Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself

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“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

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Contents
The End________________________________________________________________3
An Active Role___________________________________________________________6
Hush, Little Brother______________________________________________________8
Soul Music_____________________________________________________________18
The Uninvited__________________________________________________________27
The Road to Nowhere____________________________________________________30
Respect________________________________________________________________39
The Acquaintance of Hope Street___________________________________________43
Monitor_______________________________________________________________60
Ubiquitous Bob_________________________________________________________76
The Bridge_____________________________________________________________84
The Best Place__________________________________________________________99
Pigeon Biscuits________________________________________________________105
Werewolf You A Merry Christmas_________________________________________110

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The End
When the world ended, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Nor did it go immediately. The
bugger took six days. About the same amount of time it took to knock up, some
would have it.
Day One
Nothing much happened on day one that would have indicated that it was the
beginning of the end, but cats appeared nervous and dogs looked up. Scientists
who were involved with such things observed that many of their instruments
which measured global electromagnetic fields and such, had started to obtain
some extremely worrying readings. Had an accurate ‘End of the World’ sign been
available, it would have been flashing on amber at the very least.
Day Two
The news broke and the world was in disbelief. World leaders addressed their
respective nations, requesting for calm. Religious leaders addressed their flocks
and told everyone that they had told them so. Most people continued to go about
their daily existence, as it gradually became clear and real that things were not
looking good. Internet bloggers took the time to write their feelings on the
forthcoming denouement. Then they realised that there was going to be nobody
around to read them. Then they wrote their feelings about that.
Day Three
If there was a point in reporting it, this would have been known as ‘Crazy Day’ as
that’s how everyone went. Day three was all about wish fulfilment, with many

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people desperately trying to fill their last hours with activities important to them.
The streets were filled with people having sex, either in orgiastic clusters, in
threes, pairs and even singularly. Looting was prevalent, but most shop owners,
simply opened their doors. People ate constantly and badly. Many drank,
drugged or fucked themselves to death. Many people committed suicide, but
many more decided to hang on to see what was going to happen. There was lots
of murdering, with many eager to see off long term grudges before fate did it for
them. Ironically, those already diagnosed with mental illnesses such as dementia
or acute psychosis met the day with quiet reflection.
Day Four
Extremely strange things happened on this day which very nearly distracted the
people of the world from all their fucking and killing. Flying birds fell from the sky.
Previously flightless birds such as penguins and emu suddenly found the ability
to fly. A weird kind of global temporal disruption occurred, which meant, amongst
other things, that dinosaurs briefly reappeared. The humans ran in terror, though
the dinosaurs were so confused at being back on the planet that they merely sat
and looked around. In the evening, John and George appeared from the same
temporal fissure and The Beatles briefly reformed. Unfortunately this went largely
unheralded due to the fact that sound had decided to jump ship from the planet
prematurely. People tended to communicate by way of shrugs from then on.
Day Five
This was the day with most of the fireworks. The seas rose and tidal waves
crashed down onto cities. Earthquakes tore the earth apart. Volcanoes erupted,
sending ash and magma skyward. Crazy lightening lit the otherwise bleak sky. It
rained purple, which was not nearly as cool as the 1984 track by Prince would
have us believe. Many people screamed (silently). Many people died. The full
CGI bit.

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Day Six
When it came to it, the world started folding in on itself, much like the house at
the end of Poltergeist. Millions of tonnes of matter collapsed into a mass of ever
increasing density and ever decreasing volume. Finally, it disappeared up the
arse of a single Costa Rican Howler monkey who died almost instantly and then
proceeded to float around aimlessly in space. It eventually became a part of the
Mars-Jupiter asteroid belt, where it was picked up millennia later by a craft full of
beings who were all about exploration. One of them took it home as a trophy
where it sat on a kind of plinth and was observed fondly as a mascot. This was
mainly due to the cheeky winking face on it, which was nothing to do with
cheekiness, but rather more to do with a wincing gesture following the insertion
of the planet. That was more or less it.

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An Active Role
You always chided me about my lack of ambition. Just because you had the
successful job and always busied yourself with things.
"When are you going to start taking an active role in life?" is what you said and it
always stuck with me.
That's exactly what I did.
I didn't plan it, just saw you in the garage crouched over your beloved bike and it
just happened.
I left you lying there overnight and watched Lost in bed.
The next afternoon, I went to the local hardware superstore and bought what I
needed. I even flirted with the assistant there who I think found it amusing, a
woman in her forties, buying saws and bolt cutters. Later, on TV, I saw an advert
for a home vacuum packing machine and ordered it on the telephone. When it
arrived the next day, I got to work. After night had fallen and I was finished, I
slooshed all the mess down the drain on the drive way and hosed everything
down.
Now, I'm taking some time off. I'm taking you to all the places we talked about
going and never did. Loch Ness, Knaresborough, Port Merion, Dorset.
Everywhere we go, I buy a postcard to remind me of where we've stopped and
also leave a piece of you behind.

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Just outside of Chester, I stopped at the side of the road to eat my sandwich. A
stray dog was roaming the layby for scraps. I took one of the plastic wrapped
packages from the icebox, unwrapped it, and threw it to the mutt. He wolfed it
down gratefully and wandered off to the next car.
In Keswick, I rented a boat and rowed myself to the centre of the lake and
dropped a couple of small packages over the side, weighed down by stones I'd
taken with me.
In Wales, I climbed Snowdon and left a couple of the larger pieces beneath a
rocky outcrop for the animals to take.
In Oxford Street, while out spending your savings, I throw some bits into a
dustbin for the rats to take care of.
As I drive back home, with the iceboxes empty, I think about my next steps. I will
tell everyone you just left me, get rid of your bike and take your clothes to the
charity shop. I'll put the house up for sale and go on holiday. Find myself
somewhere nice to live abroad. Not too flash, just somewhere warm where I can
close my eyes and feel the sun on my face. Where I can swim in the sea in the
morning and sip wine in the evening.
How's that for active?

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Hush, Little Brother
The fog is back again and with it, uncertainty and dread. It makes Thomas
nervous. There was fog the morning all this began and now the two are
intrinsically linked in his fragile little mind.
My concerns are practical. I worry about not being able to see down the hill at
what might be coming up it. So here we sit, in the Christie’s house, at the top of
the hill, waiting the fog to lift. We stay away from the village and I try to keep
Thomas both safe and amused. Neither is easy.
“Why can’t we go home, Paul?” he asks on a daily basis. I try to make him
understand as best I can. I tell him that one day, we woke up, the two of us, but
the rest of the village didn’t. The sleepers kept on sleeping and it wasn’t wise to
wake them. We learnt that much with Mother.
I tell him that everyone is only sleeping and someday they’ll wake up and
everything will be as normal. He’ll go back to school and I’ll go back to college.
Dad will take us fishing at the weekend. Grandma will bake him rock buns and let
him stay up late watching DVDs. Only for now we mustn’t wake them, otherwise
they are very, very grumpy.
I wonder whether everywhere else is like this; the country, the world? In all this
time, not one car has driven through here, not one plane has flown overhead.
The temptation is to go to the city and try and find others, but this is not
something I think about for long. Sometimes I see smoke off on the horizon and
at night, the glow of fire. It’s enough to choose to remain here with the dangers
that we know, rather than give ourselves over to those we don’t.

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I think about them all, billions of them around the world, sleeping soundly, while
their bodies waste and atrophy. Given long enough, would they waste away to
nothing and die? And why were we exempt? Was there some reason, genetic or
otherwise, why my brother and I were not included in the big sleep?
I wonder if they dream. Dreams so long, lucid and uninterrupted they are almost
like new lives entirely, so if they are rudely awakened, they are stuck between
the two. Maybe it is this which drives them insane.
Out on the vegetable patch, I plant potatoes, with Thomas following, covering
them with soil and patting them down with his hands. Occasionally, I catch a whiff
of the stench from the shed where the Christie family now lie, covered in a bloody
duvet. If Thomas gives me the chance, I will bury them, before it gets much
worse.
Dusk: bats circle and swoop, catching bugs on the wing over the long grass of
the front garden. We eat a vegetable stew for tea. There is no electricity now. In
the house, we cook everything on the fire, fuelled by logs we cut from the smaller
trees at the back of the house. Thomas helps as best he can. It keeps him out of
mischief. I know of a generator, a small one I could probably lift. It sits in the
boiler house of the school at the far side of village. When I am tired of chopping
wood and lifting pots on and off the fire, it preys on my mind. We could get the
cooker working and have the lights on. We could see if there’s anything on TV to
tell us what’s going on, check the internet.
At night I read to him until he goes over, rationing the candles as best I can, in
this approximation of home. Then I watch the lane, making sure there is no one
lurking in the fog. The house is like an old man, with its own creaks and groans
and wheezes. They have become familiar in time and finally, as always,
tiredness gets the better of my fear and I too sleep.

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Everything we use up means another trip into the village. There’s always
something we need: food, candles, clothes. I go in the night, when Thomas is
asleep. I lock him in the bedroom and pray he doesn’t awaken. Sometimes I am
lucky and I find him snoring away as I sneak back in the room. Other times, I find
him squealing and crying, cradling his legs and rocking or otherwise, rampaging
around, tipping over furniture and tearing the linen.
“Where did you go?” he will say. “Did you go home without me?”
He always wants his old things: toys, teddies, games. But home is the one place
I’ll never go back to. I can bear seeing others in that state; other sleepers, but not
my own family. I’m afraid to see my father and older sister, wizened and wasted
in their slumber. More than that, I’d be afraid that my mother was not at the
bottom of the stairs where we left her and is elsewhere, waiting to trouble us
again.
This time it’s his comics. I know the ones he means. There’s a pile of them at
home to the side of his bed; brightly coloured tales of super-powered heroes
ridding the world of crime and pain and violence. It will help occupy him for a time
and we need other things besides. So, another trip to the village…
I pad around in my socks, a silent thief, breaking into the houses of my former
neighbours, lighting my way with a torch over which I’ve secured some material
to dull the intensity. It takes forever to do everything so slowly, with care and
deliberation. It’s not just our noises I need to worry about, it’s the other noises
too: cats on dustbins, packs of dogs running the streets, falling roof tiles. Any
noise, our fault or not can wake them. I dread the thought of a heavy
thunderstorm.

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In the house of my college friend, John Hallam, I find a box of candles. In the
pharmacy, a box of Thomas’s hayfever medication, which I somehow missed.
Finally, in the library, I find some comics for my brother and a book on martial
arts, which I take for myself. I tiptoe down the high street, measuring each step,
each breath. As the first of the dawn chorus begins to sing, I make the slow two
mile journey back to the house. The perpetual fog shows no signs of lifting and
mars my vision at every turn.
By the time I get to the gate,I am exhausted. There is no noise from the house
and I find Thomas as I left him, sucking his thumb in the semi darkness. I check
the doors are locked again and head back to the bedroom.
It’s when I take a final glance out the window that I see it: a movement in the fog;
something on the lane, erratic and wild. Then I hear it, the sound of a sleeper:
nonsense mostly, punctuated by the occasional recognisable word. I see a figure
silhouetted in the fog for a moment, and then it is gone, darting out of my line of
sight. Then I hear it on the door, rattling the handle, banging on the wood. Then
it’s onto the windows, trying to prise off the shutters, babbling incoherently.
Thomas wakes and looks at me in terror.
“Is it one of them, Paul?” he asks.
“Yes, but we’re quite safe Thomas. Don’t worry.” I try to remain calm, but I feel
my heart banging, ready to bust through my ribcage and into the room. I tell him
to stay put.
“Dun leave me Paul!” he says. “Dun leave me here!”
“I’ll not leave you Thomas,” I say. “I’ll get rid of it.”

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I quickly leave the room and lock the door behind me. I hear him crying within. As
I move down the stairs, I hear it at the back of the house, shuffling about,
mumbling. Then I hear the sound of metal scraping against stone. I realise what
it is and want to kick myself. I had left the spade leaning against the wall
following our afternoon of planting. Now it had a weapon.
I tiptoe to the back of the house and from the kitchen cupboard I select a four
pound mell and go to the back door. I place my ear to the door and hear it
shambling past. I give it a few seconds, unlock the door and step out. The fog is
still there, but it is brighter now. I hear it around the corner of the house, shaking
the timber on one of the window shutters. I raise the mell above my head and
silently move around. Its head flicks my way and I stop in my tracks. It’s my
college friend, John Hallam, in muddy pyjamas. He looks like all the others,
recognisably him, but aged, pale; withered and wasted by their extended
slumber. He bares his yellowed teeth and hisses at me, brandishing the spade,
his eyes like onyx spheres in his gaunt face.
“Paul!” he mumbles, followed by a string of nonsense. Like all of the sleepers I’ve
encountered, there is some memory of their life before, but mostly it’s just
madness and the urge to harm. He swings the spade at my head, missing by a
good foot. Again, like the rest of them, he’s strong and dangerous, but
uncoordinated. When he tries again, I duck and move in quickly, bashing his
forehead with the mell. He staggers backwards, the wound on his head already
discoloured. I grab the spade with my left hand and hit him again. He goes down
this time, with blood pouring down into his eyes. I stand on his spade arm and hit
him, again and again, until the sound is wet and he’s stopped moving entirely.
I hear Thomas calling my name from upstairs and quickly start to drag the body
over to the shed. I take off the padlock and open the door, unleashing a swarm of
flies. I cover my mouth with my arm and drag John’s body into the shed and on
top of the others, retching finally at the stench.

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Upstairs, Thomas is hammering at the door. I unlock it and calm him with
promises of breakfast. I show him the comics from the library. Later, I set him
away planting carrot seeds, while I, exhausted, dose at the door. Later, I cook us
some food and make a pot of coffee. By early evening, I am relieved to see that
fog has lifted.
My encounter with John Hallam reminds me of two things. The first was that
awakened sleepers are unpredictable, terrifying creatures. The second is that
every time one crosses my path, I have been able to deal with it. I take my time
planning the generator trip.
I oil the Christie’s aluminium wheelbarrow and line it with blankets and pillows.
On the feet of the barrow, I tape thick pipe lagging. Over the course of several
nights, I stash weapons on the route, out of sight, but in places I will remember. A
claw hammer behind a fence post, a hatchet behind a log, a kitchen knife stuck
into the trunk of a tree. If I’m followed up the hill again, I’ll be ready. Each time, I
lock Thomas in the house, both at the bedroom and the front doors. One night, I
push the wheelbarrow down to the edge of the village. It does its job and doesn’t
make a sound.
The day I plan to take the generator, I have Thomas busy in the garden again,
chopping firewood, raking the leek trench; tiring him out for the night to come. I
cook a good dinner of cauliflower cheese and we play cards until he tells me he
is tired. I read to him a little while in the bedroom and before long, he’s snoring
like a chainsaw.
I quietly leave the house and lock the door behind me. I put on a second pair of
thick socks and pad my way down the track. In my pocket is a crowbar which I
have wrapped entirely in electrical tape, to dull the noise should I be foolish
enough to drop it. The air is fresh and the three quarter moon is enough to light

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my way. The barrow is where I left it. I lift up the handles and push it silently
along. I keep to the middle of the road, listening. Passing houses and shops, my
eyes dart from side to side, checking alleyways for movement. As I pass the
village square, a cat appears cautiously from the long grass and hisses in my
direction. I watch it carefully as I pass. We both keep our distance.
I arrive at my destination. It used to be a church and then a school for many

years, to both Thomas and I. Now it was nothing; a building for nobody. I push
the barrow up to the doors. I take the crowbar from my pocket and jimmy the lock
on the door. It breaks easily, as I predicted, with a gentle thunk.
Inside, I switch on my torch and walk down a short span of stairs. It is exactly as I
remembered. The boiler room door isn’t locked and just inside, covered in a
dustsheet, is the generator. It’s small and old, but there’s nothing about it which
makes me think it wouldn’t be able to work. I put a leg either side of it and test it
for weight. It’s heavy, but nothing I can’t handle. I take my time, moving it in small
steps; to the boiler house doorway, to the bottom of the stairs, then to the top.
Then, accompanied by a nauseating lurch in my stomach, I hear something

outside. It’s something distant, but I know that, these days, most trouble I hear
tends to up end coming my way. I stick my head out of the door and hear distant
foot falls. I push the door partially shut, so I can still see down the road. I pocket
the torch and pick up the crowbar.
The footsteps get louder and then I see him. He’s tearing down the middle of the
road, tears running down his face.
“Thomas!” I say. “Get in here!”
When he’s close enough, I grab him and pull him into the church, closing the
door behind me.

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“What are you doing?” I whisper, tersely.
“I woked up and you weren’t there.”
“How did you get out of the house?”
“I opened the window and climbed down. I was frightened Paul.” There are
scratches on his arm and his t-shirt is ripped.
“Did you come straight here? Were you quiet?”
He looks at me sheepishly.
“Don’t be angry, Paul,” he says.
“Where did you go?”
“I went home.”
There were more noises now; movement out in the street. We stand in the near
darkness.
“Dad woked up,” he says.
I put this awful fact to one side, while I think of our more immediate situation. I
crouch and look through the keyhole. I can see movement; running people,
flitting past my line of sight; Crazed wretches in their nightwear, half dressed
lunatics in pyjamas and nighties. I wonder how many he has awoken and in turn,
how many of their own have they roused? What horrible chain of dominoes he
has set in motion?

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“Help me with this.”
We lift the generator and push it against the doors.
“I’m frightened, Paul,” says Thomas.
“Shh!,” I answer. “Don’t make another sound.”
I crouch again and look through the key hole. The street appears empty.
Suddenly, something is right behind the door. I hear a dreadful hiss and the door
begins to rattle. I grab Thomas and drag him further into the church, away from
the door. We stumble down the aisle in the near darkness, colliding with the
pews at either side. From outside, the overlapping sound of many footsteps.
I hear glass shatter somewhere and the door scrape open, despite the weight of
the generator. I wonder how many are already in, how many more to come. We
cower between the seats of the chancel. I hear a flurry of activity; sleepers
spilling in, hissing, babbling, and fighting amongst themselves. I hear one voice
above them all:
“Thomas!” my father shouts. And I see him, his unmistakable frame, silhouetted
against the massive stained glass window. He howls something unintelligible into
the air above him and begins to tear out clumps of his own hair. Is my sister here
also, in amongst the throng of insanity? Will she be amongst those to tear us limb
from limb?
Tears run down Thomas’s face and he struggles in my arms. I pin him to the floor
and push down hard on his mouth to stifle the noise. The sleepers are
rampaging, upturning the pews, breaking the windows, searching for us. It is only
a question of time. Thomas squirms beneath me and I push down harder, too

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hard. One hand wanders to his throat and I press even harder. I feel a crunch
beneath my hand he goes limp.
“Hush, little brother,” I whisper into his ear. “Hush.”

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Soul Music
“Bring me more!” he bellowed. The sound a hideous cacophony, like a

thousand church organs intertwined, with an elbow on the bass end. Then he
flayed me to the bone again over the course of the afternoon. It was almost
enough to get me worried.
It must be said that he wasn’t in a particularly good mood. ‘Good mood’, of

course being a relative term when discussing Lucifer, the usual scale sliding
somewhere between explosive anger and evil, incandescent, globe trembling
fury.
We all knew what had riled him. It was the unsuccessful attempt to recruit a
certain Mr. Iggy Pop. How glad I was to have had no part in that fiasco (the
culprit currently being minced repeatedly, the poor bugger barely having time to
reconstitute himself, before being flung in again).
Not that I would dare say as much, but I think the Boss knew as well as anyone,
that Iggy Pop is unlikely to change his management at this late stage of the
game. He knows as well as I do that it’s the young ones that we should be
targeting. The fame hungry fuckers are everywhere these days, dragging their
minimal talent to wherever they stand a chance of exposure: Pop Idol, X-factor,
Britain’s Got Talent. Whoring themselves for their piece of the celebrity pie, no
matter how brief. For sheer volume of untalented cretins willing to sign their soul
away, it hasn’t been this good since the eighties.
That the Devil has the best music is one of the grossest fallacies of the afterlife.
Do you think that Elvis, Janice, Jimi et al, are jamming down here in the bowels
amongst all that sulphur and torment? Not a chance. Old bearded Godfrey

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plucked them for the penthouse, like Faust, at just the right moment, as they
shimmied away from their mortal coils. He even forgave Kurt his little faux pas
with the shotgun (which raised a few hackles down here, with the suicide lot, I
can tell you). No, this lot were fast tracked through the pearlies, held aloft by
cherub driven celestial limos and ushered into the green room, drink in hand.
Make no mistake, God’s a music lover. I could even give you a bible quote, if I
were inclined. Yes? Okay, here goes:
O come, let us sing unto the Lord: let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our
salvation. Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, and make a joyful
noise unto him. Psalms 95:1-2
Down here in hell, we get all the shit. The ones prepared to sign away their very
soul for fame (and of course, the ones we trick into signing away their very soul
for fame). Have you ever sat watching the TV at some feckless fool with only the
merest scrap of musical ability, only to watch him go from strength to strength?
No. 1 singles, platinum selling albums, sell out tours, merchandise, talk shows,
movie roles, autobiographies and so on? Did you ever see such a person and
think just how did this occur?
That would be us!
You’re so very welcome!
A commitment to the continual decline of standards is our raison d’être! (that, and
a good supply of souls to keep the furnace going).
So as well as the perpetuity of pain, there’s also the duff soundtrack. If I ever see
St. Peter again, that sanctimonious twat.

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“Your name’s not down. You’re not coming in,” he said to me at the gates, in not
so many words, and then, of course, the fall into the fiery pit, the flaying, the
dismemberment, the broiling, yadda, yadda, repeat for eternity.
And when I tell you of the one crime that denied me entry into the heavenly
bosom, of the single solitary sinlet, I swear you will laugh.
Thankfully, I was of some use to the Boss. My one saving grace appears to be
my former occupation on earth as an A&R man; a record company talent scout.
Albeit an existence of continual torment and agony, he goes easy on the likes of
us (easy, again being a relative term: just ask the guy in the mincer).
“Bring me more!”, he said. The sound a thunderous, distortion of overlaid tracks:

screaming women, snapping tendons, frying flesh. It was souls he was talking
about, lots of them and hence the reason I was to be sent back to earth for a
brief sojourn in a recruitment capacity, relying on my many years experience of
the music industry.
Now, since the gathering of souls for the administration of infinitely applied
torture is the bread and butter of hell, it will come as no surprise to you that we
are fairly well organised to these ends. We have teams of logistics folk, who can
do much to pave the way for successful jaunts to the surface. My man, Barry
(nice chap, murderer), has been in the job for centuries. Newly assigned to me,
he came with a good reputation.
So it was, that I came to temporarily occupy the flesh and bones of a Mr. Steven
Archbold of North London. Whilst not exactly a sports model, Mr. Archbold turned
out to be a more than adequate vessel; a lean physique and a full head of hair
being a vast improvement over my previous outings. I felt certain I could take
advantage of Mr. Archbold’s physical attributes. Possession is nine tenths of the
law as they say.

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I found myself sitting in an offstage waiting area of a vast TV theatre, in a rather

dapper suit and with a briefcase at my feet. A host of people bustled hither and
thither, performing functions both hectic and ill defined. The echoed, amplified
voice of the presenter rang in my ears, followed by rapturous applause of the
audience.
The sheer relief of not being in perpetual agony was exhilarating. So much so,
that I asked a backstage lacky for a large whisky to steady myself. While the
show went through a commercial break, I managed to polish off another two.
There then followed a short piece of theme music and another round of presenter
and applause. A taped musical introduction came next, followed by a female
singing voice. She was clearly nervous at first, then grew in confidence and
volume. Whilst not the voice of an angel (and those boys can belt it out, so they
tell me), rather good nonetheless. She had some raw talent, granted, but not
enough so she would make it without some help.
The song reached a predictable crescendo and she hit her final note, holding it
more than adequately. Then came rapturous applause, followed by a mainly
positive appraisal by the show's judges. She appeared backstage to be
congratulated by family and bystanders and I saw her for the first time. No more
than twenty. Predictably young and gorgeous. Black cocktail dress, stockings (I
hoped) and young pert breasts hitched skyward: magnificent. I felt a stirring in
Mr. Archbold’s loins.
I could read her life through her eyes. The prettiness, the popularity at school, the
singing into the hairbrush, the karaoke queen, the local talent shows in working
men’s clubs, the search for an agent, the diets, the tanning salons, the drama
classes and finally now, so close to the prize, the expectation. Honey, I wanted to
tell her, you're not nearly good enough. You want it so badly, but you just weren't

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born with it. You are ten a penny. I walked up to her, smiled and shook her hand
warmly.
”I think we just heard the performance that will win this competition!”
“Oh,” she gushed. “Do you really think so?”
She fanned her hand rapidly in front of her face and her eyes welled with tears.
”I represent…” and here I mention a major global record label. “The thing is, I’m
extremely interested in talking to you, regardless of the outcome of this
competition. Is there somewhere we can have a chat?”
She squealed deafeningly, as she jumped up and down simultaneously with her
little entourage for what seemed like a decade. No doubt she was internally
logging this event imagining how it would read in her best selling
autobiography (which would naturally be ghost written and arrive in bookstores
before she turned twenty-one). Call me cynical.
Her various family members orbited her tearfully. One of them was a spotty
nerdling of a kid, clearly out of his depth in the big city: the boyfriend? Not for
much longer son.
We were cajoled along a corridor into a dressing room area, by a clipboard

wielding numbnut and I was gladdened that the family appeared to have taken
me, virtually instantly, into their circle of trust.
I made a few false calls on my mobile to imaginary people called Jade and
Laurence, explaining loudly that I thought we’d be fools indeed not to sign this
young, highly talented lady. It took very little persuasion to convince young K-Lee

Page 23
(for that was her name, not Kailey, or Kay Lee she was at pains to point out), to
accompany me to a local hotel.
“Well, as long as you sign your real name on the contract,” I told her and then
gave her my best shit-eating grin.
Following a quick change and no doubt some wasted words of warning from her
family, she was all mine. More tearful hugs and congratulations from the
entourage, into a limo (thanks Barry) and to the hotel, a plush little number, which
wasn’t even around when I died.
Up in the room, the champagne was popped and we got down to business. I
opened a rather hefty bag of cocaine, which I thought might work to expedite my
nefarious plans. By the way she greedily vacuumed up her first line, I guessed
that this was not something new to the young lady. Tch, kids these days, eh?
The Boss generally approves of any acts perpetrated by his subordinates which
serve to further sully MC Godski’s sweet earth. I usually try to do this by the
means of a controlled explosion of grade A drugs, alcohol and meaningless sex.
You’ve got to try to do your bit.
Having been through this process more than a few times now, I have learned to
get any prospective naughtiness out of the way, before I do the whole signature
thing. On a number of occasions, I have made the deal and been just about to
commence festivities - or actually been in the act - to be suddenly drawn
unceremoniously back to Hades. Once the deal is done, it is the logistics team’s
responsibility for an immediate evac of the soul back to base. This sudden switch
from sexual bliss to unimaginable agony is quite the worst form of coitus
interruptus I’ve experienced in this life or the last.
However, the young lady didn’t disappoint and seemed to be aware that these
sweaty trysts between starlet and manager were all par for the course. Indeed,

Page 24
she seemed most keen to demonstrate her gratitude to my business offer. I was
thankful that Barry (bless his murderous soul) had found such physically fit host.
Later, following several rounds of increasingly elaborate activities and a most

delightful nap, I took myself out of bed. We would get the contract signed soon, I
told her, but first I needed a blood sample.
“Blood sample?” she said.
“Company policy,” I tell her. “For our records, for safety you see? If there's an
accident, God forbid, we have a duty of care for all of the talent on our books. We
need to know blood type and so on.”
I took a sterile syringe from my briefcase and neatly extracted a small aliquot of
blood from her delicate forearm. Then, whilst she was in the bathroom, cleansing
herself from our filthy escapades, I transferred the blood into a fountain pen and
prepared the documents.
When she appeared, naked and still drying her hair, I had the pen ready to hand
to her. She beamed and her eyes welled again. For a brief moment, I felt almost
sorry for her, but it passed.
I explained the salient points of the contract, (obviously omitting the whole
foreclosure on the soul small print). As far as she was concerned, the crux was
the record deal. This part was straight up. She would be a success, helped along
no small amount, by his majesty's influence, of course. What was once left down
to chance and good fortune would now be a certainty. When she turned up at the
record company office as I suggested, there might be a few puzzlements initially,
but essentially she would be welcomed with open arms, all smoothed over by the
logistics team.

Page 25
She took the pen and put it to the paper and paused. I see a small dot of bright
red blood grew onto the page. She looked up at me, bottom lip aquiver.
“I’ve waited my entire life for this moment,” she said. “I’m so happy!”
It could have been the raw emotion of the moment, or the fact that her beautiful
bare breasts were within reach, but I was moved to grab her again. She dropped
the pen and I scooped her into my arms and carried her to the bed once more.
Much later, I finally pealed myself away and left her panting and glistening on the
ravaged bed. I headed for the bathroom, turning at the sound of her voice.
“I love…,” she said, “…the music business.”
“I know you do,” I said. “I know you do.”
Just as I closed the bathroom door, I heard her take another rasping hit of coke
and switch on some music. I heard her singing along as I turned on the shower
and stood beneath the stream, holding my head aloft and easing the temperature
up as high as I could bare it (which was pretty high as you can imagine). I took
my time. As with any business trip, your Boss usually will acquiesce to allow
certain luxuries as long as the job gets done. This evening was mine. I toweled
myself dry and walked back into the bedroom, with the thoughts of extending my
stay a little further, perhaps ordering up some food before she signed.
On the bed, her beautiful tanned body lay naked on top of the sheets, silent,
unmoving and thoroughly dead. A small trickle of blood was visible from one
nostril. A weak heart? I would never know. All I knew was my unending,
bottomless abyss of poor luck. I moved toward her, with genuine regret, with
hopes to revive her, when I felt a familiar tug on my soul: come in, your time is
up. The room dissolved away in front of me, before I could touch her, as I left my
temporary vessel and fell once more into the pit.

Page 26
I was home.
“Souls?” he hissed.
“No,” I replied.
This was not good. Not only had I failed to secure a soul for the team, I had
effectively scored an own goal, sending one off to the opposition. He leant back
his horrible head and howled, the sound, a deafening Phil Spector produced wall
of anguish. I felt his breath on my body: my flesh charred and bubbled on my
bones and I prepared myself for an undefined period of blunt agony. You win
some, you lose some.
Spare a thought for me then, the next time a pretty, talentless young fop appears
on your screen, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that they may well have
been visited by me. They could well pay for that shit in the end.
Oh, and in case you were still wondering about the reason I was denied entry to
heaven; the sin that was so awful and shameful that I was knocked back at the
pearly gates? Not one of the traditional misdemeanors, no sir. I doubt very much
that it was in small print on the tablets which Moses brought down from Mount
Sinai. However, if there is an eleventh commandment, which God upholds or an
eighth cardinal sin, it’s apparently: thou shalt not sign Cliff Richards.

Page 27
The Uninvited
“As usual Milo, when my guest arrives, I will expect you to remain in your
room,” said Jennifer. “I’m making some dinner you can have in there.”
Milo pushed himself up from his wheelchair to see spaghetti hoops bubbling in a
small saucepan on the hob. The kitchen was littered with cooking detritus:
chopped onion, tomatoes, garlic, green beans and two bloody chops on a plate
by the oven. The kitchen was awash with an array of delicious odours. Milo’s
stomach rumbled. He was weak and hungry, as usual.
“I have two bottles of a marvellous Temperanillo,” said Jennifer. “Ribero del

Duero. Spanish. Award winning.”
Milo grunted a reply. Jennifer paused, mid-stir over a large pot of sauce.
“I’m afraid there is insufficient for you to try it, Milo,” she said. “You can have one
of the little Belgian beers you like.”
Milo mumbled in dissatisfaction. Jennifer thumped the meat with a tenderising

mallet, the slipped both pieces into a bowl of oil, massaging them momentarily,
before placing them in the frying pan where they sizzled enthusiastically. Milo
strained up on the arms of the wheelchair again to watch the spaghetti hoops
congealing in the bottom of the pan.
“Starters are chilling; wine breathing; vegetables drained. Now, how does Ronald
like his meat?” she said, visualising her gastronomic agenda. Milo rolled his eye.

Page 28
“Oh Christ!” she said, finally noticing Milo’s burning meal. She snatched the
saucepan from the hob and slopped the contents into a plastic bowl. She located
a spoon, slung it into the bowl and pitched the whole lot onto Milo’s lap. Milo
rapidly began spooning the scalding hot muck into his mouth, barely tasting it as
he swallowed.
Abruptly, the doorbell rang. Jennifer raised her hands in panic. Milo stopped
eating and a number of spaghetti hoops fell from his open mouth onto the rug on
his lap.
“Right, Milo,” she said, preening herself rapidly in the reflection of the toaster.
“Make yourself scarce!”
Milo awkwardly turned the wheelchair and wheeled himself toward his room. The
bungalow was small, with his room and the kitchen to the rear and the dining
room at the front. He was barely through the door before he heard the bolt slide
home behind him. He spun the chair around and pushed his ear against the door.
The plastic bowl slipped onto the floor, ignored. He heard the front door open and
Jennifer’s singing voice:
“Ronald! How marvellous!”
Milo heard the deep reply of a man, but could not decipher the words. He
pictured obesity and jowls.
“Oh…” he heard Jennifer say and he detected a note of displeasure (which he

recognised so very well). “…well, no, not a problem exactly…well no, I know you
pay a lot of money, but some prior notice…Oh! Very well! Come in!”
Milo sniggered and readjusted his ear to the door. He loved to hear her when she
was annoyed, unless she was annoyed at him of course. He heard the front door

Page 29
close and the sound of movement at the front of the house. A long silence,
followed by music: Nora Jones, her dinner party music. Then he heard her irrate
stomp, the rattle of the bolt. Milo rapidly reversed the chair away from the door.
Jennifer appeared. She was seething.
“Ronald,” she said, trying to control her anger, “has decided to bring an
unannounced guest.”
Milo moaned.
“You know what that means.”
Milo rolled up his lap blanket obediently. Jennifer went quickly into the kitchen
and he heard the sound of the fridge opening and closing. She reappeared and
instantly stabbed in the syringe, depressing the plunger in one motion. A
euphoric warmth flooded his body. Milo relaxed in his chair and enjoyed the
sweet numbness which enveloped him. Jennifer appeared again, with the
hacksaw and clamps.
“There’s enough of the tongue salad to go around, but not the main course.”
Milo gurgled quietly, as the morphine took hold proper. Jennifer quickly
unravelled Milo’s bandages, revealing his crudely cauterised stumps.
“Keep the bloody noise down this time,” she said, as she leant down to begin.
Milo laughed silently, his shoulders shaking as she sawed.

Page 30
The Road to Nowhere
She called it the Road to Nowhere and they sang the song – what they could
remember of it - a few times until it quickly became old. It was certainly a strange
sight, the light grey surface winding down the hillside and into the reservoir.
Beneath the water, it could be seen for several more feet, until it was lost
amongst the weeds and rusty murk.
At first they thought it was a ramp, built specifically to launch boats into the water.
Then they noticed the broken stone wall, which also continued undeterred into
the gloom.
“There must be a town under there,” Mike said. “Like Atlantis.”
“I hope they were insured,” said Sarah.
They were renting a small stone cottage for the weekend, which overlooked the
reservoir and the sunken road. This was to be their time being bandits; lovers on
the run, like Bonnie and Clyde. They were going to ground, hunkering down for
the weekend to hide from the world of work. They wanted their only distraction to
be each other. With the bike rental hut closed and the canoes and row boats
locked up for the Winter, it seemed they had little option.
She had enjoyed the drive; the transition from city to suburb, from suburb to quiet
country lane. Every mile removed a layer of stress which had accumulated
through the week. By the time they had reached the waterside it was late
afternoon. They parked the car and took their gear up the path to the cottage.
Once they had battled against a pile of post that had accumulated behind the
door Mike picked Sarah up and carried her over the threshold. Once inside, she
was a little surprised at how basic it was. The garish wallpaper and 1970’s three
piece suite were at odds with the rustic exterior. The air was cold, with a dank

Page 31
smell that reminded her of her father’s garage. In the first bedroom, the
bedclothes were fusty and they were glad to have brought their own sleeping
bags to zip together. In the second, a single mushroom grew defiantly from the
carpet.
“We’ll have that tomorrow, with some bacon and eggs!” laughed Mike.
“I take it there were no online photographs of this place?”
He shook his head: “Just a phone number. The bloke seemed alright.”
“They always do,” said Sarah.
Soon after, Mike took off in the car for supplies. While he was away, Sarah
collected some logs from a shelter out the back and, after some trial and error, lit
a fire in the small firebasket. She uncorked the wine they had brought with them
and poured a good measure each into the cleanest of the mugs she could find.
She fed the fire and awaited his return. There was no TV or radio (a fact which
pleased her) and the single magazine she had brought with them was in the car.
Time passed.
By the time she heard a distant engine, it was dark and raining solidly. She was
at the window taking increasingly frequent sips of wine. Finally, she saw the car
headlights on the road. They panned around as he turned in, illuminating the
neighbouring trees and -for a brief moment- two stark figures on the road: a
woman with long dark hair, her face as white as porcelain, gazing blankly up at
the cottage; at her side, a small boy, just as pale, looking in her direction, holding
the woman’s hand. Both were drenched in the rain, clothes stuck to the skin; the
woman in a Summer dress, the lad in light coloured shirt and shorts. Their

Page 32
presence stunned her for a second, but once the beam had passed, she could no
longer discern them in the darkness.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Mike was there, equally soaked, with the
addition of mud patches on his knees.
“Christ, I’ve had a nightmare,” he said, making a beeline for the fire.
“Where have you been?” she asked, helping him off with his sodden jacket.
“Right round the other side of the bloody reservoir. That’s where the village is:
seventeen miles away. I went to the shop. Shut. Even the pub was shut -
permanently by the looks of things”. He rubbed his hands together over the fire.
“So what’s with the muddy knees? Have you been trying to milk a cow?” she
smiled behind her wine mug, but he didn’t seem amused.
“It’s the car. There’s something wrong with the clutch. I’ve been stuck in second
all the way back. I’ve been under it, but I don’t even know what I’m looking at.
Then he started peeling off his jeans.
“Who were those people outside?”
“What?”
“There were two people out there, a woman and a boy, where the road ends.
You must have seen them.”
“No. God help them though, it’s pouring down. There’s a river running down that
road. Can I have some wine?” She handed him the mug she had filled for him an
hour earlier.

Page 33
“Do you think we should go out and see if they’re OK?”
“Be my guest,” he said, rubbing his hands over the fire. “Do we have anything to
eat then?”
“Well, if you didn’t get anything, just the wine, the sandwiches I didn’t eat for
lunch today and the mushroom of course.”
They shared the sandwiches and polished off the wine. Before they went to bed,
they loaded up the fire with logs and left the bedroom door open, to try and let
some heat through. She listened to the crackle and spit of the fire and soon
plunged into a deep smothering slumber.
She awoke abruptly into bright morning light and to the sound of skin squeaking
against glass. She quickly looked up to the bedroom window, in time to see a
hand move from the lowest pane. A small wet handprint was left in its place. She
wrapped the sleeping bags around me and looked out of the window. The rain
had abated and she could see the car, one side of it jacked with Mike’s legs
appearing from beneath it. Her stomach rumbled forcefully as she quickly got
dressed and went outside. She loitered by Mike’s legs.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” came the terse reply.
“Is it looking hopeful?”
“Nope.”
“I see you had a little helper.”

Page 34
“What do you mean?”
“There was a little kid running around wasn’t there?”
“Was there? I heard something, but I haven’t seen any…Arrggh! Bastard!” His
hand appeared, rapidly clenching and releasing a fist to relieve the pain.
“Oh, baby”, she crouched and kissed his hand.
Her only reply was a frustrated moan.
“I’m going to head the other way. See if there’s a house or something. Someone
who’ll take pity on us city folk”, she said to the legs.
“Good luck,” he said, but didn’t pull himself from underneath.
She felt a lurch of disappointment that this was not turning out to be the weekend
they had planned. She set off along the side of the road, which took her higher
up the valley and offered some good views of the reservoir between the browning
leaves of the trees. At the far side of the water, she could see the tiny village
Mike had visited. About half a mile on the road, she came across a single sign:
VISITOR’S CENTRE, and an arrow pointing back down towards the bank. She
followed the muddy track to a log cabin with a stand of aged leaflets outside.
Inside, on the walls, were a series of displays depicting the construction of the
dam and reservoir. Beneath one grainy photograph was the caption: Village
Demolition Commences (1925).
“Most people think that there’s a sunken town under there,” said a voice, “Trout
swimming down the high street, that kind of thing. It’s not like that of course.
They usually demolish any buildings before they flood a valley to make a

Page 35
reservoir.” The tall man had appeared by her side. Mid forties. Beard. “I didn’t
hear a car…”
“I’m on foot. I’m staying at the cottage along the road”
He seemed surprised for a second, then a smile appeared on his face. He

narrowed his left eye into a conspiratorial squint.
“There’s a bit of sordid history to that cottage mind,” he said. She had the
impression that this was his attempt at flirtation.
“Oh really?”
“Yes. The local Lord of the manor used it for the old dangerous liaisons with his
fancy bit. She was from down in the valley, he lived up in the big house. His
family owned all this land. The cottage was half way house. It was quite the
scandal; sex out of wedlock you see.”
She smiled at him.
“She ended up falling pregnant and having a little one by him. He wouldn’t
acknowledge it. Didn’t want the shame of it all. Wouldn’t have been approved by
the family, you see. Something like that. She was lost when he turned his back.
Didn’t have any family. Used to wander up to the cottage and wait for him.
‘Course he stopped coming altogether.”
A curiously nervous feeling entered my system and settled in her legs; a

snapshot of the woman and boy standing in the rain.
“When was this?” she asked.

Page 36
“Well if any of it’s true, just before they flooded the valley; 1925”
He paused for a second.
“You’re not the nervous type are you?”
“Not really, but I’m staying with my boyfriend anyway.” She thought she should
get that in at some point.
“Load of rubbish anyway, but what they say happened was that she refused to
move, the young lassie. There was only a handful of houses down in the valley
and most of them were just glad to have their houses bought from them and
move on. The lass stayed put with her kid. They worked around her. Brought
down everything else. Then it came to the point where she was holding
everything up. Then he steps in. It was holding up his big payoff you see. So he
thought of a way to sort out all of his problems”.
The man’s face dropped.
“He locked them in the cellar of her house. His own kid too; couldn’t have been
more than a toddler. Told them to go ahead and demolish the house, knowing
they were underneath it. Then they started flooding the valley. Took months to fill
mind, though it wouldn’t have taken it long to get to her place. It’s now at the
lowest point of the reservoir; thirty two metres down.”
He paused and then slowly smiled.
“Still. Awful thing, really.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”

Page 37
She felt uncomfortable in his presence. A breeze had picked up behind her,
which slammed the door shut and brought her back to the present.
“Erm, you don’t know where I can get some shopping do you? You know,
something for breakfast?”
“Well there’s the village shop across the far side, but if it’s just eggs and milk, I’ve
got some here you can have. Cornettos too!”
As she left the visitor’s centre with her plastic bag, she could feel his eyes on her,
watching her leave. It began to rain again. She was not looking forward to the
walk back, but was buoyed by the fact that at least they’d have eggs to keep
them going. The rain grew gradually heavier and she quickened her pace to
avoid growing cold.
She eventually reached the cottage and looked for Mike. He wasn’t by the car,
which was still jacked up the way had been when she left. As she rounded the
corner of the cottage, she saw him and all the air seemed to leave her lungs. She
dropped the carrier bag and ran.
He was lying face down in the water, about twelve feet from where the road
entered it.
He wasn’t moving.
His long dark hair floated in tendrils around his head.
She slipped on the wet grass and fell forwards onto the road, grazing her knees.
She pulled herself up.
He still wasn’t moving.

Page 38
She ran into the water at speed, calling his name. The freezing liquid was soon
up to her waist, slowing her movements to a slow march. She called his name
again and began to swim out to him, but he seemed to be floating out away from
her, further into the reservoir. She screamed his name. Then suddenly,
sickeningly, his body jolted once, as if pulled from below and was gone.
She continued out toward the resultant ripples, but then she heard it. A low
guttural gurgle; the sound of drowning. She turned slowly, terrified of what she
was about to see.
It was the boy.
He stood between her and the bank. He stared at her with blackened eyes,
mouth lolling open as if about to speak. Instead, a long black eel squirmed forth
and plopped sickeningly into the water. He raised a thin pallid arm and pointed at
her. She opened her mouth to scream and then, from behind I felt a cold hand
tighten on her throat and a strong, slim arm slip around her waist.
And, as she was pulled under into the dark, icy depths, she was able to look
upwards and see her blanched face; beautiful, serene and passionless. Her grip
tightened.
Water flooded her mouth as she was taken down the road.

Page 39
Respect
Alright boy? Did I catch you nappin’?
Yeah, I know it’s late. What time have you got on that fancy watch? Watcha
mean you aint got it on? I got 3 a.m. You’re on twenty-four seven in this racket
son, that’s what I’ve learnt. Job needs doin’, it needs doin’. Don’t matter what
time it is. You want a nine to five job, go and tappy-lap a keyboard in a bloody
office.
Can I come in?
Nice place. You’re spendin’ our money well. I knew when you walked in that you
was a smart boy. Good suit, decent shoes. The old boys respect that. Frank
respects that. Sayin’ that, some of the lads he’s got workin’ for him haven’t got a
clue. Look like he found them workin’ the dodgems at the local fair. Couldn’t find
their arse with both hands. If a man dresses well, it shows he’s got respect for
himself. If he respects himself, he aint gonna let himself be pushed around and
that’s the sorta guy that can make us money. If a fella looks like crap, wears
some cheap shit, he aint kiddin’ no one. If a man walks in wearing a vintage
Breitling like yours, you know he’s someone serious. Someone to be reckoned
with. Frank – and me an’ all – we recognise potential. That’s what you got son.
Ready? Get in then. I’m drivin’.
What was I sayin’? Yeah, potential. That’s why me and Frank trusted you to look
after things while we was in Amsterdam. We knew you weren’t gonna muck
around. I was grateful you showed your face round my place n’all. My Mary, she
gets worried on her tod. I’ve pissed off a lot of people in my time, see? Had some

Page 40
unwelcome visitors in the past. Sort of thing puts the shits up a woman. Anyway,
it was appreciated. I owe yer one.
Well son, you’ll be wonderin’ why I dragged you out your scratcher. The job
tonight is one of disposal. There’s somethin’ in the boot we got to get rid of
y’understand? Now pay attention, tonight you might learn somethin’ Each of the
fellas has a different way of dealin’ with this kind of thing. There’s one bloke got a
fishin’ boat, takes them out three mile, weighs them down with rocks and sinks
‘em. Another fella I know got a pal in the construction business, drops them in the
foundations of whatever their buildin’, never see ‘em again. You get the picture.
My way though, my way has a bit of style I reckon. Let me ask you this. Where’s
the last place on earth you’d expect to find a body?
How about the graveyard?
I’m not takin’ the piss son. It’s the last place they’d look. It takes two men a good
couple of hours to dig a six foot deep grave. This usually means they’ve got to
dig ‘em the night before the funeral. So, why would we bust our backs diggin’ a
hole, when we could find one ready made? All we got to do is dig down a bit
further, drop it in and cover it up. Job’s a good ‘un. Bit of company for the legit
tenant aint it? Next day, in goes the coffin, then six foot of muck.
End of.
They’ll not dig that up again, no fear. No one’ll know there’s two stiffs down there.
No chance of it bein’ discovered see? Not like these clowns what bury a body in
the woods, just for it to be dug up five minutes later. There’s a bloody cavalry of
men out walking their dogs on a Sunday morning, waiting to find ‘em. What the
police gonna do in a graveyard, go lookin’ about with a methane probe? Course

Page 41
there’s bodies in there, it’s a bloody cemetery. There’s more methane than in a
cow shed after curry night.
Right. We’re here. Look lively.
I’ll drive around till I see one that’s been dug out. There, that’ll do.
Let’s have a look. Pull back that plastic. What did I tell yer? Ready made hole!
Don’t need to whisper son, there aint no one’ll hear us. If you grab that shovel off
the back seat, we can get started. There y’go.
I’d give you a hand see, but I got a bad back. My chiropractor would kill me if he
saw me diggin’ No son, you’re on your own, I’m afraid.
There you go. It’ll not take you long. Only needs to be a couple of feet deep,
enough to cover the bastard’s face. It’s good to see a young feller who ain’t
scared of getting’ his hands dirty. There aint nothin’ wrong with a few blisters and
calluses. Anyway I seen you down the gym, workin’ the bag, so I knows you aint
soft. I used to box myself y’know, was pretty good. Didn’t spoil my looks though
did it? That’s how I pulled a woman half my age! She sees through the wrinkles,
my wife does. Just as bloody well!
Boxin’ teaches you a thing or two. Teaches you about pain and how to avoid it.
Teaches you how to be ruthless when you got to be, cause life’s ruthless and a
half right back at you. Boxin’ reminds you that when it comes down to it, the
world don’t give a stuff about you and if you’re gonna have a chance at all,
you’ve got fight for it. Teaches you to have some respect and earns you some
an’all. Anyway, that’s enough of me ramblin’ on, lets stick a body in that hole.

Page 42
That’ll do, give me that shovel. No, hang on to it, I’ll hold onto this end, you can
climb up it. There you go. Those shoes have seen better days though. Right
then, there’s the keys, let’s get the show on the road. Get that boot open.
There y’go son.
What’s the matter?
What do you mean there aint no body?
Where’s it gone?
You think he climbed out when we was drivin’?
Maybe we’re lookin’ in the wrong place?
Well look, there’s something there. What is it?
Yeah, it’s a watch.
A cheap, fake Breitling. It’s your cheap, fake Breitling. I clocked it as soon as you
walked in that day at Frank’s place. It’s your cheap, fake Breitling that I found
down the side of my own bedside cabinet. Funny that, aint it? You popped round
my house, see if my Mary’s alright and you checked the bedroom, that it? You
checked the bedroom and your watch musta fell off, that it?
Talk about respect? Son, you’re ‘bout as phoney as your bleedin’ watch.
‘Owever what this is, is a real gun.
Now son, put on your watch and get back in that fuckin’ hole.

Page 43
The Acquaintance of Hope Street
My diaries reveal that it was March 23 rd

1913, when I made the acquaintance of
Mr. Noel Parker. At the time, I was a relatively successful young man and had
done much to establish myself amongst the business echelons of my home city
of Liverpool. This was mainly due to the inheritance of my late father’s shipping
business, but also due to some shrewd investments I had made of my own. I had
a fine house on Sefton Park, which I shared with my beautiful wife Catherine and
our two young sons, James and Matthew, upon whom we both doted.
When not addressing my business affairs, I could often be found at the exclusive
Crombie Gentleman’s club, which occupied four floors on Hope Street. My
membership caused no small annoyance to many of the more senior patrons of
the club. That such a young upstart be ushered through the door was quite
beyond them. However, as young and financially buoyant as I was, an enfant
terrible I was not and rather than sully my family’s good name in the quayside
pubs and whorehouses, I chose to enjoy the fineries which Crombie’s offered.
Here I could develop my network of business contacts, whilst also taking
advantage of the club’s excellent library and cellar.
It was here that Mr. Parker presented himself on a inclement evening in March. I
was initially most surprised that he ask to join me. A rather aged and portly
gentleman, I thought him much more suited to the old boys of the rear lounge.
Also, such was the state of his unkempt beard, that had it not been for his fine
tailoring, he could easily have passed for one of the n’er do wells from the city
centre. It was all I could do to make out a ruddy nose and two kindly eyes
amongst his hirsute physiognomy. So, it was with some consternation that I bid
him pull up a chair.

Page 44
He readily accepted a port from Jackson (the steward) and quickly threw himself
into conversation, twirling an ornate ivory cane as he spoke. His accent was that
of a Liverpudlian, but he claimed to be only visiting for the purposes of business.
However, going by the volume of port he consumed, it was also clear that he was
making time for leisure. As the evening progressed, I found him to be a most
agreeable man. We identified many a common ground in the arenas of music
and literature and I stayed far later than my usual quota (a point for which I was
somewhat chastised the following day).
Though he was largely reticent regarding his personal life or business interests,
he did reveal that he had rented a room above a haberdashery on Bold Street,
where he intended to stay until the course of his business was complete. By the
time Jackson came about to receive last orders for drinks, we were most
convivial and had received a number of terse glances for our boisterous ribaldry.
We made no arrangements to reconvene, but simply bid our farewells at the
door. I quickly found a carriage in the wretched rain which conveyed me rapidly
back to Sefton Park.
It was almost a week later before I saw him again. Until late in the day, I had
been involved in discussions regarding the establishment of a new trade route to
Portugal and was bored beyond belief. I decided to take a drink at the club and
happened upon Mr. Parker enjoying an early scotch beside the window. When he
saw me he smiled and gestured to the chair beside him.
And so, a pattern of sorts established itself. We made no formal arrangements,

but whenever I visited Crombie’s he was more likely in attendance than not.
From our discussions, it became apparent that Parker was very knowledgeable
about a wide range of subjects. He appeared to have business interests on the
continent and in the field of technology. Though we used our drinking time – like
all men do – to discuss trivialities, the conversation invariably returned to
interesting stock or technological advances (or indeed a combination of the two).

Page 45
For one thing, he was not enamoured with the current state of affairs in Europe
and believed war was imminent. He urged me to consider this in any investments
I made and, upon hearing of my shipping company, suggested that I think about
the ramifications a war might have on it.
His thoughts on emerging technologies was another thing altogether. He

explained that over the years he had developed an obsession with contraptions
of all varieties and loved to read about the endless possibilities the future may
hold. He believed that the new century would be unprecedented in the scale and
intricacy of man’s innovation. In this bright new world, international
communication would be commonplace, as would travel. Motorised vehicles
would be the norm for every walk of life and man would make a conquest of the
stars. It was usually toward the end of an evening at the club when he talked in
this manner and I had a tendency to take it all with a heavy pinch of salt.
This went on for a number of weeks, until Catherine began to grow curious about
the old man I was spending so much time with and of whose virtues I was known
to expound at length. I was dispatched with the instructions to invite Mr. Parker to
dinner at his earliest opportunity. He accepted the invitation readily, saying that
he was done with the local restaurant fare and longed for a home cooked meal.
Not long after, he arrived at our Sefton abode, laden with flowers and wine for
Catherine and a number of toys for the boys. The boys took an immediate shine
to him, this strange old bearded man arriving at their home and must have
thought old Saint Nicholas was paying us a visit. He proved to be a most
delightful guest, enthralling them with tall tales of his adventures on the continent
(somewhat embarrassingly, considering my involvement in the shipping trade, I
had not set foot from England).
We dined on roast pork and vegetables, followed by a marvellous fruit crumble.

Catherine found our guest most amusing and indeed, it must be said, that Mr

Page 46
Parker was most attentive to my wife. In fact, had it not been for the gentleman’s
age and that fact that he was a guest in my home, one could have taken him to
be somewhat smitten. He must have sensed my curiosity over this, because
once Catherine had left to settle the boys, he apologised.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It has been so long since I have seen my own sweet wife,
I am unaccustomed to the company of such a gracious lady.” He looked so
sorrowful at that moment, that I changed the subject immediately and by the time
Catherine had joined us again he was happily discussing the qualities of Belgian
beer.
That visit to our house proved to be a turning point in my acquaintance with

Parker. He frequently gave me small gifts to pass onto the boys and accepted
any invitations to join us at the house or on walks around the park. I saw him
stealing occasionally glances at my Catherine and merely concluded that in his
youth, Mr. Parker must have been quite the rascal. More disconcerting, were his
renewed admonishments regarding my investments and he became increasingly
vociferous on this very subject.
“Money is waiting to be made or, indeed, lost!” he said. “And time is so very
short!”
He was adamant that my best move would be to liquidise the entirety of my

assets and reinvest them in stock - of his recommendation - which would safely
weather the impending war (which he deemed inevitable). Needless to say, I was
rather shocked at his nerve. I was young, but far from naïve and I valued my
family too much to squander my livelihood on gambles.
However, Noel Parker had amazing powers of persuasion, which he backed up

with some remarkable feats of business acumen. On many occasions, he would
join me in the club waving the latest edition of the Financial Times, ready to show

Page 47
me how well his hot tips were performing at the stock exchange. Some of my
investments had grown rather stale in comparison, so I began to follow his
advice, tentatively at first, but soon, it would be fair to say, he became my
unappointed financial advisor.
As well as the share recommendations, he also had advice regarding a number

of inventors and entrepreneurs, some with bizarre names (remembered here only
because he made me make note of them): William D Coolidge, Paul Langevin,
Megh Nad Saha, Baltzar Von Platu and Martin Tanczos. If I were to ever cross
paths with any of these, he told me, I could do far worse than to sponsor their
continued research. I drew the line here. Established stock was one thing, but
throwing money at dubious scientific endeavours was one eccentricity I would not
entertain.
It was around this time, the Summer of 1913, that I noticed that Mr. Parker’s
health was far from good. The climb up from his city centre lodging appeared to
exhaust the poor man and he was frequently out of wind by the time he made it
to Hope Street. For that reason, I occasionally began to meet him at a hostelry,
which was closer to his lodgings, known as The Globe.
I continued to acquiesce with his insistent financial suggestions, all of which were
disparate choices, culled from the four corners of the planet. He never asked for
funds to be allocated to himself or to act as a middleman and so, I slowly gave in
to his recommendations. Then one day:
“My boy, you really should make moves to remove yourself from the shipping
business,” he said over a shaking glass of port. He then spent the next half an
hour pouring over the intricacies of this announcement.
My father’s business had been the staple of my working life. He had found me
work there as a young lad and I had loved watching the ships rolling in and out to

Page 48
far flung exotic locations. To sell it seemed to be like selling part of my own
history. That said, the meetings I had to attend regarding its upkeep were tedious
beyond measure and regularly bored me to distraction. I discussed it with
Catherine - as I did most things - one evening in the garden. I remember that the
sun had been remarkably persistent that day and she had developed an adorable
red patch on her nose. She blinked in the setting sun and smiled at me.
“If it means I see more of you, do it. I know you’ll provide for us,” and then she
kissed me. “But that’s not why I married you.”
It felt like a weight had been lifted. I readily found a buyer; a competitor from the
far side of the river who had already approached me no more than three years
earlier. He paid a good price and I split the proceeds between Parker’s
recommendations and some of my own which I deemed sensible and time
served.
Parker laughed like a boiling kettle when, some days later, I told him what I’d
done. He’d taken arrived at Crombie’s, complaining that the port at The Globe
was sub par and the clientele somewhat questionable. He was in a lively mood
that evening and, with the sale complete, I was probably a bit more convivial than
usual. We made an impromptu decision to walk to the nearby Philharmonic
dining rooms for a steak. Once consumed, we wandered back downstairs where
a group of singing revellers had taken residence. We took no time in joining in
the fun and took turns in buying gin for our new friends (who turned out to be
students at the university). They were, I think, amused to see this elderly man,
dancing and drinking with a jubilance to equal their own. Soon, however, it was
clear that Parker had reached his capacity. I bade goodnight to the students and
took us back to the club for a nightcap.
“What a hoot!” said Parker. “You must promise, young man, to stay exactly that –
young. That’s where the fun’s at!”

Page 49
I laughed and explained that I would try my utmost. He pulled me close and I
could see now that he was very worse for wear.
“Remember what’s important. Forget the rest,” and then suddenly keeled over
onto the floor. He lay unconscious and dribbling on the carpet.
Jackson was there in an instant, loosening his top button and slapping him about
the cheeks. There was a period of uncertainty as to what was for the best, but we
decided to take him back to his lodgings, from where we could call upon a
Doctor. I was most grateful to Jackson at this point as agreed to help me find a
carriage to get him there. This we did and upon arrival, were confronted with the
landlady: a slim, world weary woman with little time for drunken fools. We hoisted
him up the stairs and were pointed to a second floor room into which we bungled.
There, in the corner of the sparsely furnished room was a most bizarre
contraption. It was, in essence, a velvet upholstered chair raised on a plinth, with
a roof supported above it, much like that of a four poster bed. Indeed, it appeared
to have curtains which one could drop at all sides whilst one was seated. Behind
and beneath the chair an elaborate collection of brass plumbing and valves could
be seen, along with intricate mechanical workings, gauges and dials. A most
curious device for certain and one which would have warranted further
investigation had Parker himself not been in such a poor state.
Jackson and I lowered him gently to the bed and he gave a sorry sigh as we did
so. The Doctor – a rather terse gentleman, whose name I could not recall –
arrived presently and started to examine him. When he rolled up Parker’s sleeve
to measure his pulse, I was surprised to see a rather severe scar on his upper
forearm. It appeared to be the remnant of a terribly deep wound, with a shape not
unlike that of an upturned crucifix. I was struck with the fact that this injury must
have been inflicted at some point in Parker’s mysterious past, a history of which I

Page 50
knew so very little. Was I a fool to put my trust in this old man, someone who was
essentially a stranger to me only months previous?
The Doctor packed his things and addressed us:
“He has two ailments. He is very old and very drunk. One of these will resolve
itself by morning. The other is unlikely to improve. I suggest bed rest and more
water in his whisky. Good evening gentlemen.”
We thanked him profusely and made to leave ourselves. The landlady pulled me
aside in the hall and asked if our friend was going to recover and I replied with
the Doctor’s diagnosis.
“I thought he wasn’t well, that man,” she said. “when I saw that strange
commode”.
I took a final glance at Parker, snoring in his stupor and closed the door.
I arrived back at his lodgings the next afternoon and enquired over his wellbeing
with the landlady. I was most surprised to hear that he had departed and cleared
his room. Initially I suspected foul play, until she passed me a note which was
finished in his unmistakable scrawl:
Thanks for your hospitality laddy! My business is concluded in Liverpool at this

time, so I must move on. Take care of that wonderful family of yours and rest
assured, you’ll see me again before too long!
Yours,
Noel Parker

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I was somewhat flabbergasted and annoyed at this. I thought it rather impertinent

that he had left like that without saying goodbye in person, or leaving an address
and with us carrying the drunken fool to bed the very night before!
I felt a little betrayed by Parker’s sudden disappearance, but having two small
children, I had much to occupy my time that summer. I remember it as one filled
with long sunny days with Catherine and the children. By Autumn I concluded
that Parker was to be merely a passing acquaintance in my life. I thought that in
years to come I would struggle to remember either his face or his name. I wished
him well in whatever mysterious activities he now occupied himself with, but
thought that would be the last I’d ever hear from him.
The years passed. The boys grew and now released from my shipping shackles,
I was free to spend more time with them. Catherine and I became closer than
ever and we lived comfortably. However, as sure as his beard was long, Parker’s
predictions and fact began to merge. War came: first to Europe, then to Britain
and finally, in 1916, to my own door. Being in the latter half of my thirties, I had
thought that I had escaped involvement, but these were dire times for the war
effort and they were now taking married men well into their forties. It almost
destroyed me leaving Catherine and my sons (who were now old enough to
understand that their father was leaving them, perhaps not to return).
It is difficult for me to write of my experiences, as it opens old wounds afresh and

what follows is summary only. As has been reported so many times of the Great
War, it was a dark filthy rat hole I found there, and there were many occasions
when I thought it impossible to survive. However, survive it I did, but not before a
German had put his bayonet through my thigh at Joncourt. As I fell, I was able to
raise my rifle and get off a shot. The big Hun went down like a buffalo, pinning
me to the ground. I lay that way for hours, unable to move, his rancid blood
pouring onto me and my own leaching into the earth below. As time passed, my

Page 52
strength diminished steadily and the cold set in from the freezing dirt to my very
bones.
I thought that was to be my lot, to die so pitifully beneath the oafish lump in a
foreign land so far from home, but fortune looked my way and I was spotted and
dragged back to our line. I was as near dead as I wanted to get without going the
whole hog. My leg had not only been impaled, but broken along with the bargain
and I had lost much blood to the French countryside. I was transported,
eventually, to the safety of a medical tent where I was tended to and kept from
spilling more. I prayed that this would be the last sufferance the war would have
for me and, in most ways, it was. When the war ended, a week later, I cried in
thanks that I had not died so close to the final whistle and that I would live to see
my family again.
Back in the comfort of Sefton Park and with my loved ones, my trials were far
from over. I was plagued by nightmares and woke from countless evil visions to
the sound of my own swearing and the consoling arms of Catherine. I’m sure that
at times my sons wondered who this stranger was, living in the house, who had
taken place of their father.
I had returned home a somewhat damaged man in many ways, but not fiscally. In
my absence, the “Parker Stock”, as we called it, had risen exponentially in value.
All of the acquisitions had risen in price, despite of – and in some cases, because
of – the war. We sold much of it, releasing a vast overall profit. If we were
comfortable before the war, we were now a wealthy, wealthy family and with
good management, would remain that way for generations. In contrast, my
former shipping company had fallen on hard times and though it still traded, had I
owned it through the war, it would have surely ruined me.
Over time, I grew better, both physically and otherwise. The fat German had
made a bonny mess of my leg and it often ached in the cold, but I refused to let it

Page 53
slow me down. Catherine distracted me from dwelling on my other troubles by

frequent holidays and visits to relatives. We often took the short journey by train
to Didsbury to visit her sister who had a marvelous house and gardens. Her
husband had served as a Sergeant in the war and lost his right eye at the
Somme. Like me, he knew what it was like to be altered irrecoverably by the
horrors of the battlefield. During those years, it was often there, or when we
enjoyed their company in Liverpool that I felt most relaxed.
It was during one such visit to our friends that I came across a name that I
recognised. We were visiting a museum in Manchester on a rainy day to amuse
the children. It was a lackluster affair in all honesty, composed mainly of the work
of local post-graduate students. There were glass balls of captured lightening,
experiments with magnetic devices and an array of mechanical contraptions.
This was of little interest to me unfortunately and I was more interested in the
time and location of lunch. That was until I happened upon one counter in
particular.
The display was notable in its plainness relative to the bells and whistles of the
others and consisted of some roughly penned diagrams which were difficult to
decipher. Then I noticed the legend:
Experiments in electromagnetic manipulation: Martin Tanczos
Behind the display was a bespectacled and bewildered young gentleman whom I
took to be Tanczos. I engaged him in conversation and he nervously attempted
to describe his work in more detail. He lost me instantly, but was a pleasant
enough lad all the same. He knew nothing of Noel Parker and was puzzled as to
how Parker could claim to know him: his research was not well known and he
had no patents to call his own. Nonetheless I feigned some interest and took an
address for him so that I could enter into correspondence. I left him there in that
technical menagerie and enjoyed a fine pie and ale at a local eatery.

Page 54
True to my word, I did enter into a correspondence with Mr.Tanczos and after a
while, began a form of sponsorship of him. I was now in a position to help the
young man (as I already did with a number of individuals and organizations in
Liverpool) and I must say I enjoyed being his mysterious benefactor. I sent him
occasional cheques to help him with his experimentations and in return he sent
me details of his work (of which I could understand not a word!).
Though we weathered trials and tribulations, as all do, these were good times for
us. Our boys grew to be men and married local girls, both of whom Catherine
and I grew very fond. Matthew studied at the University and successfully qualified
as a vet. I was able to give him the money to set up a practice of his own, across
the Mersey in Meols and he ran it well. James chose a very different route and
studied business. Before he graduated, he was offered a decent starting position
at an insurance firm in the city. Between them, we were blessed with two
granddaughters and a grandson. We were extremely proud.
We wanted for nothing and holidayed freely. We enjoyed a large circle of friends
and socialised frequently, attending many dances and dinner parties. Catherine
and I were so very happy and this is the source of some comfort to me now.
She occasionally complained of feeling tired and I carelessly attributed this to a

combination of our sometimes excessive socializing and our advancing years. I
reduced our social engagements and paid for some local girls to help her
regularly around the house.
It soon became clear, however, that there was something gravely wrong with my
dear wife. Several doctors arrived at the conclusion that she was afflicted with a
cancerous disease of the blood and there was little that could be done.
I fell apart.

Page 55
If it were not for the strength of James and Matthew and the resourcefulness of
their good ladies, there would have been no way I could have made it through
those terrible months. Her body grew weak and frail and I carried her, like a child,
about the house. We tended to her as well as we could. She told us not to fuss,
which was exactly her way and at times I felt like she was tending to me,
preparing me for the grief that was inevitably to come.
The one blessing was that her illness was a short one. On her birthday, I carried
her out to the garden where I had arranged for a string quartet to play for her.
She was sickly and pale in the morning light, but she smiled as they played.
Matthew and James were there, with their wives and the little ones playing at her
side.
“Thankyou so very much,” she said when it was over. “That was lovely”.
Not many days after this event, she went to bed, not to return. I could not leave
her side. She died sometime early on a Sunday morning as I wept and held her
hand. We buried her in Smithdown Road cemetery.
I had little will for life for such a long time after. Though I paid not much heed to it,
war was upon us again and Liverpool suffered greatly. Many of the children were
evacuated from the city and it felt, for a while, like a piece of its very heart had
gone with them. Then, after a period of grace, the bombs began to drop.
The destruction of the city I loved and the resultant rubble and ruins mirrored my
own state at the time: a hollow shell. The boys enveloped me in their lives,
inviting me to meals and social occasions, but still, at the end of it all, I returned
to the house alone. At this time, when families were pulling together for support, I
began to put mine at arms length. I was bitter at life for dealing me this hateful
card, for providing me with so much, only to take away my Catherine.

Page 56
I am sorry to say that I took to drinking for a while. Large amounts and alone,
which is no good idea for a bitter man. I left the house less and less and became
a slovenly old boar. Embarrassed at my perennial drunkenness, I sacked the
house girls and wallowed in my self obsessed trench of despair. The boys were
exasperated at my behaviour and each offered to care for me at their own
homes. How I sent them packing!
My awful temperament did not last long. I was saved not by the kindly acts of
others or an epiphany of self realization, but by a carelessly dropped gin bottle
which sent me my length through the French windows when I tripped on it. I can
remember little about it, but this clumsiness had me being conveyed rapidly by
ambulance to hospital, wearing much of my blood on the outside rather than in. It
became apparent that in my stupor, I had managed to slice my arms quite
spectacularly on the glass. My stay was not long, but enough to make me realize
that I would be foolhardy to continue in that vein and significant changes were
required. When my bandages were removed, my course was set.
I visited Matthew and James to apologise for my behaviour and to explain that
they were no longer to worry over my reckless ways. Also that, for the first time in
countless years, I would be leaving Sefton Park for a period of time.
Tanczos’s laboratory was like none I had imagined, in that it was simply a room.
A large one, but simply a room nonetheless. There was none of the flasks or
bubbling concoctions I would usually associate with a laboratory. In fact, it was
more akin to an automobile repair shop. Indeed, when I arrived, Tanczos was
beneath a piece of machinery, working furiously. The machine was of
indeterminate purpose and appeared to consist of a large array of minute brass
pipes (perhaps used to convey liquids or gas), as well as a wealth of wiring and
other gubbins. Tanczos appeared shocked to see me, as well he might be. After

Page 57
all, here he was working on his little project on a Saturday afternoon, when in
should walk his financer, checking up on his homework, as it were.
And so began another chapter of my life. Not that I was turning my back on the
past (far from it), but a new start nonetheless, one where I focused with optimism
on the future. I rented a room close to Tanczos’s workshop and offered myself up
to him as his lackey, explaining that I would do all within my power to help him in
his work.
At the offset, I could grasp that he was very wary of this situation. To receive
cheques from a well heeled old madman was one thing, to have him by your side
every day was quite another. However, after a number of weeks he realized that I
was good to my word and so, we got started.
Tanczos proved that he had patience to match his scientific knowledge as he

attempted to tutor me in his work. I endeavored to assist in the process by
reading as much as I could. Even though I was getting old and my brain was
somewhat addled by the prolonged imbibing of alcohol, I found myself far from
incapable. The months and a number of years past and a fine working
relationship was established.
So, following much labour and much trial and error, the inaugural full scale test
date dawned upon us, with yours truly as lead lab rat. I had left letters to the boys
and my solicitors detailing my final wishes and releasing Martin Tanczos from
any responsibility, should anything go untoward.

Page 58
War was still raging in France and Germany when the day finally came and what
a strange day it was, the day I set eyes on Noel Parker again. However, there he
was, much as I remembered him: long grey beard and ruddy plump face.
How bizarre to find him staring back at me from my own bathroom mirror! Oh
what a cruel bastard time is! I had suspected in the hospital of course, when I
saw the distinct wounds on my arm which so resembled those seen above a
haberdashery so many years previous.
What a unique situation, to be in: to have the opportunity to meet with oneself in
the past. How would I find him, the youthful version of yours truly? Energetic?
Optimistic? Zestful? Naïve? Impudent? Pretentious? All of these I hoped, for
these are the characteristics of youth!
And how would he find me? Well that was, of course, something of which I
already knew. He would find me mysterious, wise, jovial, and, if one were to be
honest, a little pitiful.
Tanczos appeared to be more nervous than I, as I mounted the plinth and sat in
the ornate velvet chair. I tried to think of something to put the poor boy at ease.
“I say Martin, this is a marvelous chair!”
“It’s my father’s old Parker-Knoll,” he said.
I pondered upon this for a moment and then smiled to myself.
Parker-Knoll.
Noel Parker.

Page 59
I bid Tanczos farewell and he nodded, then dropped the switch on his control
panel.
A blinding white light erupted and I clamped my eyes shut, gripping my cane
tightly as if it were able to pilot me in some way. My only thoughts: not much
longer now. Not long till I see her.

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Monitor
It felt as though time had cut her adrift.
Jo waited for the digits on the clock to silently change and each minute took
longer than the last. In the glow, she could make out the horizon of her
husband’s shoulder, rising and falling with each breath.
The room was in near darkness, save for the sightless luminous eyes of various
pieces of electrical equipment. She turned over for the umpteenth time and knew
sleep was nowhere near. Leaning over to the bedside cabinet she rotated the
volume wheel on the baby monitor. From it, a soft crackling and the occasional
lazy sigh from the cot next door.
Had she not simply imagined it, the noises?
Sleeping had not been the same since the birth, nor would it ever be again (if she
believed everything she was told). She always hit the pillow exhausted, but slept
only lightly, waiting for the inevitable interruption from the nursery. Paul helped
where he could, but on week days he had a long commute, so rose early and
often came in after James was down.
Tonight she had performed her routine tasks with growing unease. Fed him,
bathed him, put him in his sleep suit and cuddled him, watching as his breathing
slowed and his heavy little eyes lolled back into his head before finally closing.
The gentle patter of drizzle began on the window.
“Bitch.”

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The single word spoken softly as if from a lover, then a high gleeful giggle. The
red lights on the monitor fluttered in time with the laughter, then were still.
“You’re doing really well,” said Sarah. “You should have seen me. I’m sure I
didn’t get out of my dressing gown for three months!”
She had forgotten Sarah was visiting; forgotten to cancel.
Jo looked at her, with her dark shining hair, immaculate makeup, her own toddler
playing happily by the sofa. How did she do it? She could feel the weight of her
eyelids and each blink felt gritty as if she’d slept face down in sand. She was so
tired, she was nauseous. She looked down at James in her arms, sleeping
soundly.
The house was a pre-war semi, close enough to the city for Paul, but far enough
to be affordable. They had decorated it room by room from its former 1970s
décor before James was born, agonising over colours and flooring, fixtures and
fittings. Now she rarely had time to clean and baby paraphernalia lay on every
surface.
“How old was Georgia when she…started talking?” asked Jo.
“Hard to remember. I think she was saying the odd thing at about fourteen
months,” Sarah sipped her coffee. “Just the usual: ‘mama’, ‘dada’, that kind of
thing.”

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Sarah continued talking, but Jo was not listening. She wanted to phone Paul, just
to hear his voice. She had woken him of course, sobbing in the darkness. Had he
not heard the voice?
Someone on the same frequency, he had said, maybe with the same type of
machine. They were close to shipping lanes he said, maybe that was it. She had
been dreaming, he said and fallen quickly back to sleep.
Jo lay for the rest of the night watching the monitor in terror, waiting for the red
lights to fire up and to hear that eerie voice. She had slept at some point and by
the time she had awoken, Paul had left and James was crying enthusiastically in
the room beyond.
Suddenly, she realised that Sarah was looking at her intently.
“Sorry?” said Jo.
“I just asked if he had given you any smiles yet? It’s so rewarding when you start
to, you know, get a little back.”
“No. No smiles yet,” she said.
The next morning, in the raw limbo before dawn, the monitor lights fluttered to
life. She heard a long protracted sigh, then the high pitched chuckle.
“Sssssslut,” hissed the voice.
She pushed her face into the pillow.

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James whined a little as she pulled his top back over his head. The Doctor took
his seat once more.
“I’ll give you some dermatological cream for that slight rash,” he said, making
notes on the keyboard. “Other than that, he’s coming along fine.”
“OK.”
Jo struggled with the boy’s clothing, prompting more whinges and a kick to the
stomach. The Doctor finished typing and hit return with a flamboyant stroke of the
hand.
“And how’s mummy doing?” he said.
He was young, not unattractive with neat brown hair and a tuned bedside
manner. Jo could sense the idealism still about him. His smile was genuine.
“Are you getting much sleep?”
She felt like laughing at the thought. She had caught herself in the mirror before
she had left the house. Sunken, tired eyes looked back at her from an expanse of
pale, waxy skin. Her own graduation picture was in the hall, mocking her with
youth and a cheery smile.
“Not really, Doctor.” She finished tucking the baby into the pram. “I mean I try to
sleep when he does, but it’s not easy.”
She paused for a moment.

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“It’s not just the tiredness. Things just haven’t been the same since the birth. I
feel quite down, when I thought I’d be so happy…I just want to be…”
“A good mother?” he finished. “Go easy on yourself. Your body is undergoing a

massive readjustment in hormone levels. It will just take a little time. We’re not
talking PND here, but I think what you may be experiencing is a mild case of the
baby blues.”
She dropped her head and fought the tears. The Doctor leaned over with a
tissue. She took it and blew her nose.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re doing really well,” he said earnestly.
She steadied herself for what she was about to say.
“Doctor, I believe my son talks to me in the middle of the night.”
For the first time, his smile dropped.
Jo walked home along the tree-lined street. In her hand was the Doctor’s
appointment card with another date. It was a pleasant, summer afternoon with
the odour of barbequed chicken wafting over nearby hedges in the breeze.
She watched James in his pram, looking back at her with Paul’s eyes. Lying
peacefully, with matching hat and scratch mitts, he looked so adorable.

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That night, she expressed some milk and Paul agreed to do the feeds. She
switched off the monitor and slept fitfully, with dreams that neither started nor
ended.
“I noticed… from your file, that you had a termination when you were younger?”
said the Doctor.
A pause.
“Yes.”
It had been sixteen years, but the mention of it brought back echoes of the
shame she had felt. The fear when she told her parents. The daytrip to the clinic
with her mother. The hanging stench of disinfectant and the light green hospital
bedding.
This time, she had visited the clinic alone and she felt more relaxed. Sarah had
agreed to look after James for an hour. A fact that she was slowly realising: every
moment that they were apart was precious.
“I’m no expert in this you understand. I’m talking as your GP only, but is it
possible that the birth of James has brought some feelings about this to the
fore?”
He was trying to help. She was at a loss. She sighed.
“It…it might be.”

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“I’m not trying to shirk any responsibility here and feel free to visit any time, but
what I’d like to do is refer you to someone you can talk to in more depth.”
“A psychiatrist?”
“A councillor.”
Oh, she thought, now it’s official.
“He’s been no bother,” said Sarah as she let her in. “Had a little bit of his bottle,
then he’s been asleep since. Everything OK?”
“Fine.”
Jo knew that she wanted details. She wasn’t getting any. She had taken a detour
on her walk back, taking her past the park. It had given her time to clean herself
up.
The living room was spotless and little Georgia was happily colouring on the
dining table. James slept in his Moses basket. They left them to it and went into
the kitchen.
“He’s a little angel,” said Sarah, “Makes me want to start right away for another
one.”
Jo remained silent behind a fixed smile and perched herself on an uncomfortable

breakfast bar stool. Sarah seemed to sense that conversation was not high on
the agenda and busied herself making some tea. A few minutes passed.

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“This is going to sound a bit pathetic,” ventured Jo. “You know on your baby
monitor? Did you ever pick up anything…weird?”
“Yes! Funny you should say that. We used to hear this guy down the road singing
to his girls at bedtime through their monitor: Teletubbies and stuff. That was bad
enough, then a Korean family moved in behind us – they’ve gone now – and all
we heard was their radio channel. Must have been on a similar frequency.”
“Yes, Paul thinks it might be the shipping channels.”
“What have you been hearing?” Sarah placed a cup of tea in front of her.
“Just voices, but sometimes…swearing.”
“Oh, that sounds like seamen alright,” she sipped her tea and then smiled.
“Fucking rough as badger’s arses!”
Jo laughed out loud and realised she hadn’t heard that sound for quite some
time.
“Whore,” it said.
The voice wasn’t a man’s. It was a child’s.
She grabbed the monitor and whipped away the power cord. She sat up at the
side of the bed, gripping the sheet with tight fists. She got up. Paul stirred and
mumbled something.

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“It’s nothing,” she hissed. “Go back to sleep.”
She fumbled in the dark to put on her slippers. On the landing, she paused
outside the nursery. She could hear nothing. Pushing open the door, she was
met with the soft orange glow of the nightlight. A host of cheerful stuffed toys
lined the bookshelves in the corner. She couldn’t make out the cot until she was
upon it. He was standing, hands on the rail, staring at her, with a wide toothless
grin. She moved away, steadying herself against the wardrobe behind her.
“Paul!” she shouted, her voice cracking.
She heard him moving in the room beyond. The baby regarded her and snorted
down his nostrils before slowly dropping down onto the mattress and turning
away.
Paul appeared, naked and blinking beside her.
“What’s wrong?” he looked into the cot. “He’s fast asleep”
“He’s not fast asleep! He was just standing Paul, bloody standing!”
She delved into the cot and roughly picked him up. He whimpered, then launched
into a full scale howl.
“What are you doing? He was sleeping. Leave him be!” he reached over her and
took James, pulling him close. The baby calmed slightly.
She was shaking.
“You deal with him, then!” she turned and stormed out.

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She heard him enter the room sometime later. He quietly climbed into bed beside
her and she pretended to be asleep, until she no longer had to.
She could hear the two of them as she descended the stairs and made herself a
coffee before entering the room. James was lying on his gym, grabbing at the
various coloured animals suspended above him. Paul was looking down at him
grinning. He looked up only briefly as she entered.
“Why aren’t you at…”
“I’m taking the day off,” he said. “Give you a bit of a rest”.
She sat on the sofa next to the two of them. She ran her fingers through her hair
and wondered what kind of banshee she looked like.
“About last night. I’m telling you, he was standing up staring at me. He was…”
“It was dark in there; I think your eyes were playing tricks on you, love.”
She felt her lips quivering and fought to stop them, to control her voice.
“I saw him standing up.”
Paul reached down and pulled James up gently by his arms and suspended him
in a standing position. His chubby legs hung beneath him, unable to support his
own weight.
“I’d like to think he was ready to play for England, but I think it’ll be a while yet.”
“Don’t laugh at me”.

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“I’m not, it’s just…I mean look. He can’t even bloody roll over, never mind crawl
or stand.”
“I know that he’s not meant to be able to yet, but maybe he’s special or
something. More advanced than normal.”
Paul broke her gaze and looked down.
“Well, he’ll always be our special little feller,” he said.
“Paul…Paul…look at me, look at me. I hear him talking over the monitor.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh. That old chestnut.”
The day descended into an all consuming numbness. They argued. They ran
over a range of possibilities. Exasperated, Paul threw the monitor into the kitchen
bin and drove them all up to the retail park. He picked the most expensive
monitor from the shelf and quizzed the assistant about its specifications.
Could it pick up unwanted signals? Possibly, but there were several channels to
chose from to find one unique to your area.
Was there static? It was digital. As clear as a bell.

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Was this the best they could get? It transmitted optional video images also, to a
4.5 cm LCD screen with nightvision and with a 100m range. It was the best they
could get.
Jo hung silently at his side feeling like a dispossessed ghoul. The purchase
made, they headed home where he unpacked, set up and tested the new
monitor. She noticed that he had placed it on his side of the bed. Then, once he
was satisfied that he had done all practicable, he relaxed a little.
He let her take a nap and later, bathed, fed and put James down. He cooked the
evening meal. They barely spoke as they ate it. She showered and dried her hair
and when they lay together, he pulled her close and whispered to her. She had
no words to return. Before he turned the light off, he turned on the monitor and
she looked over to see the eerie green hued image of James in his cot.
A noise.
She was awake in an instant. Paul snored heavily beside her; perhaps that? No,
there it was again. A soft thud, not a voice.
Her eyes flicked to the monitor. She blinked and squinted to focus on the small
screen from her side of the bed. The cot mattress and blanket were clear
enough, but there was no James. She moved quickly to the monitor and picked it
up. There was no mistake. She had thought briefly that the baby had rolled out of
shot, but the view was the same as when Paul had set it up so meticulously only
a few hours previously. She shook him roughly, but she was already half way out
of the door.
She burst into the room, clicked on the light and scanned. The cot was indeed
empty. Her eyes darted to all corners.

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“Paul!” she shouted loudly, but an elevated snore moments later told her she had
failed to rouse him. She froze for a second, unsure of what to do.
“Murder,” said a voice; a whisper.
She began to tremble and raised a hand to cover her mouth. She dropped to her
knees and peered at the dark recess under the cot. He was there, huddled in the
corner in his blue sleepsuit eyeing her with malice.
“James,” she cried. “What are you doing to me?”
“Murder,” he said.
She had seen him speak the word with her own eyes. Seen his lips move as he
spoke.
“Oh God, come out from there darling,” she sobbed and reached for him.
Suddenly, he lunged. There was a flash of something metallic and she felt a
sharp pain on her cheek. She cried out and grabbed wildly, taking something out
of his hand. She glanced quickly: a small pair of scissors she used to trim his
nails when he slept. She took him by both arms and dragged him out into the
light. He kicked and punched wildly, screaming as he did so, his face horribly
fierce, lips curled back over pink gums. She stood and tried to hold him tight to
her body to restrain the manic blows, but he had strength. He grabbed the hair
above her ears and pulled her face towards his.
“MURDER!”

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She threw him away from her and his little body arced into the cot, his head
connecting with the wooden rail with a heavy thunk. He lay face down on the
bedclothes, silent and unmoving.
She was shaking. Her hand touched her face and brought back blood where he
had cut her. She stood, terrified to approach him, but unable to move away.
“Jo?”
She started, suddenly aware of herself and turned toward the voice. Paul was
standing in the doorway.
“Christ, what are you doing?” he came towards her at speed.
She was unaware of still having the scissors, until he was taking them from her.
He held her firmly by the wrist and pried them from her hand, her knuckles white
with the strength of her grip. He walked her firmly away from the cot.
“Paul…I wasn’t going to…he..he ATTACKED me Paul! I’m so tired…Paul?” she

whimpered.
He walked her to their bedroom, left her on the bed and took the phone into the
nursery. She heard a tentative whimper, followed by a long cry - amplified
several fold by the monitor and felt a rush of relief. She stared at the screen and
watched Paul examining the baby: what damage had she done? From the looks
of things, nothing lasting. Paul picked up the phone, glanced over and noticed
the transmitter. The screen went blank.
She could hear the muffled mumble of his voice. She couldn’t hear the words, but
she could hear the tone; urgency and exasperation. She did not try and go back
to the nursery and Paul did not reappear. She curled into a foetal position on the

Page 74
bed and at some point, long after light had pierced the room, mercifully, sleep
took her.
The cot was empty. She had no idea what time it was, only that it was daylight.
She heard muted voices from below. She descended the stairs quickly, not
bothering to dress.
Two strangers, a man and a woman, stood by the window. The man introduced
himself, but the words washed over her. Paul sat on the sofa with James on his
knee. He would not meet her eye.
“Paul?”
“You need a rest. Things have been getting on top of you.”
There was more, but she had stopped processing the words. She slumped on
the armchair. The woman approached and crouched beside her and talked to her
in soothing tones. Soon, the man joined her and was fishing something from a
bag by his side.
James squirmed in Paul’s arms as he watched from the window. He could see Jo
through the rear window of the car. Whatever they had given her must have
taken effect – she had stopped struggling, but he could still see the frantic look
on her tear stained face.
“There, there,” he said to the baby. “It’s all right now.”
The baby looked up into his father’s eyes with a barely perceptible smile.

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“Just like you said it would be,” said Paul.

Page 76
Ubiquitous Bob
Dr. James Greiger knew many psychiatric terms, but when he saw his latest
patient, the word that immediately came to mind was frazzled. The young man
was wide eyed, unshaven and jittery. It was clear that he was in need of a good
night’s sleep. While the man fidgeted, Dr. Greiger took his seat, clicked his silver
ballpoint and opened his leather bound notebook. He was particularly proud of
both.
“Right now, please just relax if you can. In your own time, tell me how this all
started”.
The man rubbed his eyeballs through his eyelids and took a deep breath. Then
he began.
“It started about a week ago. I was in the supermarket after work. I was pushing
my trolley down the dairy isle when I saw him…”. He fell silent.
“Saw who?” prompted Greiger.
He seemed to take an eternity to answer.
“Bob…Bob Johnson”, he spat out with some effort.
“Who, sorry?”
“Bob Johnson; the weatherman off the telly”.

Page 77
Dr. Greiger struggled to place the man in question, then finally pictured a short
balding man, perhaps in his late fifties standing before a brightly coloured
meteorological board.
“Oh yes, the cheerful Scots chap”, said Greiger.
“I just thought, you know, there’s that feller from the TV. Everyone needs to get
their groceries right ?”
“Indeed” said the Doctor, who had just completed a doodle of a cartoon sheep.
“Then it was just like when you bump into a friend at the supermarket; you see
them once, then you pass them on every isle”.
“Yes”, said Greiger smiling. “I know what you mean”
“So anyway, I got my shopping, paid up and didn’t think anymore of it. I was in a
bit of a hurry you see. I was going out with a mate that night, so I wanted to get
home and get ready”.
Dr. Greiger’s mind had begun to wander, first thinking of his freezer (which
needed defrosting), then to his Mother’s forthcoming birthday (present pending)
and finally settling on his sectary’s tidy bottom (currently housed in a tight black
skirt in the clinic reception next door). He realised that the young man had
stopped.
“Go on.”
“Then, that’s when…things started to get…weird.”
“Explain what you mean.”

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“Well I was out having a drink, like I said and….” the man sighed, “I saw him
again”.
“Bob?”
“Bob. He was outside the kebab shop as I walked home”
“Quite a coincidence”, said Greiger.
The young man laughed and rubbed his eyelids again. The Doctor sensed a
certain amount of derision.
“I thought so. I even stopped and asked me if he was following me. The way you
do sometimes, jokingly, you know?”
Dr. Greiger made his first real note of the session: paranoid delusion.
“He just looked at me like I was from Mars. I just went home and couldn’t get him
out of my mind.”
“In what way?” asked the Doctor, who was routinely suspicious of any lurking
homosexual tendencies?
“I thought of him standing outside the kebab shop. His little baldy head…but it
was his clothes that stuck with me. He was wearing a shellsuit and trainers. I
kept thinking that it wasn’t really his style.”
The young man laughed again.
“I kept thinking about coincidences. Strange turns of fate. That kind of thing.”

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Greiger nodded encouragingly.
“It’s not uncommon for people to experience a rapid series of coincidences and
to attribute more meaning to them than is rational. It’s important to be able to
recognise then for what they are.”
The man had locked eyes with Greiger.
“The next day…the next day was when I first saw two of them”
“Two…?”
“Two Bobs. Together”.
The man had started tapping his foot rapidly on the floor.
“They were having lunch together. I saw them on a park bench when I was
walking through town to meet a client. That’s when I realised that there was
definitely more than one. I checked his biography on the internet. He hasn’t got a
twin. They were just two identical Bobs sat together.”
Something occurred to Dr. Greiger amd his made another note in his book:
reduplicative paramnesia.
“By now I was starting to get a bit…”
“Distressed?” suggested Greiger.
“I went up close to them and they were definitely him. Both of them”.

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“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t have problems with your vision?
Wear glasses, contact lenses?”
“I’m 20/20. Tested at work for my health insurance last month and they were as
close as I am to you”.
Dr. Greiger looked into the young man’s tired bloodshot eyes.
“And until all this started, you were sleeping well?”
“Yes fine, but since that day, I’ve hardly slept a wink. After the two on the bench,
things seemed to spiral badly”
“Go on”
“As I walked back to work, there was another one pushing a pram. Another was
driving a bus. They were popping up everywhere, little baldy bastards”.
Greiger’s interest was certainly peaked now. He imagined, at the very least, a
successful article in a prominent psychiatric journal.
“I got back to work. Tried not to think about it. I had a big client coming in. I
needed to get my head straight.”
Greiger was scribbling hectically now; intermetamorphosis, prosopannosia,

delusional misidentification syndrome.
“Then, when the client arrived…”
“He was Bob Johnson?”

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“He was Bob Johnson in a smart suit. Before I even spoke to him, I made an
excuse and left. Left the office and went home”
Greiger nodded encouragingly. He imagined being interviewed for an insightful

BBC documentary.
“I went home and drank too much, too quickly and went to bed. I couldn’t explain
anything to my wife. She’d have thought I was…you know”
“So you haven’t discussed this with her?”
The man laughed again, giggling hysterically until it deteriorated into slow, silent
sobs. He covered his face.
“It’s ok. Take your time.”
He did, but when he finally removed his hands, his face was streaked with tears.
“When I woke up, my wife…have you any idea what it’s like waking up next to
Bob Johnson?” He laughed, in spite of himself. “I’m sure Mrs. Johnson likes it,
but it’s not for me. I ran. I booked myself into a hotel and stayed there until I
booked this appointment with you.”
The man looked entirely defeated.
“I watched them multiplying from my window. One day there was just one or two,
the next there were more. I stayed in my room ordering room service.”
There was an enduring silence. His story appeared to be over.

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“Just an experiment, if you will permit me,” said Greiger. “Would you take a look
out the window for me?”
The man got to his feet and walked to the window, pushing apart two slats of the
Venetian blind. Greiger knew that the young man would be looking out onto the
busy high street.
“How many of the people out there that you can see are not Bob Johnson?”
There was a pause.
“Four”
“Look, I want you to know that there are known psychiatric conditions which
could explain the visual anomalies you seem to have been experiencing. Well
documented cases of problems with facial perception…”
The man was exhausted. The trials of the previous week had taken a heavy toll.
The psychiatrist’s words faded into the background as he looked out across a
legion of bald heads and jovial smiles. How could he continue in a world like this?
Grieger continued to talk about the man’s condition, moving on to possible

options for treatment. However, despite his previous enthusiasm for the case, he
found his interest waning inexplicably. Finally, sensing that the topic was
fundamentally irrelevant, he stopped talking altogether. His last thoughts were an
awareness that he himself was going through a peculiar psychological
transformation, one that he would like to study in more detail.
At the window, the man longed for his wife. He wondered how she had coped
with his sudden desertion. Could she ever understand? He had gone into the
Doctor’s consultation room to throw himself at his mercy. There were only two

Page 83
possible answers, either he was mad or he wasn’t and if Grieger had concluded
there was something wrong with him mentally, then he had been prepared to do
anything possible to recover.
“I think you’ll find that whichever way you look at it, the forecast is rather bleak
my friend”, said a voice, with a light Scottish lilt.
He turned.
Grieger had gone.
In his place was Bob Johnson, fingers interlocked and with a sickly smile slowly
spreading across his face.
The man backed away until he collided with the wall, his hands out to his sides
searching in vain for an exit.

Page 84
The Bridge
These days, it would probably be known as a skyway or a catwalk. However, to

those who knew of its existence – and there wasn’t many – it was known simply
as the bridge.
The bridge was totally enclosed, essentially a corridor, spanning almost one
hundred metres from the factory over a busy dual carriageway. When the new
admin building was completed in 1975, on the West side, the bridge was also
built to serve as a physical link between it and the factory on the East. With most
communication now being electronic, there was little need to use it. Those that
did need to move between the factory and offices usually did so door to door via
a new underpass beneath the road. Most people had forgotten it was there,
stretched out as it was away from the factory and out of sight from most of its
windows.
That’s why Jon liked to us it. He loved to stand above the ordered chaos of the
traffic below and feel the eerie calm of an area that felt as if it should have been
populated, but wasn’t.
He’d once been to see a movie at his old student union and excused himself
from his date of the evening to visit the toilets. The basement was always
heaving with students, through the day and on club nights, but not that night. He
was totally alone, wandering the poster lined corridors, occasionally breaking the
silence with random words for the sake of it. He found himself dawdling far longer
than was necessary, enjoying the unnatural peace of it. His grandmother had had
a word for such places, for areas with odd atmospheres: otherly.

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The part he didn’t like about crossing the bridge was acquiring the key from Cora.
A dour woman at the best of times, she appeared to have a particular reserve of
disdain for people requesting the key. Requesting the key usually elicited a
protracted sigh and a withering glare. It didn’t help that he was new in the job and
straight from college.
“Can I have the bridge key please, Cora?” Jon asked.
“What’s it for?” she replied.
“I need to take some old personnel files over to the HR offices that they
should…”
“OK, OK,” said Cora, interrupting.
She sighed and opened a drawer to her side, produced a key and opened a
metal key box on the wall. From here she finally produced the electronic key, a
small black plastic fob with a plastic label. She made him sign a log-out book.
“Thanks Cora,” he said. Always a pleasure, he thought.
He collected the files (several heavy bundles), from his desk and made his way
up to the second floor to the heavy bridge door. He held the key to the black box
on the wall. He heard a click and a green LED lit. He pulled open the door and
stepped onto the bridge.
He instantly left behind the modern, homogenised décor of the factory corridors.
The long passageway stretched out before him, with the West door as a postage
stamp on the far side. The flaking paint would never be seen by visitors and had
been left from the scope of any refurbishment. The temperature was several
degrees lower out on the bridge, but it was brighter than the dark factory

Page 86
corridors due to head height windows which spanned it at either side. He glanced
out of the window at the stream of traffic passing beneath, the drivers oblivious to
him standing twenty feet above.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The traffic hummed steadily beneath his feet as he walked across the cracked
checkerboard floor tiles. Midway, above the central reservation, he stopped
again. Outside, the incessant rain showed no signs of easing. The ceiling above
him was yellow with water damage and he watched as several drops fell into a
small pool of water on the window sill. He noticed a discarded plastic coffee cup
on the floor. He resisted the urge to crush it beneath his foot and instead placed
it on the sill to catch the drops.
He reached the West door and held the key to the black box: no dull click; no
green light. He tried it again, holding the key tight against the box. Nothing. He
swore and tried it once more. Nothing. He swore again and sighed. He turned
and trudged all the way back to the East side. He would return the key to Cora,
he thought and go via the underpass, like everyone else. He held up the key to
the box. Nothing happened. He laughed in disbelief. He tried again, then again,
putting the files down on the dirty floor. He grabbed the handle and it was locked
fast. He snorted in laughter at his bad luck. He would have to wait for someone to
come in through either door and tell them not to let it close, but how long would
that be? It was already mid afternoon and, before long, people would be packing
up for the day.
He moved to the middle of the bridge again and looked out of the window. He
waved at the drivers as they passed underneath, but none looked up. Even if
they saw him, who was going to stop? Occasionally he would see someone
passing by the windows in either the factory or the admin building, but they didn’t
see him, regardless of how frantically he waved his arms.

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The time passed.
The traffic grew busier and Jon hoped their reduced speed would allow someone
to see him on the bridge, but none did. The traffic reduced again and the street
lights came on. He resigned himself to the fact that his absence had gone
unnoticed. He would have to rely on the security guards now who he knew
patrolled all parts of each building. Surely he would be spotted? Perhaps they
even checked the bridge itself?
Darkness fell. Jon thought miserably of the lads back at his shared house. They
would assume he had gone for a drink after work (as he often did) and busy
themselves with their own plans. He wished he was already in the pub with them,
telling them this story, of how he got trapped, stupidly, at work for the night. He
even thought of Cora, on the bus home to her husband, never thinking once that
the key had not been returned. He shivered slightly and thought of the long night
ahead.
He slept fitfully on the floor, his head on the files, waking every short while due to
the cold. Occasionally, he sat with his back to the door, hugging his knees for
warmth. It was while he was doing this, that he must have nodded off again, his
head dropping forward uncomfortably on his forearms.
He awoke slowly, gradually aware of a noise: a slow, soft scraping. He raised his
head, aware also of a painful crick in his neck. He struggled to focus, the only
light coming from the soft glow of the street lights below.
Up at the far end, close to the door, barely visible in the half-light was a figure:
there was someone on the bridge with him.

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He got to his feet, moving his head from left to right in an attempt to get a better
view. There was definitely movement. He heard the shuffling noise again. He felt
relieved. If someone else was on the bridge it meant the West door was working
and he could get out. However, something stopped him walking toward it.
“Hello,” he shouted, hoarsely. “God, I’m glad to see you.”
There was no reply, but the movement appeared to stop. A moment later, the
scraping recommenced. As his senses returned to him from sleep, he could now
definitely make out a figure shuffling slowly towards him.
Jon felt a wave of fear, but shook it off. He took a few steps forwards.
“Who is it?” he called out. There was no reply and this time, the figure continued
moving toward him. Who could it be? With the offices now empty for the
weekend, only a security guard, he thought; one with a very poor sense of
humour.
The figure made it to the half way mark of the bridge where the light was better
and Jon saw him for the first time. He was a young man, skinny to the point of
emaciation and thoroughly naked. Long, lank hair hung down over his face,
which was directed at the floor. Not a security guard; a drug addict was his initial
thought. How could he have made it through reception and up to the second
floor?
“Look, stop!” he shouted. “What are you doing here? Who are you?”
The young man stopped.
“I am the bridge,” he said. His voice was a low, guttural gargle.

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“What are you saying?” Jon was convinced now that he was dealing with a
junkie, who had somehow found his way into the admin building and out onto the
bridge. Then Jon saw his feet. He seemed to be struggling to walk, the scraping
noise his bare feet on the tiled floor. When he drew closer still, Jon could see that
his ankles appeared to be bound. His arms, held in front of him over his genitals
also seemed to be tied at the wrists. And so he stumbled onwards in short,
spastic steps. This was absurd.
“I’m going to call security,” he said. “Who are you?”
The man stopped again.
“I am the bridge.”
He started moving once more and was now growing uncomfortably close. Jon
reached into his trouser pocket and brought out the electronic key. He moved
back to the door and tried it again. He pulled at the handle, but the door was still
solidly locked.
“I am the bridge,” said the man and he continued into a horrible gargling mantra.
“I am the bridge…I am the bridge…I am the bridge.”
Jon was no weakling. Under normal circumstances, there was no way he would
have been afraid of someone in such an awful state. He pulled even harder on
the door handle, his heart rate rapidly increasing, all the time watching the
ambling figure. He could now see that the man’s chest was stained with
something; black, tar like.
“I am the bridge.”

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Jon heaved again, this time putting a foot on each door frame, so his entire body
was off the floor. He shook the door in a frenzy, the lock rattling, but showing no
signs of giving. He could hear that he was almost upon him; the scrape of his
feet, the constant four repeated words. Jon heaved, feeling the blood pound in
his head and forearms. He could not bare the thought of this repellent creature
touching him.
“I am the bridge…I am the bridge.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you are!” screamed John.
“I am the bridge…I am the bridge...”
Jon was sure he could feel breath on the back of his neck, when suddenly the
handle came apart from the door, sending him sprawling backwards onto the
floor. The man had felt so close, he was certain he should have fallen into him.
He whirled around and struggled back onto his feet, ready to fight.
The corridor was empty. There was nothing to be seen, right the way to the far
door. There was no explanation. The man had been there and now he wasn’t.
After a moment, Jon laughed to himself, breathing heavily. He sat again, back to
the door, until he regained some composure, rubbing his face and trying to gain
some sense of the last few minutes. There was none.
He watched the bridge, hugging his knees for warmth. Had he dreamt the young
man? Had he hallucinated? It didn’t feel as if he had. It had felt entirely lucid. He
ran through the few possibilities. He remembered reading something once, which
he couldn’t fully remember, about competing theories and solutions. It boiled
down to this: the simplest theory is often the correct one.
He didn’t like this idea. He didn’t believe in ghosts.

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He watched for hours, until his head began to nod. He slept.
When he awoke, something had changed.
He was bitterly cold and it was light once more. He had no idea of the time, but
thought he would be able to gauge it by the level of traffic below him. However,
when he looked out of the windows, there was nothing to be seen at either side.
No cars, no road, no admin building to the West and no factory to the East:
nothing but an impervious mist. He watched for several minutes, changing sides
occasionally, to see if anything was visible. Often, he thought he could make out
a shape or something moving beneath the fog, but it always turned out to simply
be an eddy of the fog itself and disappeared almost as soon as it was created.
Equally as disconcerting was the noise, or lack of it. He couldn’t hear one car
engine, one bird, one human voice.
Nothing.
He lay his head on the window ledge and closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled.
He remembered the plastic cup he had left under the leak. It was filthy. He
noticed the remnants of some lipstick on one side and how long had it sat on the
floor? Months? Years? He took a tentative sip. It tasted slightly rusty, but he was
glad of it nonetheless. He placed it back on exactly the same spot.
Several times, he tried the doors again. He tried rubbing the plastic of the
electronic key, thinking that if the battery were the problem, this might revive it.
He considered prising apart the plastic, but had nothing with which to do it. Back
on his desk, his key ring contained a miniature penknife and he wished he had it
with him.

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He found the door handle and tried to use it in some way as a lever on one of the
doors. It was useless. Finally, in frustration he hurled it one of the glass windows.
It ricocheted back, leaving the window unscathed. He hadn’t thrown hard enough
he thought. He would break every window on the bridge. Even if it fell onto
passing cars below, at least it might alert someone to his predicament. He took
off his shirt and wrapped it around his hand, before picking up the handle. He
swung it at a window. The handle struck it as if it were steel. He tried again, but
this time harder. Nothing. He tried all of the windows in turn, swinging with all of
his strength until, exhausted, he hurled the handle back up the corridor.
He started walking from one end of the bridge to the other. Every time he
reached one of the doors, he kicked it hard three times and shouted at the top of
his voice. Someone would hear him, he reasoned. Someone had to. He did this
for hours.
At some point he stopped and sat beside the pile of files. He opened them up
and selected one at random: a woman who had worked at the company in the
early nineties. What was the use of these things in the first place? He cursed the
triviality of the task that had led to his imprisonment. Experimentally, he tore off a
corner of the front page and popped it into his mouth, chewing it into a ball and
swallowing. He repeated the process until he had eaten through half a page.
He leant his head against the wall and, though he was still hungry and cold, he
slept for a time.
When he awoke again, the bridge was again in near darkness. Outside the mist
swirled as it did before, but darker. There was still only silence. He felt a lurch in
his stomach: a combination of fear and hunger. He was annoyed at the
ridiculousness of the situation. If he was to spend another night in this hole, he
was not going to do it fearfully. He started walking from one end to the other,
kicking each door as he had earlier, this time occasionally shouting obscenities

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or random pieces of song lyrics. It bolstered his spirits and the walking helped
keep him warm.
Bang! Bang! Bang! He kicked the door, turned on his heel and strode to the other
door. Bang! Bang! Bang!
West side: Bang! Bang! Bang! East side: Bang! Bang! Bang! He kicked the pile of
files, scattering them the length of the bridge and kept on walking.
He reached one end and turned on his heel and walked a couple of steps, before
stopping in his tracks. There was someone there.
At the opposite end, someone was sat with their back against the door, head
slung forward on their arms. His legs felt weak with hunger and fear. He thought
of simply staying put at his end, but how could he rest? He clenched his fists and
tried to put his fear elsewhere. He marched the length of the bridge to the
slumped figure.
It was a slim young man, partially dressed in ragged clothing, head resting on his
arms in front of him. There was a repugnant smell coming from him which
suggested he was sitting in his own filth.
Jon breathed heavily and waited a moment. The man didn’t move a muscle.
“The bridge, I take it?” said Jon, his voice faltering slightly.
The man stirred and slowly looked up.
“No..my name is Jon,” said the man.

Page 94
Jon was looking at himself, but not quite himself. A hideously gaunt version of his
face looked up at him, undernourished and cadaverous, with thin lips and
protruding cheekbones. The miserable face watched him pathetically, his bottom
lip quivering. Suddenly, Jon’s fear flipped to anger.
“You are not me, you bastard!” he said. The man cowered beneath him, hiding
his face once more.
Jon reached out to grab him and fully expected his hands to pass through this
awful apparition, but instead he grabbed flesh, cold and clammy. He hoisted him
upward and flung him against the door. He weighed nothing. He punched him in
the gut as hard as he could muster and threw in another blow to his head. It felt
good and he reigned in with several more blows, increasing in ferocity. He
continued pummelling him with punches. Left. Right. Left. Right, like a
metronome.
He did not stop until his hands felt wet.
He looked at his cut and bruised hands. The he looked at the floor. There was
nothing there. The door was covered in his own blood, but the corpse like version
of himself was gone. He lay on the floor, covered his face with his hands and
wept.
In time, it got light again.
He rose only to check that the world was still absent and there was nothing but
the mist. He spent hours either sitting or lying on the floor of the corridor, refusing
to check either door, refusing to call for help. He would not give in to this.
Someone would come soon. He struggled to remember what day it was. He ate
some more paper from the personnel files and drank some of the water that had
appeared in the coffee cup. He made paper planes with the documents,

Page 95
launching them as far as he could down the corridor, changing the design each
time to try and get them further.
If only he had a pen, he thought. There was little to alleviate the boredom. He
emptied his wallet of bank cards and stacked them in various ways. He hurled
coins as far as he could, letting them bounce off the invulnerable windows. He
screwed up pieces of paper into small balls and threw them into the coffee cup.
As it started to darken again, he was creating origami animals, laughing at his

hopeless attempts. The fading light extinguished his humour and he hunkered in
the corner, preparing himself for the night. He tried to busy himself by scrunching
up paper and stuffing them into his shirt and trousers for warmth. He pushed
himself into the corner uncomfortably and slipped into a light, dreamless sleep.
The scraping.
He awoke instantly when he heard it. His eyes flicked open. Here he came, the
stumbling wretch, scraping his tethered feet across the floor. There would be no
theatrics this time: let him come. As he drew closer, Jon could make out details
that he had missed before. His chest covered, not in tar, but thick congealing
blood which dripped down onto his arms and legs. His arms and legs were bound
with what looked like wire, cutting into his flesh and causing them also to bleed.
By the time he was upon him, Jon was trembling uncontrollably. The creature
stopped and dropped to his knees before him. He raised his head and John saw
his face for the first time: slender features and eyes that appeared very much
alive. His throat had been slit all the way from side to side, leaving a terrible
seething gash, which bubbled blood as he spoke in that awful, guttural
monotone:
“I am Ben.”

Page 96
The man suddenly reached out with both hands. Jon was too late to recoil and he
felt the cold clammy hands clasp either side of his head. He realised with a
bizarre, almost detached interest that he was screaming…
He was at once there and elsewhere, himself and another.
He was walking down a street at night, the moon bright and full above. He
crossed a street. A van pulled across his path.
He was sitting on the dirty floor of the bridge, screaming.
The side door slid pen rapidly, revealing several men. He was bundled into the
van, which tore off down the street. He was stripped and bound tightly around
the wrists and ankles.
These are my wrists thought Jon, these are my ankles.
The men shouted in his face and smacked him this way and that. One of them
grabbed his hair from behind and brought out a knife, showing it to him before
lowering it to his throat.
He was slumped, like a beggar, screaming in terror, praying for it to end.
He felt the knife bite hard into his neck, felt the flow of blood down his front.
There was a low gargling moan. It was him. He fell to the floor and there was
darkness.
He was breathing in hoarse gasps, trying to remove the cold, dead hands from
his head.

Page 97
He was aware of the moon, how large it appeared in the sky. He was being
carried somewhere. Where, he did not know. Then he was falling, landing in cold
wet mud and lying, feeling the life drain away from him into the soil. He could see
them all looking down at him from the top of the hole, laughing, spitting. He
heard an engine. Something appeared over the edge of the hole and then began
spewing muck down on him, covering him rapidly as he squirmed hopelessly in
his grave. As he tried to scream, the cement poured into his mouth and he
inhaled it, the viscous, acrid mess. Then there was no more.
Jon opened his eyes abruptly. The bridge was bathed in bright light. He put his
hands to his throat, to his wrists and ankles. He leant over and dry heaved
several times. Abruptly, he heard something in the corridor and swung around his
head; a woman in a business suit eyeing him suspiciously, keeping her distance.
He looked down at himself, realising what a bizarre spectacle he must make: the
scabs on his knuckles, the paper strewn everywhere and stuffed in his clothes.
There was an enduring silence.
“Can you help me please?” he managed.
The rest of the morning was farcical.
The woman had backed into the admin building rapidly. Despite Jon’s
protestations regarding his identity and reason for being there, she had called
security. Security arrived at the bridge en mass, suspecting a wild vagrant had
been found onsite. Once it became clear that Jon was an employee who had
been trapped over the weekend, they decided to get the safety department
involved. Fearing a litigious complaint, they insisted an ambulance be called in
case he was suffering from exposure. And so he spent the best part of three
hours talking to the safety department manager as he awaited treatment at the
A&E unit of the local hospital. When examined, other than the bruising to his
hands, there was nothing wrong with him. When he finally returned home, the

Page 98
house was empty and it felt as if he had been away a month. There was a
message for him on the answering machine from his line manager, telling him to
take a week off work. That wouldn’t be a problem: he would never go back.
Several days later, he stood in the hall, holding the telephone to his ear. He’d
been transferred again. The woman he eventually spoke to was helpful. Yes, it
was possible to view photographs of people still listed as missing. Yes, it was
searchable by year. A bus journey later and in a small room at the regional police
headquarters, he was handed three volumes of photographs. The date on their
spines: 1975. He was told there were more if he needed them. There was no
need; he found what he was looking for in the second book. The sight of the
picture took his breath away. There was no mistaking the slim features and
friendly eyes, though his hair was somewhat shorter and neater in the photo. His
name had been Benjamin Sachs, reported missing 14th July 1975. He returned
the volumes with thanks and took the bus back to his room.
He typed an anonymous letter to the police, stating his suspicions that Ben
Sachs’s body could be found around the vicinity of the bridge or the building
nearby. Several months later and his question were answered by a TV news
report some weeks later. A body had been found within the concrete founds at
the west side of the bridge. He watched the reporter, standing outside a series of
tents at the foot of the bridge, as he described how an as yet unidentified body
had been recovered. Jon placed one flat hand on the screen, the reached up and
touched his throat. He was Ben, thought Jon, he was the bridge.

Page 99
The Best Place
He gently pushed the gardening fork into the soft earth and prised the leek
upwards in a slow, fluid movement. He carefully shook off the excess, revealing
the intact roots, stark white against the dark loam. He smiled.
“It’s a good’n”
I nodded. I was familiar with this methodical ritual. I had seen it many times. I
was there as observer, to provide transport, but mainly for the company and to
keep his glass wet. I had known him all of my life and I hoped I knew him for the
rest, however long that was.
“You’ll give Crawley a run for his money this year, Jed”, I said.
He stooped and cradled the vegetable like a sleeping child and walked it slowly
from the trench to the aluminium bathtub. He laid the leek in the lukewarm water,
the blanched portion submerged, the green leaves above.
Slowly and purposefully, he ran his fingers through the roots (the beard), as if it
were the hair of a lover. Then, with a knitting needle, he teased out the muck
from the harder to reach places. With a cotton bud, he cleaned the point where
the leaves met the barrel (the little nub known as the button). He gently rinsed
the green leaves (the flags) and patted it all dry with a soft cotton towel.
Then, the inspection. The flags for rust, a fungal infection. The rest for uniformity.
The barrel had to be straight and balanced. Crucially, there could be no more
than six inches between the beard and the button. This he measured with a
home-made, hooked metal rule he kept in his jacket pocket and found it to be
good.

Page 100
He carried it inside, to the dining room and laid it on a pillow on the table. Then,
with a brushed cotton cloth, he polished the white portion with milk. He rubbed in
small precise circles until it sparkled, as shiny and smooth as Venetian marble.
Finally, satisfied, he wrapped the barrel. First in crepe bandages, then in towels
and placed it in a wicker basket by the door.
“One down, two to go.”, he said.
He gently pushed the fork into the soft earth…
The soil quality was paramount. Periodically and with a preternatural sense as to
when the time was right, he would add cow manure, rabbit dottles or bladder
wrack seaweed from the beach. Cat dung and urine was detrimental to the soil,
so he had little time for the animals. Cats would only be tolerated as fertiliser
themselves.
“The best place for a cat is at the bottom of the trench”, I heard him once say. I
know he had dispatched a few to that very place. A Black Widow catapult stood
near the back door along with a selection of small pebbles for that purpose.
Wooden trenches could harbour rust infection from one season to the next, so for
that reason he’d had two brick ones built, each twelve foot by six wide and just
over knee high. Following the show every year, I would help him dig them out, so
he could start with fresh soil the following season. The new soil was usually
good, but course and we needed to sieve it down to a finer grade as we went. It
was a murderous, back-breaking exercise made bearable by Jed and the case of
beer he usually bought.

Page 101
Jed spent far less time dressing himself than he did the leeks. In front of the
mirror, he ran a plastic comb through his greasy grey hair, before putting on his
cap. He looked tired.
“Did you sleep out last night Jed?”, I asked.
“All week”, he answered.
Sabotage was rife and it was common practice for the top growers to sleep in
their trenches, or at least their greenhouses on the nights leading up to the show.
It was known for Jed to make camp in his shed, with nothing but a gas stove and
a bottle of sloe gin to keep him warm.
As he through on his overcoat, I saw him glance at the photograph of Mary. It

had been fifteen years, but I could tell her absence still preyed heavily on him.
Cancer had taken her and been mercifully quick about it, but this held no comfort.
The bitterness within surfaced when he was worse for wear on the whisky and I
couldn’t say I blamed him.
We packed the car.
For the next three days, the upper floor of the club was reserved entirely for the
show and was off limits to all but committee members and for entrants to drop off
their leeks. The ground floor was rammed with men blocking the hallway, holding
pint glasses, smoking and gassing. The place reeked of tobacco smoke decades
old, the walls nicotine stained like the inside of a truck stop tea cup.
“You’re in with a chance, this year Jed”, said one, “There’s no sign of Crawley
yet”.

Page 102
If Jed took this complement as one of the back handed variety, he did nothing to
show it and instead smiled as he forged a path through the crowd, clutching the
basket tightly to his chest.
Jed had been placed runner up to Crawley three out of the last five years. There
was a matter of pride and competitiveness, but also the first prize of £500 was
not to be sniffed at either. Some people scoffed at the show, until they heard
about the money involved.
I went with him upstairs to submit his leeks. Some of the committee were there; a
dour bunch at the best of times. Once the leeks were offloaded, Jed seemed to
relax a little. We went downstairs and enjoyed a pint together. When he talked,
he even mentioned Mary, remembering a New Year’s Eve dance we had
attended sometime in the mid-Sixties. I felt sorry I had to leave him, but promised
to see him shortly to start on the trenches. As I walked out the door, I turned and
he stood alone, elbows on the bar, looking into his pint. I hoped he had learned
by now that whatever salvation he needed, could not be found there.
Two days later, I dropped Janice off at the shops, before heading to Jed’s.
“Don’t go drinking all day, like you did last year”, she warned, as she climbed out,
“You’re not a young man any more”.
That much was true. I parked at Jed’s and getting no answer at the front door, I
walked around the back where the kitchen door was open. I called his name, but
still there were no signs of activity.
I pushed open the door to the living room. There was a thick malodour in the
room, a combination of sweat and whisky. And there he sat in his armchair, eyes
closed, mouth lolled open and drooling. Two empty bottles stood on the

Page 103
sideboard beside him, a third half finished. On the floor, by his foot were a “1st”
rosette and an envelope.
“Jed?”, I said. I did not expect a reply.
The glass fell from his hand and rolled beneath the dining table. He stirred and
his eyes opened, scanning the room wildly.
“Christ Jed, I thought you’d died!”
“Not I”, he slurred.
“You won though, you bloody bugger!”
“That I did” and he smiled. His eyes double-glazed with alcohol, his hair greased
to his forehead. He held my gaze for a second and I saw the young man behind
the old.
The doorbell rang. He looked past me to the window and his face dropped.
I looked too and saw that a panda car had parked behind my Volvo.
“Jed, what would they want?”
He took an age to answer.
“I expect they are here for Crawley ”, he said. He would not meet my eye.
“What do you mean? Where’s Crawley ?”
Again, the doorbell rang.
He slowly gestured with his thumb to the back window. I walked quickly to the
other end of the room and looked out. There was nobody there, just the garden
and the afternoon drizzle.

Page 104
“I caught him in the night. At the leeks”, said Jed, “He was up to no good. I didn’t
mean for it to happen”.
“What have you done with him, you old fool?”
I looked at the brick trenches, so empty without the leeks. At the dark, cold
earth, Jed’s fork still jutting from the soil. The best place…
“I was just so angry…I just gave him a clout…but he didn’t get back up”.
Again, the doorbell rang.
Finally he sighed and rose clumsily from his chair.
“I’d better get the door”, he said.

Page 105
Pigeon Biscuits
The last thing I see before the blindfold comes down, is Malky Brown's fat gut
hanging from beneath his T-shirt. He's wearing one of those wilderness style
ones with a badly painted wolf and mountain range. It's about two sizes too
small. I hope this isn't the last sight I see.
Malky's certainly put the beef on. He was a skinny little runt at school when I
knew him. Now he's Johnno's boy and he's built like an upended three seater
settee.
"Nothing personal, mate," he says as he puts the blindfold on. At least he

recognises me. Surely he won't let anything too bad happen?
I'm down to my scundies and shivering in the cool evening air. Malky, the big
bastard, has tied me to chair in the pigeon cree, the dead birds surrounding me
at every side. I test the cord with my arms; I'm not going anywhere.
I should have known that this wouldn't end well. I had just rolled out of the club at
two on a Tuesday afternoon. Drunk, not legless (though not for the want of
trying). I was skint and was thinking of heading home to see if my Mam had left
any money lying around. There were a few lads hanging around the chipshop.
You could tell they reckoned themselves a bit hard like, so I was going to go out
of my way to avoid them. Before I could, one of them came up, all tracksuit, tab
breath and attitude. He gets in the side of my face and whispers:
"D'yer wanna mek fifty quid ?"
"What doing like ?"
"Teck this bag, right ? Hoy it, into the second cree along doon the allotments and
ahl g'yer fifty notes." He showed me both the bag and what could have been fifty
quid scrunched up in his hand.

Page 106
"What's in it, like?" I ask

"Fuckin' pigeon biscuits," he said, "Doesn't marrer, does it ? That's why wa givvin
yer fifty quid."
I knew this was a request that wouldn't stand up to too much scrutiny. They had
some dirty work that needed doing and they wanted me to do it. They knew I'd do
it, because I'm a cheap drunk. I knew I'd do it because it was two miles to my
Mam's house.
I took the bag from him.
"Divven't fanny about. We'll be watchin. Wait till wa in the clerb afore y'dee owt.
When ya finished, come in and ahl g'yer ya dosh," he said and then he was off
across the road with the rest of them.
Simple enough. With my pockets empty and the risk of sobriety on the horizon, I
didn't give it much more thought.
The entrance to the allotments was only around the corner.
Once I was out of sight of the club, I had a peek inside the bag, which contained
beige pellets of some sort. When I got to the allotments, I checked that there was
no one coming up the track, or in the neigbouring plots. The pigeon cree in the
second allotment along was set back from the fence a little way, but not far
enough so that I couldn't throw the pellets in. I started launching handfuls of the
stuff into the cree. I could hear the pigeons going into an uproar and tucking into
it like there was no tomorrow. Once the bag was empty, I chucked it into the
bushes and walked back toward the road.
The hard lad and his mates were holding up the bar in the club. As I walked in,
he put his pint down and dragged me out of the main room to where the tab
machines were.
"Did yer dee it son ?"

Page 107
"Aye, ah did."
"Yer fuckin berra ave, or ahl be seein yer"
He reached into his tracky bottoms and pulled out the bundle of notes he showed
me earlier and stuffed them into my hand.
"Reet, now mek yersell scarce”
I made myself scarce.
Later, I was minding my own business watching the sun go down through the
window of the King’s Arms and listening to the various tunes on the jukebox. My
view was suddenly eclipsed by the dual frames of Johnno and Malky. They
wordlessly grab an arm each and march me into the back of car outside. With
several more pints under my belt, I was incapable of putting up much resistance.
Then they brought me back to the allotment, the scene of the crime, where I sit
surrounded by dead or dying sky-rats, the odd one still twitching at my feet.
Malky puts the blindfold on me.
"You're from round here," says Johnno, "You know what pigeons mean to people
round here. Malky ?" Malky punches me hard in the gut . I gasp for air and
double over as far as the wire on my wrists would allow.
"Do you know who's pigeons these are ?" says Johnno
"No," I manage, before a fist comes crashing down on the side of my face like a
mel.
"These are Kenny the Cat's pigeons. Do you know who Kenny the Cat is?”
Another fist comes out of nowhere and splatters by nose. I feel warm blood
running down onto my chin.

Page 108
“No”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Kenny the Cat knows me and I owe him a
little favour.”
Then he speaks off to someone else: “Now, before things get interesting, this is
definitely the lad you saw, isn’t it son?”
“Aye, that’s him alright” says a third voice. I recognize it immediately; the lad from
the chipshop. The bastard who paid me to do it in the first place.
“Oi, it were you….” My protest is cut short by another blow to the face, courtesy
of Malky.
“Go and get the gear Malky,” I hear Johnno say.
For a while I zone out into peaceful oblivion. I can still hear them talking, but it
hardly seems relevant anymore. Blood from my face drips steadily - tap, tap, tap
– onto the wooden floor.
I am brought to my senses by the sensation of liquid being poured over my head

and bare body.
“Get it all over him, Malky” says Johnno.
I struggle to gather what is going on, the beer of the day taking its toll. I’m
thankful that it doesn’t smell like petrol and when I get a bit in my mouth it tastes
sweet. I hear a sound, a number of small chirrups coming from Johnno’s side of
the cree.

Page 109
“Wharrah y’doin?” I mumble. Something’s damaged in my mouth and I don’t

sound like me anymore.
“Chuck a load of that gear on him, Malky” says Johnno.
There’s a pause and then I feel something gritty being thrown against me, like
sand. It dawns on me what it is: feed.
“Now then, you little bugger. Here’s what happens when you mess with
someone’s pigeons”.
There’s another pause and for a second, I think that they are going to show some
mercy. Then Johnno, clearly relishing the moment, says quietly:
“Unleash the ferrets !”
My heart hammers in my chest. Unleash the fuckin what ?
And then they are all over me, a multitude – a swarm. Little claws scratch the
skin on my legs, my back my neck. I can’t tell how many there are. They are
everywhere. They begin to bite the feed off and start to take away little chunks of
flesh as they do. I throw my head from side to side, but I can’t shake them.
Somewhere they are laughing and from the deepest point within me, a scream
wells up and is released.

Page 110
Werewolf You A Merry Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was
stirring...except perhaps, the large, drunk, salivating werewolf that was in my
lounge.
Despite a hideous bout of flu, I’d decided to try and recapture some of the magic
of Christmas. I’d lit a fire, turned on the TV, taken a double dose of nightnurse
and sunk two bottles of red. Two hours later, the flickering light from the fire had
started to cast questionable shadows about the room and play havoc with my
synapses.
That’s when the big guy appeared.
His boots thumped down, sending embers out onto the hearth. He turned
immediately and urinated on the fire, his back filthy with soot, more black than
red. He pulled a bottle from somewhere and drank deeply, swaying. Finally, he
pulled up his zip, belched loudly and turned.
He was horrible. His mouth was a black, stinking ditch of sharpened fangs; a
hairy black snout, slick with booze, surrounded by a clearly fake white beard. He
towered over me, staring down with bloodshot eyes. I was dissolving with terror,
becoming one with the couch, marinating in the fabric and lint.
“Pull yourself together son, I’m Santa,” he said and laughed asthmatically. He
grabbed the remote and clicked off the TV, then pulled out a notebook covered in
minute scrawl.

Page 111
“Right now, I’ve got my good boys list and I’ve got my bad boys list,” he stroked
his rotten beard ominously, “You’re on my third list boy; the arseholes list.”
He referred to his notes and struggled to focus. I could smell something like
rotten meat mixed in with the alcoholic fumes on his breath.
“Arrogant, ill-tempered, rude, selfish, uncivil it says here,” he said, “and I don’t get
this wrong, son; I check the bugger twice.”
He swigged greedily.
“So here’s your present.”
He slammed a hairy fist into my face, sending me back into the couch. My nose
bust instantly, hot bloody leaking into my mouth. I held it to try and stem the flow.
He produced a short pencil stub, licked the tip and drew it across his notebook.
Without looking at me again, he ducked and disappeared back up the chimney.
I waited a moment, to be sure he was gone and then I flicked the TV back on.

Page 112
“Eeeh, I Nearly Shit Myself”
By
Richard Rippon
“The End” appeared in Skive Magazine #9
“An Active Role” appeared in cautionarytale.com (October 2007)
“The Uninvited” appeared in Litro Magazine #79
“The Best Place” appeared in Word Riot (March 2007)

Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself

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Page 1

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

That's exactly what I did.

I left you lying there overnight and watched Lost in bed.

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

How's that for active?

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

Hush, Little Brother

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

Thomas wakes and looks at me in terror.

“Is it one of them, Paul?” he asks.

“Dun leave me Paul!” he says. “Dun leave me here!”

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

I arrive at my destination. It used to be a church and then a school for many

Then, accompanied by a nauseating lurch in my stomach, I hear something

“Thomas!” I say. “Get in here!”

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“What are you doing?” I whisper, tersely.

“I woked up and you weren’t there.”

“How did you get out of the house?”

“Did you come straight here? Were you quiet?”

“Don’t be angry, Paul,” he says.

“Where did you go?”

“Dad woked up,” he says.

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Help me with this.”

We lift the generator and push it against the doors.

“I’m frightened, Paul,” says Thomas.

“Shh!,” I answer. “Don’t make another sound.”

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Hush, little brother,” I whisper into his ear. “Hush.”

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Bring me more!” he bellowed. The sound a hideous cacophony, like a

It must be said that he wasn’t in a particularly good mood. ‘Good mood’, of

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

That would be us!

You’re so very welcome!

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Bring me more!”, he said. The sound a thunderous, distortion of overlaid tracks:

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

I found myself sitting in an offstage waiting area of a vast TV theatre, in a rather

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Oh,” she gushed. “Do you really think so?”

We were cajoled along a corridor into a dressing room area, by a clipboard

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

Later, following several rounds of increasingly elaborate activities and a most

“Blood sample?” she said.

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“I love…,” she said, “…the music business.”

“I know you do,” I said. “I know you do.”

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com

“I have two bottles of a marvellous Temperanillo,” said Jennifer. “Ribero del

Milo mumbled in dissatisfaction. Jennifer thumped the meat with a tenderising

“Eeeh I Nearly Shit Myself” © Richard Rippon 2008 www.rogueferret.com