short story

The End of the Road Cafe… part two

BruceLeave a comment

(This can be read without reading part one, but if you want you can find part one here)

_______________________

Ian stood open mouthed watching the car disappear behind a dusty cloud. He half-expected the car to stop, to turn round. To return. For Gemma to open the door of the car and tell him to get in, of course she wasn’t going to leave him. Not like this. Not now. Not here, anyway.
But no, of course she wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t stupid. Their relationship wasn’t a ‘forever’ thing, they both knew that. Even if he had wanted it to be. At first, at least.
He closed his mouth, looking behind him to see if anyone was watching. He had a sudden feeling that Gary, was standing there, laughing at him like he did when they were kids: “Ha ha! You look like a right gormless dick! What’s the matter, bro? Gonna cry? You big girl”.
Ian wiped at his eyes. No, he wasn’t going to fall apart. Not this time.
There was no one there. Unless someone was watching from the cafe. He peered at the building. No one at the window, not that he could see. Not that he could see much, as the window was covered in hand-painted celtic designs. On the roof, there was the strange arty sculpture thing, made out of things that should have been thrown away, looking vaguely like a woman. Ian couldn’t help but feel she was mocking him, too.
He stepped back and nearly slipped over.
Dog shit.
Brilliant, like he needed any more crap today.
He picked up a stick and, leaning against the wall, scrapped the sole of his shoe.
The café appeared to be open, at least. He could get a coffee, maybe something to eat, gather his thoughts, phone a cab.
Perhaps, it wouldn’t be as hippy-dippy-artsy-fartsy as he feared.
Perhaps things might start to go right, for once. Life might surprise him in a nice way for a change.
Or maybe not.

Brains in his pants

BruceLeave a comment

Sitting half-naked behind the wheel of a 67mustang, handcuffed to a totally naked beautiful blond hadn’t been on Sheriff Raiden’s bucket list.
But, of course, when the opportunity presented, he hadn’t said no.
Probably not the wisest thing he had ever done, in retrospect. But – to be fair – how could he have known her husband would show up?
He struggled again against the dead weight of the woman.
The very dead weight of the very dead woman.
He was trapped: handcuffed to a dead woman and the steering wheel of a classic car.
His gun (used to shoot his lover, and flung back into the car), his badge and his mobile phone were in the passenger footwell, tantalisingly out of reach.
As the lake-water filled the car he reflected that it wasn’t the first time his brain had been overruled by his dick.
But it did very much look like it would be the last.

The path

BruceLeave a comment

Jonty stared at the forest floor. As he watched mushrooms appeared from beneath the green foilage. Making a popping sound as they appeared they swelled, within seconds, into what looked like large grey flagstones. Moments later a path of fungi snaked in front of him, disappearing into the forest.
“Where does it lead?” he asked Klay.
The little man shrugged, his green hair, bobbing on his shoulders, like so many apples in a barrel of water. He looked tired, worn out. This bit of magic had taken its toll.
“Who can say?” he said, his high voice barely a whisper. “The magic trails have no signposts. They are not of this world, they exist here for a short time.”
From behind them; Jonty could hear the baying of the Horde. He fancied he could hear the clashing of blades and the gnashing of teeth too, but he knew that was in his head.
A mental scar to go with all the physical ones.
“But wherever it goes,” Klay continued. “You will have a chance. A chance to survive. A chance to change things. If you stay here…”
Jonty took a deep breath. He felt the familiar feeling of fear. Fear of the unknown path that stretched before him. Fear of the Horde that tracked them.
“Fear is a powerful weapon” his mother had told him once. “You can let it be used againt you, or you can use it to make yourself stronger”.
He hadn’t understood what she had meant at the time.
His mind made up, Jonty took a deep breath and took a step onto the first mushroom. He took another one and then another one. He could feel the pull of the magic, reality seemed to bend and twist around him.
“Wish me luck!” he called out into the maelstrom.

The best laid plans…

BruceLeave a comment


Father led the way, his long stride carrying him easily over the rocks.
“It’s this way, everyone” he called out behind him, his tone as confident as his steps.
I glanced at Mother. She had THAT look on her face, her lips pressed so tightly together they bearly existed.
There was trouble brewing.
Tears before bedtime, as Granny used to say.
The younger ones skipped and slipped over the rocks, in front of us, following in Father’s wake. At the moment they were happy, but with the little ones happiness was only a short slip away from a full on tantrum at this time of the day.
The sun was setting, darkness was beginning to gather around us like a pack of wild dogs. We would be lucky to make it before we were swallowed up by it.
Father called over his shoulder again, but his words were dragged away trom us, dashed upon the rocks, lost in the sea below.
Father was taking us on one of his shortcuts.
I had come to realise that when Father used the phrases “I’ve got a plan!” or “this shortcut will save us time!” things would usually end up more interesting, but not necessarily in a good way.
The “plan” was to cut across the bay on foot (“we don’t want to get back in the car again after such a long journey, do we kids?”, “Noooooo!”), eat at the restaurant and get a taxi back (“This way way will save time and we get to see the sea”, “yaaaaaaaaay!”). Mother had argued, of course, but had lost the battle. Even the request to “at least phone ahead and book a table” was laughed off.
I didn’t pick one side or another, even though I knew Mother was right. I couldn’t bear to see the look of betrayal on Father’s face.
I just gave the best shrug my adolescent shoulders could muster: whatever.
At least, this time, Father had brought a torch. As the last red rays left us we had a white beam of light to guide us up the beach.
The restaurant car park was suspiciously empty, the windows depressingly dark.
Father walked up to the door and studied the sign for longer than it could possibly take to read the word “Closed”
Mother put her hands on her hips, her lips twitching as the words “I told you so” struggled to stay behind them.
Father turned towards us, a smile on his face.
“I’ve got a plan!” he said.

Keep your eye on the sky

BruceLeave a comment

The drug has taken effect now and I think I see in your face that you suspect what is happening.
But it’s too late.
I help you off your stall and lead you out of the bar. The barman raises his eyebrows.
“Drank too much, too quickly”, I say. He offers to help but I say it’s OK, and he doesn’t push it. If it was the other way round, if you had succeeded in drugging me, would he have insisted on intervening?
I hope so, but can’t be sure.
After all, you’ve done it before.
“Keep your eye on the sky” i whisper in your ear as we stagger together into the parking lot. You do not know the significance.
You do not know that my sister had a poster on her bedroom wall of a wary duckling watching the sky as a bird of prey circled high above. “Be like her, Lisa,” my sister whispered to me, before she died. “Watch for predators”.
And I do.
I watch.
I watched you.
I watched you drug my drink.
I distracted you.
I switched our drinks.
You did not keep your eye on the sky.
You did not see the predator, circling above you.
There are no CCTV cameras in the parking lot. I knew you would have selected the bar carefully. I let you fall to the floor and search your pockets. Your phone is not password protected. I take the permanent marker pen out of my hand bag, and I tear your shirt open. I write “I drug women and rape them” on your chest, and using your phone I take photos and upload them to your profile on Facebook and all your other social media accounts.
I make sure I tag your wife, and your boss.
And then I leave.

Escape from the circus (3604 words)

BruceLeave a comment

This was written in response to a blog post by Em_Anders, in which she described a dream.

________

Emily looked outside. The window was streaked with green algae, that dripped from the leaking guttering, above. The view beyond wasn’t exactly enticing. But sometimes it helped to look. To remember there was something out there.

Even if it was only a “corpse motel”, as Andy called it.

The cemetery stretched out, below her. It seemed to go on forever. Brambles covered half-broken gravestones. She’d never seen anyone lay flowers, never seen anyone visit the graves.

Andy, when he was in one of his black moods, would sometimes push her face up against the glass.

“Don’t think of ever leaving me, doll,” he would say. “’Cos that’s where you’d be sleeping, six feet down, just the worms for company. And don’t think I’d come visit, neither.”

Emily didn’t know what was on the other side of the house. The windows were boarded. There was a crack in one of the boards, but she had never tried to look through it. She wasn’t allowed in those rooms: not alone, anyway. Andy never let her go outside. Sometimes she tried to imagine what was out there. But all she ever came up with was the graveyard. She’d asked Andy, once. When he was in a good mood.

“What’s on the other side of the house, Andy?”

He had looked at her. For a full minute he stared at her. He didn’t say a word, and he didn’t move. She had begun to think she must have imagined asking him. Perhaps, she’d just thought it. And then he got up. He moved quickly. Emily felt the air leave her lungs, before she felt the pain of his fist in her stomach.

He didn’t often hit her. And never on the face. The clients didn’t like it. A punch in the stomach left no bruise. Well, not unless you looked real hard.

Emily turned away from the window. On the bed were the clothes Andy had left her. Underwear, and a dress. No shoes. Some of the clients wanted her to wear heels, but Andy always shook his head.

“No shoes.”

Emily removed her night robe and began to wash herself. Andy had brought the bowl of water and the soap, fifteen minutes ago. The water was cold, but not from the wait. It was always ice cold. She dried herself with the towel. It was rough. Andy said, “soft towels don’t dry, they just move the water around”. She didn’t mind: the friction helped warm her skin. She dressed quickly. She brushed her hair, and let it fall over her shoulders. She had no mirror, so the makeup would have to wait. Andy liked her to do that in the Work Room. He liked to watch. “I need to make sure you do it right,” he said.

Emily sat down on the bed and waited. Andy would come and fetch her when he was ready for her. He hadn’t always been like this. Things had been different, once.

She was certain of that.

She had no clear memories. She knew they had had parents once. She could not remember what they looked like. Or, what happened to them. There were no memories of them in this house. They had never been here, she was sure of that. They did not belong in this house.

Emily could not remember how long they had been here. Or, how long her brother had kept her a prisoner. She thought it may have been a few weeks, or maybe a year. She did remember the day he came to her with the first man.

“We need the money, doll,” he said. He stood in the doorway of her room. It was the last time he knocked before entering. She remembered thinking he was dressed strangely. Now, there was nothing unusual in him wearing a tight fitting suit, a skinny tie knotted at his throat, and a fedora on his head. But she was sure he hadn’t worn anything like that before-

“It’s time you contributed to the household, sweetheart. But you ain’t qualified to do nothing. ‘Cept this one thing.”

He had shown her to a room. She couldn’t remember seeing it before, she certainly had never been inside. It was a large room, bigger than her room. At the other side of the room a large mirror hung on the wall. Underneath, was a sofa. A man, Emily had never seen before, sat there, a drink in his hand. He looked up as they entered. He smiled and nodded at Andy.

“Jeez,” he said. He whistled. “You wasn’t joking, Andy. She’s a good looking broad. Come over here, sugar lips.” He patted the cushion, next to him.

“I don’t understand,” Emily said, looking at Andy.

He had made her understand.

There was a knock at her door. She perked up. It wasn’t Andy: he would’ve walked right in. Which meant it had to be Jimmy, Andy’s driver and bodyguard.

“Come in.”

“Good morning Miss Emily, how are you today? Andy’s got a meeting. He told me to let you know you won’t be needed ’til after lunch.”

Jimmy filled the doorway. He had a powerful upper torso. It was quite something to behold. The body of a bull, the heart of a lamb. He always treated her well. Respectfully, even. Last nights dream suddenly came to her. She was a matador. The stadium was crowded. She would see Andy looking down from one of the boxes. “You’re gonna get what’s coming to you, this time, doll!” she heard him call. And the the doors opened wide. Jimmy stood there, more animal than man. And then he was charging towards her. She caught him in her cape, and after a struggle she over powered him. Then they kissed. The crowd cheered, but when she looked up Andy had vanished.

Emily felt her face heat up. She looked away, and pretended to look out the window.

“You seen the circus, Miss Emily?”

“The circus, Jimmy?”

Jimmy walked over to the window and peered through.

“Oh, that’s right, you can’t see it from this side of the house. They got acrobats, and clowns. And animals: tigers, lions, and elephants too. I hear it’s quite a show.”

Emily smiled. As a child she remembered being taken to the circus by her mum and dad. Andy had come too. He had liked the clowns best – he laughed until tears came to his eyes. She didn’t like the clowns, she remembered sitting on her daddy’s lap, peeking through his fingers.

She did love the elephants though. She loved their big floppy ears and the way they swung their trunks when they trumpeted. After the show, her daddy had taken her round the back of the circus to see the elephants. Emily cried when she saw the cages. Her daddy had scooped her up and held her. She had cried so much the tears stung like sand.

The memory from before this house hit her like one of Andy’s fists. It took her breath away. She felt nauseous, and elated simultaneously.

“You alright, Miss Emily?”

Jimmy looked worried. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket , and held it out. Emily took it, realising tears were flowing down her cheeks. Jimmy looked uncertain of what to do. He suddenly sat down on the bed, next to her and held her. She felt just like she did all those years ago, crying in her daddy’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” she said. “I just don’t know why I’m here. In this house, living this life. How has this happened? How have I become this person? Andy never used to be like this.”

“He doesn’t treat you good, Miss Emily.”

“No, he doesn’t. And it stops here.” Emily blew her nose. She looked Jimmy in the eyes. “You gonna stop me, Jimmy. If I run away, I mean?”

Jimmy stood up, blocking the door once more. She had misjudged him. He was just like the others.

“Stop you, Miss Emily?” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

Taking Emily’s hand, Jimmy lead her down the grand staircase. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling. They were in the entrance hall. Emily had no memory of every having seen been there.

Ignoring the front door, Jimmy opened a door to the left of the staircase. He fumbled with switch, and a light flickered on revealing a staircase.

“The basement,” he said. He held up his hand as Emily started towards the door. “Hold on a second.”

Jimmy left her standing at the door, and walked across the hall. He opened another door, and disappeared inside. Emily waited. Jimmy reappeared with a pair of shoes.

“Your size, I think. I had to hide them from Mr Andy. What is his problem with you, and shoes?”

“I have no idea.”

Emily took the shoes and put them on her feet. It felt odd. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn anything on her feet, other than stockings. Jimmy led the way down the stairs.

The basement was not empty. There was some kind of vehicle. A car, but it looked like nothing Emily had ever seen before. It was cherry red.

“A Pontiac convertible,” Jimmy said. “Mr Andy’s pride and joy. Built and registered in Nineteen Seventy.”

“Nineteen seventy?” Emily said. “How can that be, Jimmy?”

“I know, amazing. He found it on Ebay. It needed a lot of work, I did most of it myself.”

“Nineteen Seventy,” Emily said, again. Just how long had she been in that house? The last time Andy had let her read a newspaper it had been dated Seventeenth May Nineteen Fifty Two. Emily rubbed the skin of her face. It felt soft, no obvious flaps of old skin.

She grabbed hold of Jimmy’s hands.

“How old am I, Jimmy?”

“Don’t ask me, questions like that, Miss Emily. I hate it when ladies ask me questions like that.”

Emily let go of Jimmy’s hands. She ran to the car. An anxious face stared back at her from the side-view mirror. But a face she knew to be her own. She hadn’t aged. Still mid-twenties, still pretty. Nineteen seventy? None of this made any sense.

“What month of Nineteen Seventy, is it now, Jimmy?”

Jimmy laughed. But stopped when he saw Emily wasn’t laughing with him.

“It’s January, Miss Emily,” he said, “Two thousand and thirteen.”

Emily felt light headed. She stumbled and Jimmy caught her, before she hit the floor. She leaned against him as he opened the passenger door. She fell gratefully into the seat.

“Never mind,” she said. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Jimmy pressed a button on the wall. Emily was surprised to see the doors raise up by themselves. Jimmy hopped in, beside her, and inserted a key into the ignition.

“Here we go, Miss Emily,” he said. “Hold on to your hat.”

The car started with a roar. The sound was unlike anything Emily ever experience. She not only heard it, she could feel it vibrate from her toes up. Emily was pushed back into her seat as the car left the garage. Something flew off the back seat. Looking back, she saw a coat flapping in the wind. On the back seat was a woman. She wore a red feathered boa, no dress; just what looked like a sequin-encrusted corset.

“Who the hell are you!” Emily shouted, over the noise.

“That’s Margarette,” Jimmy said, his mouth close to Emily’s ear. “She’s another pr… She’s another one of Mr Andy’s employees.”

Emily looked at the woman. She was younger, maybe not even out of her teens. Jesus, what had gotten in to her brother? Jimmy looked at Emily and smiled.

“It’s gonna be alright, you know.”

Emily smiled back. The road was narrow, with no other traffic. On the left there was a grass verge, that banked up. Emily could see vibrant tents rising from it. This must be one hell of a circus: she counted not one but fourteen Big Tops. It stretched for miles. There were acrobats, and guys on stilts. Emily grimaced as she saw four clowns, in a multi-coloured car – with Clown-Mobile painted on the side – chasing another one on a unicycle.

Then she saw the cages. Hundreds of them, it seemed to her. As the car flashed past she saw a tiger pacing in one, and in another some elephants.

“It’s so big!” Margarette shouted. “What’s going on, is it some kind of Circus convention, or something?”

Jimmy turned and smiled at her.

“Something like that,” he said.

There was something in the road. Emily grabbed the steering wheel, and tugged it hard to the right.

“Watch out!”

The car skidded onto the sidewalk, and screeched to a halt as Jimmy slammed his foot on to the break pedal.

Emily leaped out of her seat, and ran to the creature in the road. A baby elephant, about the size of a St Bernard dog, looked up at her. It appeared unharmed, and unfazed by the near collision with the speeding car.

“Is it alright?” Margarette had left the car and was standing beside her.

“I think so. Jimmy, give me a hand.”

“What’s your plan, Miss Emily?”

“He’s coming with us. A circus is no place for an elephant.”

“Neither is a Nineteen Seventy Pontiac convertible, Miss Emily. Do you even know what the little chap eats? Best leave him to people who know how to care for him.”

“They haven’t done a very good job, so far, Jimmy. Poor little fella was in the middle of the road. Give me a hand, or I’ll swear I’ll do it myself.”

Jimmy shrugged and lifted the elephant into the back of the car.

“I ain’t sharing the backseat with no goddamn smelly dumbo!”

Margarette stood by the car, hands on hips. Emily guess she didn’t realise how ridiculous she looked in nothing but a boa and a corset.

“Then, I guess you’re walking from here. See you later.”

Margarette actually stamped her feet. Emily suppressed a smile, as she watched her climb onto the backseat. The elephant lifted it’s trunk and trumpeted. Emily laughed.

“We’d better get going, Jimmy. I think those guys aren’t happy with our rescuing this little chap.”

A crowd had appeared at the top of the bank, on the edge of the circus, no doubt drawn together by the sound of the car skidding onto the sidewalk. One man pushed his way to the front.

“What the hell are you doing with my baby! Gladys! I’m comin’ for ya!” he yelled. He began to run down the grass verge and tripped. Emily watched open-mouth as he turned the fall into a spectacular somersault, landing gracefully on the sidewalk, arms out-stretched like a gymnast.

“Go, Jimmy!” Emily said. The man began to run towards them. Jimmy engaged the engine and the Pontiac shot forward. Emily looked back. The man stood there waving at them, shouting.

“That ain’t language a lady should hear,” Jimmy growled.

Emily smiled. It was good to have someone who cared for her.

“Where we going, Jimmy?”

“Don’t worry, Miss Emily. The Firm have arranged everything. You just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“The Firm, Jimmy? What do you mean? I don’t know no ‘Firm’.”

“Let’s just say that there are a few people who want you back home, Miss Emily.”

Emily looked at Jimmy. What people? Who could possibly even know about her! Her thoughts were interrupted by a honking noise. Emily turned around in her seat. Coming up fast behind them was a car. It was the Clown-Mobile from the circus. It seemed to be traveling at speed. As it approached Emily could see it was being driven by the shouting man from the circus. There was a clown in the passenger seat, waving what looked like a Tommy-gun out of the window. The back seat was a crush of people. The noise in the Pontiac was becoming unbearable. Every time the clown car honked, Gladys trumpeted. And Margarette was screaming.

“Hang on, ladies,” Jimmy shouted. He pressed the gas peddle to the floor and the Pontiac started to move away from the Clown-Mobile. Emily’s relief was short-lived. Within seconds it had begun to catch up. It suddenly swung onto the other lane. The clown in the passenger seat was shouting something, waving his Tommy-Gun at Jimmy.

“Pull over, Jimmy!” the clown, shouted. “Your gonna get a face-full if you don’t pull over. I’m gonna count to three.”

With horror Emily realised that underneath the macabre clowns make up, lurked the face of her brother.

“One!”

Jimmy gritted his teeth, and swung the car to the right. There was a jarring screech of metal as the two vehicles made contact. Margarette screamed, and Gladys trumpeted. Emily looked at the elephant: she looked like she was enjoying the chase.

“Two!” Andy screamed the number and pointed the Tommy-gun at Jimmy.

The roof of the clown-mobile seemed to be opening up. Emily watched in horror, as four men on the back seat stood up.

“Three!”

There was a loud noise and the world went yellow for a second. The Pontiac swerved, as Jimmy lost control. Emily wiped her face, getting the yellow gunk out of her eyes. Jimmy was doing the same: he had egg-custard all over his face. Emily turned to see two men back-flip from the Clown-Mobile onto the back of the Pontiac. They had some kind of harness, they were trying to attach to the still-trumpeting Gladys.

“Hold on!” Jimmy said. Emily braced herself. Jimmy slammed on the brakes. The two men shot forward, as the car screeched to a halt. They fell to the ground, both of them performing perfect forward rolls, before standing up and jumping back into the slowing Clown-Mobile.

Margarette was still screaming, both arms around Gladys. The little elephant wrapped his trunk around the woman’s neck and stole her boa.

The Clown-Mobile was backing up, fast. Jimmy threw the Pontiac into reverse and spun the car around. Emily could see they were losing ground. One of the four men, standing on the back seat, held another kind of gun in his hands.

Emily heard an explosion. The Pontiac swerved onto the sidewalk, and up the grass bank. Then everything was upside down.

Emily felt a crushing weight on top of her. A liquid dribbled onto her face, and into her mouth. Custard, not blood. She felt light-headed. She lay there listening to the sound of Jimmy’s shallow breathing.

Just before she passed out she remembered why Andy hated her wearing shoes.

*

Emily awoke in her bed. She tried to sit up, but couldn’t move. She felt bruised. She lay in bed for a moment, fragmented memories returning to her. Of the escape, the chase. But also of the life before.

She felt sick.

The door to her room opened.

“You awake, doll?” Andy said. He leaned down to look at her.

“Where’s Jimmy?”

“Jimmy?” Andy said. He smiled. “Who’s Jimmy? You been dreaming again. Dreaming of a knight in shining armor, come to rescue you?”

He stroked her cheek. Emily tried to move away, tried to recoil. She shut her eyes. It was all she could do to get away from him. It couldn’t have been a dream. It just couldn’t. She knew things. It all meant sense now.

But it had all been so crazy. Perhaps it was just a dream. Perhaps she had dreamed everything in order to escape the hideousness of her existence in this house.

She opened her eyes. Andy was still looking at her. Smiling at her.

“Only joking,” Andy said. “Jimmy’s dead.”

He walked around the bed and stood by the window. Emily felt tears trickle out of her eyes. She didn’t want Andy to see her cry. Not any more.

“He didn’t die in the crash,” Andy said. “He survived the crash. You all did.”

He stood there with his back to her. If she could only move she would smash his head right through it. He turned. Quickly, as if he had heard her thought. Which, she remembered, was entirely possible.

“Do you know how much effort it takes to kill a guy like Jimmy?” he said. He leaned in to her. His forehead touching hers. “It took me a goddamn hour to kill the son of a bitch.” He laughed. “But it was an hour well spent.”

Andy stood up straight, and moved around the bed. He looked at her.

“You’re crying,” he said. “Always the cry baby. Just like when we were kids. Crying at the circus, for god-sakes. And, whilst I’m on the subject: very wrong to steal the elephant. The circuses are very good customers. I had to do a lot of explaining. I had to make a lot of promises.”

“I remember, Andy,” she said. “I remember everything. About before. About The Firm.”

Andy smiled at her.

“Do you think that matters, anymore, doll?”

“I remember about the shoes, Andy.”

He moved quickly. She felt her cheek sting, before she realised he’d slapped her..

“I’ve spoken to my people, doll. They’ve increased the dose. You ain’t gonna remember shit.”

The syringe was loaded with the slightly florescent fluid, just like she knew it would be. She felt the stab of the needle, and then the familiar heat of the liquid as it traveled up her arm.

Her eyelids began to close. Emily fought the drug, repeating a phrase to herself.

“Remember the shoes. Remember the shoes.”

It was her only chance.

______________

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (January 2013)

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

With thanks to Em_Anders for providing the inspiration!

The Great Fire of London

BruceLeave a comment

The Diary of Samuel Pepys
1st September 1666

It is almost eleven o’clock as I write these words, with a shaking hand, by the light of a single candle. They surround us. We are trapped. I can see no way out. I do not know if I will finish this account of this terrible night. Nor, if there will be anyone left alive to read it. But write it, I must.

The bells of St Magnus-the-Martyr announced six o’clock in the evening, as I hurried through the church yard. I was late. I quickened my pace and reached the doors, just as the church warden began to close them. He handed me a hymn sheet and showed me to a pew, where I was greeted by the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Thomas Bloodworth.

He shook my hand. He looked weary, older than when I last saw him.

“What are your thoughts on these reports of the plague, Mister Pepys? Of the dead rising from their graves?”

“I am sure you are better informed than I, Sir Thomas. I assumed they were stories, designed to scare people away from the plague pits. To stop people stealing from the dead.”

“One would think The Black Death frightening enough,” he said, shivering, despite the warmth of the evening. “Whatever their source, the rumours have certainly caught the imagination of the average man.” He looked around him. “The church is almost empty.”

The rector climbed up to the pulpit and began the service. As the light began to fade, the congregation dwindled further. The church warden lit lamps and candles to ward off the encroaching darkness.

There was a crash.

“Help us!”

I looked to the back of the church. A woman stood in the doorway. She began to scream. She held a small bundle in her arms: a boy.

Before I could reach them, the boy fell to the floor. His mother dropped to her knees, beside him. I pushed her aside to examine the child. With horror I saw he was missing an arm. Blood was weeping gently from the wound, together with a strange, stinking, yellow puss. The flow began to ease, and then stopped. The boy was dead.

Sir Thomas was at my side. He pulled the weeping woman towards him, away from the child’s body. She began to hit out, screaming into Sir Thomas’ face. The church warden came to help him.

I stood up. Taking a lantern I went outside. I could see nothing in the twilight. There was a noise. A shuffling sound. I could not locate it’s source. I heard a cry that could have come from a dying, or tormented, beast. Out of the shadows a man came. He moved like a drunkard. I watched as he stumbled into a gravestone. I almost called out, but something stopped me. There was something very wrong about how this man moved: he was not merely drunk. There was a terrible odour. A smell of death, the stench of the plague pits. He came nearer. In his hand he held something. As I watched he brought it to his mouth. In the still of the evening I could hear teeth ripping into flesh, and with horror I realized it was a child’s arm. I gagged, and vomit splashed onto the ground in front of me.

The man-shape turned slowly towards me. It paused for a moment, as though sniffing the air. Pale of face , it looked more dead than alive. Yet, it moved.

A shiver ran through my body. The creature was within ten paces. Now I could see it was not alone. I wanted to run. I was paralysed.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I cried out in terror. I turned. Sir Thomas Bloodworth stood beside me, his face white with shock. Attracted by my cry the creatures advanced towards us: I counted five, no seven. Their white watery eyes bulged horribly in their pale, scarred faces. If they had once been men, there was no humanity left in their gaze now.

Sir Thomas pulled me inside. We slammed the heavy doors shut, and leaned against them. For a moment we simply looked at each other, unable to understand what we had seen. It was Sir Thomas who regained his composure first as the doors began to shake.

“We need to barricade this door,” he said. The church warden bolted the door with a thick piece of oak. I helped Sir Thomas drag a pew over to the doors. We began to construct a rudimentary barrier.

The door continued to shudder. Amongst the pounding on the door we could hear the unnatural, guttural moans of the creatures on the other side.

As we moved the pews, I counted nine of us: the rector, Sir Thomas, the church warden, two women, three children and I. The body of the dead child had been moved to the side of the church and covered by a cloak.

We lifted the last piece of the barrier into place.

“What in Heaven’s name do you think they are Mister Pepys?” Sir Thomas whispered in my ear. An image of the creatures came into my mind, and I shivered. Those creatures had nothing to do with Heaven, of that I was sure.

Before I could formulate a response, the rector, Robert Ivory joined us. He took the arm of the Lord Mayor.

“I think the time of the apocalypse is upon us,” the rector Ivory said. He spoke softly, glancing at the women and children, huddled together on the floor. “We need to gather together and pray.”

As he spoke, I heard glass breaking. Sir Thomas looked at me. We ran towards the sound. Past the tower, at the back of the chancel we saw a window, with shards of stained glass at the base of it. A shape climbed through the aperture. Sir Thomas grabbed a long pole which leaned against an oak wardrobe. He held it like a spear, and advanced towards the intruder.

“Sir Thomas!” I shouted, as the man stood up. “I think he is human.”

The man bore none of the characteristics of the creatures I had seen earlier. He moved fluidly and had colour in his face. He wore the clothes of a night watchman, although these were torn and stained, with blood and other substances, I could not identify. He bent down and retrieved a mace, from the floor: the evil spikes dripped gruesome matter onto the stone floor.

“Help me,” he said. He turned back to window and took a swipe at a white arm as it clawed through the window. The mace crushed it against the wall of the church. Undeterred, the creature continued to advance. It was missing half its face, and had but one milky eye. Its teeth were visible through a hole in its cheek. I could smell its putrid breath from where I stood riveted to the ground.

The watchman swung the club, smashing the head into a sticky mess.

The creature was not alone. Two or three others were behind, clawing and biting its body. I could not tell if they were feeding on it, or tearing it apart to get to us.

Sir Thomas ran to the watchman’s side, jabbing at one of the creatures with his staff as the watchman swung his mace at another. I searched for a weapon, but in the pale lamp light, I could see nothing other than a walking cane. An idea came to me. I opened the wardrobe, and pulled from it some robes. I ripped them into shreds and began wrapping them around the end of the cane. I blew out the flame from a lamp and poured the oil onto the cloth.

The church warden arrived. He began to push the heavy wardrobe towards the window. Sir Thomas stood back, now weapon-less. His staff was stuck, protruding from the eye socket of a monster climbing through the window. The watchman swung his club at it’s head and it fell back. The pole clattered to the floor. Sir Thomas grabbed it and returned to the side of the watchman.

I took another lantern from the wall. I advanced towards the window and called to the others to move.

I lit the end of my makeshift torch, and threw the lantern through the window. Oil spilled over the creatures. I thrust the torch at them, driving it into their evil faces. My stomach turned at the abhorrent smell of cooking, rancid, meat, as their heads burned.

“Enough Mister Pepys!” Sir Thomas pushed me away from the window The watchman and the warden pushed the wardrobe to block the window.

We leaned against the wardrobe, exhausted, panting hard. It continued to move, as it was battered by the creatures behind it, but it held its position.

“Thomas Farynor,” the church warden said, offering his hand to the Watchman. “Welcome to our church.”

“Sorry about the visitors.” the watchman said, between breaths. “London is full of them. The Black Death has become something new, something worse: the dead have risen from the plague pits, thousands of them. And they are coming for the living.”

“May God help us all,” I said. “The rector is right. The End of Days has come.”

A scream, from the other side of the church, brought us to our feet. We arrived to see the rector Ivory holding his cross before him, the women and children sheltering behind him. The barricade was intact. It took me a few moments to work out what was wrong. The Rector Ivory was looking over to the side of the church where the covered body of the dead boy lay. The cloak – or rather what was beneath the cloak – moved.

The warden, Farynor, took the pole from the hands of Sir Thomas. He walked slowly over to the body, accompanied by the watchman. Sir Thomas and I moved closer, blocking the view from the rector, the women and children.

A stride away from the body, Farynor used his pole to flick the cloak off the body. The body was small, bloody and broken. It twitched. At first I assumed it was a vile trick of nature, like a hen that continues to move after its head is cut off. But to my horror the child – what had been a child – opened its eyes. Using its one remaining arm it raised itself up.

The watchman lifted his mace, the cruel spikes still glistening with brain matter. There was an ear-piercing scream. One of the women pushed past me. Still screaming she grabbed hold of the watchman’s arm. Farynor grabbed the woman and pulled her away. The child-thing lurched towards the watchman. Its teeth closed around his leg. His grip loosened on the mace but he did not let go. With a cry he raised the mace high and swung it down onto the head. I looked away, but too late. The skull split in two and the watchman was splattered in red and grey matter. I heard the thud of the mace as it hit the floor.

The woman fainted. Farynor lifted her onto his broad shoulders and carried her back to the rector Ivory. The watchman pulled the clock back over the corpse. He picked up his mace and limped away from the group. Sir Thomas and I followed.

We found the watchman back by the wardrobe. He had rolled up his trousers and was examining the wound. It was already yellow around the edges, and it oozed a foul-smelling pus. The watchman looked up at us, fear in his eyes.

“Don’t let me become one of them,” he said. “Use this,” he gestured to the mace, beside him. “You will need to smash my head.”

Sir Thomas picked up the mace. He wrinkled his nose, as he examined the putrid substance that coated the spikes.

“That, I can not do,” he said, his voice unsteady. He put the mace down, and touched the watchman on his shoulder.

“My friend,” I said, looking the watchman in the eye. “It seems you have to be dead before this plague takes hold and transforms you into,” I looked away, unable to look into his terrified face. “Into whatever they are. You are not dead yet. We have need of you.”

Footsteps approached. Mr Farynor joined us.

“I need to speak to you, Sir Thomas. I must go to my family. I need to know they are safe. And if they are not,” he looked away from the watchman. “If they are not, I need to give them peace.”

Sir Thomas looked at the warden. “You are the Kings baker, are you not? Thomas Farynor of Pudding Lane?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas. It is but three hundred strides from here.”

“Mr Watchman? How do you rate our chances of reaching Mr Farynor’s bakery?” The watchman looked at Sir Thomas as if he had lost his head.

“Not good, Sir Thomas. I barely made it in here. The church will be surrounded by now. If there were another way out, perhaps they could be distracted.”

“And these creatures, they are all over London, you say?” The Watchman nodded. “We can’t hope to kill them all with a mace on the head.” Sir Thomas, patted the watchman on the shoulder. “But I have another idea. I will not pretend that you will survive this. But I think there is a way you can serve your City and your fellow man. Come with me.”

We followed Sir Thomas back to the small group. The rector Ivory was continuing to comfort the dead child’s mother, who let out a whimper when she saw the watchman approach carrying his mace.

“Rector,” Sir Thomas gestured for him to join us. “This Church has a subterranean passage that leads into it’s crypt, does it not?” The rector nodded. “And where does it lead?”

“Into the crypt in St Margaret’s Church, New Fish Street, Sir Thomas.”

“Just round the corner from your bakery, isn’t it Mr Farynor?”

“Fifty or sixty strides, Sir Thomas.”

“Good. Then I have an idea.” As he told us his plan, I wondered if he knew how desperate it sounded and how unlikely it was to succeed. Seeing no alternative, I kept my silence.

A short while later we were ready. Sir Thomas now wielded the mace. Thomas Farynor (the churchwarden and baker) had emptied all the oil from the lamps. We had soaked more rags and tied them to the staff and my cane. The rector Ivory had armed himself with a large iron cross. The watchman had no weapon.

We made our way down the stone steps into the icy chill of the crypt. We all looked around nervously at the sarcophagi, half expecting them to open to reveal more of those creatures. Reaching the end of the crypt we halted before a large metal gate, which blocked our progress. The rector chose a rusty looking key from a large ring, hanging from his belt. At first I feared it would not turn, but eventually the gate swung open with a screech.

Each of us took turns to shake the hands of the watchman (apart from the dead child’s mother). The gate swung closed and the rector used the key again to lock it. As we began our walk down the narrow passage it struck me: I did not even know the name of the man on the other side of the gate.

I do not know how long we walked. Dank water dripped upon our heads. Rats scurried around our feet. I could hear them squeal and occasionally I could feel a body crunch underfoot. Finally, our path was blocked by a gate identical to the last. This time the rector left it unlocked, and open. We feared what might be awaiting us in the church above.

The church was quiet. Our footsteps echoed loudly, as we crept through the nave. Mr Farynor and I went ahead, with our torches throwing light into the recesses.

Mr Farynor helped the rector Ivory pull the doors open. Outside, there were few stars in the sky. In the distance we could hear shouting, and the occasional scream. But of the unnatural sounds of the creatures there was no sign.

We crept through the church yard, holding our torches before us. Thomas Farynor led the way, out onto the narrow street. Sir Thomas was at the rear, and the rector Ivory and I protected the women and children on either side.

The bakery was in sight when they came for us. Three creatures lumbered out of the shadows. Two of them may have once been women, but I could not be sure. Their appearance was as unbearable as their stench.

Sir Thomas moved quickly, and clubbed one of the creatures in its head. It fell into the arms of another. Staggering briefly, it flung the inert corpse to one side and rounded on Sir Thomas. The rector swung the cross, embedding it in the skull, with a sickening sound. Mr Farynor kept the the other at bay with his torch, until Sir Thomas swung his mace into its face.

There were others coming toward us now. We ran to the the bakery. Thomas Farynor hammered the door.

“Open quickly, in the name of all that’s Holy!” The door was opened by a timid girl: a maid.

“Oh Mr Farynor, sir, thank Heaven you’re safe,” she said. Sir Thomas and I remained outside, pushing the women, children and the rector inside. Sir Thomas gestured me in. I threw my torch at the head of the nearest creature and threw myself through the doorway. I turned to see Sir Thomas swing the mace, before entering. The blow glanced off the creatures head.

“Close the door!” Mr Farynor shouted at the maid, as Sir Thomas ran past. She stood in the door way, frozen in terror. The creature lurched forward and pulled her towards it’s horrid face. The maid’s scream turned into a gurgle as it sunk it’s teeth into her throat. Sir Thomas pushed the two writhing bodies out of the door, and followed them. I heard two thuds. Sir Thomas returned, blood spattered and grim-faced. He bolted the door shut.

Mr Farynor sent for his workman, an earnest young man, covered in flour. Sir Thomas spoke to him in hushed tones, before giving him a note, hastily written on paper ripped from my journal. The workman left “the back way” (climbing through the second floor window into the neighbours house), with the heavy mace for protection.

As I write this I can hear them outside: their strange guttural moans, and the noise as they hammer the doors, and the windows.

I am thinking about the poor Watchman, left alone in the other church. And of the task that awaits him.

The bells of St Margaret’s are ringing out, now. They are answered by others, all across London. The signal: the city is ready to fight. Sir Thomas’ plan is a bold one, but I fear I will not live to finish this tale.

The Diary of Samuel Pepys
5th September 1666

The fire has been raging for days, but it begins to wane now.

Thomas Farynor set a good fire in his ovens and the fire spread quickly. London is a crowded place: one house leans against another (which is how we were able to escape “the back way”, into the neighbours house). The only thing Londoners fear more than fire is the plague.

The watchmen of London worked day and night to round up and lead as many of the plague creatures into buildings before they were burnt to the ground. Our Watchman played his part. When the church bells rang all over London, he opened the doors of St Magnus-the-martyr. As many as eighty creatures entered the church, before the church took fire.

It was the second church to be burnt to the ground, St Margaret’s being the first.

Sir Thomas visited me on the second day. He stood with me and looked with pride at as building after building succumbed to fire.

“It will take more than a woman to piss that out,” he said, patting me on the back.

Sir Thomas and I were summoned by the King, today.

“My advisers can not tell me how the plague changed or what it has done to the brains of the dead,” he said, stroking his moustache.

“It seems, however, that whatever it was it has been contained to London. I have ordered that all victims, or suspected victims, of the plague have their heads crushed before burning.” We nodded our agreement.

“I am concerned that should news of this outbreak spread it could trigger unrest. It is just six years since I returned to the Throne. I can not – and will not – allow this country to return to civil war.

“I therefore command you Mr Pepys to write another version of what happened that night. Sir Thomas will tell you what must be written.”

My King has commanded, and I must act.

But can I bring myself to destroy the truth of what happened that night?

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (December 2012)

This is a work of fiction. It may have happened like this, but I seriously doubt it.

***

Notes on the “official version” of the Great Fire of London.

The fire was started at Thomas Farynor’s (also spelt Farriner) bakery somewhere between midnight and two in the morning on 2nd September 1666. The family escaped by climbing from an upstairs window into a neighbour’s house. The maid died in the fire, because she was too scared to attempt the climb.

Thomas Farynor, a former Church Warden, was buried in the middle aisle of St Magnus-the-Martyr (in a temporary structure ) in 1670. The church was rebuilt between 1671 and 1687 under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren.

Sir Thomas Bloodworth, the Lord Mayor of London, was blamed for the spread of the fire as he refused to demolish houses to halt the blaze. He was said to have remarked “Pshh! A woman might piss it out!”

St Margaret’s Church was the first church to burn. It was not rebuilt but a monument stands on the site, commemorating the Fire.

The Rector Robert Ivory remained rector of St Magnus-the-Martyr until his death in 1710

The fire destroyed 13,200 houses, 87 churches, St Paul’s Cathedral and many other public buildings.

Samuel Pepys, his diaries and his account of the Great Fire of London, are renowned throughout the world.

Bind Him To Me

BruceLeave a comment

“Can I tell you a secret?”, he says. He looks me in the eye and dips his hand over the side of the boat, rippling the surface of the lake with his fingers. It is early morning. Not yet truly light, not quite five o’clock. We are surrounded by grey shadows. I am at one end of the rowboat, he is at the other. It is so quiet here, we could be the last human beings in the world.

“Can I tell you a secret?”, he repeats. He takes his hand out of the water, leans forward and takes hold of my hand. A shiver runs through me, it is not because his hand is cold from the lake.

“The problems with secrets”, I say, squeezing his hand. “Is once you share them they are no longer secret”. I am thinking about the secret I shared with him. Although, as it turned out it wasn’t much of a secret: he knew I was in love with him. But he told the others what I had said, word for word. For two years afterwards, my life was hell. It wasn’t the taunts, the name calling, or the occasional beating. He no longer talked to me.

“I know you can keep a secret.”, he is looking at me intently, now. “You are a good friend. Better than I deserve”. I shake my head. He looks away, his hand still holds mine.

It is true: I already keep a secret for him. He told me he had just been experimenting. It was normal, he said, everyone does it. I’m not like you, he said, I’m not like that. He would kill me if I told, he said. But it is an easy secret for me to keep. It is our secret, not one to share with others.

The sky is lightening, and the shadows are retreating. I think there may be tears in his eyes. I place my other hand over the top of his. I hope the sun does not come too quickly: it might destroy the magic of this moment.

“Do you remember Amy Twyford?”, he looks me in the eye again, and I nod. Everyone in this town remembers Amy Twyford. “Did you know I was seeing her?” I nod again, although I didn’t know. He blinks twice and I am now certain: I can see tears in his eyes. I am jealous, I suddenly realise, of a girl who has been missing for over a year. He wipes his eyes with his free hand and breaks my gaze to look out over the lake towards the dock, now visible in the weak light.

“That night, we met here. I wanted it to be special, romantic. So I placed candles around the edge of the dock. You could see the flames reflected in the water. ‘Like ghosts dancing on the bottom of the lake’, she said”, he returns to look at me, and I can see the blue of his eyes. “Everything was going so well. We talked, we drank, we kissed” – it is my turn to break eye-contact – “and then suddenly- I can’t even remember how it started – we were arguing. We were on our feet yelling at each other. The next thing I know she was in the lake. She must have slipped. I didn’t push her. I swear, I didn’t punch her.”

I look back at him, but he is staring at the dock, eyes-wide. “I tried to pull her in, I grabbed at her clothing, at her hair. There was blood. Quite a lot of blood. She must have hit her head on something as she fell. I panicked, I let go of her and she lay there, floating, drifting. After a while I got my head together. I went back to the boat house and grabbed the old anchor and some rope. I tied one end to her legs, the other end to the boat. I put the anchor in the boat and I rowed out to the middle of the lake. I untied the rope from the boat and retied it to the anchor and then I heaved it over the side. And Amy followed it down.”

He is sobbing now. I move carefully, so as not to upset the boat. I take him in my arms and I hold him. I watch the sun rise through the trees, it makes shimmering patterns on the lake’s surface. I think about what lurks beneath the surface, beneath where we sit. I wonder what she looks like now, the girl at the bottom of the lake.

The sun is above the trees and I row him back to the dock. He has come back to me and I am happy. Now I share his secret, it will bind him to me.

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (November 2012)

This story was entered into the Weekly Short Story Contest on http://www.writingforums.org/ (29th November 2012)

Theme: The Secret

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This Strange Day

BruceLeave a comment

I felt a tingling sensation in my forehead. A few microseconds later a Call came through. It was The Manager. He wanted to see me. I stepped away from the production line, and signaled to Employee 87L000/SP5. He looked puzzled, but took my place without missing a beat.

I strode past my Section, over one thousand of us. I felt… concerned. I had to search for the word. It was an unusual feeling to have. The last time I had been ‘concerned’ our rations had been cut in half for one month. We had not met our targets. That had been over a year ago.

What the Omigos give freely, they can also withhold.

It took me 25 minutes to walk the two miles across the factory floor to see The Manager. I passed 4 other Sections. No one looked up, as I passed. This factory was smaller than my previous home. I had lived here for 3 years.

There were two Security Officers at the entrance to the elevator. I knew then, that there must be Visitors. Security is not needed here. There is never any trouble.

There were four of Them in the office. Four of Them, and The Manager.

“Saviours”, I said. I bowed as low as I could.

The Manager initiated a Call. He informed me that only one of these beings were Omigos: the large man in a suit, sitting behind The Manager’s desk. The others were Tourists. Tourists were not Omigos – they looked like Omigos, but they weren’t. I wasn’t sure what they were, but they did not wear Crowns, so that made them not human. The Manager informed me They had come to review something called “Human Rights”, and they wanted to ask me some questions. The Call lasted less than 0.1 of a second.

“No, no! Please do not bow to us”, one of the Tourists said. His voice sounded strange. “Please”, he said again and pointed to a chair. I looked at it, confused. Did he want me to move it?

“He would like you to sit down”, said the Omigos. He laughed as he said it. I was not sure if I was meant to laugh too. I decided not to. I sat down.

“What is your name?”. One of the Tourists was female, and it was she who now spoke.

“I am Employee TwentyThreeLFiveHundredForwardSlashENThree”, I said.

“That is a rather long name”, she said. “What does it mean?”

I shrugged. “It is my Crown name”, I said.

“Your Crown name?” she said. She looked puzzled.

“It is the serial number on his Crown”, the Omigos said. He sounded tired.

The female tourist did not acknowledge the intervention. “Do you have a shorter name?”, she asked. I shook my head. “Are you married?”, I nodded. “Then what does your wife call you?”, she asked.

“Husband”, I replied. I heard the Omigos laugh again. This time I thought it would be impolite not to join him.

“How old are you?”, it was the first Tourist who spoke. His voice was gentle.

“It has been 21 years since my Day of Crowning, My Lord”, I said.

The first Tourist smiled. It was like his voice, it was warm and kind.

“Please”, he said. “Call me Aarif. You are 36 years old, yes?”. I was confused, but remembered that as Tourists and Omigos are not Crowned they count their age from the date they were Created.

“Yes, My… Aarif”, I said. “I had 16 years to endure, before my Day of Crowning.” I saw a strange look pass across his face.

“Then you were 14 years old when Omigos took over?”, it was the third Tourist, who spoke now. He was also male, but appeared older, his dark hair flecked with white.

“When the Living Gods returned to save us”, I said, thinking carefully. “I had endured 14 years, My L… Aarif”, I said.

“My name is Zheng Maa”, he said. “You can call me Zheng. It is this man whose name is Aarif. And this”, he said gesturing to the female. “This is Lajita.” I nodded, though still confused. “We are from the Free World Alliance”, he added, as if this clarified matters. I initiated a Call to The Manager, but he did not pick up.

“Do you remember your name?”, the female Tourist – Lajita – said. “From before you were Crowned, I mean”. I shook my head. “Does it hurt, when you are Crowned?”, she said.

“No”, I said. “The Crown is what keeps hurt at bay”. The mantra rolled off my tongue, but it was true. The two inch-wide band of metal, circling my head, had over two hundred needles buried deep in my head. They connected my brain to the circuitry in the Crown. It helped keep us human: without it we became demons. The Crown regulated chemicals, and helped us communicate. One of the many gifts the Omigos gave us when they returned. No, the Crown did not hurt. I didn’t remember it hurting on the Day of Crowning, either.

I felt a tingling sensation in my head. For a moment I thought The Manager was Calling, but when I picked up there was no-one there. It was not a Call. I had had a Flash.

“Mark”, I said. I was surprised to hear the word come from my mouth.

“I’m sorry?”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said.

“Mark”, I repeated. “I think I may have been called Mark”. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the Omigos move.

“Mark”, the Tourist-called-Lajita said. “That is a lovely name”. As she spoke, I had another Flash – a memory – of another woman at another time who had called me by that name.

“I think”, said the Omigos. “I think we should stop this interview”. I stood up.

“No!”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said. I had never heard anyone speak to an Omigos like that. I stood there, waiting for the world to end.

“Sit down, Mark. We want to continue this conversation”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said. The Omigos motioned for me to sit, so I did.

“What do you remember before the Omigos Corporation took over?”, the Tourist-called-Aarif asked. I stared at him. I did not understand the question.

The Tourist-called-Lajita lent forward and touched my arm. “It’s ok”, she said. She smiled, “do you remember your mother and father?”

“No”, I said. Another memory came to me. A Flash: two bodies being loaded onto a large Transporter. “They died”, I said. The Omigos shifted his weight, his chair creaked.

“This Employee is feeling a little worn out, by all your questioning. We should allow him to return to his duties”, said the Omigos. I began to stand. The Tourist-called-Aarif slammed his hand on the desk, and I fell back into my seat. Shocked.

“Mr Snelling”, he said. He was pointing his finger at the Omigos. “We have been appointed by our Nations to conduct a review of Human Rights conditions at the Omigos Corporation. We have been granted free access to all the countries ‘owned’ by the Corporation, and all the factories and those ’employed’ within. We can, and we will continue this interview.”

The Omigos lent forward. I tried not to look at him. “We do not care what Beijing, New Delhi, or Tehran think of us, Mr Abassi”, he said, pointing at each Tourist, in turn. “We think nothing of your ‘democracy’- it is a sham and always has been. It is time you learned this Truth”.

“Truth!”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said. He was loud and it hurt my ears, and my head. For the first time since my day of Crowning I felt scared. I felt strange sensations in my head. The Crown was trying to regulate my brain chemicals.

“The Truth!”, the Tourist-called-Aarif said, looking at the Omigos. “The Omigos Corporation: the richest men in the world, fed up of running governments from behind the scenes! You supplied Crowns to the Armies of the West, designed to improve communication and enhance aggression: no one even guessed at their true capabilities. You started a flu epidemic which killed a million people in India alone, just to ensure your so-called vaccine would kill half a billion people who would have opposed you in the West. And then you activated the Crown and used your armies to enslave those who were left.”

“I’d say that was a fair historical summary, Mr Abbasi,” the Omigos said, leaning back in his chair. “But remember this: the Crowned are happy. Happier than you. Or I, come to that. They have no ambition, no aggression (unless we program them to have it), no fears, no jealousies. They are not hungry, they are healthy.

“In the world before the Omigos Corporation, were there not sweatshops, operated by children, women and slaves? Yes, Mr Abbasi, there were. But they were in India, China, Africa and the Middle East. They provided the West with their computers, their trainers, their toys and designer clothes. Were those people happy, Mr Abbasi? No, they were hungry, desperate and resentful. The people of the old-West cared little for them, as long as they got what they wanted for the price they wanted. Just as the so-called Free World cares little for the Crowned of Omigos, as long as we keep producing the goods. That, Mr Abbasi, is the Truth.”

“Enough!”, the Tourist-called-Zheng said. He put his hand on the arm of the Tourist-called-Aarif. “We are doing more harm than good”. They all looked at me, then. And at The Manager. I followed their eyes. The Manager was pale, shaking, rocking in his chair.

The interview was ended. They gave us a few minutes, just enough for our Crowns to stablise our brains, and our bodies.

As I left the office, I looked at the Tourist-called-Lajita. “You smile like her”, I said. She raised her eyebrows, and smiled again. “You smile like my mother,” I said.

I had difficulty concentrating on my work, afterwards. Employee 87L000/SP5 had to intervene twice. I wanted tell my wife and children about the interview. The eldest was preparing for his Day of Crowning: in two weeks he would be 16. He was more curious than I, he would be interested in the events of this strange day.

I felt a tingling sensation in my forehead. It was a Call from The Manager. He sounded excited.

“The Omigos were delighted with your performance, today,” he Called. “We are both being promoted. We need to go to the Centre. For Training.”

The Manager was waiting for me at Side Entrance B. The doors opened and I followed him outside. The sun was bright. I blinked: I was unaccustomed to the light. I had not stood in the sun since being moved from the last factory, three years before. It was warm on my skin. It felt good.

I wondered what Training would involve, and how long I would be away from my wife and children. I tried to Call her I could not get through. I shrugged. Any faulty functions on the Crown would be fixed during Training.

The Transporter arrived and I took a deep breath. I followed The Manager as he stepped inside. I noticed it had three words printed on the side: “Disposal Centre (London)”.

I smiled. At least the journey to the Centre would not take long. I should be home in time to kiss my children goodnight.

****

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (November 2012)

This story was entered into the Weekly Short Story Contest on http://www.writingforums.org/ (22nd November 2012)

Theme: Dystopian Fiction

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

When The Storm Came

Bruce1 Comment

“You’re in a bad mood,” his mother said, when he entered the kitchen. “You’re putting me right off my breakfast, with that face-like-thunder.”

She grabbed his left hand and bent back his two smallest fingers. He used to think they would break, it hurt so much, but she knew when to stop.

He felt a tear roll down his cheek, despite his best efforts not to show he was in pain. His mother let go. She made a sound that resembled a chuckle.

He went over to the sink and pulled a bowl from the pile of crockery and gave it a rinse under the tap and a wipe of the towel.

“Giving me the silent treatment, are you boy?” she said.

He said nothing. He could feel her eyes burn a hole in his back, as she watched him pour cereal into the bowl.

“There’s no milk,” she said. He could hear the laughter in her voice and could picture the expression on her face. That one sided smirk, that glint in her eye. She was trying to make him angry again, she wanted the excuse. He wouldn’t give it to her. Not this time.

“You’ll have to go to the shop,” she said. “I need milk for my tea.”

He kept silent. He returned to the sink, and found a spoon, and took his bowl to the table. He sat down and concentrated on eating his cereal. It was dry and tasteless. It took all his saliva and a lot of energy to chew it, and swallow it down. But he was used to swallowing things that tasted bad.

“Don’t make me ask you again, boy,” she said, after a while.

He could hear her unwrapping a packet of cigarettes, but still he said nothing. He stared at the remaining cereal in the bowl, and chewed. He heard her lean back in her chair, heard the click of the lighter and heard the sharp intake of breath as she inhaled. He waited and was rewarded with a cloud of smoke blown into his face.

“Go and get the milk, love” she said, her voice suddenly gentle, kind even. “There’s a storm brewing, and I wouldn’t want you to get caught in it.” He flinched as he felt her hand stroke his cheek. “Hate you to catch your death,” she said.

He raised the spoon to his mouth, but it never reached it’s intended destination. He flinched again, as much at the sound of the spoon clattering against the cupboard door, as the feeling of his mothers hand as it clamped his own to the table.

He said nothing but raised his eyes to meet those of his mothers. He knew what was coming. It had happened before. Many times. This time he wanted to look her in the eye as she pushed the burning tip of the cigarette into the flesh on the back of his wrist. The pain wasn’t as bad as the first few times. But it hurt, all the same. She would bandage the wound later, and he would wear long sleeves. He always wore long sleeves.

She held his stare as steadily as she held the cigarette, as she gave it a final twist before releasing her grip. She left the cigarette, were it was and leaned back on her chair.

“You think you scare me, boy?” she said, reaching for another cigarette. “You think, I haven’t seen that look, before?” She toyed with the lighter, and waved the unlit cigarette at him. “Your father was an evil man, boy,” she said. “And it is my job to see that you don’t turn evil, too.” She lit the cigarette. “I will break you, boy, just like I broke him”.

He said nothing. He stood up. The crumpled cigarette fell to the floor. He picked it up and put it in his bowl. He fetched the spoon, and placed them, carefully, in the sink.

“Money’s in the top drawer, boy,” she said. “Better get some more cigarettes, whilst you’re at it, and a bottle of gin,” she smiled at him. “You’re a good boy,” she said.

The money was there, as she said it would be. He took it. He paused at the open drawer, staring at the thing which lay at the bottom.

The storm came then, as he knew it would. He had felt it building for a long time.

Later, when the rain came, he stood outside.

He lifted his face to the sky and wondered if ten-year-old boys could live by themselves. He stretched his arms wide and let the storm wash his mothers blood from his face, hands and clothes.

***

Written by Bruce Arbuckle (November 2012)

This story was entered into the Weekly Short Story Contest on http://www.writingforums.org/ (8th November 2012)

Theme: The Storm

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.