the only time when I get to see old friends or family.
Sadly, sometimes they are the guests of honour, and I feel a little depressed that we didn’t get the time to catch up while they were still alive.
There isn’t enough seconds in the day.
Even if there was I’d probably find other ways to use the time.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels like this. So much for the modern age. Shit! I hardly know my neighbours anymore. They are mostly strangers.
The first funeral was the death of community.
Sadly, sometimes they are the guests of honour, and I feel a little depressed that we didn’t get the time to catch up while they were still alive.
There isn’t enough seconds in the day.
Even if there was I’d probably find other ways to use the time.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels like this. So much for the modern age. Shit! I hardly know my neighbours anymore. They are mostly strangers.
The first funeral was the death of community.
June 29, 2015
The Gatekeeper
When I was a boy, I lived with my father in a very strange house.
Our house was a huge Gothic mansion, filled of white marble and black ebony sculptures. A magnificent spiral staircase dominated the center of the house. It spiraled upward as far as the eye could see, and downward; deep into the bowels of the earth.
My father warned me regularly never to step upon the staircase. “It’s only to be used by our guests,” he warned.
We had a lot of guests. They arrived at all times of the day and night.
My father’s job was to open the front door and direct them to the staircase. I never saw any of the guests leave, so they must still be up there, or hiding in the cellar.
We lived only on the ground floor, but it was such a large mansion that there was plenty of room for the two of us.
One day, while I was at school, the teacher asked the class what our parents did for a living. The pupils took turns revealing their parents’ careers. Some were postmen, nurses; there was even an author. Finally, it was my turn.
I stood before the blackboard and spoke, “I don’t know much about my mother,” I explained. “She died when I was a baby, but my daddy has a very important job. He’s the Gatekeeper.”
“A gatekeeper,” my teacher corrected.
“No. He’s quite adamant about that. He assures me that he’s ... The Gatekeeper.”
“So, he opens gates? That doesn’t sound too important,” teased Edmund, the class joker. The class all laughed, but I frowned.
“We don’t actually have any gates,” I admitted.
“Then how is he a gatekeeper?”
“The Gatekeeper,” I corrected absently. “I don’t really know. I’ll have to ask him.”
Arriving home, I accosted my father. “Why are you called The Gatekeeper, Daddy, if we don’t have any gates?”
He took me by the hand and led me around to the front of the house where the great black double doors stood firmly shut. In his spare time, my father polished them until they shone brightly in the sun. They were filled with demonic figures, carved into the black ebony. I’d always felt a little queasy whenever I looked at them.
We weren’t allowed to use these doors. They were only for our guests. My father and I only ever used the tradesmen’s entrance, around the side of the house.
“These are ‘The Gates’,” he explained. “Everyone comes to them eventually. It’s my job to open them, and one day it’ll be yours, too.”
Emboldened, I asked, “Where do our guests go?”
“That all depends, son. Some go up the stairs and find Heaven, while others descend into whatever Hell awaits them.”
Confused, I asked, “Isn’t there only one Hell?”
“Hell is filled with a man’s fears, so everyone has a different Hell.”
“Do you guide them on their journey?”
“No, son, I don’t. Each man must find his own path.”
*****
I never gave much thought to the idea of taking over the family business, it was an unsaid expectation. I’d always tried to avoid thinking about it too much as it brought up many unanswered questions.
I was busy studying for my final exams, and planning which University to go to, when I heard the persistent pounding on the front door. “Dad!” I yelled, “the door!”
The pounding continued unabated. I tried to focus on my text book, but it was no use. Whoever was at the door would not go away, and my father wasn’t answering it.
This was strange as he could always sense when someone was going to arrive, and he’d always be there to answer the door. He took his job very seriously.
“Dad ... the door!” I shouted.
The front door rattled in response.
In frustration, I rose and threw my book on the bed. “Hang on!” I yelled.
I hurried down the corridor, passed the spiral staircase and paused before the door.
Doubt crept over me. Would it even open for me?
On one previous occasion I’d tried to open the door, but it had remained shut. I had been eleven at the time, and curiosity had gotten the better of me. I’d turned the handle and pulled, but it hadn’t budged.
“Leave it!” my father hissed, appearing as if by magic behind me. “It won’t open for you ... not yet.”
“Is it locked?” I asked.
“Sort of ...” was his reply.
The banging had become persistent now. Whoever was knocking was not going away. Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses would’ve given up by now.
I considered ignoring it.
What would happen if the dead couldn’t get to Heaven or Hell? Would their souls be trapped in limbo for eternity? I didn’t know.
The banging continued and with one final look down the corridor I reached for the doorknob.
I faint tingling sensation pulsed up my arm as I touched to brass handle. That hadn’t happened the last time I’d tried to open the door. The tingling passed through my body and left me feeling light-headed. Nervously, I twisted the knob and pulled the door.
To my surprise, the door swung silently open.
“Praise the heavens! I thought you’d never answer!”
The voice sent a cold shiver down my spine.
“Dad!” I gasped, looking at the apparition before me. With a mournful look, he walked passed me and started to ascended the staircase.
“Wait!” I called, trying to follow.
As my foot touched the first step, a coldness enveloped me, casting me backwards. I was not permitted to follow him.
“Dad!” I cried.
He stopped, halfway up to the first landing and looked back for an instance, “You’ll be fine,” he assured, before continuing his journey.
I stood there for some time, too stunned to move. Eventually, the spell was broken by the shrill ring of my ringtone, “Hello!”
The lady on the other end of the line asked my name and identified herself as a doctor at the nearby hospital, “Could you come down here?” she asked.
“I’m a little busy right now,” I protested.
“Look, I can’t discuss this over the phone, but it is important.”
“It’s about my father, isn’t it?” I asked.
There was a long pause from the other end of the line.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I really can’t discuss ...”
“I’ll be right over.”
Many thoughts went through my brain as I cycled over to the hospital. Was this how my father inherited the family business, with a visit from a ghostly apparition?
Did my mother knock on the door on the day that I was born?
Now that I’d taken over the family business, who exactly was my employer ... Who paid my wages?
Our house was a huge Gothic mansion, filled of white marble and black ebony sculptures. A magnificent spiral staircase dominated the center of the house. It spiraled upward as far as the eye could see, and downward; deep into the bowels of the earth.
My father warned me regularly never to step upon the staircase. “It’s only to be used by our guests,” he warned.
We had a lot of guests. They arrived at all times of the day and night.
My father’s job was to open the front door and direct them to the staircase. I never saw any of the guests leave, so they must still be up there, or hiding in the cellar.
We lived only on the ground floor, but it was such a large mansion that there was plenty of room for the two of us.
One day, while I was at school, the teacher asked the class what our parents did for a living. The pupils took turns revealing their parents’ careers. Some were postmen, nurses; there was even an author. Finally, it was my turn.
I stood before the blackboard and spoke, “I don’t know much about my mother,” I explained. “She died when I was a baby, but my daddy has a very important job. He’s the Gatekeeper.”
“A gatekeeper,” my teacher corrected.
“No. He’s quite adamant about that. He assures me that he’s ... The Gatekeeper.”
“So, he opens gates? That doesn’t sound too important,” teased Edmund, the class joker. The class all laughed, but I frowned.
“We don’t actually have any gates,” I admitted.
“Then how is he a gatekeeper?”
“The Gatekeeper,” I corrected absently. “I don’t really know. I’ll have to ask him.”
Arriving home, I accosted my father. “Why are you called The Gatekeeper, Daddy, if we don’t have any gates?”
He took me by the hand and led me around to the front of the house where the great black double doors stood firmly shut. In his spare time, my father polished them until they shone brightly in the sun. They were filled with demonic figures, carved into the black ebony. I’d always felt a little queasy whenever I looked at them.
We weren’t allowed to use these doors. They were only for our guests. My father and I only ever used the tradesmen’s entrance, around the side of the house.
“These are ‘The Gates’,” he explained. “Everyone comes to them eventually. It’s my job to open them, and one day it’ll be yours, too.”
Emboldened, I asked, “Where do our guests go?”
“That all depends, son. Some go up the stairs and find Heaven, while others descend into whatever Hell awaits them.”
Confused, I asked, “Isn’t there only one Hell?”
“Hell is filled with a man’s fears, so everyone has a different Hell.”
“Do you guide them on their journey?”
“No, son, I don’t. Each man must find his own path.”
*****
I never gave much thought to the idea of taking over the family business, it was an unsaid expectation. I’d always tried to avoid thinking about it too much as it brought up many unanswered questions.
I was busy studying for my final exams, and planning which University to go to, when I heard the persistent pounding on the front door. “Dad!” I yelled, “the door!”
The pounding continued unabated. I tried to focus on my text book, but it was no use. Whoever was at the door would not go away, and my father wasn’t answering it.
This was strange as he could always sense when someone was going to arrive, and he’d always be there to answer the door. He took his job very seriously.
“Dad ... the door!” I shouted.
The front door rattled in response.
In frustration, I rose and threw my book on the bed. “Hang on!” I yelled.
I hurried down the corridor, passed the spiral staircase and paused before the door.
Doubt crept over me. Would it even open for me?
On one previous occasion I’d tried to open the door, but it had remained shut. I had been eleven at the time, and curiosity had gotten the better of me. I’d turned the handle and pulled, but it hadn’t budged.
“Leave it!” my father hissed, appearing as if by magic behind me. “It won’t open for you ... not yet.”
“Is it locked?” I asked.
“Sort of ...” was his reply.
The banging had become persistent now. Whoever was knocking was not going away. Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses would’ve given up by now.
I considered ignoring it.
What would happen if the dead couldn’t get to Heaven or Hell? Would their souls be trapped in limbo for eternity? I didn’t know.
The banging continued and with one final look down the corridor I reached for the doorknob.
I faint tingling sensation pulsed up my arm as I touched to brass handle. That hadn’t happened the last time I’d tried to open the door. The tingling passed through my body and left me feeling light-headed. Nervously, I twisted the knob and pulled the door.
To my surprise, the door swung silently open.
“Praise the heavens! I thought you’d never answer!”
The voice sent a cold shiver down my spine.
“Dad!” I gasped, looking at the apparition before me. With a mournful look, he walked passed me and started to ascended the staircase.
“Wait!” I called, trying to follow.
As my foot touched the first step, a coldness enveloped me, casting me backwards. I was not permitted to follow him.
“Dad!” I cried.
He stopped, halfway up to the first landing and looked back for an instance, “You’ll be fine,” he assured, before continuing his journey.
I stood there for some time, too stunned to move. Eventually, the spell was broken by the shrill ring of my ringtone, “Hello!”
The lady on the other end of the line asked my name and identified herself as a doctor at the nearby hospital, “Could you come down here?” she asked.
“I’m a little busy right now,” I protested.
“Look, I can’t discuss this over the phone, but it is important.”
“It’s about my father, isn’t it?” I asked.
There was a long pause from the other end of the line.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I really can’t discuss ...”
“I’ll be right over.”
Many thoughts went through my brain as I cycled over to the hospital. Was this how my father inherited the family business, with a visit from a ghostly apparition?
Did my mother knock on the door on the day that I was born?
Now that I’d taken over the family business, who exactly was my employer ... Who paid my wages?
June 22, 2015
The Company Memo
I received an internal email one Friday morning. It read:
Go to 54.2585248 -7.813142999999966, 08:00hrs tomorrow. Come alone.
I couldn’t identify the sender.
I’d only started working in the company recently, but I was not so new that I hadn’t heard about their team building exercises. Personally, I thought that sort of thing was bullshit, but I wasn’t going to throw away a cushy number.
Word was, the company frowned upon non-team players. If I didn’t show up on Saturday morning, I could kiss my new job goodbye.
I’d have to miss my lie-in, but I suppose it couldn’t be helped. The end of month bonus would hopefully make it worthwhile.
Reluctantly, I opened my Google maps and checked out the coordinates.
*****
Using my I-Plod satellite navigation system, I made my way across the moors, and into the woods. As I walked under the first of the ancient trees, the I-Plod spoke to me, “Signal lost!”
I continued on in the same direction, holding the phone above my head, searching for a signal. I might as well have been in a tunnel. Nada, not a single bar.
Luckily, I’d planned ahead. Inside my rucksack I’d packed an ordinance survey map and even a compass. They hadn’t been used since I was a boy scout, but it was like riding a bike, right? Some things you never forget.
My watch said 07:39. I was still in the dense woodlands, probably lost, and time was running out. I should have reached my destination by now, but without satellite I wasn’t sure. I could have walked right passed it, and not known. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, but it had to be something … something other than just trees.
It was then that I spotted the steelworks, interwoven between the trees. They were red with rust and blended against the autumnal backdrop, so at first I had missed them.
The twisted metal looked like some strange sculpture, or a little like the monorail track of a fairground ride. I spotted another track to my left, and then one further away on my right. They were all heading in the same general direction so I decided to follow them.
As I strode along, they drew closer, and I spotted others farther off. They were heading towards an epicentre, like the spokes of a wheel or a spider’s web. I hurried, aware of the minutes flying by. I needed to reach the centre before my watch hit 08:00.
07:58
By now, I was running along, tripping and falling over hidden roots, and clambering to my feet to run again. I was breathless, but the centre of the crazy steel web was getting closer.
I was nearly there.
“BEEP! BEEEP!” The alarm on my watch warned. “Shit!” I cursed, my heart hammering away like a hummingbird.
A robed figure stepped out from behind a tree, right in front of me. I nearly screamed at the suddenness of his appearance, and my heart skipped a beat. He looked like some sort of demented monk. and his face was hidden in shadows.
“Who dares enter the sacred glade?” he asked. His voice was raspy; heavy with malice and too much nicotine.
“I-I’m Jack Johnson!” I replied. “I got the company memo!”
The hooded figure laughed, but the sound was not a comforting one. It held little merriment. “You may pass, Jack Johnson, but before you can go any farther, you must leave all your earthly possessions behind.”
“Oh … right! Okay!” I stammered. Unhooking the shoulder straps, I dropped my rucksack onto the ground. Digging into the pockets of my anorak, I removed my I-Plod, wallet, keys; even the compass.
I started passed the strange monk, but his hand struck my chest, blocking me.
“Everything,” he insisted.
I pulled out my trouser pockets to indicate that they were already empty.
“You must abandon everything!” he insisted, “if you are to be reborn into the Society of the Black Widow.”
“What … you mean my clothes too?!” I whined.
“Everything. When a baby comes into the world, he’s wrapped only in his mother’s blood.”
Reluctantly, I sat down and started to untie the laces of my boots. “This is whacked!” I grumbled. “Is all this really necessary?”
He didn’t answer.
I looked up to find him gone. I looked around, but I could not see him. I suspected he was hiding somewhere close by, watching me, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.
I see! I thought It’s like that, is it. Office pranks can be so juvenile at times, but it was important to play along and show a sense of humour.
*****
It was cold, standing there naked, hiding my manhood. The early morning sun barely reached this far into the forest, and the first frosts of winter were not far away. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I walked forward, more carefully now in case my bare feet stood on something sharp.
It didn’t take me long to reach the centre of the steel web. I stood there for a moment, at the edge of a glade. A small pool dominated the clearing, overshadowed by the strange steel construction I’d been following. On a rock beside the pool I found a folded item of clothing and a note. It said, ‘Bathe and dress, then follow the path to your rebirth.’
With some reluctance, I stepped into the pool. The water was murky and had a deep reddish tinge to it. I smiled at the theatrics of it all. The colour was probably caused by iron in the water, but it looked a lot like blood. Maybe they had even gone so far as to use some food colouring for greater theatrics.
Fine, I thought. Whatever! I slipped farther into the pool and was surprised to find that the water was warm against my skin. Soon, I was up to my neck in the murky water. Nonchalantly, I peered around the clearing, looking for prying eyes as I made some pretence of bathing. I even sank beneath the waters and anointing myself with their bloody water. I hoped that my secretive watchers would be happy with my performance.
Climbing out of the pool, I lifted up the white robe and inspected it. It was not made of the same material as the one used by my secretive guardian. This garment was the sort of thing you would wear before surgery. It draped uncomfortably around me, and left my buttocks exposed to the morning breeze. Still, it was an improvement on being naked.
The waters of the pool quickly stained the robe, giving it a macabre appearance. My hidden audience were trying their best to spook me, and much though I fought against the panic, it was beginning to feel nervous. This was a far cry from paintballing.
When I was dressed, I followed the path farther into the woods. A short walk later I arrived at a small cave entrance.
Here I stopped, and for a moment I almost considered turning back. The black hole looked ominous.
“Hello?” I called, but no one answered.
I’d never been fond of confined spaces. Was my new job really worth all this? I asked myself.
The monthly salary was certainly a lot more than I’d ever earned before. I’d nearly fainted with shock when I saw my bank balance after the first payment.
On top of that, I’d seen the flashy cars that the other office workers drove. You could hardly miss them. The parking lot was full of them: Mercs, Audis, Beamers, even a couple of red Ferraris with personalised licence plates. There had also been hints of healthy quarterly bonuses, plus a fat annual bonus for those who excelled.
Could I really walk away from all that?
The simple answer was no.
I’d grown up knowing intimately about poverty, and after the last few pay cheques, I craved more of the good life.
I wanted a swanky flat in the city so I didn’t have to commute, with a hot chick or two fawning over me. I wanted the flash cars and the Rolex watches. In fact, I wanted it all. So I fought off the urge to panic as the walls closed in around me and walked into the darkness.
*****
Groping my way along the cold stone walls, I continued for what seemed like an eternity. Soon, all traces of light vanished and I was alone in the darkness; alone with my fears.
I felt spiders webs brushing across my face, and heard the scampering of tiny feet before they squeaked and scurried away into the darkness.
My fingers started to tingle, and strange lights twinkled before my eyes. My whole body felt flushed with heat. My mind started to wander, one minute feeling euphoric, the next I was tormented by paranoia. I began to hallucinate. Had the bastards spiked the waters of that pool?
At one point my panic became too much and I turned back toward the entrance, trying to escape the nightmare that was going on in my head. I soon realised that I was lost. I couldn’t find my way out.
“Help!” I cried again and again. “C’mon guys! A jokes a joke!”
No one replied.
No one came to help.
I became hungry, and thirsty; disorientated.
How long had I been trapped in this warren of caves?
Eventually, I curled in a ball and slept, hoping that when I awoke the world would be back to normal.
To my disappointment I awoke to darkness and the rustling of the paper gown I still wore. With no alternative, I groped my way along again, hoping to find salvation. At least the hallucinations had rescinded.
My toe brushed against something, which rattled away. I stopped. Crouching down, I fumbled along the ground until I found the object that I’d struck. My fingertips brushed against what felt like a light round stone. Closing my hand around it, I felt the holes: one, two. My fingers explored further, brushing over the rough lower surface of the stone. It dawned on me what I was feeling: They were teeth; a jaw.
Terror consumed me and I cast the skull aside. Wailing piteously, I dared not move. Frozen with fear, I sat there for countless seconds, before I could control my rising panic. I can’t stay here, I thought. I must find a way to escape this nightmare.
With dread, I fumbled around and found other bones; other skulls. What was this place? Who did these bones belong to? Where they the co-workers who had disappeared from their desks, never to be seen again? What had they done to deserve such a horrible death? Had they given away company secrets, or had they simply arrived late for work?
I wept. It had been a long time since I’d cried, but now, the tears fell freely.
Somewhere in the darkness I found God, despite my strongly held contempt for religions. I prayed with all the fervour of a born-again Christian, making up prayers as I went along. No one answered my heart felt prayers.
God was not interested. My years of denying his existence were coming back to haunt me. In the end, I declared him a figment of my terrified imagination and abandoned him again.
With little other option available to me, I rose to my feet and stumbled on.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I walked, not caring about direction. I simply had to move forward. With my hands before me to ward off the stone walls, I stumbled blindly through the perpetual dark.
Left foot, right foot, left foot … and then my right foot went from under me and I found myself falling. The wind whistled passed me, and I crashed into the sides of the pit as I fell.
With a splash I fell into deep water.
Unlike the bloody pool, this one was bitterly cold; as cold as death. I swallowed water and choked. Swimming around in circles, I tried to fathom which way was up; which way was down. As if ascending to heaven, I saw a light in the distance. Like a lost soul seeking salvation I swam towards it.
It was a beacon in the darkness, it gave me hope. Desperately I kicked out and broke the surface of the lake. With a sob of relief, I blinked at the torches flickering in the darkness. Wearily, I swam towards them.
Dripping water, I crawled out of the lake. Shivering, I stumbled onward, following the line of torches down a passageway. Tears streamed down my cheeks as relief washed over me. Too long had I been alone in the darkness. I teetered on the edge of madness, but the flaming brands gave me the impetus to continue. Where there was fire, there had been human hands, and recently. I sensed an end to the nightmare.
I turned a corner and caught the scent of roasting meat in the air. My stomach rumbled and saliva filled my mouth as hunger overcame me. How long had I been trapped in the darkness; a day … perhaps two? It seemed like an eternity.
My pace increased as other indistinct smells came to me. I heard the sound of laughter; the hum of human voices. They were coming from up ahead.
Turning a final corner, I gazed in shock at the banquet set out before me.
Long tables filled the cavernous chamber. One line of tables filled each side of the cave, and at the far end another long table sat upon a raised dais.
The tables strained under the weight of rich food and wine. Sitting around them were at least two hundred people, all dressed in the brown monk’s robes I had seen in the woods.
Some were eating their fill of the many platters of rich food. Others were half-naked and frolicking in drunken debauchery. None had yet noticed my presence as I stumbled forward.
A gong rang out, filling the room with the echo of its sound.
As one. the revellers stopped what they were doing and looked towards me.
I also stopped, wondering whether it would be wiser to run away or face their wrath. Was I an uninvited guest? Was I entering their inner sanctum without their permission? I had come this far, and did not want to go back towards the cold dark pool. I craved the warmth of the room, the food, the company of my fellow man.
A robed man rose from the central table atop a dais, and clapped his hands sharply, calling the room to order. The room fell into silence, waiting for his judgement. Was I to be found guilty of trespass? I held my breath and waited too.
“Out of the womb of the earth he comes,” proclaimed the man. I recognised his voice immediately. It was the man I had spoken to in the woods. “Welcome, Jack Johnson. You have been survived the darkness and been reborn. Come forward and be at peace. Sit beside me; eat and drink your fill.”
I didn’t need a second invitation. My legs carried me shakily toward the dais.
The other revellers rose to their feet as I passed and began to clap their hands. Some of the faces I recognised from the office, others were strangers to me. Perhaps they belonged to other departments, other offices within the company. Some smiled in greeting, others merely nodded.
None stopped me.
When I finally reached the dais, the speaker lifted his gold chalice and offered it to me. Now that he was closer, he had a chance to study the man in more detail. He was in his middle years, though he wore it well. His deep blue eyes were sharp and alert, despite the effects of the brandy. His hair was cut short, well groomed and impeccable. On his right hand, I saw that he wore a heavy gold signet ring. On the front of the ring was an image of a spider.
Silently, I accepted the offering and drank deeply. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, making me splutter and nearly spill the rich brandy.
“Welcome,” he greeted again. “This is the inner sanctum of the Society of the Black Widow. You’ve come a long way, Jack, but your ordeal is now over.”
I wondered whether he was referring to my walk in the dark cave, or to my life in general. Looking around at the opulence of the table, I cared not. “I don’t understand. Who are you? What is this place …?”
“All in good time, Jack. We are a very secret, and secretive, organisation. Knowledge is only on a need to know basis. However, you have taken the first steps towards enlightenment this weekend, as well as making me a lot of money.”
“I did?” I exclaimed.
“Oh, yes, you did,” explained the speaker. “Usually, we recruit from only the most powerful of families; the elite, but you were an exception to this rule. Many of the other department heads thought I was foolish for recruiting you into the firm. They did not believe that you had the mettle for leadership, but I thought otherwise. In fact, I believed it so much that I bet rather heavily on you. I’m so glad that I was right.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“I’ve read your files, not just your personnel file but the ones that technically I shouldn’t have access to. I’ve studied your criminal record, your juvenile records, even the files from your various foster homes. I’ve read the dossiers of the many state shrinks that assessed you through the years you were knocked around in the system. They all say pretty much the same thing …”
“And what was that?” I asked heatedly, not believing what he was saying. No one could get access to those files. Some were years old, and had surely been destroyed by now.
“They said that you were a non-conformist, a scrapper, someone who broke rules just because they were there. Of course they used fancy labels for it, to justify their salaries, but it amounts to the same thing. They said you were dispensable. No one would miss you if you disappeared. Is that correct?”
After a moment I had to admit the truth of his statement. “I guess.”
He smiled, “But they missed something in their assessments.”
“What’s that?” I couldn’t help asking.
“You’re a born survivor. No matter what shit they threw at you, you always managed to drag yourself up and fight again. Despite their lack of faith in you, and the poor quality of your education, you taught yourself to read, you learned how to work with computers … you taught yourself many things when nobody else wanted to teach you anything. You might be amoral, a rebel and a deviant, but you are one tough cookie. That’s why I selected you.”
“Was that why I got that email?”
“Listen kid, without my endorsement, you wouldn’t have even got into the building, let alone get a job there. I vouched for you, and you owe me big time for that. I intend to claim that debt at some time in the future.”
“But you said that you’d won a bet.”
“That doesn’t count. That was my money I was betting with, not yours. You need to pay your own debts, young man, but don’t worry. I have every confidence that you will pay me back for my largesse.”
“How do I do that. I’m broke!”
“Eat,” he offered. “When you’ve recovered, we can talk about your future. I have high hopes for you, young man.”
Go to 54.2585248 -7.813142999999966, 08:00hrs tomorrow. Come alone.
I couldn’t identify the sender.
I’d only started working in the company recently, but I was not so new that I hadn’t heard about their team building exercises. Personally, I thought that sort of thing was bullshit, but I wasn’t going to throw away a cushy number.
Word was, the company frowned upon non-team players. If I didn’t show up on Saturday morning, I could kiss my new job goodbye.
I’d have to miss my lie-in, but I suppose it couldn’t be helped. The end of month bonus would hopefully make it worthwhile.
Reluctantly, I opened my Google maps and checked out the coordinates.
*****
Using my I-Plod satellite navigation system, I made my way across the moors, and into the woods. As I walked under the first of the ancient trees, the I-Plod spoke to me, “Signal lost!”
I continued on in the same direction, holding the phone above my head, searching for a signal. I might as well have been in a tunnel. Nada, not a single bar.
Luckily, I’d planned ahead. Inside my rucksack I’d packed an ordinance survey map and even a compass. They hadn’t been used since I was a boy scout, but it was like riding a bike, right? Some things you never forget.
My watch said 07:39. I was still in the dense woodlands, probably lost, and time was running out. I should have reached my destination by now, but without satellite I wasn’t sure. I could have walked right passed it, and not known. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, but it had to be something … something other than just trees.
It was then that I spotted the steelworks, interwoven between the trees. They were red with rust and blended against the autumnal backdrop, so at first I had missed them.
The twisted metal looked like some strange sculpture, or a little like the monorail track of a fairground ride. I spotted another track to my left, and then one further away on my right. They were all heading in the same general direction so I decided to follow them.
As I strode along, they drew closer, and I spotted others farther off. They were heading towards an epicentre, like the spokes of a wheel or a spider’s web. I hurried, aware of the minutes flying by. I needed to reach the centre before my watch hit 08:00.
07:58
By now, I was running along, tripping and falling over hidden roots, and clambering to my feet to run again. I was breathless, but the centre of the crazy steel web was getting closer.
I was nearly there.
“BEEP! BEEEP!” The alarm on my watch warned. “Shit!” I cursed, my heart hammering away like a hummingbird.
A robed figure stepped out from behind a tree, right in front of me. I nearly screamed at the suddenness of his appearance, and my heart skipped a beat. He looked like some sort of demented monk. and his face was hidden in shadows.
“Who dares enter the sacred glade?” he asked. His voice was raspy; heavy with malice and too much nicotine.
“I-I’m Jack Johnson!” I replied. “I got the company memo!”
The hooded figure laughed, but the sound was not a comforting one. It held little merriment. “You may pass, Jack Johnson, but before you can go any farther, you must leave all your earthly possessions behind.”
“Oh … right! Okay!” I stammered. Unhooking the shoulder straps, I dropped my rucksack onto the ground. Digging into the pockets of my anorak, I removed my I-Plod, wallet, keys; even the compass.
I started passed the strange monk, but his hand struck my chest, blocking me.
“Everything,” he insisted.
I pulled out my trouser pockets to indicate that they were already empty.
“You must abandon everything!” he insisted, “if you are to be reborn into the Society of the Black Widow.”
“What … you mean my clothes too?!” I whined.
“Everything. When a baby comes into the world, he’s wrapped only in his mother’s blood.”
Reluctantly, I sat down and started to untie the laces of my boots. “This is whacked!” I grumbled. “Is all this really necessary?”
He didn’t answer.
I looked up to find him gone. I looked around, but I could not see him. I suspected he was hiding somewhere close by, watching me, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.
I see! I thought It’s like that, is it. Office pranks can be so juvenile at times, but it was important to play along and show a sense of humour.
*****
It was cold, standing there naked, hiding my manhood. The early morning sun barely reached this far into the forest, and the first frosts of winter were not far away. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I walked forward, more carefully now in case my bare feet stood on something sharp.
It didn’t take me long to reach the centre of the steel web. I stood there for a moment, at the edge of a glade. A small pool dominated the clearing, overshadowed by the strange steel construction I’d been following. On a rock beside the pool I found a folded item of clothing and a note. It said, ‘Bathe and dress, then follow the path to your rebirth.’
With some reluctance, I stepped into the pool. The water was murky and had a deep reddish tinge to it. I smiled at the theatrics of it all. The colour was probably caused by iron in the water, but it looked a lot like blood. Maybe they had even gone so far as to use some food colouring for greater theatrics.
Fine, I thought. Whatever! I slipped farther into the pool and was surprised to find that the water was warm against my skin. Soon, I was up to my neck in the murky water. Nonchalantly, I peered around the clearing, looking for prying eyes as I made some pretence of bathing. I even sank beneath the waters and anointing myself with their bloody water. I hoped that my secretive watchers would be happy with my performance.
Climbing out of the pool, I lifted up the white robe and inspected it. It was not made of the same material as the one used by my secretive guardian. This garment was the sort of thing you would wear before surgery. It draped uncomfortably around me, and left my buttocks exposed to the morning breeze. Still, it was an improvement on being naked.
The waters of the pool quickly stained the robe, giving it a macabre appearance. My hidden audience were trying their best to spook me, and much though I fought against the panic, it was beginning to feel nervous. This was a far cry from paintballing.
When I was dressed, I followed the path farther into the woods. A short walk later I arrived at a small cave entrance.
Here I stopped, and for a moment I almost considered turning back. The black hole looked ominous.
“Hello?” I called, but no one answered.
I’d never been fond of confined spaces. Was my new job really worth all this? I asked myself.
The monthly salary was certainly a lot more than I’d ever earned before. I’d nearly fainted with shock when I saw my bank balance after the first payment.
On top of that, I’d seen the flashy cars that the other office workers drove. You could hardly miss them. The parking lot was full of them: Mercs, Audis, Beamers, even a couple of red Ferraris with personalised licence plates. There had also been hints of healthy quarterly bonuses, plus a fat annual bonus for those who excelled.
Could I really walk away from all that?
The simple answer was no.
I’d grown up knowing intimately about poverty, and after the last few pay cheques, I craved more of the good life.
I wanted a swanky flat in the city so I didn’t have to commute, with a hot chick or two fawning over me. I wanted the flash cars and the Rolex watches. In fact, I wanted it all. So I fought off the urge to panic as the walls closed in around me and walked into the darkness.
*****
Groping my way along the cold stone walls, I continued for what seemed like an eternity. Soon, all traces of light vanished and I was alone in the darkness; alone with my fears.
I felt spiders webs brushing across my face, and heard the scampering of tiny feet before they squeaked and scurried away into the darkness.
My fingers started to tingle, and strange lights twinkled before my eyes. My whole body felt flushed with heat. My mind started to wander, one minute feeling euphoric, the next I was tormented by paranoia. I began to hallucinate. Had the bastards spiked the waters of that pool?
At one point my panic became too much and I turned back toward the entrance, trying to escape the nightmare that was going on in my head. I soon realised that I was lost. I couldn’t find my way out.
“Help!” I cried again and again. “C’mon guys! A jokes a joke!”
No one replied.
No one came to help.
I became hungry, and thirsty; disorientated.
How long had I been trapped in this warren of caves?
Eventually, I curled in a ball and slept, hoping that when I awoke the world would be back to normal.
To my disappointment I awoke to darkness and the rustling of the paper gown I still wore. With no alternative, I groped my way along again, hoping to find salvation. At least the hallucinations had rescinded.
My toe brushed against something, which rattled away. I stopped. Crouching down, I fumbled along the ground until I found the object that I’d struck. My fingertips brushed against what felt like a light round stone. Closing my hand around it, I felt the holes: one, two. My fingers explored further, brushing over the rough lower surface of the stone. It dawned on me what I was feeling: They were teeth; a jaw.
Terror consumed me and I cast the skull aside. Wailing piteously, I dared not move. Frozen with fear, I sat there for countless seconds, before I could control my rising panic. I can’t stay here, I thought. I must find a way to escape this nightmare.
With dread, I fumbled around and found other bones; other skulls. What was this place? Who did these bones belong to? Where they the co-workers who had disappeared from their desks, never to be seen again? What had they done to deserve such a horrible death? Had they given away company secrets, or had they simply arrived late for work?
I wept. It had been a long time since I’d cried, but now, the tears fell freely.
Somewhere in the darkness I found God, despite my strongly held contempt for religions. I prayed with all the fervour of a born-again Christian, making up prayers as I went along. No one answered my heart felt prayers.
God was not interested. My years of denying his existence were coming back to haunt me. In the end, I declared him a figment of my terrified imagination and abandoned him again.
With little other option available to me, I rose to my feet and stumbled on.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I walked, not caring about direction. I simply had to move forward. With my hands before me to ward off the stone walls, I stumbled blindly through the perpetual dark.
Left foot, right foot, left foot … and then my right foot went from under me and I found myself falling. The wind whistled passed me, and I crashed into the sides of the pit as I fell.
With a splash I fell into deep water.
Unlike the bloody pool, this one was bitterly cold; as cold as death. I swallowed water and choked. Swimming around in circles, I tried to fathom which way was up; which way was down. As if ascending to heaven, I saw a light in the distance. Like a lost soul seeking salvation I swam towards it.
It was a beacon in the darkness, it gave me hope. Desperately I kicked out and broke the surface of the lake. With a sob of relief, I blinked at the torches flickering in the darkness. Wearily, I swam towards them.
Dripping water, I crawled out of the lake. Shivering, I stumbled onward, following the line of torches down a passageway. Tears streamed down my cheeks as relief washed over me. Too long had I been alone in the darkness. I teetered on the edge of madness, but the flaming brands gave me the impetus to continue. Where there was fire, there had been human hands, and recently. I sensed an end to the nightmare.
I turned a corner and caught the scent of roasting meat in the air. My stomach rumbled and saliva filled my mouth as hunger overcame me. How long had I been trapped in the darkness; a day … perhaps two? It seemed like an eternity.
My pace increased as other indistinct smells came to me. I heard the sound of laughter; the hum of human voices. They were coming from up ahead.
Turning a final corner, I gazed in shock at the banquet set out before me.
Long tables filled the cavernous chamber. One line of tables filled each side of the cave, and at the far end another long table sat upon a raised dais.
The tables strained under the weight of rich food and wine. Sitting around them were at least two hundred people, all dressed in the brown monk’s robes I had seen in the woods.
Some were eating their fill of the many platters of rich food. Others were half-naked and frolicking in drunken debauchery. None had yet noticed my presence as I stumbled forward.
A gong rang out, filling the room with the echo of its sound.
As one. the revellers stopped what they were doing and looked towards me.
I also stopped, wondering whether it would be wiser to run away or face their wrath. Was I an uninvited guest? Was I entering their inner sanctum without their permission? I had come this far, and did not want to go back towards the cold dark pool. I craved the warmth of the room, the food, the company of my fellow man.
A robed man rose from the central table atop a dais, and clapped his hands sharply, calling the room to order. The room fell into silence, waiting for his judgement. Was I to be found guilty of trespass? I held my breath and waited too.
“Out of the womb of the earth he comes,” proclaimed the man. I recognised his voice immediately. It was the man I had spoken to in the woods. “Welcome, Jack Johnson. You have been survived the darkness and been reborn. Come forward and be at peace. Sit beside me; eat and drink your fill.”
I didn’t need a second invitation. My legs carried me shakily toward the dais.
The other revellers rose to their feet as I passed and began to clap their hands. Some of the faces I recognised from the office, others were strangers to me. Perhaps they belonged to other departments, other offices within the company. Some smiled in greeting, others merely nodded.
None stopped me.
When I finally reached the dais, the speaker lifted his gold chalice and offered it to me. Now that he was closer, he had a chance to study the man in more detail. He was in his middle years, though he wore it well. His deep blue eyes were sharp and alert, despite the effects of the brandy. His hair was cut short, well groomed and impeccable. On his right hand, I saw that he wore a heavy gold signet ring. On the front of the ring was an image of a spider.
Silently, I accepted the offering and drank deeply. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, making me splutter and nearly spill the rich brandy.
“Welcome,” he greeted again. “This is the inner sanctum of the Society of the Black Widow. You’ve come a long way, Jack, but your ordeal is now over.”
I wondered whether he was referring to my walk in the dark cave, or to my life in general. Looking around at the opulence of the table, I cared not. “I don’t understand. Who are you? What is this place …?”
“All in good time, Jack. We are a very secret, and secretive, organisation. Knowledge is only on a need to know basis. However, you have taken the first steps towards enlightenment this weekend, as well as making me a lot of money.”
“I did?” I exclaimed.
“Oh, yes, you did,” explained the speaker. “Usually, we recruit from only the most powerful of families; the elite, but you were an exception to this rule. Many of the other department heads thought I was foolish for recruiting you into the firm. They did not believe that you had the mettle for leadership, but I thought otherwise. In fact, I believed it so much that I bet rather heavily on you. I’m so glad that I was right.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“I’ve read your files, not just your personnel file but the ones that technically I shouldn’t have access to. I’ve studied your criminal record, your juvenile records, even the files from your various foster homes. I’ve read the dossiers of the many state shrinks that assessed you through the years you were knocked around in the system. They all say pretty much the same thing …”
“And what was that?” I asked heatedly, not believing what he was saying. No one could get access to those files. Some were years old, and had surely been destroyed by now.
“They said that you were a non-conformist, a scrapper, someone who broke rules just because they were there. Of course they used fancy labels for it, to justify their salaries, but it amounts to the same thing. They said you were dispensable. No one would miss you if you disappeared. Is that correct?”
After a moment I had to admit the truth of his statement. “I guess.”
He smiled, “But they missed something in their assessments.”
“What’s that?” I couldn’t help asking.
“You’re a born survivor. No matter what shit they threw at you, you always managed to drag yourself up and fight again. Despite their lack of faith in you, and the poor quality of your education, you taught yourself to read, you learned how to work with computers … you taught yourself many things when nobody else wanted to teach you anything. You might be amoral, a rebel and a deviant, but you are one tough cookie. That’s why I selected you.”
“Was that why I got that email?”
“Listen kid, without my endorsement, you wouldn’t have even got into the building, let alone get a job there. I vouched for you, and you owe me big time for that. I intend to claim that debt at some time in the future.”
“But you said that you’d won a bet.”
“That doesn’t count. That was my money I was betting with, not yours. You need to pay your own debts, young man, but don’t worry. I have every confidence that you will pay me back for my largesse.”
“How do I do that. I’m broke!”
“Eat,” he offered. “When you’ve recovered, we can talk about your future. I have high hopes for you, young man.”
June 17, 2015
Mixed messages
It’s not as if I’d forgotten our anniversary, or anything! I hadn’t.
I bought her a subscription to the gym.
What’s wrong with that? It’s not as if I’d told her she was getting fat or anything. I’d thought she might like a bit of time to herself; work off the stress of the day.
Nevertheless, I could sense the coldness even from her texts. “where r.u?!”
It seemed such an innocuous question, didn’t it? Maybe I was reading too much into it. “Sorry, traffic! Luv u. uok?” I texted back.
“I’m fine.”
Oh shit, I thought. I’m dead!
I bought her a subscription to the gym.
What’s wrong with that? It’s not as if I’d told her she was getting fat or anything. I’d thought she might like a bit of time to herself; work off the stress of the day.
Nevertheless, I could sense the coldness even from her texts. “where r.u?!”
It seemed such an innocuous question, didn’t it? Maybe I was reading too much into it. “Sorry, traffic! Luv u. uok?” I texted back.
“I’m fine.”
Oh shit, I thought. I’m dead!
June 15, 2015
Johnny Whispers
Sean Cogar, also known as Johnny Whispers, was a quiet man. It didn’t pay to be chatty in his line of work.
Sitting in the chair beside the bed, he basked in peaceful contentment, at one with the world. He just watched you sleep, and savoured the moment.
Almost reluctantly he rose and quietly lifted the oil painting off the wall above the bed, careful not to disturb your slumber. It was a Monet, but he suspected it to be a fake. He hadn’t come for the painting, however.
With deft fingers he caressed the dial on the wall safe.
Sitting in the chair beside the bed, he basked in peaceful contentment, at one with the world. He just watched you sleep, and savoured the moment.
Almost reluctantly he rose and quietly lifted the oil painting off the wall above the bed, careful not to disturb your slumber. It was a Monet, but he suspected it to be a fake. He hadn’t come for the painting, however.
With deft fingers he caressed the dial on the wall safe.
