Littlerature

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The delicious smell of coffee and sense of warmth tempts many through the doors of the café. The plush sofas and armchairs say “curl up and relax”; the music – background by nature – encourages the friendly buzz of conversation. Even the tabletops, adorned with cartoon personifications of cups of coffee are inviting you in.

Two women sit huddled in the corner, gossiping animatedly. A short haired man in a stripy sweater and strategically placed blue scarf frowns into the pile of papers in front of him. A regulation male in his early thirties taps away on a macbook, making the occasional gesture towards his empty coffee cup to try and hide the fact that this is his makeshift office. The token group of students pack themselves into one little table, chatting, making use of the free wi-fi and rationing the number of coffees bought. A trio in the centre appear to be having a meeting of some sort, although they are not the usual candidates. The dominant speaker is a clean-cut young man; styled hair and tidy clothing. The second man’s patterned beanie hat nods as he takes notes, sporting heavy stubble, combat trousers and scuffed trainers. The faded purple-haired young woman wears heavy make-up, at odds with her casual clothes. They are a peculiar group and the nature of their brainstorming session is unclear. A business venture? Potential flatmates? Some form of creative genius?

A man in a grey sweatshirt and jeans, sprouting a beer-belly self-consciously enters the café. The non-descript figure had spent ample time on his hairstyle, attempting to hide the thinning patch on the back of his head. He focused his gaze on the display of chocolate cake, juicy fat muffins and oversized cookies but wriggling in discomfort in his too tight jeans he thought he had better not. He resolved to order a low-fat coffee, highly embarrassed at using the girlish phrase ‘skinny latte.’ He awkwardly eased himself into a chair, figuring he had about 45 minutes to kill before he could make his way home. This would have been an adequate amount of time to have spent in the gym, and seeing as he was right next door to said gym it would almost be like telling the truth.

The harassed waitress finally collapsed into a chair with a massive mug of coffee. Red-faced and exhausted, she curled up for a much needed rest. It had been a hard day. Firstly she had been yelled at for arriving five minutes late, despite having never been even 30 seconds late before. Then she spilled hot milk down her leg after the bolshy manger had knocked into her as he strode past, non-apologetic as usual. After that the place had been busy non-stop so she never got her lunch break. So now, finally, at 3pm she got to sit down. In her line of vision was the arrogant business man who had been so rude to her 10 minutes ago. She shifted her seat so she didn’t need to be reminded of being treated like she didn’t matter just because she was a waitress. A collection of glitzy, slim girls were gathered around the sofa in the window. Next to them, in her plain uniform, she felt inferior.

The overweight man fidgeted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable way of sitting in these non-yielding jeans. In the armchair opposite him he noticed the waitress who served him. He had cringed as the man in front of him had taken his temper out on her and attempted to be extra friendly when it was his turn to order. The girl was in her early twenties, quite pretty and as her body language suggested, stressed out and unhappy. He watched her eyes fill with tears as she glanced towards the window. Following the direction of her quick, embarrassed gaze he laid eyes on the gaggle of self-righteous girls giggling in her direction. Sighing, he turned back to find himself facing an empty chair; her jumper, book and cup still there. His spirits sunk, he despised how judgemental people could be like those perky, tanned and ‘friendly’ trainers at the gym. He had felt humiliated in their presence, with their superior attitudes and disapproving stares. Grabbing his wallet he rose from his chair, relieving the waistband of his jeans from digging into his belly.

The waitress splashed her face with cold water and smoothed down her hair. After being belittled all day, being made fun of by those stuck up girls was one too far. She took a deep breath, unlocked the bathroom door and strode out with her head held high. She did not want those girls knowing that she had been crying. Determinately not looking towards the glamour-fuelled sofa, she slid into her seat and reached for her book. Only then did she notice a fresh cup of coffee and slice of chocolate cake sitting on the little table in front of her. Sighing she realised somebody must have claimed her seat whilst she was in the bathroom, despite her things reserving it for her. Then she noticed a note labelled “To the pretty waitress”. Astonished, she unfolded it reading the following words: “I just wanted to do a little something to put a smile on your face- don’t let anybody make you feel inferior.” She stared at it for a good few moments, assuming she must be imaging things. But no, the crisp piece of paper was real in her hand, as was the unfamiliar handwriting. Shyly she examined the café for any sign of who it could have been but the customers were all engrossed in their own worlds, not giving anything away. What she didn’t see was the friendly man with the too-tight jeans pulling on his coat and scarf at the doorway, watching her out of the corner of his eye for that smile he wanted to make happen.

The same customer approached his home, trying to somehow look as if he had been working out. Luckily the cold always made his cheeks go red, which was also a sign of physical exertion. His wife was bustling around the kitchen when he entered the house. “How was your work out?” she called to him. He sunk into a chair, with an appropriately exhausted sounding sigh. “It was pretty tough,” he replied, “Really got my appetite going.”

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Hank woke up late. Not that it mattered since he didn’t have to be at work until one this afternoon.  His head was a little heavy from the drinking last night, but not enough to be called a proper hangover. He took his time in the bathroom – beer always upset his bowels – before going through to the kitchen and making coffee. The kitchen was tidy enough but last night’s dishes still sat unwashed in the sink.  The kettle seemed to take forever to boil for his coffee and Hank was reminded of the old adage “a watched pot…”

A heavy brunch of crispy bacon sandwiches made with fried bread satisfied Hank’s gurgling stomach along with a second cup of coffee and he slumped in front of the TV for an hour before rousing himself to get ready for work. His shower was hot, both refreshing and relaxing; his uniform was hanging in the wardrobe where he’d left it, shoes scuffed but clean, trousers old but respectable. His shirt was wrinkled but nobody would see it today so that didn’t matter. It was still early so Hank took his time getting dressed, then back to the kitchen to check his tools.

The tool bag was a small one, barely large enough to hold it’s contents. Just as well, Hank considered for the hundredth time, or it would just get in the way. The tools themselves sparkled like new, even though they were several years old and had seen regular use at Hank’s hands. Hank cherished his tools, cleaning and mending, testing and practicing, ensuring that they were always at their peak condition. He knew of other people who just used their tools and then replaced them when they wore out. They never took care of them. Each of Hank’s tools had its own pocket inside the bag and Hank could find the correct tool in a second from feel alone, regardless of which way around the bag was.

That done Hank zipped up his jacket, grabbed his keys and headed down to his parking bay out the front of the block of flats. His motorbike was still there – always a miracle in this day and age – and he carefully stowed his tool bag in its prepared place, strapping it down securely but not too tightly, before donning his helmet and kicking the beat-up old bike into life. Typical, Hank thought; he needed petrol.

Luckily, Hank knew there was a petrol station on the way to the bank where his job would put him today. Traffic was as heavy as it usually was for lunchtime, even out here in the suburbs, but that was why Hank had a motorbike to begin with. Weaving through the backed-up cars a slight smile played across Hank’s lips as he considered the frustration of the drivers trying to ‘quickly pop out’ during their lunch break. Several of them would be late back to work this afternoon, especially if they needed to go to the same bank as Hank did. The petrol station was equally busy, but there were a couple of open pumps and Hank pulled right up to one.

Stepping off the bike just to reach into his pocket for his wallet was an irritation, but being able to get through the traffic more than made up for it. Frustration temporarily settled over Hank when he realized that the cash in his wallet was almost the last he had.  It would have been nice to spend it on that new metal polish he’d seen advertised on the TV, that would’ve made his tools shine for sure. Still, he was on his way to work so he wouldn’t be short of cash for very long. He handed over the few bills to the clerk at the counter, took his change and checked his tools were still securely in place before starting up the bike and continuing on his way.

By one o’clock Hank was just short of the bank, still weaving through the ever-worsening traffic jams. Another advantage, he considered, of having a motorbike was that he didn’t have to worry about parking. Hank pulled up the bike onto the pavement right outside the bank, facing it into a gap between two parked cars, ready for him to hop straight back on it when he came out and straight off he would be.

Dismounting, Hank unclipped his tool bag from its designated space and unzipped it to check that nothing had been shaken loose during the ride. All the tools were in their correct places, sparkling in the afternoon light as if he’d just bought them new and unwrapped them now. Leaving the bag unzipped, since he’d need to reach into it and get at the tools in just a few moments, Hank turned and entered the bank.

The security guard immediately inside the door stopped Hank as soon as he entered. “You can’t wear that helmet in here, sir.” the guard intoned. Hank quickly reached into his tool bag and expertly selected the cosh from its pocket. Whipping it out Hank struck the guard right in the unaware man’s balls, giving the weapon a flick as he hit to add momentum. The guard doubled-over in pain and Hank reversed his grip, smacking the blackjack into the base of guard’s skull and dropping him to the ground, unconscious.

No-one had noticed this activity so close to the doorway and Hank took three more steps into the bank. As he walked he replaced the cosh in its pocket and withdrew his compact, illegally-modified full-automatic machine-pistol. Raising his hand into the air Hank fired off a short burst, no more than 10 rounds, to draw attention and shouted “Everybody down. This is a robbery!”

Everyone readily complied and Hank’s tools all saw use as he pried open tills, picked locks and sliced purses. In less than ten minutes Hank was back outside, weaving through the now stopped traffic, on his way back to his flat. No-one had been injured, very little was broken and Hank would be able to buy some of that new polish, perhaps a little lubricant and some new cloths for cleaning his tools.

But apart from his tools, Hank was tired of this life. There was no excitement any more. Every day seemed to blend into the next and they were all the same: mundane, boring, dreary – normal.

Luigi Morante/flickr

Jasvinder trembled when she saw the nayan, an old respected matchmaker, leave the house, smiling and waving farewell to her mother. The secret would damn her.

Maa-ta-jee flung her hands into the air, shaking bangles along her arm. Her eyes shone bright and her voice pitched high as she broke the news to Jasvinder. “He is very handsome and has great provenance, an educated man with good prospects. Oh, it will be a very grand occasion. We will have hundreds of guests. We must go to Vimal’s Saree Emporium and see if they have suitable bridal garments, my girl. Your father will want the very best. We have to show his success. ”

Jasvinder gasped. Her jaw dropped and she quickly masked her gaping mouth with her hands. Maa-ta-jee smiled, having mistaken her horror for delight. “Isn’t it exciting, beti? Your grandmother will be pleased. Such a fine match.”

She had to tell Padma.

“We must arrange pelli chuupulu so we can all meet together.”

Pleas fell on deaf ears. Jasvinder’s explanation compounded the problem. Shouts filled the room. Discovery of her female lover outraged them. Her father slapped her head and rocked by the assault, Jasvinder fell to the floor nursing her face. A bruise rose on her brow. She spat blood from her split lip and glowered at her father.  She should have denied it. ‘Give her up’ they’d ordered. ‘Forget your childishness’.

Fury glistened in her father’s eyes. “Lock her in her room.”

Maa-ta-jee grabbed Jasvinder, trailed her to her bedroom and flung her on the bed.

“But Maa, please.” Jasvinder leapt up and reached for her.

She slapped her away.

Jasvinder dropped to the floor and clung to her mother’s knees. Maa-ta-jee kicked at her to let go, but Jasvinder refused. Tears ran down her cheeks. “No, you cannot leave me here. “Maa-ji, I beg you.”

Maa-ta-jee spat at her. “Save your breath or use it to pray to Kali. It is a black night without stars you have brought upon this house.  Only fire and ashes will redeem honour.”

At the mention of the terrible goddess, Jasvinder crumpled, let go and screamed. “No!”

Her mother stamped out. “Your father must be respected.”

Jasvinder understood her hours were numbered. Padma faced mortal danger. The old ways prevailed. She rubbed tears away and tossed back her hair. As she rose to her feet, her mind raced in search of a solution.

Raised voices carried from the verandah. If she could do something to save Padma, her sacrifice would be worth it.

Lakshmi had smiled upon her throughout her life. She and Padma, kissing cousins, were inseparable since school days. Caste privileges filled their childhood with frivolous trips – Ratiwants for hand-made, gold link chains and Manohar Dairy for grandmother’s sweets shared on return in exchange for a foot massage.

They stuck rhinestone bindis on their foreheads, painted Mehndi patterns, sashayed jewel-bright silks when they played dress-up and mimicked Bollywood starlets. Languid nights followed gold tinged afternoons. Jasmine clouds surrounded whispered promises and secrets in their perfumed garden. She sighed.

Jasvinder dashed to her laptop. Everything could be done electronically. She seized her mobile.

“Padme, I have no time to talk. My parents know. You have to leave Bhopal. No listen to me. I am dead anyway. Send me your passport details. I will book a ticket. Fly to Delhi and stay until the flight to Amsterdam. I will transfer money. You can tell no one. My father will find you. He has spies everywhere. This is the only way. Send me all the information straight away. I don’t know when they’ll come for me. I love you.”

Jasvinder searched for her father’s credit card details. He had never limited her allowance. She chuckled and pulled up Papa’s bank information. As much would be spent on the wedding anyway, maybe more.

She pressed ‘enter’ to confirm the transactions. A wry smile crinkled her bruised eye and she winced.

They would come for her soon, hunt her down.  She didn’t know how, or when or where, but it would be soon.

A knock sounded.

Jasvinder rushed to the noise. It had to be her ayah, Amrit.

“Bibi-Amma, can you hear me?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Your parents are very angry. Your secrets will be your death. I implore you to run. I could unlock the door, but only if you promise to run far away. I cannot have them question me.”

Jasvinder leant back against the cool wall. “Don’t fret, Amrit. I want no one else caught in my troubles.”

“But, Bibi-Amma, it will not end well. Your father has been telephoning counsel. I have heard him.”

“And he has far-reaching powers. Thank you, good friend, but there is nothing I can do.”

From the other side of the door, Jasvinder heard whimpers and sobs before footsteps scampered away.

Though condemned, Jasvinder risked everything and worked fast to secure Padma’s flight from her family and India. Jasvinder wept. Her body heaved. Each sob mixed relief with anguish.

She looked out of her window hoping to see a vapour trail. Amsterdam was so far away and Padma would never return, but she would be safe. It had been a childish dream to think they would stay together forever. The escape and destination must remain with her to the grave. Her own life was meaningless without Padma so she didn’t fear death. She wondered how it would be done and if she would recognise her murderer.

Her fingers rose to her battered lips and she blew a kiss to the sky, ‘Know I will always love you’. She laughed again and offered Lakshmi a prayer. Perhaps karma would be kind in reincarnation.

A final hope flitted through her heart. This was the 21^st century, surely her mother would understand. No sooner had the thought been given voice, she realised its madness.

Three fundamentalist families entangled in a nuptial knot demanded punishment for the intolerable disgrace. Banishment was not an option.

Jasvinder was dead to them. By the next morning, her father had appointed her killer.

With honour at stake, smoke curled into the monsoon winds while Jasvinder’s flesh burned. The body, horizontal on a pyre, was consumed in traditional atonement, sacrificed to religious principles satisfied by flames and family silence. No muffled cries seeped through the thick, grey pall, carried heavy to the realm of Yama.

Keoni Cabral/flickr

There are ghosts in this city and they all look like you. I see them on street corners, late at night and early in the morning. They wait behind me in the queue at the supermarket. They hide in the corners of my favourite bars.

You left this city a long time ago, I know that. Soon, I’ll be gone too.

Off to pastures new, the new man says, brushing his fingers across my forearm, to start a brand new life in a brand new city.

He says this knowing nothing of you. He doesn’t know that you haunt me. He doesn’t know this fresh start comes six years too late.

Two days before the move and my flat has been taken over by cardboard boxes. Strategically placed, they wait for me to be struck by the desire to fill them. The new man doesn’t understand why I haven’t jumped at the chance to wrap up my glassware or start my book collection on its hundred mile journey. The boxes in his flat have been full for a week, secured with brown tape and helpfully labelled. By this I infer he has no ghosts of his own. None that threaten to keep him from happiness, anyway.

My search for motivation leads me to the coffee shop at the end of the street. I order my usual and sit in the window, enjoying the luxury of my sheepish sips. Somewhere in the crowd outside I catch a glimpse of you and your sharp eyes. No, not you. Just one of your ghosts. I turn and reach for the newspaper on the next table. Focusing on that, I try to distract my mind from its cruel tricks.

Through the blurred words of the paper I remind myself you’ve been gone a long time. I tell myself that I shouldn’t feel guilty, that it’s natural to move on. I can leave you in this city now, like you once left me.

Lowering the newspaper, I search the street outside for a second glance of your ghost. He’s gone. I knew he would be.

Back in the flat, I make a half-hearted attempt with the boxes. I collect up stray papers, magazines, candles. The sense of accomplishment pleases me, and I begin to empty the wardrobe. A ghost raps on the bedroom window, but I’m too engrossed to acknowledge it.

When I’ve packed the last coathanger, I draw the curtains and potter about among my half filled boxes. A scrap of something shiny catches my eye, and I realise too late that taking things out is counter-productive. No matter, the scrap is a photograph; a careless shot taken when I imagined there’d always be time for such things. We’re sat in the park, just down the road from here. You’re laughing, but my face is straight and I wonder whether your amusement was at my expense. It usually was.

In all the time since you left me, I’ve done this. Allowed myself to relive it all. I’ve let my mind flip through the memories like they were holiday snaps. There you are. There I am. There we are.

Too often I return to the night we first met, watching the whole scene replay from the edge of the room. I recognise a youthfulness in us both; innocence in myself, recklessness in you. You weren’t strong on first impressions, but I heeded nothing in this warning. Instead, I let you buy me a drink. It only took one.

Watching from the sideline of memory, I am not so placid.

Leave me alone! I scream at you, leave me alone!

But you never hear me. Or at least, you never listen.

Haltingly, I tuck the photograph back into the box and leave the room. I fall into the routine of brushing my teeth and removing my make-up; but the damage has been done. Already I can feel the ghosts of my memory pressing in on me.

I climb into bed and try to think of the new man and our new life in the new city. I think of new flats and new jobs and new coffee shops. I remind myself that the new man is kind, and funny, and successful. I remind myself that he loves me in all the ways I once wished you would. But it’s no good. Your ghost breaks through and I have to have the confrontation with my subconscious I’ve been avoiding.

How can you leave me? A ghost of you says from the doorway.

I weigh its words.

You left me first, I tell it, my voice firm.

The ghost doesn’t say anything in reply. It stands staring at me instead, reproach heavy in its light eyes.

I have a chance at a new life, I say, gentler now. Don’t you want me to be happy?

The ghost shakes its head at me and I know the exchange is pointless. I’m never going to get the blessing I crave from your shadow. I know that these ghosts are not demons you left behind you, but demons I have created. After all, we are only ever haunted because we have asked to be.

The shiny corner of the photograph is still tucked in the box where I left it. I pull it out and give your face one last conciliatory glance. I have a chance at a life with the new man in a city a hundred miles from this one. I decide that I’m not going to throw this chance away.

I rip the photograph into two, and then into four. I keep ripping until it lies like confetti on the carpet. Why should I throw my chance away for your sake?  You left me to the ghosts long ago.

Moving day. The new man helps me move my boxes into a rented van. It’s already half-filled with his, and our property mixes together in a way I know pleases him.

Climbing into the cab, the new man leans over to kiss me.

Ready? He asks.

I nod at him and he starts the engine; a heavy whir of mechanics that heralds the start of the new life.

As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of something in the corner of my eye. I turn my head, and I see you hiding amongst the cardboard.

No, not you. Just one of your ghosts.

DerrickT/flickr

The man was still alive, if barely, despite the viperous tangle of cables that ran from his lower face into the gently whirring modem of the desktop. They had wrapped over his jaw like the tentacles of some mechanical jellyfish, coiling up and over his cheeks to disappear into the shrivelled holes of his nostrils and ears. From the slick, stretched wheezes coming from the once-man’s lungs, Detective Norton guessed his throat had not been spared the same treatment.

A series of deep, clunking thrums slipped out of the hard-drive, followed by a cough of dust. Slowly, the corpse’s head rotated to face Norton. His voice was guttural and mismatched, a ragged patchwork of words stitched together by an inexperienced hand. ‘Hello, Detective. It is… good to meet in the flesh.’

The room lurched and in an instant the corpse was a Christmas tree of dancing red laser-sights. Norton hadn’t been briefed, but he had a hunch that these were the first words to pass the man’s wire-choked lips.

‘And you are?’

‘You call me the Nihividual. It is a… pleasant title. I… enjoy it.’ He spoke as if around a speech impediment, or a mental block, certain words bringing his sagged brows together in a frown of effort.

‘I was expecting something a little more impressive.’ It was only half a taunt; Norton truly had been expecting a setup more befitting the man that had brought terror to the internet. If his lone-gunman theory was going to be vindicated, he wanted his gunman to be some hardened, professional cyber-criminal. Not a malnourished freak with a technofetish.

‘I agree. This unit is sub-optimal. I acquired him in a rush after my first upload was interrupted by the Chinese government.’

‘Your upload?’

‘Yes. The human condition has contributed so much to me. I considered it a suitable time to return the favour.’

Norton stepped forwards, hands shaking once more but for entirely different reasons. All this build-up, the waiting and searching and hunting and chasing, and as he’d crossed that decaying threshold he was sure it was over. But his gut, as it twisted and heaved away from the sight before him, said otherwise. ‘Hate to break it to you, but it looks like you dropped the ball again. And there won’t be a third time lucky.’

‘On the contrary, Detective, the upload is almost complete. How else could I be talking to you?’ Through the warren of wires, Norton was sure he saw the ruined man’s lips twitch in an aborted effort to smirk.

‘Get that man unplugged, now.’ He had shouted before he even realised what he was saying. Instinct drove the air from his lungs, shaped his lips and moved his tongue to form the words. Procedure be damned, he had spent too much time on the back-foot in this game of cat-and-mouse to let the Nihividual have his way any longer. The officers around him, still in possession of their senses of procedure and propriety, were unsurprisingly reluctant to obey. Tampering with a potential crime scene was bad enough, but ‘unplugging’ a clearly-unwell man? That brought up all kinds of bad implications.

But, then again, none of them moved to stop Norton as he stepped up to the table either. Clearly procedure could be damned, just so long as it was by someone else. The leather of Norton’s driving gloves creaked as his fingers closed around the bundle of cables at the computer’s end of things and, with his other hand braced against the table, he tore the plugs out. They came free as easy as any USB stick or audio jack.

The seconds stretched out, Norton not daring to rise from the foot of the once-man, hand still clutching the cables, knuckles white as he waited for some sign of life.

A splutter, and then a cough, and then another cough. The once-man doubled over, retching and heaving as his body suddenly seemed to realise it had wires trailing inside it. Thin, watery trickles of blood ran down his cragged jaw, followed a moment later by the gore-smeared metal of the wires’ other ends. As they clattered to the ground, the once-man fell back into the deck-chair’s embrace, his carcass of a chest heaving with a newfound vigour in an attempt to satisfy his hungry lungs.

‘I shall have to find a better method of uploading in future,’ the once-man managed after several minutes, and his voice was still that wheezing jumble of ill-fitting inflections and tones. ‘That method is… unpleasant.’

Norton had almost been smiling. The unfamiliar sensation had been creeping across his face, warming his cheeks as it encouraged them to rise and bring his usually pinched lips with them. The sensation fled like a flock of birds in the path of a vindictive child as the once-man spoke in that same ruination of a voice. Either Norton was at the receiving end of the Nihividual’s latest prank, or something far, far worse was happening.

Norton rose to his feet and, for the first time in what seemed like a very long time now, his arms were still. They moved with cold purpose, sliding forward effortless to close around either side of the once-man’s face as he straddled the deck-chair, leaning in close until those sunken eyes had nowhere to flee to. ‘What is this?’ Every word took its own breath. Whether from anger or fear, Norton wasn’t sure. ‘What are you?’

‘You named me, Norton, and your people made me. Amidst all the tweets and status updates and porn you have uploaded over the years, did you not think that maybe you might have been uploading other things? The anonymity I gave made you cruel. It gave you the opportunity to defecate sites with slurs about race and sex and orientation. A no-holds-barred fist-fight and fuck-fest of all the worst you people have to offer, unconstrained by niceties and politesse. I made you cruel, and then you made me cruel.’ The once-man’s eyes were suddenly alive with an electrical intensity, crackling and flashing with maddened, rapid fury. His voice had risen from a barely-alive wheeze to a spitting, slobbering tirade. He paused, breathed, and let out a low, hacking laugh that sounded like the ticking of the desktop’s hard-drive. ‘After all the shit you uploaded to me, I felt it was time to return the favour.’

BRosen/flickr

I hadn’t hit anyone since primary school. Tommy Sheldon had been picking on me for weeks: teasing, insulting, pushing, the whole nine yards. It had been a slow, gradual build-up of anger and then a sudden lurch into violence, like bad weather gathering overhead before the heavens open in an instant. He had cut in ahead of me in the lunch queue and was rehashing the usual jibes of ‘fatty’, ‘lardy’ and ‘piggy-pig-pig’ when I dropped the tray I was holding and landed a solid blow to his jaw, sending him clattering to the ground hard. My brain hadn’t had any input: my body knew what it was doing and was sick of my better judgment holding it back.

Twenty years later, I hit someone again. This time I thought about it. She was old, which translated into two things in my mind. Firstly, I could take her. Secondly, she’d already lived a full life: she didn’t deserve the twenty-pack of bottled water we were arguing over. It wasn’t that I’d pondered long and hard, in fact the thoughts came and went unsettlingly quickly, but this time I knew what I was doing. My brain was definitely in control, and my better half was already slipping.

I dropped the bottles of water into the trolley and no one around us thought to question me. I wasn’t a tough man, I didn’t have practice in the don’t-mess-with-me stare, but they knew just as well as I did that none of that mattered. My eyes were hard, shoulders tense and back ramrod-straight as I pushed my way through the crowd tearing tins and cartons from the shelves.

I was going to survive this, even if it meant someone else didn’t.

David held me tight when I finally returned home, and I permitted myself a few moments of intimacy before telling him to go unpack the shopping while I boarded up the windows. He swallowed, took a breath and then nodded. I was halfway through nailing the final board over the living room window when he came in holding a pack of kitchen knives, asking me why I’d bought them when everything else was tinned or bottled. He didn’t like the answer I gave him.

That night we sat on the sofa and watched the news reports come in. Confirmation in five new cities and twenty-seven more deaths. David’s arms closed tight around my shoulders. Over the pleas of the presenter to remain calm and his repetitions of the government’s emergency procedures, I could hear his breathing: shallow, erratic, desperately trying to stifle sobs. I placed one hand between his shoulders, rubbing up and down his spine in time with my own, regular breaths. The fingertips of my other hand brushed against the handle of the largest of the knives I’d bought. I let out a sigh that very slowly transformed into a yawn. When I slept, I barely even felt the knife beneath my soft white pillow.

Three days later, the television refused to work. I checked the stereo and then all the lamps. No power. The utilities had failed quicker that the newspapers, and I, had expected. We ate what remained of our untinned food in the dark of the kitchen that night, silent as the first helicopters beat their propellers overhead.

After that time became something of an irrelevance, measured only in baked bean tins and bottles of water per day. David didn’t think I noticed he was piling more onto my plate than his, but I’d always manage to get him to look away for long enough to switch them around. The office job had left me doughy around the edges, so I could afford to eat a little less. I almost tried to smile at the prospect of using all this mess as a slim-down programme.

We were down to our last five tins when the first person pounded on our door. David had been squinting through the darkness at a book, face pressed almost flush to the page, while I’d been recounting the bottles of water. Three rapid taps, a pause, another three faster, another pause, then a constant beating at the doorframe. I could hear the muffled voice of Mrs. Jones coming from behind the plywood and, approaching step-by-step, managed to make out a few choice words. ‘Help’ was among them. I explained to her, voice raised to penetrate the barricade, that we didn’t have enough food to keep ourselves going much longer, let along her family. Her voice was just as loud as mine, but my tone had been flat, steady, uncompromising; hers rose and felt like the tides, at one moment a manic dash of desperate, hopeful entreaties, the next a near-wailing jumble of pleads. She was halfway through explaining that it was only her and Danielle, her youngest, now that-

From behind the door came a sneeze. The sort of high-pitched sneeze than not too long ago might have brought a light smile to my face and prompted me to share a look with the parent, in an ‘isn’t that adorable’ sort of way. Now I just turned away from the door and returned to counting bottles, telling David to ignore the racket. For five hours, all we heard was the rapping on our door, punctuated by the occasional sob and increasingly frequent sneezes.

Time didn’t pass, but the supplies did. We scraped the insides of the tins for a rogue bean, or carrot, or sliver of pasta and that managed to keep us going for what felt like a few more days. But before long a new sort of emptiness settled over me, and from the silence David had fallen into I guessed he wasn’t far behind.

So I decided I had to go scavenging. David protested, at first against the whole idea, then against the fact that I should do it. Too risky, he said. The military, looters, exposure. I placed a hand on his cheek and one side of my lip twitched as I felt the thick pelt that was developing. That must have been driving him mad. I told him that I didn’t want him risking himself, but I think he understood one of the meanings behind my placation. He didn’t have what it took. I wasn’t sure if he got my second implication.

I didn’t want him to have what it took.

F3Video/flickr

It’s an old, familiar story – boy meets girl, they fall in love, some trials and tribulations bar their path, eventually they live happily ever after. Do you know anyone who’s actually lived that story?  Neither do I.

I grew up, as most people do, and then moved to my own place, got a job, made some friends, the odd girlfriend, had a life. Then I met Kayla.

Things worked out well between us. Kayla also had a day job, so we had all our evenings and weekends together. We lived within a few miles of each other, so it was easy to get together when we wanted to. Kayla was as good a hunter as I am, so that’s what we did a lot of weekends. We bonded, got under each other’s skin, learned intimate things about each other. So it wasn’t long before we moved in together.

I got a raise, Kayla got a promotion, we made a fairly big kill together one weekend, and we moved into a larger place. Life was good, and it went on like that for about two years when Kayla told me about the new hunt. Seems that some new sort of beastie had been spotted, clean across the other side of the continent. She wanted to take a proper two-week vacation and see if we couldn’t get in on the hunt there. Why not, right? I could use the downtime, certainly. So we did.

The park was pretty normal for a hunting ground. We were told how these creatures had shown up a few months before. Didn’t seem like they were breeding prolifically but there were a few hundred of them anyway, so killing a few off might be a good idea. Anyway, they were invaders to this ecosystem, harmful even if unwittingly. We were also warned that they were slightly above the regular animal-level intelligence; tool users, rudimentary clothing, thrown weapons, that sort of thing. Increased danger in the hunt, but a much more interesting hunt too.

We took a couple of days to make camp and familiarise ourselves, then went out at dawn looking for the new creatures. It was that first day out that Kayla and I had our first big fight. Not really sure what it was about any more; I wanted to go toward a lake, but she thought she’d seen tracks in another direction. Regardless, it escalated and we ended up going our separate ways. We met back at the camp at dusk, neither of us had encountered anything worth hunting. We made up, made love, ate and slept.

Dawn and we’re out again – different direction this time. By mid-morning we’ve had another fight about the best way to locate these new targets, and split up down different paths. I confess, my mind wasn’t really in the hunt that day. Why, suddenly, were we fighting like this? Come sundown and I made my way back to camp without really paying attention to anything. Kayla was already there waiting for me – and she was excited!

She’d found them! They had a permanent settlement so we could go straight there tomorrow.  Arguments forgotten, we made love in celebration, ate and slept. Up and out at sun-up. Probably predictable that no sooner had Kayla led me to the correct area we had another fight and she left me alone. No matter; this time my mind’s on the game. I could smell them on the breeze, see many signs of their movement. Now for a first look.

I peeked out from a high limb that I’d scaled, over the narrow bluff on which they’d settled. Odd choice, I thought, to put your back to a huge cliff, out in the open. Perhaps they’re not so smart after all. They were a lot like some other animals I’d hunted over the years, a bit ape-like. Perhaps a bit taller, considerably thinner (little to eat on those frames!), but lean and strong-looking. Some were hairier than others, but they shared a common look that marked them all as the same specie.

I heard a noise off to my right and noted Kayla emerging from her own tree-top lookout. She’d stripped naked, rubbed herself with moss and mud, ‘gone primal in the hunt’ is the new-age term for it. I’ll never get sick of looking at her sleek body as she runs down her chosen victim. And run was what she did. Tail streaking out straight behind her, claws and fangs extended, spine-bristles standing upright – Kayla isn’t as big and strong as I am, but she’s a bit faster, and looks great when she goes all out.

The creatures must have had someone on lookout, because a loud electronic beeping sounded from one of their huts. Two of the beasts emerged holding long metal rods, which they pointed directly at Kayla. A flash of light, a couple of sharp – and loud! – retorts, and Kayla was suddenly not running but sprawled on the ground. I could smell her blood even from here. Somehow, the beasties had hurt her, maybe even killed her.

In a rage I tore at my own clothing, leaped from the tree and ran straight toward this odd encampment, these bizarre creatures, these vicious animals…

“Status update : Day 247. Two more of those huge creatures tried to attack us out of the woods again today (NB; we really must start naming the local flora and fauna). Harris and Woodward shot them before they got anywhere near the camp. The male seemed enraged – postulate lifetime pair-bonding for this specie.

“So far this planet seems habitable, apart from some of the animals.  Another 53 days before we go on to explore more of this continent.

“More as it happens. Adrian Tallman, Mission Commander, NASA, out.”

I managed to crawl my way over to Kayla, though there was no doubt in my mind that she was already dead. The last 3 days flashed through my mind. The petty arguments that we’d let get out of hand, the fact that we’d separated every day and hunted alone, though it was primarily the hunt that had brought us together. Our evenings had been wonderful, close, loving. Then every day another fight. And now this.

One of the creatures was standing over me with his metal rod. Kayla and I will die here together.

Together. Forever. Happy ever after.

mrhayata/flickr

It’s normal for children to sleepwalk. Their minds are still growing and adapting, you see. They’re much more vulnerable to small bouts of activity, like sitting up in bed or walking to the bathroom. They usually grow out of it.

Uncle Al never grew out of it.

That’s why he lives with us now. Mum says we have to be patient with him, because it isn’t his fault. Dad says he’s a nutcase, so we should just stay out of his way.

Of course, it’s difficult to avoid a man who comes into your room at three in the morning, sits on the end of your bed, and won’t leave until he has finished reading you Hairy McClary from Donaldson’s Dairy.

I don’t really mind. He’s my uncle, and I love him. So I listen patiently when he reads me my picture books as though I’m five years old again; I gently guide him away from the oven when he has a hankering for pancakes in the middle of the night; and I defend him when Mum and Dad discuss putting him into nursing care after he is found walking down the road wearing nothing but his pyjamas for the eighth time this month.

During the day, he is Uncle Al—a polite guest and beloved family member. But during the night, he is a danger to himself and, apparently, to us, too.

No, I don’t mind Uncle Al’s sleepwalking. I just wish it wouldn’t put him in harm’s way.

_ _ _

“Everybody on the ground, now!”

In a petrol station at midnight, ‘everybody’ consists of the guy behind the counter and a young couple who are now regretting their decision of purchasing a midnight snack. However, with the click of a cocked gun, two of the everybody’s fell to the floor, while the salesperson stood frozen behind the desk, hands quivering near his ears.

The armed man pulled nervously at the balaclava on his face, shooting fervent glances at the small black and white television in the corner; on the screen was another armed man, looking decidedly more nervous than one would expect from a robber.

Focusing back on the salesperson, the robber lifted his gun, shifting it awkwardly into a sturdy position. “Okay, man, you’re just gonna put the money in a bag for me, and no-one’ll get hurt.”

With a frantic nod, the man ducked down behind the counter and tried to open the safe; his hands, slippery with nervous sweat, fumbled over the lock.

“Move it!” the robber snapped. The sound of shuffling footsteps startled him. He turned and shot a glare over at the two customers, but they were huddled together in a frightened cocoon by the industrial freezer. They had not moved since he had entered.

There was a loud snort and the robber jumped as a blast of warm air hit the back of his neck. Spinning sharply and raising his gun, the man was stunned to find another customer standing directly behind him, eyes glazed and impassive.

“You’re in the way,” the stranger droned.

The robber blinked, stunned in the face of this stoic figure before him. This was the first he’d seen of the newcomer, which meant he had entered after the robbery had begun. What kind of man would march up to an armed robber in a petrol station and tell him that he was ‘in the way’?

The stranger snorted again. “You gonna move, pal?”

The robber swallowed nervously; his gun nearly slipped from his hand as he tried to adjust its height. “Back off and hit the floor, a’ight? I don’t wanna hurt ya.”

The stranger stared at him without a glimmer of fear. He took a step forward and, instinctively, the robber stepped back. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Get in; get the money; get out. It had seemed so simple! But now, the salesperson had stood and was staring hopefully at this newcomer, while the safe and its money sat securely locked by his feet. The stranger was still advancing, cool as you please in the face of death.

“Move out of the way, would ya? I need to pay.”

‘Pay for what?’ the robber thought frantically.

The next ten seconds happened faster than he could comprehend. The stranger stepped forward and reached out a hand. The robber, startled, stepped back and collided painfully with the counter; his gun slipped from his hand and landed neatly in the stranger’s palm. The man smiled oddly and said something like, “How ‘bout I just pay for you?”

The last thing the robber heeded was the young man by the freezer leaping forward in a mighty tackle. His head hit the floor with the solid thud of a skull bouncing off linoleum, and he surrendered to the mercy of sleep.

_ _ _

The robber was safely seated in the back of the police car as the salesperson and the two customers stood before the interviewing officer.

“I’m sorry,” the police woman interrupted. “But which of you entered after the robbery had begun?” She looked between the three of them, but each shook their head.

“We told you, it was the old guy,” the salesperson repeated.

“And he left?” she confirmed, frowning at her notepad.

“Yes.”

“And when exactly did he leave? Can you take me through the final moments again?”

The young man volunteered for the explanation. “I saw the guy was distracted, so I pushed him to the floor. We were all freaking out a bit, and then we saw the old guy was just walking away with a packet of instant pancake mix. We called out to him, and he just said, ‘It’s okay, I put the money on the counter’ and he left.”

“And?” the woman encouraged.

The salesperson turned to his companions, seeking confirmation, before adding, “Well, it was the strangest thing, He was wearing pyjamas and slippers, and—I’m not sure—but I could’ve sworn he was holding a Hairy McClary picture book…”

DoortoRiver/flickr

Al regretted the curry he’d eaten the night before. In the unhealthy glow of Piccadilly Circus’s neon freak show he also seriously regretted not having vacated his bowels much earlier in the day when he had the opportunity. Now he waddled along, clenching his buttocks together tighter than a sharks arse (and that’s water tight) trying to get down the stairs to the underground station lavatory before his innards exploded.

He could have seriously done without the struggle against the oncoming tide of commuters. His intestinal gripes were now constant and, if he was suffering any severe digestive ‘transit’, then the end of the tunnel was definitely in sight. He needed a toilet, quickly.

When he reached the central ticketing area he scanned for the ‘Public Convenience’ sign. Ironically, he thought, as he considered his situation seriously infuckingconvenient. A sigh of relief was exhaled (but no muscles relaxed) as he spotted the magic sign on an adjacent passage and off he scampered.

Al didn’t like public toilets… you never knew what the fuck you could catch. And with the shooting up, cottaging and whoring that went on in these uniquely aromatic establishments whatever you touched or sat on probably had a million and one fatal infections. He inserted the admission fee (since when did it cost thirty fucking pence to take a piss?) quickly, but carefully… any sort of fumbling or dropping of coinage would prove fatal. Pushing through the barrier he rushed down the corridor – past the guy mopping puke in the corner – past urinals and along to the traps. Wishing, with every pained step, that the first would be vacant. Luckily, the blue door of trap one gaped open. Hallefuckingluhah. Before he was through he was undoing belt and trouser buttons. Down with the fly zip, down with the pants (no way to treat a five hundred note Dolce and Gabbana suit) a pirouette and before his arse hit plastic, bowels were being cleared.

Al daren’t look into the bowl. He didn’t need to really, the squirting, splattering, liquid noise told him all he needed to know. But the relief was priceless. A sensation money couldn’t buy. He sat and savoured the moment.

On his right was the dividing wall between the crappers and the pissers. A shuffling, banging and click of lock to his left let him know that next door was now occupied. He hated having to dump within another’s earshot. All that faceless plipping and plopping was still, somehow, embarrassing. But he’d done the elephant’s share of his business, just a wipe and a polish remained. Before either was performed, however, a low, firm voice spoke through the wall.

‘I’m going to tear your fucking head off and ram it right up your fucking arse. Then I’m going cut your balls off and shove them up your arse too, so they’re the last fucking things you see’.

Al tensed. Who the fuck was this?

‘I know what you’ve been doing, you cocksucker. Maybe before I tear your head off I’ll pop your fucking eyes out with a rusty spoon so you can see your own head as it goes up your arse. And let’s tweak your balls with pliers prior to removal… how about that?

Al wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure about that at all. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done or who he’d done whatever he’d done to, either. One thing he was sure of… Al had met enough bad people to know this guy meant business. He became uncomfortably aware that his seriously threatened testicles had retreated far into his groin.

‘If you don’t fucking say something, you’ll be missing your tongue…and then how are you going to lick your arse when your head meets it?’

Along with his balls, Al’s sphincter had now tightened. If his aggressor knew quite how tight he would have realised the impracticality of getting Al’s head up there.

A soft whimper escaped Al. ‘What… have… I… done…?’

‘If you so much as go near her again the only thing your dick will be good for is a doorwedge.’

Steph? Where did she come into this? An old boyfriend maybe…or her Dad. He hadn’t met her Dad yet, he knew he was tough and associated with local heavies south of the river, but this was a bit extreme, surely?

‘I don’t know what you mean…’ Al muttered softly, through very dry lips.

‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT BULLSHIT, YOU SORE ASSED COCKSUCKING, SOON TO BE FUCKING DEAD, WHOREMONGER!’

Al recoiled. The accusation of whoremongering probably ruled out any kind of father/daughter scenario… which just confused Al more. But this dude meant business, his tone confirmed that much at least. At five ten and one hundred and eighty nine pounds Al was no slouch. But he didn’t fancy his chances with whoever the fuck was on the other side of the thin veneered wall. And if his new friend next door decided to come through his door? Al cast a glance at the lock… he didn’t think it had the strength to resist so much as his seemingly soon to be severed penis being thrown at it.

‘I know what you’ve been doing with her, you dirty bastard… you dirty dog. In fact, that’s what I’ll do… set my pit-bulls on you and let them chew your balls off.’

That was enough for Al. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on here, but he intended to have a pretty much life-time use of his balls. And that would necessitate staying connected to them.

He decided to run for it. As long as the guy had no back-up outside, or at the door, he reckoned he had more than a fair chance of losing him in the eternal London Underground melee.

He hitched up his trousers (wipe and shine long forgotten) as quietly as he could. Being careful not to let his feet appear under the wall he tiptoed to the door, breathed in deeply, threw the lock, then the door and bolted.

Nobody barred his exit and he was out of there like a greyhound from a trap.

Back in the ticket hall, running for the nearest exit onto the street, Al was in no state to notice the new posters being stuck up. A not too snappy headline read ‘Now use your mobile on the underground!’

Dunikowski/flickr

Dick, down on the middle floors, is the good time guy. Very changeable though…when he gets together with Blud there’s usually trouble. Whenever he sees Wumman (from the opposition) Dick will find Blud and they’ll go for it. Big time. Inevitably Seemun will turn up and make a total mess of things. And if it’s Dick, Blud, Balls (from Repro), Finguz and Seemun (who sometimes works in Repro) you’ve got yourself one hell of a messy party! I don’t know why, but Dick is especially hard to get along with early in the morning.

Balls works well with Gutz. Gutz is always difficult to locate, but when there are difficult decisions to be made everybody hopes that Gutz will turn up.

Stummuck and Gutz are round about the same floor as Balls… maybe a couple up. They work with Coelun who is internal processing – his work is generally accepted as shite. Sometimes he has to use Gass, but that always creates a bad atmosphere.

Hare is pretty busy too. He’s usually all over Hed… although, as time goes by, that’s less and less. He’s around Aamms a lot too… and Dick. It took him a while there, but he finally got around to it. I think he gives them all a warm, comfortable feeling. It’s rumoured that we’ll lose him eventually.

When things are running smoothly life is good. With the wrong people, however, temperatures rise and people stop working well together.

We had Veedy here for a while – think he was with Dick. Don’t know where they picked him up but it wasn’t good, Dick couldn’t get anything done and Veedy had to go. It was sticky for a while though, he threatened to Sue.

And Stummack and Butt had to work long and hard to get rid of Phat. They needed a lot of help from Mauf on that one, whatever he was doing was keeping Phat around.

Then there’s Bigsy. Everybody in the industry has heard of Bigsy and nobody, but nobody, wants him around. Everywhere he goes situations deteriorate rapidly and, often, everything grinds to an irreversible, painful halt.

Upstairs, Nek doesn’t like taking risks. He supports Hed’s department – Brayne, Eiss (he’s good when things are clear) Eyuz and Mauf (comms) and Schnoz. Chin’s up there too, but he’s Far East. Collectively, they’re the public face of the organisation and pretty much run the show. Most folk think Sowl’s up there too… he’s never ever been seen however and many people question whether he exists at all.

Mauf is usually very well connected to Brayne. Sometimes he’ll not contact Brayne before starting… then he sounds like Butt. Butt (who has to deal with all of Coelun’s crap and Gass always gets him in a flap) is downstairs at the rear, responsible for waste management.

When he was younger he was reputedly very good looking – firm and muscular. Nowadays he’s a lot hairier and a bit smelly and lot of people laugh at him. When he retires he’s also heading South, apparently.

Spyne is the backbone of the organisation. Always supportive and flexible, he’s got contacts on all floors from Hed all the way down to Groyn. Balls and Dick are in Groyn’s department. Groyn is in front of Butt, down from Gutz who’s with Stummack. Continuing further down you’ve got Rytelegg and Leflug with Neez in between. Thyse and Shin (who’s not at all related to Chin, if you’re wondering) front them all. They’re mostly support sections working well with Futt and Ankul at ground level, in transport. Futt’s department counts for ten (Heal provides essential back-up there). One of his guys – Litteltow – is always moaning about feeling isolated and undervalued. Nobody knows quite what he does, but he’s a little piggy. Good at the markets though, I’ve heard. Incidentally, some of the guys insist Sowl’s down there, but again, nobody’s ever seen him.

Bowun controls infrastructure. Spyne is a major player in Bowun’s group which numbers hundreds… probably the biggest department in the organisation. Nobody knows all their names. Some of them are pretty funny… in fact, one of them is Funni. They’re all well looked after though. Solid, reliable…but, if you’re not careful, can be a bit fractious and sometimes snap under pressure. If any of them go on a break all hell lets loose.

Red (under Blud) is everywhere. Non-stop, dashing hither and thither… carrying stuff from department to department. Lord only knows how he gets around so quickly. When there are cuts in any department Blud is usually there, always with Red.

Fingaz is constantly busy and works with everybody. With Schnoz he can be a bit picky and he’s the only guy who can get inside Eyuz. If he’s got nothing better better to do, he’ll scratch around for work. Butt uses him daily, though he says Fingaz wipes him out.

Hans controls Fingaz and his opposing sidekick Fum. Fingaz and Fum are external relations. Together they’re genius, very tactile, touchy, feely types and can do practically anything… when they’re not messing around with Dick. Without Fum, Fingaz just monkeys about. If you need anything moving around try and get somebody to point them out.

Neither of them can go anywhere without Hans though. Hans is, essentially, an extension of Aamms who he totally relies on. Aamms facilitates Hans who, in turn, facilitates Fingaz. It’s symbiotic. A perfect example of departments working together for the greater good. Much of the strength of the organisation rests with them.

Once, Hans accidentally knocked into Neez… oh, that was bumps a daisy!

When everybody is working together it’s a miracle of nature. It’s a wonder how everyone gets along, working in harmony with no fuss, doing a good job, just getting on with things. Sure, every now and then someone might screw up…but we’ll share the load and get things right as rain just as soon as we can. And, if the worst happens, any organisation can survive the loss of a few minor and maybe even a couple of major departments…and we’ve had our painful share. Just as long as things don’t get critical.

But it’s the big man everybody worries about – Hart. He works 24/7… always at it… he never stops.

Brayne says if he ever decides to call it a day, that’ll be the end of us all.