Tales From The Far Side

Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

2008-01-24T00:04:00.000Z

And now I'm back. I admit, eight days isn't as quick as I'd like, but still, it's definitely my best performance in quite some time. So I won't worry too much about that.

Anyway, I think I shall keep this introduction brief. Not much has happened in my life as of late, or at least nothing that's really worth telling you all about (if anyone even reads this, that is). The upshot is that I don't have to spend another few paragraphs whining about how little writing time I manage to give myself, and can just get on and give you another story.

The following is the second from my "present collection". I won't give any hints about what to expect, save for this: the title of the post is not a statement of intent. If you know what that means, you're already half-way there; if not, don't worry about it, 'cause the story will explain in time.

Well, I think that's all from me. On with the story...

The Walls Of Jericho

A man may have a hundred children and live a long life; but however many his days may be, if he does not get satisfaction from the good things of life and in the end receives no burial, then I maintain that the still-born child is in better case than he.

- Ecclesiastes 4:3

When David Willis had left for work on this Thursday morning, there was no thunder in the heavens. There were no clouds of locusts on the horizon. There were no rats swarming the streets. The waters had not turned red with blood. There were no omens of any description, good, ill or otherwise, nothing at all to suggest that this Thursday was any different from the countless others before it. There wasn’t even a mildly eerie rainstorm, the sun instead being up, out and shining away in the cloudless skies, like the irritatingly cheerful fucker it was.

The only problem with his morning was that the bus had been late: combined with roadworks on Gregorian Road, this meant he didn’t arrive at Barratech Boxes, Inc. until 8:28am, seven minutes after he’d planned. But still, he’d tried to make up for the lost time, and by 9:34am, he’d already viewed and responded to his e-mails (all four of them), as well as started work on the day’s dispatch reports. Only an hour and six minutes at work, and he was doing well already.

Barratech Boxes, as the name indicated, manufactured boxes, of all sizes, shapes, materials and designs. This was a fairly important, albeit unsung, service, so there were always enough customers to make sure no one ever worried about job security. As a result, David had comfortably spent his thirteen years of service with the company in the same post, that of Distribution Services Authenticator. Each time a box was put together and then placed in a truck, it would be logged onto the central computer system, and each time a full truck was sent off, a report of all those logs was sent up to David’s cubicle. Essentially, his job was to compare these reports to the orders sent in by their customers, to ensure that the boxes sent off were the ones that should have been sent off: usually they were, but when they weren’t, he would have to notify both his manager and the factory floor, and make sure the correct truck was sent with a written apology attached. This only happened once every few months, but with an average of six trucks leaving every hour, there was still always a steady flow of reports to keep him busy.

On the whole, David enjoyed his work. He liked numbers and patterns and lists: he liked their simplicity, their orderliness, their innate sense of balance. He liked that warm feeling he got when the reports matched up, when the universe continued to run to its steady beat. And even when they didn’t match up, when the resulting merry circus kicked off, he still liked the process of putting it all back into balance. Sometimes, when it got to around 5pm, he would find himself clock-watching, but then he would just get another report and put the feeling behind him. Ultimately, he was good at his work, and it allowed him a simple, quiet lifestyle, the kind he felt best suited him. Yes, he enjoyed it.

At the moment, he was working on a report for Niceday, an office supplies wholesaler: amusingly, they operated a depot on the same commercial estate where Barratech lived, only three units down. Their order was for ten thousand of the 75cm cardboard cuboids, all with the Niceday logo and slogan printed on the side. So far, everything matched up, but it would take another few minutes of checking to be absolutely sure.

“David?”

The voice startled him, not least because the person who spoke was only a few feet away. He hadn’t realised he’d become that absorbed in his work.

David put down his pen, and span his chair round to face the newcomer. It was Louise, the manager’s PA, a woman in her mid-twenties who, to David’s eyes at least, was not entirely unattractive. Of course, that shouldn’t make a difference in the business world, but somehow, it did. He liked that she always kept her appearance simple and modest, with her plain black trouser suit, and her blonde hair tied into a single ponytail, and he liked that, despite her role, she never took part in the petty gossip that fuelled the office lunch breaks. Though he had no intentions of ever saying it aloud – he was old enough to be her father, for Christ’s sake – he could always find time for whatever she needed.

“Hi, Louise.” he said with a light smile. “How can I help?”

“Miranda wants to see you in her office. As soon as possible.”

“Really?. Do you know what for?”

Louise shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“Oh. I guess I’d better head over. Thanks, Louise.”

“No problem.”

Louise gave a quick smile and walked away. David stood up, slid his chair under the desk and left his cubicle. Miranda’s office was on the floor above this room, about five minute’s trek from the lifts.

That he was being summoned by Miranda was a little worrying. She was the CEO of Barratech, and a woman he only met a few times a year, at Christmas parties and whatnot: he usually dealt with Michael, the head of “support staff” like David. Despite having to meet with someone so far up the tree, he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong for quite some time, so this probably wouldn’t be bad news. But all the same, he couldn’t shake a strong feeling of unease. It was a vague and unhelpful feeling, directed only at a sense that running away, right now, would be a wonderful idea.

He just put it down to the typical human dread of uncertainty. The lack of ill omens didn’t help: if he had known what he was walking into on this sunny Thursday morning, then he wouldn’t have even stayed long enough to grab his coat.

* * * * *

As things turned out, it wasn’t just Miranda who wanted to see him. There was also Michael, and Lewis, the reclusive head of Human Resources. Miranda’s office was large and clean, big enough to hold a boardroom table in its centre, with enough room to comfortably fit several filing cabinets, and a desk by the full-length blinded windows. It was decorated in uniform grey paint and grey carpet, its only decoration being a landscape painting of medieval Jerusalem.

Miranda, Michael and Lewis were all sat in a row on one side of the boardroom table, a number of papers spread in front of them. For half a second of absolute panic, David thought he’d been sent back in time to his first interview. But then he got a grip on himself, and was merely confused as to what in the hell was going on.

More worrying still, the three managers were looking a little nervous themselves. And when managers got bad news, they tended to spread it around.

“Good morning, David.” Miranda said, calm voice clearly faked. “Please, sit down. There’s nothing to worry about. We just have a job for you.”

That couldn’t be good. Either way, David thought it best to not ask questions. He sat down on the nearest chair, the opposite side of the table from his three superiors.

Miranda cleared her throat. “Right then. I guess I should ask the obvious question first. Are you a religious man, David?”

David blinked. What did that have to do with anything?

“Not especially, no.”

Miranda nodded. “Okay. Well, that should make things easier for you.” She didn’t elaborate, and David didn’t feel brave enough to ask her to.

“Umm…” she continued, “as you know, David, Barratech Boxes is a subsidiary of Exocel Acquisitions.”

David nodded, if only because it seemed appropriate. He did know, but it wasn’t a piece of information he needed to use every day.

“They currently own seventeen separate businesses, including ourselves.” Miranda went on. “Over the last six months, they have been negotiating to buy an eighteenth. Last night, they informed us that it has been successful. They now, umm…own 63% of Hell.”

“Oh, okay.” David said, more intelligent responses taking cover somewhere in the back of his brain.

Miranda briefly glanced at Michael, perhaps in pleading. Either way, he subsequently clasped his hands together, as was his wont, and took over the briefing.

“Exocel are concerned,” he said tonelessly, “that Hell is not sufficiently geared towards making a profit, and would like someone to visit them and suggest ways to remedy the situation. As Barratech is, apparently, umm…the site with easiest transportation to Hell, the, umm…responsibility of doing so, has fallen to us.”

Instantly, David could see just where this was going.

“I’m assuming that you want me to take care of it.”

Lewis was the one who answered the question. “Yes.” he said, clearing his throat. “We know this isn’t your usual area of expertise, but this is a very important assignment, and we need someone we can trust. Someone who wouldn’t, umm…get any funny ideas.”

If was being completely honest with himself, David had been assuming this to be some kind of elaborate prank against him. But Barratech Boxes wasn’t known for its practical jokes, and besides, something about these three suggested they were being genuine. For one thing, neither Miranda, Michael or Lewis ever said “umm.”

So, whilst this was still a completely bizarre assignment, he was willing to take it on. At the very least, an excursion would do him good.

“Okay.” he said, after a brief lull in the conversation. “When do you want me to leave?”

“As Exocel explained it to us,” Michael said, “time is a relative concept in Hell. So feel free to leave whenever you’re ready. Just go to the lift at the end of the corridor, and go to floor six-hundred and sixty-six. It should be a fairly simple journey.”

“And we would appreciate it, David,” Lewis suddenly chipped in, “if you kept all of this to yourself. Otherwise, things could, umm…get out of hand.”

David nodded. The need for secrecy made a kind of sense: after all, this was completely bizarre.

He was also beginning to understand why his employers were so nervous. It wasn’t so much that Hell really existed, and had been bought out by their company’s owners – though that was still fairly troublesome – so much that the responsibility for its success had suddenly been thrust onto their shoulders. Barratech Boxes had always been left to just do its own thing, so having others rely on them so heavily was an unwelcome novelty. David would doubtless feel the pressure himself before long, but he was happy to wait for everything to sink in first.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet.” he said. “I guess I’d better head on down there.”

He stood up slowly. He waned to make a move sharpish, but it would be rude to just run.

“Thank you, David.” Miranda said, just before he turned for the door. “Your efforts will not go unappreciated.”

* * * * *

According to the clock hung above David’s computer, it was now 10:21am. He pulled out his briefcase from under the desk, and packed the few things he reckoned he’d need: A4 lined pad, pens and pencils, pocket calculator, plastic wallet with some Barratech promo documents (for inspiration), Tupperware box with two home-made cheese and pickle sandwiches (for lunch). He considered picking up his coat as well, but Hell would probably be quite warm, so he instead took his phone, wallet and house keys out of the pockets and put them in the briefcase as well.

He shut the briefcase, picked it up and had a final look around the cubicle. It was a cosy little thing, eight feet by eight feet, its walls a dark blue fur. Most of the other thirty-nine cubicles in the room had calendars, funny pictures/sayings, photos of the partner and kids or similar decorations, but David kept his plain and tidy: if he’d had a family, then doubtless there would be photos, but as it was, the clock was his only adornment. He also liked to keep his desk scrupulously clean, all absolutely non-essential items confined to either the drawers, the In tray or the Out tray. His colleagues often considered him scarily neat, but David had simply maintained his corner of the universe in the way he liked it.

“You off somewhere, David?” The voice was from the cubicle to his left: indeed, Jeff’s smiling face was peering over the wall. Jeff smiled a lot, which some people felt odd for a guy who had to review customer complaints for a living, but as far as David was concerned, any job was enjoyable to the right mind.

“Yeah. Apparently there’s some contractors I need to meet. I don’t know why, but I’ll be told on the way. Should be interesting.”

Though David disliked lies, he’d always been able to tell them fairly convincingly. He’d been practising that one in particular since he left Michael’s office, so he was able to keep a straight face.

Jeff shrugged, then smiled. “Well…enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will. See you later.”

Jeff smiled again, and dropped back into his cubicle. David walked towards the door at the end of the room, where the lift waiting for him in the corridor beyond. As he reached the door, he turned back to face the mass of cubicles. The room was large, over a hundred feet long, but for the briefest moment, it became even larger. For half a second, the identikit cubicles, the harsh strip lighting, the white walls spotted with ridiculous motivational posters, all seemed to stretch for an infinity that was truly appalling to the soul. But then he blinked, and the room was back to normal.

He turned back and went through the door. The corridor stretched off to the left and right: the lift was to the left, at the far end. He walked over to the lift, his shoes squeaking on the plastic floor, and pressed the Call button. The doors opened instantly, the first time in months they’d managed to do so, and he stepped inside.

Just as Michael said, there was a button marked “666”, right between “G” and “< >”. It definitely wasn’t there when he used the lift this morning, and in a moment’s clarity, he knew that it wouldn’t be there when the next person came along. Though not reassured by this, he had a job to do, and so he calmly pressed the button. The doors closed, and he felt the lift begin to descend.

As David had said, he wasn’t a religious man. He considered himself to be an agnostic, more or less: he didn’t know whether or not God existed, and the question also wasn’t of much concern to him. From what he’d experienced of the world – which, admittedly, wasn’t a whole lot – even if God did exist, then He didn’t much care for the well-being of His creation, which made any ideas of worshipping Him pretty much moot. But all the same, now that Hell seemed to really exist after all, he had to conclude that so did Heaven and God. He wasn’t sure what he felt about that, if he felt anything at all. On the other hand, he understood that others would have less unconcerned responses, which certainly explained Miranda’s opening question.

It was also becoming apparent to him that, even if he had a more useful temperament than others, he was still completely the wrong man for the job. He was a professional double-checker, not an ideas fountain: how could he help craft a successful business, especially one with the kind of profit margin that was so clearly expected? But still, he was here now, and at the very least, he would just have to explain his situation to…well, Satan, he supposed, and hope that he could pull something out of the hat. That prospect alarmed him a little more than he was expecting.

Whilst he waited, and tried to think of ideas that weren’t forthcoming, David double-checked his appearance in the lift’s shiny metal walls. They weren’t designed as mirrors, of course, so his reflection was distorted and only borderline recognisable, but the wavy image starting back at him seemed to be looking okay. The black jacket and black trousers were unstained and uncreased; the white shirt was clean, with only a few inevitable creases; the red tie was straight, its knot the right size and in the right place; the black shoes were polished, dry and unsoiled; the short black hair was washed and unruffled, the small, metal-framed black glasses level on his face. He was not a vain man, but all the same, he took pride in looking presentable: a decent first impression was crucial to all dealings, and a smart appearance was crucial to all first impressions.

His watch said that it was now 10:29am, so he’d been in the lift for just over a minute. Considering his destination, this didn’t surprise him much. All the same, this was when the lift finally began to slow down, that weird rising sensation telling him that he was almost at his destination. After a few seconds, the lift stopped altogether, and the doors opened.

David found himself at the edge of a small cave, no larger than fifty feet, its walls a red that looked similar to sandstone. It was largely featureless, only a few small stalactites hanging from the ceiling, and the ground covered in a flat layer of red sand. A tunnel at the far end curved down and off to the right, presumably leading to Hell itself.

The cave’s only occupant was a single man, stood facing him a few feet away. He was clearly a man, and clearly humanoid, but it was also obvious that he did not belong to any of the species walking around upstairs. He was immensely pale, almost chalk-coloured, about seven feet in height and, whilst not muscular, was still clearly familiar with the notion of exercise. He wore what was best described as a grey jumpsuit, though he went barefoot, both his toe- and fingernails equipped with short black spikes, and his shoulder-length, faintly greasy black hair was tied back into a ponytail. However, his two most notable features were also his most unusual: yellow eyes, with black eyeballs and vertical slits like a cat, and a pair of black feathery wings, currently folded up but still a good foot taller than he was.

Despite his extraordinary appearance, the man was definitely, in his own way, very good-looking. David was not pre-disposed to finding his fellow men attractive, but nevertheless, the thought struck him that this man, whatever he would turn out to be, wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance painting. His first impressions immediately ran to “angel”, but that didn’t seem entirely right, if only because you weren’t supposed to find them in Hell. But whilst he could be seen as sinister, calling him a demon also felt equally improbable.

David stepped out of the lift, its doors quickly closing behind him. The man smiled, revealing two rows of spiked, blindingly white teeth.

“Hi.” the man said. “You must be David Willis. I’ve been expecting you.”

David wasn’t sure if it was only the setting that made that line so intimidating: the man’s low voice, almost like an animal’s purr, probably didn’t help. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. He stuck out his hand, and the man shook it, his grasp firm and warm.

“Yes, that’s me. And you are…”

The man smiled again. “I’m Satan.”

The handshake ended, but Satan carried on talking. “I imagine I’m not what you expected. Don’t worry about that. Hell’s a one-way trip, so when it comes to describing me and my enterprise, people usually just make shit up. But considering the reputation they’ve given, I’m hardly going to complain, am I?”

Despite his momentary sense of unease, meeting Satan himself in the flesh didn’t alarm David as much as he might have thought. Maybe that was because, up and until an hour ago, he’d never expected him to exist.

“Anyway, that’s enough about me.” Satan continued. “I hear you’re the one who’s going to turn this place into a respectable business.”

“Er…yes.”

Satan gave another smile. “Good. I’ve always wanted to get involved in corporate affairs. It looks like so much fun.”

“I’m not that far up the tree, but…yes, I suppose it is.” David had always thought of his job as “interesting” rather than “fun”, but either way, he definitely held his words to be true.

“Good, good. Well, I guess you’ll be wanting to see the shop floor. Get a first-hand look at what you’re working on.”

Truth be told, David didn’t have a clue what he wanted. His only plan was to just follow the tide of fate until a better idea turned up. But Satan’s suggestion would do for now.

“Er…that would help, yes.”

“Great. It’s not far from here, so just follow me.”

Satan turned and started walking towards the tunnel. David, as requested, followed a few paces behind. The sand crunched beneath his feet, and it was only now, after a full conversation, that he realised the cave didn’t echo. But this was the least unusual thing about the scene, so he put it aside.

The two of the them headed down the tunnel, which, after a few hundred metres or so, curved off to the left and started to level out. It widened slightly, and they soon arrived at a set of high wooden doors, curved up to a tip in a very Gothic style. Above the doors, in a flowing script written in some kind of metal, were the following words:

Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

Satan looked up the inscription and laughed. “It’s from Dante. I’ve always wished that I’d thought of it myself.”

David allowed himself a smile. Dante would probably appreciate the tribute.

Satan stepped forward and pushed open the doors, their protracted creaking ominous and yet somehow predictable.

“Welcome to Hell.” he said.

David found himself confronted with another cave, only in this case, such a limited word failed to do it any sort of justice. The space was vast, almost impossibly vast, its walls so far away that they seemed to disappear into the horizon. Small batches of cloud (or large ones: the space made scaling difficult) drifted in slow patterns, both above and below the wide ledge in which he now stood, some of them turned a moody grey and raining forlornly on the ground far below. The cave’s bottom, viewed from the vertigo-inducing distance of tall buildings, was a near-infinite honeycomb of pits, their size probably large but still too far away to properly judge. Each pit seemed to have different contents, fire or mud or snakes or something else equally unpleasant, lit by red lamps that dotted the ridges between them: with the amount of pits, the lamps produced a glow that lit up the cave itself, turning the clouds weird shades as they circled. An army of beings in similar appearance to Satan, obviously demons of varying types, patrolled the space in ones and twos, some crawling, some walking, some flying.

David was not a man accustomed to dealing with immensity. He put his hand over his mouth, unable to do anything except stare in shock and awe. Through this mental stillness, the fact slowly entered his brain that Hell was weirdly quiet: there was the spatter of rain, the occasional chatter of demons filtering up, but none of the moaning and screaming that he would have perhaps expected. But then again, what part of his day so far wasn’t odd?

Satan turned to face him. “Also not what you expected, I see. We’ve tried a variety of layouts over the eons, but this one seems to be the best. Like with most things, the simplest solution is just to borrow from the Greeks.”

He gestured for David to come closer to the edge. He did so, gingerly: he didn’t usually get vertigo, but this place didn’t seem to care.

“We carry out our job on an entirely subjective basis.” Satan explained. “Each pit is for a single person, and the punishment they receive is tailored to fit their particular sins and weaknesses. It heightens the unpleasantness, and this being Hell, that’s precisely what you want.”

He pointed to three pits in turn. The distance made it hard for David to tell which exact ones were being pointed at, but he wasn’t going to ask.

“See that guy there? He’s George Hamilton, and in 1836, he murdered his wife and kids for fun. He’s not big on nature, so after the British hung him, we made sure he was stuck in a forest that wants to kill him. Over there is Jerry Cordin, who thought he was a 38^th-century Casanova. We thought he was a prick, so now he has a harem of extra-freaky space mutants. And that unlucky soul is Ani Milozni, who got her kicks from torturing Teutonic Knights with carnivorous bugs. So guess what we’re now doing to her.”

Satan paused briefly. “It probably strikes you as very quiet. It does me, I know. We used to have all the wailing and grinding of teeth, but frankly, it gets on your nerves after a while. So we just them all scream to themselves these days.

“It’s a well-run enterprise, in all. Of course, we don’t count much on customer satisfaction, but my men are loyal and work hard, and we find ways to keep ourselves amused. We enjoy it here.”

David just nodded. It certainly all seemed very Hell-ish, despite, or rather because of, Satan’s pride. And now that the shock was starting to be less paralysing, he was also beginning to have a few ideas for the business. There was definitely potential here, though he’d have to wait and see if his contributions would help.

Satan seemed to pick up on his optimism. He pointed off to the right, where an archway could just about be seen near the cave’s floor. A wide pathway curved down across the wall, linking the ledge with that spot.

“My office is just down there.” he said. “I’ll give you a proper tour of the shop floor later, but for now, I suggest we talk business. I imagine you’ve got lots to say.”

* * * * *

Satan’s office was spacious and tidy, its only furnishings being a large desk, three comfy chairs and two aging filing cabinets. It had been carved out of bedrock, much like the rest of Hell, yet the sandstone walls had been smoothed enough to hang a painting, an unspecified tropical beach at night. The only other items were a computer sat on the desk, a Dilbert desk calendar next to it, and a goldfish bowl on one of the cabinets, its sole fish occupant swimming in deranged circles around a small and obviously plastic ruined castle.

Satan was sat on the chair behind the desk, his wings hooked over its back. He leaned back and cracked his knuckles.

“So, what do you suggest?” he said. “How can Hell elevate itself into the business world?”

David thought for a few moments. He knew what he wanted to say, but still wasn’t entirely sure how. He was also beginning to realise the full nature of his responsibility: he was already aware that this assignment was of vital importance to Barratech Boxes, not to mention Exocel, but it was only now becoming clear to him how necessary it was that he be impressive here. If Satan thought his suggestions rubbish and chose another business partner, then his career would be over before he even left this office. Of course, Satan seemed fairly easy-going thus far, but the pressure did not give him much reassurance.

But then, in that merciful way we often think of things when worried, a thought came to him.

“Well…to be able to turn a profit, you need something to sell.” He paused for a second, then frowned. “That sounded a little more obvious than I thought it would.”

Satan just shrugged. “All ideas are welcome, David. And besides, that doesn’t explain what we can sell.”

“That’s why you use what I like to call “Hell money”. When people are alive, they stock up on special currency. That, or their families can donate it after their death, or a combination of both. Either way, once someone has died and come here, they can use the currency they have to buy a less unpleasant experience. They can reduce their punishment, get things that make themselves more comfortable, or if they’ve got enough currency, they can escape Hell altogether. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Satan laughed. “I think that’s inspired, David. We’ll have to run up a catalogue of things to sell, of course, but Lilith’s always been good at that sort of thing. I’m not sure if she wants to speak to me right now, though…” he smiled, perhaps nervously. “…Though that’s a story for another time.”

David didn’t respond. He’d never imagined Satan to have relationship problems, but then again, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

“You ever been married, David?” Satan asked with a smile.

“Err…no. No I haven’t.”

“Technically speaking, neither have I. But I’ve come close enough, and take it from me, whoever thought up the idea should have a prime spot on the shop floor.”

David just nodded.

“So,” Satan continued, “what other ideas do you have?”

David was glad to get back on track. “Personally, I think a new layout would be useful.”

Satan raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Err…yes. To encourage people to spend their Hell money a little quicker, I think you should try and conform more to people’s expectations of this place. Give yourselves a more traditional look. Throw people in lakes of boiling fire, get your demons to stab them with pitchforks, all that kind of thing. I hope you get what I’m after here.”

“Yes, I do. ‘Realise the nightmare’, that seems to be your point.”

David nodded. “That’s it, yes. The key rule of business is to always give your customers what they expect. What they expect here is unpleasantness, and usually a very specific kind. You give them that, and they’ll respond to the other services you offer. I mean, you already run a very impressive operation, don’t get me wrong about that, but, you know…”

“Things can always get worse, yes.” Satan paused, then grinned. “‘Always give your customers what they expect’. I’ll have to remember that. Thank you, David.”

“My pleasure.”

“I must say, it’s quite odd to say ‘customers’. I’ve never thought of them that way before. But I guess they are now, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

David suddenly had another idea, one he was amazed had taken him this long. “I suggest you also extend the range of sins available. The more customers you can get through your doors, the better. Of course, it’s up to you what sins you create, but personally, I’ve always had a big problem with people who eat peppers.”

Satan laughed, far more uproariously than David had been hoping. “Good thinking, David. I can’t stand peppers either. But still, what is or isn’t a sin is more a prerogative of Dad upstairs, but I’ll put a word in. These days, he usually agrees to my requests.”

“Well, that’ll be helpful.”

David, for maybe the first time in a long while, was beginning to feel quite pleased with himself. His ideas, odd and last-minute they may have been, were actually being well-received. He’d never had to propose business ideas before, and especially not under these circumstances, and he was doing far better than he’d dared to hope. Satan actually seemed quite excited by it all.

Of course, that was when another realisation caught up with him. He was about to voice it when he started hearing a soft banging sound from the direction of the filing cabinets. He looked over to see the goldfish repeatedly head-butting the wall of its bowl, a fish’s usual vacant stare replaced with a frenzied, bug-eyed look. David had to suppress an uncharacteristic urge to laugh.

Satan looked over his shoulder to follow David’s gaze, then quickly looked back. “Don’t worry about that.” he said. “That’s just Darwin. He does things like that all the time.”

He paused, then shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. Have no fear, evolution is real. But rules are rules, and you don’t wage war on religious doctrine without paying the price. Besides, I imagine he sees the funny side.”

David didn’t say anything. He didn’t see Darwin laughing at all: in fact, he felt an unpleasant moment of empathy with the man. But he tried to put the feeling aside. He still had a job to finish.

“So, Satan…” Actually saying the name aloud made David pause, but he made himself continue anyway. “…What do you think of my proposals so far? I appreciate that they’ll be quite complicated to carry out, but if I have a little more time, I’m sure I can come up with something more sensible.”

Satan waved his hand, as if to swat away David’s concern. “Don’t worry about that, David. I know you haven’t had much time. And anyway, Hell does not run according to your laws of physics. We can do whatever we wish to this place. We could even make it dance on the head of a pin, if we could ever find a point in doing so.” He smiled briefly. “Excuse the pun.

“Still, I think your proposals so far are brilliant. As far as I’m concerned, any step in the direction of the corporate world is one worth making. We’ll certainly make the changes you suggested, and then we’ll see what you come up with next. I’m sure it’ll be exciting. If you like, you can stick around and see the results.”

.“Umm…yeah, sure. I’ll try not to get in the way.” David noted that time down here was relative, so it wouldn’t hurt him to stay…well, as long as he wanted. He just wasn’t sure how long that would be.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t.”

Satan turned to his computer and tapped at the keyboard a few times. He then leaned towards the microphone attached to the monitor, and cleared his throat.

“Could Kokomo and Aforgomon come to my office, please? There are some things we need to discuss.”

Satan turned back to David and grinned. “I always try to stay on first-name terms with everyone. It makes life run so much easier, I think.”

* * * * *

David looked at his watch. Its hands pointed at 1:46pm: this didn’t give any clues as to the time of day, if indeed there even was one, but it did tell him that, subjectively at least, it had been an hour and a half since Satan and the other demons had done their restructuring work. Truth be told, though, “work” was perhaps the wrong word: they had used only a few word and gestures, and then the physical space of Hell had gradually re-ordered itself. It was a very odd thing to witness, a process best described as watching two scenes fade into each other in a film, only in three vivid dimensions. It was largely impossible to say when exactly the old Hell had changed into this new one, but nonetheless, the change had definitely happened.

For the subsequent ninety minutes, David had been sat alone in Satan’s office, trying to come up with more business ideas. He knew that the best way to do this was to actually spend time on the shop floor, but the demons were still trying to get used to their new working methods, and he didn’t want to get under their feet. So he stayed in the office, relying on his own admittedly limited imagination. However, he’d yet to have any decent brainwaves, partly for that reason, but mostly just because Darwin’s incessant head-banging was getting on his nerves: as Satan explained it, he enjoyed having the biologist in his office, and was reluctant to throw him into the new Hell. At the moment, David didn’t really appreciate the sentiment.

Finally, his patience ran out. With a protracted growl, he tore off the paper he was using from its pad, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at a bin in the corner of the room. It missed spectacularly, and so with a louder growl, he picked up his A4 pad and chucked it into his open briefcase. It landed on the rim with a thunk, and rested half-out of the case. He shoved the pad the rest of the way in, slammed down the case’s lid, and stood up so quickly that the wheeled chair coasted back across the floor. He then picked up the case and marched towards the door.

His sudden display of temper had alarmed him. He hadn’t done anything like that in years: at least two, if his memory served him correctly. Maybe getting outside would be the wise idea after all.

Just as he reached the door, David paused for a few seconds and tried to calm himself down. He largely failed, but still, he moved very carefully when he opened the door and stepped out into the new Hell.

The cave was still as big as before, still so immense that it threatened to turn your mind into whimpering mush, but nearly everything else had changed. Instead of the near-infinite pits, there was instead a single vast lake, filled with a boiling red liquid that David assumed to be blood, its surface dotted with flickering yellow flames. The lake contained a huge mass of naked people, a number beyond human counting, so tightly packed they almost obscured the waters in which they were imprisoned. They thrashed and screamed and groaned nigh-on continuously, their agony dividing them between trying to escape their boiling tomb, and simply tearing at each other with a mad frenzy. The demons had changed too: they no longer had their distorted angelic appearance, but had become something of far greater resemblance to their name, ten-foot, red-skinned beings with fur, horns and cloven hooves. They patrolled the lakeside, or hovered over the surface, in groups of two or three, occasionally stabbing people at random with their three-pronged pitchforks.

David turned to the right and started waking around the lake, keeping his distance from the demons and their patrols. He didn’t intend on walking very far: he reckoned a full circumference would take several days, and he had things to be doing in that time. And besides, all the wails and screams, a hurricane of splashing and shouting like the evil twin of a public swimming pool, were already beginning to increase his general annoyance. He’d advised Satan that returning all the noise would increase the hellish atmosphere, and it had promptly done so. He could see why Hell had been kept quiet in the first place.

Aside from his irritation with all the noise, David was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had only been in Hell for three hours – indeed, he had only been aware of its very existence for four hours – and he had already succeeded its entire layout and structure. If he was to be completely honest with himself, he had always been fairly low down the tree at Barratech, and he was unused to having influence over his company’s workings, especially not to this degree. Of course, Hell wasn’t his company, but he still felt a distinct pride at playing such a key role in its new developments. Not everyone could claim to influencing Satan, after all.

David had been walking for a few minutes when he saw something in the lake…or, rather, he saw someone. He stopped, then walked a little closer. He looked closely, straining his eyes, trying to find the brief glimmer of the face he’d seen. He’d almost accepted it as an illusion when, in the corner of his eye, he spotted them again. Yes. She looked very different from when he saw her last, but all the same, that was definitely her alright.

Louise.

He walked towards a pair of nearby demons, who were idly waving their pitchforks at some brawling people. They stopped and turned to face him as he approached, then gave a joint respectful nod. David felt his courage increase with their deferential gesture.

“Can you get her out of the lake?” he said, pointing over at Louise. “I know her from upstairs.”

The two demons nodded again. “Of course, sir.”

They headed over to Louise, their large and robust forms giving them an unusual bounding walk, and after a moment’s pause, reached out and grabbed her flailing arms. They pulled her out of the lake, and left her panting and shaking on the red stone floor. The two demons silently went back to their patrol as David ran over.

Louise looked up at him with an unsteady gaze, almost as if she held him to be an illusion. “David.” she said, her voice croaky and toneless, yet easily audible over the cacophony from the lake. “What are you doing here?”

“Exocel bought this place out. Michael got me down here to work as a consultant.” Under the circumstances, David thought he could comfortably tell Louise the truth.

Louise just laughed, if the jagged and bitter sound could be classed as such.

“I suppose I should ask you the same question.” David said.

Before answering, Louise gingerly pulled herself up into a sitting position, wincing each time she put pressure on the ground. David had always considered seeing Louise naked to be fairly high on his “unrealistic wishes” list, but now he was actually confronted with it, he suddenly felt like changing his priorities. Her time in the lake, however long that was, had covered her in burns, welts, bruises and scars, an overlapping web of injuries that gave her a closer resemblance to Frankenstein’s Monster than a recognisable human being. She was, frankly, repulsive to look at, and David knew that it was his responsibility.

“I’d gone round to Michael’s for the night, like I do each Friday. I choked to death on a pepper, of all things. And according to whichever demon threw me in here, eating peppers is now a sin worthy of Hell. Never mind that I was fucking my boss. It was peppers.”

David blinked a few times. “How long have you been here?” he said, before he had time to realise how retarded such a response was.

Louise gave him a sombre look, if only briefly. “Hell is eternal, David. I’ve always been here.”

She gave another almost-laugh, now with an alarmingly venomous edge. “I swear, if I ever meet the guy who came up with all this, I’m going to claw his fucking face off.”

David just shrugged. “Nothing to do with me, I’m afraid. I’ve only just got here. But I need to go. There’s people…well, demons, I need to see. But I’ll be coming back.”

Louise returned the shrug. “Right. Later.”

David turned and started to walk away. As he did, he heard Louise say, in a voice so emotional it barely sounded like the same person: “I don’t have any Hell Money. Get me the fuck out of here, David.”

He paused, and turned back. “I’ll do my best, Louise.”

He then headed off towards Satan’s office, back the way he came. As he walked, he suddenly realised that he had absolutely no intention of helping her. The knowledge did not make him feel good. It wasn’t simply that Louise had become deformed and hideous, and looking at her made him want to vomit. And it wasn’t even that she’d been busy sleeping with their boss, ending the already faint dreams he’d had for them both. No, they were both too easy. He wouldn’t help because he had a job to do, and rescuing Louise would interfere with that job. He knew that didn’t say much about him as a human being, but all the same, he had made his choice, and he would stick with it. Wherever the path led, he would follow, and he would accept whatever came at its end.

But still, he wasn’t sure if that was wise.

As he neared Satan’s office, he noticed that Kokomo and Aforgomon were stood outside, with a third man between them. He was a human, very much so, dressed in a suit not dissimilar to David’s own, but with unkempt blond hair coming down to his shoulders. He had clearly just come out of the lake, as he also had a large number of burns and scratches, and his left eye, either missing or damaged, was hidden behind a black eyepatch. These injuries, especially the eyepatch, combined with the “cat’s got the cream” grin to form a very unpleasant-looking man: not horrible, but evil, the kind of man any self-respecting father would keep his daughters well away from.

Aforgomon noticed David’s approach, and gave him a friendly wave. This looked almost humorous on such an obviously devilish creature…at least, it would if David had been in the mood to laugh.

“David!” Aforgomon said in a cheerful voice, then pointed at the evil-looking man. “This is George Hamilton. He’s been clever and stocked up loads of Hell Money, and he’s going all the way up to Heaven. We’re just seeing him off now.”

George laughed, with appropriate cruelty. “I love this new system of yours, David. You’re really quite the pioneer. In fact, if I wasn’t dead, I’d have to poach you for my own business.” He laughed again.

“Thank you.” David said evenly. He wasn’t sure if being complimented by this man was really a desirable thing.

And that’s when David did something that, on the whole, not many humans ever achieve: he had another epiphany, his second in as many minutes. Ultimately, the message burning itself across his brain was a simple one.

Screw the path. You need to get outside.

He turned to Aforgomon. “Listen, next time you seen Satan, can you tell him I’ve gone back upstairs? I’ll be back down, but I really need some fresh air.”

Aforgomon nodded and smiled. “Sure thing, David. I’ll see you later.”

* * * * *

David was stood back in front of the lift. A little disconcertingly, he could still hear the screams from the lake, even through the big wooden doors and half a mile of solid rock. But he tried to put that unease to one side: he’d be back in Barratech in only a few minutes, and he could put all this madness behind him. Of course, he’d probably have to dive back in once Miranda, Michael and Lewis learnt that he’d done a runner, but he would just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

He pressed the Call button for the lift, which opened immediately. In some odd way he couldn’t quite identify, he couldn’t say he was surprised. He stepped inside, and pressed the G button. The doors closed, and he felt the lift carry him back up to fresh air and sanity.

In his minute’s wait, he tried to put his mind at ease by thinking about his evening. He didn’t have any plans, as he never did, but there was that Godfather DVD he’d bought the other day and still hadn’t watched. He’d have to do that tonight. He also decided that he’d cook a beef curry for dinner, because he hadn’t done one of those for a while. The steak needed using up, anyway. Yeah, that sounded like the makings of a fun evening.

He eventually felt the lift come to a stop, the change in velocity compressing his body in that usual weird way. The doors opened to reveal, not the lobby of Barratech Boxes, Inc., but the cave he had just left.

David frowned. What the hell was going on here?

He pushed the G button again, and the lift started another journey upwards. He tried to carry on planning his evening, but his thoughts kept on turning to what he might find once the lift stopped. He could give a good guess, which was two-thirds of the problem.

The lift stopped, and the doors opened back onto the cave.

David felt himself start to sweat. By this point, he suspected what might be going on, but the last thing he needed was to be proven right.

He pressed the G button for a third time, and the lift once again started moving. This time, he didn’t bother trying to distract himself, and simply prayed his hardest that what he thought was happening wasn’t. He now knew for a certainty that God existed, but given the day’s events, he still didn’t feel as if his prayers would be answered. The lift began to feel very, very small.

Eventually, it stopped, and the doors opened back onto the cave. This time, Satan was stood nearby, like when David first arrived. The same went for his appearance: instead of the demon he had become on David’s advice, he had changed back to his black angelic image. However, his smile was new, looking, for the first time, deeply malevolent.

“I can see why the guys and girls at Barratech chose you.” he said, smile still present. “You ain’t exactly imaginative, but you don’t panic. A skill like that is valuable, especially down here. But you need to remember, David, that Hell is the way it is, and we all just have to deal with it.

“Ah, don’t be miserable. We all manage to find ways to keep ourselves amused. You’ll get used to things. And hey, there’s still plenty of work we need you to do. Profits must always go up, after all.”

David looked at his watch: 2:34pm, it said. With a completely depressing certainty, he knew that he’d never need to check it again. He knew that Satan was right, even if wasn’t sure exactly what he was right about.

He stepped out of the lift. First things first, he’d need to do something about all that screaming.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2008-01-15T16:55:00.000Z

Seven months.

I just want to say that again.

Seven. Months.

Well, I think you kinda get the idea. It has been a long time, hasn't it? I must admit, I haven't been gone anywhere in particular: life just got a little on top of me, like it does sometimes. Firstly, that case of writer's block I was complaining about last time, rather than clearing up quickly, only proceeded to get worse, to the point where I couldn't even write e-mails. Secondly, before I'd even sorted that out, I had to throw myself back into the university maelstrom, and I've only just cleared up the two-month's worth of assignment backlog. So, I'm afraid, this place kinda got lost amongst all the struggles and annoyances.

Sorry about that.

But still, I'm back now. The work has been (almost) sorted, my writing groove has (mostly) returned, and I can celebrate by, shock horror, giving you all some new material! (well, kinda: see below for why.) Part of why I was so busy was that, because I had no money (again), I decided to not buy anyone Christmas presents, and write them stories instead...the catch was, of course, that having to write six short stories in a month bordered on impossible. But I achieved it nonetheless, and more to the point, some of these tales are actually among my best work. And despite these stories being presents, and so technically not my property any more, I'm going to indulge my ego and share the better ones with you all: for the sake of ease, I shall post them one at a time, over the next few days.

The first is one that, if only in part, will already be familiar to you: The Dreamtime. Yes, I know that giving someone an already half-written story is a bit cheeky, but I thought it was an appropriate tale, and one that I've been wanting to finish for a long time. Either way, it means that I'm now able to fulfil one of my long-standing promises, and present you with its conclusion. So don't complain, alright? :-P

Anyway...for the continued sake of ease (and because I made a few edits), the original part of this story will be re-posted, and the prior post will be deleted. So if you're new to this blog, and you don't have a clue what the last five sentences have been all about, then just don't worry about it. Get on and read the rest instead.

This preamble is getting quite long enough, so I won't waste time explaining what The Dreamtime is all about. Instead, I shall just get on and post it, and get this party re-started:

The Dreamtime

You can’t always get what you want.
You can’t always get what you want.
You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes,
Well you just might find
You get what you need.

- The Rolling Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”

The shoe lands on the red dirt, resting for only a second, then lifts into the air. It comes back down another second later, on rock this time, landing a short way ahead, and a little further to the left than it perhaps should. The other shoe lands on another rock, just ahead and to the right, its top above the rocks in front of it. This other shoe, and the leg it holds onto, compress slightly, so that the first shoe, the left one, can lift up into the air. This left shoe hangs in the air for a second, long enough to cause speculation on where it will go next, eventually laying to rest on an area of red dirt, between a rock just to the left and one behind it. Both shoes pause for a time, compressing as the body above them leans slightly backwards.

But then the shoes are off again, moving from rock to rock, dirt patch to dirt patch. Sometimes the route is simple, sometimes not, and though there are many pauses, it is always forward, always upward.

* * * * *

Australia, 1865. Where life is a bad joke, performed poorly and taken too far, and the meaning always lost in translation.

Agatha Morton turns away from the window. A view is a view, but you can only look at landscape for so long. And there’s only so much to look at, anyway.

She walks over to the bed, a huge four-poster dragged out into the centre of the room. She lifts up the netting, revealing the boy laying down on the sweat-soaked bedsheet. This boy, no older than twelve, is wearing only a vest and briefs, shivering uncontrollably despite the intense heat. When Dr Arzt came by yesterday, he said this was a good sign, that his body was finally starting to cool down…Agatha isn’t so sure, but she isn’t a doctor.

And you wouldn’t need a doctor to tell you that heat was the problem. Heat defines this country. It gets everywhere: in every house, every room, every outfit, every body, every thought. When you look outside, at the endless cracked dirt, the tufts of grass stubbornly clinging onto life, the entire landscape waves in unison, swaying under the sun’s merciless pounding. And God forbid what would happen should you be outside.

Agatha kneels down by the bed, stroking her fingers across Dashiell’s brow. He is still very hot, though he seemingly feels otherwise. She would ask him, but it’s been several days since he was last capable of speaking. She isn’t even sure if he knows his mother is still with him.

* * * * *

The woman walks across the desert. One step at a time, the left then the right. Her shoes crunch down on the dirt and stones, burnt by the sun into dark reds and browns. From a distance, it looks like the earth is bleeding: up close, it looks the same.

One step at a time, the left then the right.

The woman keeps walking. She stumbles slightly, catching her foot on nothing, but she keeps going. Her tiny blue shoes have turned brown with the dust they kick up. They were made for walking through halls and houses, not deserts: her feet were hurting before, but now she can no longer feel them, so it’s fine. The bottom of her dress is also dirty and scuffed, where the lowest inch drags across the ground, but that too is no problem.

Just up ahead (maybe only a few metres away, but distances are so hard to gauge out here), there is what used to be an oasis. A small hollow in the ground, now empty, with three dead trees surrounding it. But in this endless nothing, where the mountains thousands of miles away look reachable, even a lifeless sight like this is interesting. It’s variety, if nothing else.

The heat. The sun beats down as hard as ever, and her thick cotton dress, a fine outfit carefully tailored to match the fine carefully-tailored shoes, all it can do is trap the rays inside it. On this walk, her organs have slowly cooked from the inside, and her dress has become itchy with all the sweat. Even her big umbrella, made especially for this climate, has done nothing to help.

But now, she is feeling much better. The sun still burns away, but she is feeling much cooler. She has stopped sweating, which is a merciful thing for a lady. She does not know why this is, why she has now adjusted to the unadjustable heat, but she is thankful.

As the woman walks past the hollow, she notices that there is actually some water left. It is about an inch of deep-brown muck, almost impossible to see under the carpet of thirsty flies, but she has heard tales of desperate people drinking far worse. Still, she doesn’t need anything right now.

One step at a time, the left then the right.

* * * * *

Agatha idly waves her umbrella, trying to swat away the flies buzzing all around her. It’s a futile task – kill one, and a million will take its place – but they’re too irritating to not try. Like the heat, flies are inescapable here.

She rather likes her umbrella. It’s pale blue, square and made of light cloth, styled like the new fashions coming out of China. The key word here is “like”: she is a rich woman, from a rich family, but the genuine Asian article is still far beyond her means. She is hardly Queen Victoria, after all.

Realising that someone has just said something to her, Agatha snaps back to reality. “Pardon?” she says.

“I’m sorry about your son.” the woman says, with her hand rested on Agatha’s arm in that supportive fashion. “Arthur was a good lad. He would’ve done well for this town.”

Agatha looks around her, at what is laughably described as a “town”. Really, it’s just a handful of ramshackle buildings – hotel, jail, butchers and the like – thrown at the endless desert like they’d ever seriously last. Sevenoaks is one of many such “towns”, built with the sole purpose of seeing what in interior of New South Wales has to offer. Many places have found gold mines, rich and plentiful ones, but this patch of desert just seems to have fuck all.

Well, not quite. The soil sprouts fields of dry grass here and there, enough to raise sheep. It’s barely worth calling a resource, but all the same, it lets the community get by.

Today, Arthur was supposed to ride out to the Ranges, helping the dozen soldiers here give the natives a friendly extermination. But instead, he is in the town’s makeshift cemetery, dead from poisoning. According to Dr Arzt, he’d been bitten by any one of Australia’s countless deadly creatures. Just one of those things.

It doesn’t help that Michael can’t be here for her. Her husband is the Captain of Sevenoaks’ token military presence, doubling up as what passes for police in these frontier regions. As befits his post, he’s had to go off and lead the attack on the Ranges. He doesn’t want to, but it’s what he’s paid for. It’s also the Morton family is here.

It’s best to just not think about these things. We break down, it all breaks down.

Agatha smiles as best she can. “Yes, he would have been. Thank you, Laura. How much is this steak?”

Laura presses the large parcel, the beef for tonight’s roast, into Agatha’s tiny hands. “I think this one’s on the house.”

* * * * *

Agatha steps from rock to rock, doing her best to climb the hill. She stumbles frequently, her shoes having little grip on the rough surfaces, but she still manages to keep going. She’s tired, very tired, after all her walking, and her balance has become precarious, but she can rest once she reaches the top of this hill. In the back of her mind, there’s the realisation that this, perhaps, is far enough.

There isn’t much to say about this hill. Isn’t really a hill, per se, just an uneven pile of rocks built up in the middle of the desert. At the summit, the highest and largest rock sticks out like the prow of a ship, giving the place a serene appearance entirely unlike anywhere else in this region.

Agatha doesn’t climb all the way to the top. She sits down on a small rock, a short way below the largest one. The hill isn’t huge, but it still took a while to climb: how long exactly, she can’t tell. Time is an irrelevance in this land. She rests her umbrella on another small rock besides her.

Tucking the edges of her skirt under her legs, Agatha sits and watches the sunset. It has the same unearthly glow and shiver as always, the one truly beautiful thing here. It helps that, when the sun goes down, it drags the flies with it. Only they love the day.

“Good evening, miss.”

The voice shocks Agatha to her very core. Jumping with fright, she turns to face her unexpected companion. Standing on the largest rock is a man, one of the Aborigines, with the white body-paint and a spear taller than he is. He seems to be about Arthur’s age, before he died: clearly not a child, but also not quite a man.

On her walk, Agatha has become used to being alone. She’d almost started to believe that she was the only person in existence.

She fixes the man with an unsteady gaze. Her voice is croaky, yet level.

“One of you killed my husband.” she says.

* * * * *

“The world was created long ago, in the Altjeringa, the Dreamtime. Our ancestors wandered the land, shaping the earth and creating people and objects to inhabit it. Vast serpents writhed around, their movements shaking the endless plains into mountains and canyons. Spirits came down from the heavens, making all things and naming them as they saw fit. They helped all animals and people into existence, giving each group their own territory, language and customs. Out of disorder, life was born.”

Agatha nods. “Go on.”

Noah is the Morton family’s servant, one of a surprising number of Aborigines who choose to aid the English settlers. He is a good man, not that Agatha would mind either way. Her family is gone – Dashiell still remains, but with Dr Arzt not being worth his extortionate fees, probably not for much longer – and she is willing to have anyone fill that space. Today, she has finally given into her curiosity about Noah’s life, about where he came from.

“It is important that you understand, Mrs Morton. You British think that humans are the masters of the earth, that we are above and beyond all others. But we are not. We are but a part of this land, exactly the same as any other part. We are in the land, and the land is in us. Only if we respect this land, treat it and the spirits who live within it with due deference, will we survive.”

Noah points through the open window. Outside the Morton residence, a storm has hit, the first rains in nearly a year. The sun is blocked by the black clouds, but the light remains. In this unearthly glow, lightning forks, somehow bringing sky and earth closer together.

Frankly, the feeling that the world is ending is an everyday occurrence here.

“The spirits, the ancestors who made the world, they still live on. Every animal, every tree, every pool, every rock, every cloud, a spirit lives within it and controls it. When the thunder cracks and lightning forks, this is just a demonstration of their power. The land around us gives us everything we need for survival, and yet also contains all the seeds of our destruction. We must forget neither.”

“The Rainbow Snake, creator of water. The Wawilak sisters, the first mothers. All the ancestors in the stars, sitting around their campfires. We cannot forget those who came before us, whose spirits still live among us. We tell our stories, we make sure our children remember these ancestors, we make sure they continue telling our stories. We keep on knowing that we never live alone.”

Agatha nods. “Go on.”

* * * * *

There’s something just ahead. A building, for lack of a better term. It’s a white block, no bigger than a house, a lump of brick and rough plaster dumped next to a few barely-living trees. A smaller building, still only one story, sits off to the side, a wooden stable for the horses of anyone insane enough to ride out this far.

The Tartarus Tavern. The marker for where the Outback stops being merely out back and starts being a whole other universe. Also the last refuge of scum and villainy, a City Hall for this region’s outlaws. Some are convicts Transported from home, escaping the penal colonies to hide out in the hills. Others come here freely, arriving in Australia and deciding that stealing from others is the best occupation.

Either way, if you drink here, it’s because more urban taverns are a no-go.

Agatha has heard of this place. But she never expected to stumble across it.

But she’s spared the worst of the Tartarus. Whatever it used to be, it isn’t anymore. Only a few beams and slats of the stable remain, the rest burnt to a blackened pulp. The tavern building is stained black, darkened by smoke that billowed from its glassless windows. Rubble from inside, from collapsed roof and interior walls, spills out through the open doorway. Corpses, at least a dozen, are scattered across the interior and the dirt outside. They’re all covered in flies, feasting clouds so thick you can barely see what’s inside. A few birds circle above, disturbed from their carrion by Agatha’s approach.

Each of these men, bandits and soldiers alike, has been killed by a spear. Sometimes several. As Agatha knows from experience, you don’t need guns in order to cause damage.

But Agatha doesn’t stop. She carries on walking, going past this tableau and further out into the desert. Wherever she’s going, this isn’t it.

* * * * *

There’s a tapping sound. Agatha looks up to see a man stood by the entrance to the house, politely knocking on the open door. He’s young, clean-cut, dressed in a suit that’s as neat and anonymous as he is.

“May I help you?” Agatha asks.

The man coughs nervously, holds his hands behind his back. “My name’s Norman Fletcher. I’m…I’m here to see Catherine.”

Agatha grins. “Ahh…so you’re the Norman I’ve heard so much about!”

She stands up, putting her half-darned sock to one side. She can’t sew to save her life, hasn’t ever been able to, but aside from gardening or cleaning, there’s precious little else to do round here. She walks towards Norman and extends a hand. After a few seconds’ nervous confusion, he shakes it.

“Catherine never stops talking about you, you know. Whenever she’s around, it’s always “Norman said this, Norman took me to do that”. If you want my honest opinion, I think she’s rather taken with you.”

Norman goes bright red, embarrassment red rather than heat red. Luckily, Catherine saves his blushes by choosing this moment to walk in the room. Like her mother when she was that age, Catherine couldn’t be anonymous even if she tried.

“Are you being embarrassing again, mum?” she says, walking over to Norman. She gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, anything more romantic to be avoided in present company.

“Well, that’s what mothers are for.”

“Aren’t they just?”

Norman looks over at Agatha, awkwardness written all over his already awkward face. “Umm….actually…I was hoping I could talk to you in private.”

Mother and daughter shrug. Like Catherine, Agatha knows what the question is going to be. Norman would make a good son-in-law. Heaven knows, the Morton family needs a decent source of income, with Arthur and Michael both gone. Dashiell won’t be earning anything worth earning for a good few years yet.

* * * * *

One step at a time, the left then the right. The woman keeps walking, pressing her feet one at a time against the scorched earth. The sun and the heat press down with an almost solid force, the sheer unbearable extremity of it causing her to sway and stagger with every step. It’s difficult to imagine such temperatures, the feeling that your entire body is boiling away, but here it is. The umbrella she brought with her only out of habit, the only thing it’s good for is swatting at all the flies with nothing else to swarm over. As she walks, bowed under natures’ might, she remembers a dream she once had. It was during her first night at Sevenoaks, when the heat finally allowed her to sleep. There was a desert, an endless nothing with stars brighter than the sun hanging all above. The desert contained nothing, even less than this desert. Aside from her, the only thing there was a man, an aboriginal man like Noah, though barely old enough to be called a “man”. He said his name was Nightingale, and they talked, talked about many things. They talked about past, about present, about future, about things that made no sense to her. As they talked, Nightingale drew pictures in the sand, though they only caused greater confusion. She didn’t understand any of what he told her, but she still knew, in a way she couldn’t define, that what he said was important. Though the woman thinks about this dream rarely, it’s still better to think about than the heat.

* * * * *

“Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday dear mummy!

Happy birthday to you!”

Agatha laughs and smiles. Her family are not good singers, Catherine excepted, but their enthusiasm and affection has a beauty of its own. She hugs and kisses them all in turn, reserving the longest embrace for Michael. He has been away for a month, meeting superiors in Sydney, and neither of them was expecting him to be home for today. They are both very grateful that he managed it.

There are two presents, both in small white boxes, bound in red ribbon. She takes the first, unties and opens it. Underneath some tissue paper is a pair of earrings, two silver suns only a quarter of an inch across. It is their smallness, their intricacy, that makes them beautiful. Though the thought is only half-registered in her mind, they also help remind her that, even though the sun is the defining cruelty of this merciless land, it can still be turned into something of grace.

In time, this thought will serve her well.

Agatha smiles. “They’re beautiful!” she says.

Michael smiles back. “I’m glad you think so. They took some finding.”

“Well, I appreciate the effort.”

Later, Agatha will gently enquire about the specifics. But for now, she turns to the next box, unties and opens it. Inside, under another piece of tissue paper, is not more jewellery, but something entirely different. She gently lifts up a tiny model of a rocking horse, no longer than two inches, its dark brown wood painted with obviously great care in a variety of whites, reds and blues. For half a second, she wonders why she has been given a toy, but then realises that a toy is the last thing this is.

“I like your thinking.” she says, laughing.

“That was my idea.” Catherine pipes up. “I saw it in Sevenoaks the other day. I knew it had to be done.”

Agatha laughs again.

* * * * *

Agatha leans against the tree, bends over and vomits by her feet. It’s a thick, dark-orange slime, with an acrid smell that burns at her nostrils. But there isn’t much, just an unpleasant mouthful. She keeps hold of the tree, feeling faint, black clouds billowing from the sides of her vision. Her head is pounding, much like it has for a while now, with an incessant throb like nails being driven into her brain.

She can give an educated guess as to what this is all about. Since she left her home, however long ago that was, she has not taken on any food or water. Her walk is intended to be one-way, so bringing supplies with her felt a little pointless, and she had long since learnt that this wilderness will not try to assist her. Regardless, she has been feeling hungry and thirsty (and especially the latter) for quite some time, and it evidently seems to have caught up with her.

Eventually, her vision returns to something near-normal, and the acidic feeling in her throat begins to fade. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, and dabs at her watering eyes. A blob of vomit has landed on her shoe, so she rubs it against the tree in a vain attempt to clean it. She gently pushes herself off the tree, wobbling a little as she realises her balance has not quite returned.

She is just about to walk off when she hears a screeching noise. She jumps a little, and looks up.

The tree is tall, at least twenty feet, yet spindly and weak. Its many branches are largely leaf-less, and stick out at all angles like stretching fingers. It is the only tree, or anything else of height, for miles around. Sitting on top of this melancholy perch is an eagle, huge and imperious, its wings outstretched as it surveys the endless cracked desert that is its domain. Agatha has seen a few of these in her time at Sevenoaks, and by its size and shape, knows it to be a Wedge-Tail.

The eagle turns its head and looks down at her. It is too far away for its gaze to be truly readable, but it seems to be dismissive. She gets the feeling, somewhere in her chilled bones, that it knows who she is and why she is here, and regards her as nothing more than a minor irritation, a fly not worthy of its concern.

The eagle turns back to its kingdom, and screeches again.

“Tell me about it.” Agatha mumbles, before walking away.

* * * * *

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Mrs Morton, I really don’t think you should be here.”

“Can a lady not visit her husband in his place of work?”

“Yes she can, but now isn’t a good time.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s police business, Mrs Morton. Not something you need to see.”

“Why? Has my husband been hurt? Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine. He isn’t here right now. I suggest you go home and wait for him there. This isn’t the best time for you to be here.”

“Where is he, then?”

“There’s some extra business he needs to sort out. Police things. Please, Mrs Morton, you really shouldn’t be here.

“Mrs Morton, please. You should go. Now.”

“What’s going on back there?”

“Police business, Mrs Morton.”

“Who’s that man on the table? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“It’s not your concern. And no, he isn’t dead.”

“Is that a spear? That is a spear. My God, he’s dead.”

“No. We’re waiting for the doctor. You really don’t need to see this.”

“Who is he?”

“No one you know. Now please, you sh-”

“Is he…? He is! He is! Oh God, he’s-”

“Please! You need to go!”

“No! I have to…I have to…I have to be…”

“Mrs Morton, there’s nothing you can-”

“He’s my husband! Don’t you understand?! I can’t leave him! I can’t leave him! I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…Oh God…”

“I know, I know. But you can’t stay. There’s nothing you can do to help. I’ll escort you home. You’ll be better off there.”

“He’s my husband. I can’t leave him. Why didn’t you…why?”

“I know. I’m sorry. We couldn’t tell you here. We still don’t know what happened. It’s still too soon.”

“Oh God. I need to go home. I need to stay. Oh God…I don’t know…What happened to him?”

“We’re not sure. I’ll tell you what we know later. You need to get home.”

“I know…I know…Oh God, he’s dead.”

“It’s okay. I’ll escort you home. You need to look after your children.”

“No, it’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay.”

“Yes, it will. You’ll be okay. You’ll make it work.”

* * * * *

On the horizon ahead of her, the sun is beginning to go down. Its rays are still fiercely bright, but the dark orange of sunset is slowly creeping into the light. The daytime will be over in a few hours, or something approximate to that. She has long since adjusted to the fact that, in this landscape, time is not something you can entirely trust. This is why there are no longer any clocks in her home.

Then again, “home” is also something of a relative term out here.

There’s a rock not far from here. Guessing the distance in a world this flat is fairly pointless, but all the same, it shouldn’t be any more than a mile. From this viewpoint, the rock isn’t large, probably no bigger than she is. Nonetheless, it’s the only thing of interest for quite some way, so she turns a little to the left and heads towards it.

After spending all day walking into the sun’s intense glare, she is now beginning to feel cold. The throbbing in her head has also eased off, and she has long since stopped noticing her thirst and hunger pangs. Though she has picked up a new discomfort, her face and hands itching where the sunlight has burned them, she is feeling altogether less miserable than she did earlier in the day. She had almost started to believe that the day would last forever, so the simple promise of night-time is enough to raise her spirits.

The rock is much closer now, but she already knows that she will not stop. A black woman, a native, is sat against its base, dressed in a loose brown robe. She is holding a tiny baby in her arms, its skinny form wrapped in a brown cloth sling. Both mother and child are covered in blood, and though they are too far away to be absolutely sure, there are signs of a gunshot wound in each forehead.

She will not go any closer to the rock. This tableau is not something she wants to examine in detail. She has already seen more than enough times what this war between her people and theirs is all about.

She isn’t feeling so cheerful now.

Some way off to the left is a hill. It’s large, she isn’t sure exactly how big, with a large rock sticking out from the summit like the prow of a ship. She has been able to see it for some time, but has considered it too far away to be worth a detour. However, now it strikes her as a decent place to head for. It might well be her destination, if the term could be given such a specific meaning.

She leaves the rock behind, and starts walking towards the hill.

* * * * *

A cloud of dust in the distance signals that a rider is approaching. This is the only building for two miles, so Agatha knows that, whoever they are, it’s her they’re after. Though she is curious about their intentions, she also knows that it will be a few minutes before they arrive, so she goes back to her gardening whilst she waits.

She bends down, shears in hand, snipping off a dead flower from the rose plant. In a climate this unforgiving, dead-heading probably won’t help this spindly, miserable-looking pink thing, but still, the aesthetic value is worth a little something. But aside from this rider, she doesn’t get many visitors these days, so the work is for her alone. Still, that’s fine by her.

Mostly, gardening just fills in the hours. Like many women of her era, and especially ones of her upbringing, she has never had the chance to work a single day of her life. She has had over forty years’ experience of keeping herself amused, and by now, thinking up things to do, when there is usually nothing obvious to do, is almost second nature. Many women in her position like to sew, but that is not one of her talents, so she tends to her garden instead.

Not that there’s much of a garden. It’s a thirty-foot square, with a thin border running along all sides, and two small raised beds in the centre. The only plants are a selection of poppies and roses, the only things she’s been able to both obtain and grow out here in Sevenoaks. There’s arguably less life here than in the field of dry grass in which this house sits: certainly, not much distinguishes the two, save the waist-high white fence that surrounds the property. But, ultimately, Agatha has done the best she can with what she has, and she is not ashamed.

As she bends to dead-head another rose, she notes that this could be said of her wider life. It has been a few months since Michael’s death, and whilst the days have dragged by with a certain grim inevitability, she is still coping better than she feared. It helps that money is not especially tight: Michael’s former men supply donations as and when they can, and whilst Norman and Catherine are not yet married, her future son-in-law is living at the house and providing a decent income. He has joined the garrison here in Sevenoaks: a job with many ill omens, but it pays better than anything else in the area. The new Captain Granger has gone to Sydney to meet superiors, and they are both accompanying him on the coach. Noah is in Sevenoaks tending to his own business, so Agatha and Dashiell have been left alone in the house. Her son is off reading his books, content as usual.

They both just find ways to survive, and maybe find a little happiness whilst doing so. Under the circumstances, they can ask for no more.

Agatha does some more dead-heading, digs up a few poppies that don’t share her will to live, and eventually the rider comes to a stop just beyond the fence. It’s Noah, looking a little dishevelled. Whatever’s going on, it can’t be good. Agatha stands up, ready to hear his news.

He dismounts with his usual slowness, and opens the gate. He walks a few feet into the garden, staying a little distance from Agatha. The gate remains open behind him.

Noah takes a deep breath, then speaks. “The news just reached town, Mrs Morton. Captain Granger’s coach was attacked by bandits in the Blue Mountains. No one survived. I’m sorry, Mrs Morton.”

Agatha puts her hand to her mouth, the shears rubbing on her nose. Suddenly, mere survival doesn’t seem to enthralling.

* * * * *

One step at a time, the left then the right.

There seems to be a person up ahead. At the very least, it’s a black blob in a humanoid shape. Right now, the air is so hot that it shakes, warping everything around her into barely recognisable shapes and textures, like an oil painting smudged before it dries. It doesn’t help that her brain hurts so much she can hardly see.

However, whilst the person is indistinct, there a few other things nearby that are much easier to see. There are three large shacks, if such a term can be applied to what is no more than corrugated iron resting on four wooden poles. A variety of broken and rusted machinery is strewn around, both inside and outside the shacks: most of it is too blurry to make out, but one of the clearer items is a full-size traction engine. If it wasn’t for the lone person, then she’d have reckoned this place long abandoned.

She can give a decent guess as to what this place was. Whilst most settlers were willing to stay in Sevenoaks and other such towns, there were also plenty who weren’t content with such an existence, and struck out even deeper into the Outback in search of their fortune. No of them ever came back, which meant that they either found nothing, or found things too valuable to report. What this camp expected to get out of such a barren tract of desert – even the nearest trees were on the horizon – she has no idea, but they evidently didn’t get it.

Once she gets closer, the person gradually fades from a blur into a real, solid man. He is stood just outside one of the shacks, with a small wooden folding table in front of him, covered in an odd assortment of objects: an empty birdcage, a white cloth, three metal rings, several napkins and a deck of cards. The man himself is white, with a black cloak, black top hat and neatly-trimmed black beard.

“Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages!” he says in a rich, booming voice.

She stands a few feet in front of him, and watches as he picks up the bird cage and the cloth.

“See this cage! It is empty, is it not?” He spins it round a few times, just to demonstrate.

“Ah, but look again!” He throws the cloth over the cage, completely covering it, then pulls out a cheap-looking magic wand from his pocket. “I only need to give a few encouraging taps, and then…”

He gives the cage three taps with his wand, and then whips off the cloth. Inside the cage is a small yellow duckling, trying to hide under its wings.

The man puts his cage and cloth back on the table, and gives a deep bow. “I thank you! I thank you! And now, for my next trick…”

She stares at him, completely dumbstruck. She’s heard stories about mirages, that the desert makes people go crazy and see things. This is probably one of those. Though losing her sanity is not a comforting thought, it’s still less terrifying than the possibility that this man is real.

He is now trying to link together his three rings. Arthur had shown her that trick a few times, long ago, and she has no interest in watching magic she knows how to replicate. That isn’t what magic was for. She simply walks away, heading past the man and his table, and back out into the open desert. One step at a time, the left then the right.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

* * * * *

It feels like she had always been here, but she knows that, actually, she has only just arrived. She can’t say when, or even how, but all the same, she knows that she had once been somewhere else, and will some day return there. She can’t work out how she knows this, but she knows.

But where is “here”, exactly? She isn’t entirely sure. It is a desert, but entirely unlike those barren landscapes Australia has shown her so far: it is completely featureless, a pan of red dust and rock so flat that she can see the horizon’s curve. There are no objects on the ground, no trees or rocks or stones or anything. The only features of interest are in the night sky above, which is filled with myriads of stars that each feel brighter than the sun. It feels like a quilt, almost.

She knows, just like she knows all those other things, that this desert will not be found on any map. Maybe it isn’t so much a question of “where”.

“You’re dreaming, miss.”

The voice surprises her, but at the same time, she’s also been expecting it. She turns to see a man sat on the ground, using a stick to draw shapes in the dust. He’s an Aborigine, and about the same age as Arthur, that awkward point where boy and man became blurred. The shapes he’s drawing are odd: stick people, spirals, lines, squiggles. One image resembles a snake, a series of winding curves. She has no idea what it means.

Of course she’s dreaming. It makes perfect sense.

“Why am I here?” she asks.

The man looks up at her and smiles. “You’re clever. Most people just start with where. But you know precisely where you are, don’t you?”

She doesn’t, not entirely, but she isn’t about to puncture his optimism.

“My name’s Nightingale.” he says. “And you’re here because there are things you need to understand.”

He starts to draw a sun, though moving in a very staccato way, as if he doesn’t realise he’s drawing at all.

“What things?”

“Just things.” Nightingale shrugs, but continues drawing.

“The trouble is, if I tell you now, you won’t understand. Your only hope is if you learn for yourself. But you have to be ready. If you just sit around waiting, then by the time it comes, you’ll already be too late.”

“Of course.”

He smiles again. “Yes. You’re starting to get it already. But rest assured, there’s still a long way to go.”

Nightingale continues to talk, his discourse reaching into many more things, matters of life and love, happiness, wealth and community. But she never understands him as well as she does right now.

It doesn’t make any sense, but still, she knows.

She knows.

* * * * *

“One of you killed my husband.”

The man, the Aborigine, takes a while to reply. Agatha gets the sense that he’s thinking, making sure that what he says is exactly what he means. In her experience, very few people do this.

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that.” he eventually says. “I’ve never killed anyone. Who was he?”

To her horror, it takes Agatha a few seconds to remember. Why memories burnt into her brain should so abruptly slip away is a mystery to her, and one she recognises will remain so. But, mercifully, she soon recalls what she needs to.

“He was Captain Michael Morton, of the Sevenoaks Constabulary. Three months ago, Aboriginals ambushed and killed him.”

“Was he a good man?”

“One of the best.”

The man nods. “In that case, you have my condolences. But how many husbands have your people killed?”

Agatha blinks. She knows full well what “her people” are capable of, but all the same, such a direct question takes her by surprise. She realises that an honest answer is needed, and there’s only one she can provide.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s probably for the best.” The man pauses, then smiles. “My name’s Nightingale.”

Agatha stares at him. Her day has been pretty damn strange, but this is not how she imagined it ending. She used to be believe in coincidence, but since she has come to Australia, such a simplistic view of the universe doesn’t quite stand up. Meeting this man, here and now, only confirms the error of her former assumptions.

“I’m Agatha.” she says, calmer than she feels. “I had a dream about you once.”

Nightingale laughs. “You did?”

“Yes. When I first came here. You wanted to tell me something, but couldn’t. I think you said I had to learn for myself.”

“And have you?”

“I think so.”

He nods and smiles. “In that case, I’m glad to be of service.”

There’s a short lull in the conversation. Eventually, Agatha realises something obvious, a reality problem that hadn’t occurred to her in their last meeting.

“You speak very good English.” she says.

Nightingale smiles, obviously proud. “I do, don’t I? An Englishman joined our tribe a year ago. His name is Will Hodgson. Do you know him?”

Agatha shakes her head.

“He’s a very wise man.” Nightingale continues. “He taught me your language, and learnt ours as well. He also gave me the name Nightingale. Apparently, there’s a bird in your native land that sings very well, and so do I.”

There’s another lull. Agatha looks at the ground, kicks at a few stones by her feet. She can feel the need to sleep encroaching.

“I forgot to ask.” Nightingale suddenly says. “What brings you out here? This is a bit beyond your territory.”

Agatha doesn’t reply immediately. She knows that Nightingale deserves a complete answer, but she is unsure how to provide it. Eventually, some words occur to her. They aren’t perfect, but they’ll do.

“I used to hate this place. I really hated it. I thought it was Hell on Earth. And in this back end of oblivion, there were only four things I valued. Four people, rather. They were my family, and I loved them. And, one by one, this land took them from me. I decided I should make my peace with it, before it took me too.”

Nightingale nods. “And what do you think now?”

“Now…” Agatha pauses, and sighs. “It’s somewhere. That’s enough.”

“Quite right.”

Nightingale turns to look at the sunset. It’ll be dark soon, but for now, the horizon is painted a deep, vibrant red. From where Agatha’s sat, the prow of this hill points right into the heart of the sun, as if it’s going to sail off into the heavens. She would once have wished it could take her along, but now she knows such wishes are unnecessary.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

Agatha nods. The Outback sunsets were always beautiful, even when everything else wasn’t. But only some things change.

“Yes, it is.”

She looks at Nightingale, and realises that this is the first time they’ve ever met. He already feels so familiar to her that the insight is something of a shock. But then she yawns, stretching her mouth so wide that it hurts, and she remembers that there’s something else she needs to do.

“If you don’t mind,” she says, “I’ve had a long day, and I need to rest.”

He smiles. “Of course. I’ll stay for a while, if you don’t mind.”

Agatha closes her eyes. She didn’t realise how much they hurt until now. The sheer relief is wonderful.

“That would be wonderful.”

She smiles too.

* * * * *

Agatha turns on the tap, and fills the glass up to the top. Unlike most other things here, the water is cold, but that’s precisely how she needs it. When he was last here, Dr Arzt advised her to give Dashiell plenty of water, to help manage his fever: not that she needs a doctor to tell her that, but advice is advice. She turns off the tap, and leaves the kitchen.

She re-enters the main bedroom, where Dashiell is lying on the four-poster bed, dragged out into the centre of the room. The sheets are soaked through with his sweat, but he has stopped shivering now. That seems to be something…well, it obviously is something, but it seems to be good too.

She puts the glass down on the bedside cabinet, and bends over Dashiell’s tiny form. Now that he’s still, his eyes closed, he looks so serene. She feels a touch of regret at giving him a gentle shake on his shoulders.

“Dashiell, you need to drink some water.”

No response. She shakes him again.

“Dashiell, wake up. You need to drink.”

Again, no response. She gives him a third shake, a little harder this time.

“Come on, Dashiell. You need to drink.”

Still nothing. And then she realises, with a clarity like parting clouds, that her efforts are pointless. He isn’t going to wake up, not now or ever. There was indeed a reason why he wasn’t shivering, but it wasn’t a good one.

Agatha gently strokes her son’s brow. It feels very cold. She bends down to kiss him, and then stands back up to her full height.

In the time it took for her to get a glass of water, her last remaining child died, and she wasn’t even with him at the end. Strangely, this knowledge does not hit her as hard as she’d been expecting: she has seen this coming for some days, and anyway, she has already lost enough people for the sensation to be familiar. The worst part is that, now, she is alone, here in this most unforgiving of worlds. There is Noah, of course, but he is not family: in that respect, her isolation is now absolute.

In some grim and horrible way, it’s actually a little funny. Ever since Arthur was killed by the insect bite, Dashiell has studiously avoided playing outside. But three days ago, perhaps galvanised by the knowledge of Catherine and Norman’s murders, he finally relented, and went out into the fields with his elder brother’s kite. And now, today, he is himself dead, victim of a force more primal than either beast or man: the sun.

That’s when another light bulb goes off in Agatha’s brain. She knows what she must do next, and she must not delay. The answer to all her problems is finally upon her. She picks up the glass of water, empties it in one go, and places it back on the cabinet.

“Good bye, Dashiell. Good bye, and good luck.”

* * * * *

Agatha walks out of the front door, and closes it behind her. Before she heads any further, she takes a few seconds to look out over her garden. It’s much the same as ever: in other words, nothing very much. But it is her garden, grown with the sweat of her brow, and she is proud of it. It is almost a shame to leave it behind…but only almost.

She has left a note for Noah, when he returns, giving her best explanation for where she is going and why. He left for Sevenoaks two hours ago, on a shopping expedition, and he won’t be back until the end of the day. That will give her enough of a head start, enough to ensure that being found will not stop her plans. The house is also now his, to do with as he chooses: if he has any sense, which he does, he won’t keep it. At the very least, he will understand her mission, and he will not be upset.

Considering that she is about to walk to her death, Agatha feels surprisingly relaxed. She has spent many months just drifting through life, so the distinct purpose she has now given herself is very liberating: she has something to do, something she knows how to do, that will achieve worthwhile things. She can dedicate herself to it, and know that it will not be a waste of time. She is beginning to understand that life has a point, if only because she has created one.

Agatha double-checks her outfit. Her dress and shoes – her finest ones, that she has only ever worn twice – are clean, neat and tidy. Her faithful umbrella, though it doesn’t match, is still in excellent condition, and ready for its purpose. And she is also wearing the earrings her husband gave her for her last birthday, those tiny silver suns: for a variety of reasons, most of them sentimental, she has always put off this first use. Again for a variety of reasons, it is fitting that they should see their debut today.

She takes a deep breath, and starts to walk. She leaves her garden, closing the gate behind her, and heads off into the desert. It is only a few hours past sunrise, but the world is already unbearably hot.

One step at a time, the left then the right.

* * * * *

The wheels of the coach pass over the hard dirt road, bouncing repeatedly as they struggle to cope with the uneven surface. The only sounds are the horses’ footfalls and their occasional grunting, and the grinding of the wooden coach as it shakes its way towards its eventual destination. Out into the endless horizon, the emptiness in which the only feature is dry grass, nothing else is insane enough to stir.

Agatha Morton stares vacantly out of the window, fanning herself with an equal absent-mindedness. The heat, the immense, almost physical heat, is driving her to distraction, but she has already accepted that her expensive, Sydney-bought hand fan will do absolutely nothing about it. Still, she waves it anyway, just to feel like she’s doing something.

Dashiell is sat on the bench opposite her, looking outside with wide-eyed fascination, already in love with the sheer otherness of this world. He is eleven years old, yet he still sees the world with a child’s eyes: Agatha is grateful that at least one of the family will be happy here. Michael, Arthur and Catherine are all asleep, despite the heat and the coach’s constant rattling.

Personally, Agatha just wants to go home. She has endured six months’ worth of cold, wet and stinking sea voyage, just so she can live in this arsehole of the universe, where grass counts as interesting scenery, the heat is a pounding iron fist, and flies outnumber humans a million to one. She has an almost physical longing for the shady clouds and rolling fields of England, but even if she had the money to go home, she knows she cannot. Her parent’s chorus of “I told you so” would be too much to endure, and anyway, she must stay here and support her husband: he considers it an honour to be in the colonies, to serve Queen and country in such a direct way. She can’t help but wonder if old Victoria would be willing to take her place.

It’s a few seconds before she realises that Dashiell is tugging on her leg. She turns to look at him, feeling a little out-of-focus.

“What is it, Dashiell?” she asks, voice equally bleary.

He points out of the window, up into the sky. “Look, mummy!” he says excitedly.

Agatha obliges, looking up into the infinite blue sky. If only for lack of other things up there, it’s obvious what he wants her to see: a huge bird, drifting in a slow circle, on wide-open wings. Her knowledge of birds is limited, but it is clearly an eagle, with a tail shaped in a diamond, almost like a spear-head. Flying way up high, almost too high to be visible, it is clearly and absolutely at home in this world, its own talon-forged kingdom.

She smiles to herself. There is at least something alive and thriving out here, and that alone makes her feel a little better about her situation.

“It’s very nice, Dashiell.” she says.

* * * * *

It is sunrise now. The belly of the sun is poking its way over the horizon, spreading its warm yellow fingers into the brightening sky. Another day is beginning, another beautiful and miraculous opportunity to live in the world.

Nightingale is sat on the rocky prow, right at its very tip, where he has been the entire night. True to his word, he has not abandoned Mrs Morton, and she in turn has also not left her seat.

Though he isn’t sure of the exact time, he knows that she died during the night. Once she went to sleep, she did not wake up again, and now her body has slumped forwards in the way of those who will slumber forever. As such exits go, it would have quick, and entirely painless. No one can ask more than that.

Nightingale gets up, and starts to climb down the hill towards Mrs Morton’s body. His first plan was to return her to Sevenoaks, but on reflection, he knows that going back to that world would not be her wish. So he will bury her here, at the base of this hill, and he will do it now. Being without equipment, he cannot dig a pit, but will instead use some of the many stones hereabouts to cover her: there is a chance that birds or dingoes will dig her out, but it’s no less likely than if there was a pit, and anyway, he shall just have to build a large enough mound. He can use a few branches to make a cross, as Will Hodgson once talked about, and use that as a marker. It is a simple burial, but he knows is the kind that she would appreciate.

He does not know her full story, the events that drew her to this place, but from what little he was told, this seems like the right place to end it.

As he gets closer to Mrs Morton, and her face finally comes into view, he notices something. Though she is long since dead, and the joke has long since been given its punchline, she is still smiling.

Nightingale laughs.

Everything is going to be okay.

Adams' Puddle

2007-06-19T22:50:00.000Z

Aaaand I’m back.

So, where have I been these last two months? The usual, really: drowning in uni work, and all the rest of it. Believe you me, having to write two 2,500-word essays in three days is an experience best avoided.

Except, here’s the ironic thing: university finished three weeks ago. My thought was, with my three-month summer break now on me, I’d be able to get back into the writing habit. But so far, no joys. I’m so out of practise at the moment, it’s taken me way longer than I expected to get my groove back. I still don’t have it back, in point of fact…which is why I’ve given this place yet another two-month absence.

My life sucks sometimes.

But anyway, you’re here for the stories. On account of my major-league writer’s block, I don’t have anything new for you, so I’ll do my usual thing and post up another uni piece. It’s an exercise I did for my last Writing Fiction class, about six weeks or so ago: we did a lot of such exercises, but this is the only one I liked enough to keep. The brief was to write a “countdown story”, a drabble-like thing where the story has only ten sentences, the first with ten words, the second with nine, the third with eight, etc. They’re surprisingly hard, as you have to tell a complete story in only a very short space.

So why do I like it? Mostly, because of the plot. It’s inspired by what I call the “puddle analogy”, an argument against the Design Argument for God – “the universe is so obviously tailor-made for our existence, it had to have been deliberately created by someone” – put forward by, I think, Douglas Adams (PBUH). Well, if it wasn’t his, then he was at least who I heard it from. I won’t go into specifics, ‘cause that would spoil the plot, but I thought it was funny, and a good source for such a tiny story.

Why did this idea occur to me? I don’t know. Then again, never underestimate how strange I can be.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling. To the story…

(NB: I can’t help noting that this intro is over six times the length of the story it was written for. Frankly, never underestimate my ability to bullshit.)

The Life & Opinions Of Mister Damp, Puddle

This hole I live in, it’s just the right size. Was created for me, to fit my exact shape.

I don’t like this sun: I feel dry.

My hole shrinks, just as I do. How nice: it’s always just right. Creator must think of me.

We’re getting smaller now. Getting too small.

But I’m-!

Gone.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Tyrant

2007-04-20T17:17:00.000Z

You know, it's almost impossible to believe. Only thirteen days since my post, and I'm already back with something else. [throws party] Well, what can I say? I've been busy, and just this once, my labours have produced something relevant.

This is, praise be, a brand-new piece: finished only last week, actually. It's going to be the main assessment piece for my Writing Fiction module, and whilst the deadline is over a month away, it's better to get it done now rather than on the last week (like I usually do). I want y'all to read it with an open mind, so I'll just say this: if it doesn't make complete sense, then that's because it isn't supposed to. ;-)

Well, that's all. Go forth and enjoy, if you please...

It didn’t make any sense.

He’d done everything they asked. Everything. They’d asked for a lot, and it had hurt him a lot. But he’d worked through it, he’d complied. They still hadn’t told him what this was all about, they still hadn’t given a point to it all, but he’d complied anyway. Even if he didn’t know where this was going, he’d still get to the end eventually. They’d still have to let him go someday, like they said they would. They’d still have to give Laura back. Just because they were keeping him prisoner, it didn’t mean they couldn’t keep their word.

But so far…nothing. He’d done everything they’d asked, and he was still here. What had happened next was a big fat nothing.

It didn’t make any sense.

Why were they doing this to him?

Rule Of Law

Winchester, Hampshire. 20^th April 2007.

Today was the 84^th day that Laura had to go to school, and today was the 76^th day that Ben had to walk her there alone. It was only three streets, not even ten minutes, but that was still a long way for her little legs. The first few times, he and Jessie had taken a hand each, a guard on either side, but now that she was- No, he couldn’t think about that. Not now. Laura was perfectly safe even with just him.

On the plus side, Laura enjoyed school. Considering his own memories, he’d been surprised that most kids her age felt likewise. Now that she’d adjusted to the fact that it wasn’t just a one-day experience, and at this stage, Introductory Painting was like taking a Masters in Advanced Mathematics, she was really getting into it.

“When’s mummy coming back?” she’d ask. Even when she was still asking a fortnight later, he’d still say “next week, maybe”. She hadn’t asked at all this week.

Then again, how did you explain riding accidents to a five-year-old?

They were near the end of the second street, almost within sight of the school gates, when they heard the siren. Laura squeezed his hand a little tighter, hoping her dad could do something about the volume. Ben knew that he would just have to wait. The police car screamed past, on its way to The Case of the Day.

Well, not exactly. The car stopped abruptly a few hundred yards after the turning, spinning 180° in the road. The squealing tires were, if anything, even louder than the air-cracking sirens.

Ben stopped on the corner, the school just a few buildings down the road to the left. He could dimly hear the sounds of other children, Laura’s friends and enemies, playing around outside. But most of his attention, and Laura’s too, was focused on the car, now pointing almost directly at them.

Two police officers, a man and a woman, jumped out of the front doors. They ran down the road towards him, each with a nightstick in hand.

Huh?

“Can I help you?” he asked, not sure what else to say.

The officers reached him just as he finished the question.

“Are you Ben Collins?” the man asked. His tone was harsh, not so much a request as a demand.

“Yes, that’s me. Why?”

They didn’t answer. Instead, they grabbed his arms, roughly propelling him down the street. He felt Laura’s hand being torn from his, as she had to jump back or be pushed over.

Ben barely had enough time to realise what was happening to him, much less figure out a response. His body let the officers drag him towards the car, reaching it in only a few seconds. He was forced against the side, clouting his nose on the rear door frame.

The man pulled Ben’s arms out behind him, slapping on a pair of handcuffs. The clicking sound felt harsh, almost animalistic, and they were much too tight.

“You do not have to say anything,” the woman shouted at him, “but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Suddenly, Ben’s brain took over. “What are you arresting me for?” he half-asked, half-shouted.

“Shut up.” the man immediately snapped.

Ben became aware that Laura was calling to him from the street corner. “Daddy! Daddy!” she kept screaming.

He turned his head to the side, so that he could see her. “Stay there!” he yelled. “I’m coming right back!”

The woman brought the base of her nightstick down onto the side of his head. The shock of it knocked him forwards, smacking the other side into the car. He felt dizzy and a little sick.

He knew better than to do any more. The man pulled him back from the car door, the woman opening it just enough for him to be chucked onto the back seat. He moved his feet just before the door slammed on them. Laura was still standing on the pavement, wailing his name, tears of fear and confusion streaming down her face.

What the hell was going on?

* * * * *

“We’ll make this simple, Ben. You tell us what we want to know, or he’ll hit you again.”

His memories of those first days were a little strange. He remembered the actual events with absolute clarity, but the details, the images that the mind’s eye called up, were lost forever. He couldn’t explain why.

Ben was in the back of that police car for about fifteen minutes. They didn’t go anywhere near the local station: instead, they headed out of the city, onto an old B-road through some fields. They pulled into a lay-by, and just when he was at his most confused, the female officer reached over and slammed a needle into his arm. It was a general anaesthetic, a pretty powerful one.

He woke up here, in this cell. He didn’t have a clue where he was, or even when. No one would ever offer even so much as a clue about either. They’d changed his clothes whilst he was unconscious, a pair of grey painter-style overalls instead of his T-shirt and jeans, and had also shaved his head. He was a prisoner now, that much was undeniable.

But for what crime?

“So, I’ll ask again. Who else was with you?”

But all of the above was, right now, the least of his problems. About half an hour ago – at least, what he could measure as half an hour – two men had come into the cell. Both were detectives, with grey suits and badges. One was old and heavy-set, the other was young and scrawny. They sat him down on a metal chair, against the rear wall.

It was the older one who had asked the questions. Things like, who were you working for, where are they hiding, where’s the payload gone, what were you getting out of this, etc etc etc. Stuff that Ben couldn’t answer in a million years.

On the seventh “I don’t know!”, the younger one had hit him. A right-hander square on his diaphragm. It had hurt. A lot. In fact, Ben nearly threw up. Even compared to someone who wasn’t scrawny, the guy knew how to punch.

“I don’t know, alright!” Ben screamed. “How can I know? I don’t even know what I’ve been arrested for!”

The older guy just sighed. “You’re an idiot, Ben. You know full well why you’re here.”

“I don’t! I don’t know! I just got jumped by two officers. They smacked me in the head, bundled me into their car, then shot me with a needle. I passed out and woke up here. No one’s told me anything. When I’ve asked questions, they’ve just told me to shut up. That’s the truth! You have to believe me!”

The younger guy hit him again. The blow was to his face, just to the left of his nose. His head snapped round to the right, smacking hard into the wall. Ben felt dizzy, his vision darkening for a few seconds. His brain hurt on all sides, like someone had just put it in a wine press.

“Whatever.” the older guy said with a shrug. “If you want to play games, it’s not our look-out. We were just trying to make things easy for you. Others won’t be so forgiving as we are.”

* * * * *

Prison cells had too much baggage for the term “just a cell” to be valid, but all the same…this was just a cell. If what he saw on TV was any judge, then even the most basic of cells at least had a bed and a toilet, but this one didn’t even have that much. It was just a ceiling, a floor and four walls, all bare concrete, with a steel door at one end. The only amenities were a small window half-way up the door, and two tiny air vents in the ceiling.

That was it.

A guard came round twice a day, a different one each time, bringing food and a bucket. Though the guards had to open the door to do this, each one was at least twice Ben’s size, so there wasn’t going to be any bother. Same for the weekly shaving, of both his head and beard, and the daily change of overalls. And degrading as it all was, he never even considered refusing the services offered, especially the ever-disgusting food: starvation wasn’t a viable escape option.

Ben didn’t have a clue how long he’d been here. The window only faced out into a corridor, and so having no natural light, judging the passage of time was impossible. He’d always have a rough sense of whether it was day or night, but he didn’t place too much reliance on that. He couldn’t judge time by his meals either, because he didn’t really know if they were twice a day. How could he know?

Those detectives had been back three more times. Ben assumed that it was about a week between each. They always asked the same questions, always refusing to believe that he didn’t know the answers. The second time the returned, the younger guy brought a baseball bat. It made a bloody mess, but even then, there was nothing to achieve. Neither of them seemed to understand that, or if they did, then they had a big reason to not care.

Though he had learnt one thing. Good Cop, Bad Cop was only a cliché when the one getting beaten up wasn’t you.

* * * * *

Ben woke up fairly quickly, after what must have been only a few hours’ sleep. He didn’t feel especially refreshed. Then again, he knew full well that sleeping on cold concrete didn’t allow for a good night’s rest. Though, of course, there was no real way of knowing, something told him that it was daytime.

It was a few seconds after he’d woken up, once both his eyes and brain were in gear, that he noticed it. Noticed him, rather. A man in a brown suit, sat on a metal chair by the closed door. He was fairly old, maybe in his fifties, with thinning hair and small glasses. There was nothing about him that suggested anything at all.

The man, the newcomer, smiled. “Nice to see you awake, Ben.” he said, “I’m DCI William Carradine. There’s a few things I wish to say to you.”

Ben gently sat himself up, leaning against the wall behind him. This wasn’t what he wanted to be doing only ten seconds after waking up, but he was going it nonetheless, and he knew he’d have to pay attention to this conversation. There were only so many things it could be about, and all of them would be important. Getting some answers might be too much to hope for, but he’d still have a go if he could. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, yawned again.

“Tired, are we?” Carradine asked with a smile.

Ben knew it was a rhetorical question, so he ignored it. “What do you want?” he said instead.

“Like I said, I’m just here to relay a few messages.”

“About what?”

Carradine spread his arms out, indicating the whole of this room. “About this. About why you’re here. About what you can do next.”

Ben suddenly knew that he hated this man. Carradine would be just the same as the others. Nothing would come out of this conversation. All the same, something inside him knew he had to try. He had to know something.

“Why am I here?” he asked. “What was I arrested for?”

Carradine was still smiling. “All in good time, Ben.”

“This isn’t some Third World dictatorship. This is Britain. I have rights here. There’s laws and things. You can’t lock me up and not tell me why.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

Carradine’s reply was delivered in a completely level voice, free of any mocking or threatening tones, yet it made Ben feel like he’d just been slapped in the face. The tightening of his heart told him what was coming.

“Huh?”

“You obviously haven’t figured it out already,” said Carradine, with what was almost a sigh, “so I’ll just make it simple for you. The only reason you have Rights is because the government wrote a piece of paper saying you do. They weren’t sent down from on high. We created them, and we can destroy them if we want.”

The detective smiled again. “The beautiful thing is, of course, that we don’t have to. If no one knows you’re here, then there’s no one to make sure your Rights are protected. They will mean even less than they did before.”

Ben realised, with a sickening mental thud, that he’d already figured as much. After all, when that heavy had taken to him with a baseball bat, to pick an example, respecting his rights had not been the top priority.

“But can you at least tell me why I’m here?” he asked. “Isn’t that just common courtesy?”

Carradine just shrugged. “What difference would it make? You’d still be stuck in a prison cell. There still wouldn’t be anything you could do about it. Maybe if you could get to a phone, call a lawyer or something, you’d be okay, but we aren’t going to let you do that. The only people who can get you out of this, Ben, are us…and we don’t want to.”

There wasn’t any point in arguing.

“When can I see Laura?”

“When it suits us. And seeing as it’s taken this long for you to ask, it probably won’t be soon.”

Another slap. However, Ben’s thoughts weren’t of shock, but of anger: how dare Carradine say he didn’t care about his daughter! Ben loved her absolutely, no equivocations. There was a perfectly valid reason why he hadn’t asked.

“This isn’t funny, Carradine.” he said, as coldly as he could. “Why are you doing all this to me?”

This time, the detective actually laughed. A big, loud, mocking guffaw. Ben wanted nothing more than to murder him, but he didn’t move.

“You still aren’t getting it, are you?” Carradine said. “We are the state of Great Britain. You are nothing to us, and if we wish to destroy you, we will. We have done this since long before Ben Collins, and we will carry on doing it long after. Our motives are our own. It is not anyone’s place to know why.”

Suddenly, Carradine stood up. He brushed some imaginary dirt off the front of his jacket.

Ben wasn’t sure what he thought now.

“But I’ve already said too much.” Carradine said, perhaps rhetorically. “I’ll see you around sometime, Ben. Have a think about what I’ve said.

“And don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.”

* * * * *

It was a few hours later. Carradine had long since gone, though his ill wind had stayed behind. A guard had come by just now, delivering Ben’s dinner: beef stew of some kind. He’d taken it and put it down on the floor. It’d probably taste better cold.

Ben was still sitting against the wall, mulling over Carradine’s words. The obviousness of them, he had to admit, had long since been apparent to him: he was helpless here, and both sides knew it. The only weapon he had was asking questions, and as he’d already found out, that was easy enough to counter.

If his measurements were in any way reliable, the he’d been here four months. It felt like millennia, and for all he knew, it had been, but four months was his best realistic guess. The two detectives hadn’t come back since the fifth time. Those in charge round here – he had a hard time thinking of them as the police, but that’s probably what they were – had obviously decided that physical violence wasn’t going to work on him, and so, with Carradine, they were trying something more psychological.

To what end, though? What could they achieve by making him “crack”? He already knew that no one would tell him, but all the same, that wouldn’t stop him wondering. There was a growing doubt that, whatever it was they wanted, it probably didn’t involve crimes, court cases or any other part of the legal system. So what, then?

But what was he going to do? Give up? No way: he still had to get back to Laura. She needed her dad, and he needed his daughter. For now, there was nothing he could do, but maybe something would come up. Maybe.

* * * * *

The cell door opened. A guard was stood just beyond it, with another man behind him. This newcomer was young, maybe younger than Ben, wearing an expensive suit and carrying an even more expensive briefcase.

“Your lawyer’s here to see you.” the guard said.

Ben knew he hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Considering his other questions, he’d always felt it would have been a little fruitless. But if one was here anyway, then he wouldn’t complain.

No one waited for a response. The lawyer stepped inside the room, the guard closing the door behind him. The lawyer walked over the wall opposite Ben, and leaned against it. He slid his briefcase behind his feet.

“My name’s Simon Williamson. The state has appointed me to be your defence in court. I’m here to discuss your case with you.”

“So there is a case, then.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t there be? You’ve been arrested. There’s always a trial once you’ve been arrested.”

Maybe. Just maybe…

“So what have I been arrested for?”

“You have to understand your situation, Mr Collins. This is not an easy case. There’s much legal wrangling that will need to be done here. We should both consider ourselves very lucky if there’s any kind of-”

Suddenly, Ben realised something.

“Bollocks, Simon.” he snapped, cutting off the lawyer completely. “You’re not my lawyer at all. I doubt I even have a lawyer. You’re just another part of the system, here to play some stupid trick on me.”

Simon almost looked lost for words. But he recovered after a few seconds. “That’s not true, Mr Collins. I am here to help.”

“No you’re not. You won’t even tell me what I’m doing here.”

A brief flicker of something crossed Simon’s face. Exasperation, perhaps.

“You’re going to need my help, Mr Collins, whether you want it or not. If you have any intention of getting through all this, then you’ll have to start co-operating with me. This won’t work if you carry on acting like a prat.”

“Okay, then.” Ben said after a second. “Prove to me you’re genuine. Let me see my daughter.”

Simon just shrugged. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The superiors feel that putting you and her in a room together would be…unsafe. I simply can’t bend the system that way.”

“Then I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”

Simon picked up his briefcase. It seemed to Ben as if he wasn’t overly upset.

“If that’s how you want it, then fine. I was just trying to make things easy for you.”

* * * * *

Ben had long since lost track of the time. It thought it might have been six months, but that was only a guess. It might have been more, it might have been less. All the same, six months was a long time, and time didn’t go quickly in a prison cell. The worst part was, people usually had sentences measured in years, so he knew that there was still a long way to go.

But, in a strange kind of way, he hadn’t lost hope. Laura was still out there, waiting for him. He’d find out why he was here, he’d challenge it, he’d get out. He’d get back to her. If he stopped believing this, he’d go mad. They wanted him to go mad, and he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of that.

The particulars of it almost didn’t matter now.

The door opened. Ben had become used to that now. He was tempted to ignore it, but this occasion was different: it wasn’t a guard that stepped through, but Carradine and Simon. This was only the second time that he’d seen either of them.

He wasn’t surprised that they were together.

“Good day, Ben.” Carradine said, in a cheerful sort of voice.

“What do you two want?” It had been a long time since Ben was in the mood for games.

Simon, without his briefcase this time, closed the door. “There’s something we need you to do.” he said.

The lawyer, or “lawyer”, pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. It was one of those with a flip-up lid, and it looked expensive.

“We want you to call your daughter.”

This had to be a joke.

“What?”

“The number has already been entered. You just have to press dial.”

Ben shrugged, trying his best to remain cool. “What’s the catch?”

“We want you to tell her about Jessie.” Carradine said. “We want her to know that her mother has died. We want her to know it from you.”

Something finally clicked in Ben’s mind. All this unpleasantness, all this stupidity, was just about Jessie? It was all just a primer for a phone call? He would’ve sold his soul to call Laura, but all the same…was this really all?

He laughed. It wasn’t a big laugh, just a chuckle, but all the same, the noise sounded a little alien to him. It was worth it just to see Carradine and Simon look confused.

“This isn’t funny, Ben.” Simon said after a few seconds. “We’re asking you to you to do something of the utmost seriousness.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll make that call. At least it’ll give me something to do.”

Simon didn’t rise to it a second time. Instead, he walked over to Ben, phone out-stretched. Ben took it, and Simon walked back to the door.

Ben pressed the Call button, and held the phone up to his ear. It started dialling.

“Once I’ve done this,” he said, “can I go free?”

Carradine smiled. “We’ll see.”

Ben was happy enough with that. It was the closest the detective had ever come to a yes.

The call went through. “Hello?”

He took a second before answering. He wanted to savour that voice, his daughter’s voice.

“Hi, Laura. It’s your dad.” His voice almost wavered, but he managed to keep it together.

“Dad!” Laura practically squealed it.

“Hiya, kiddo. How are you?”

“I’m great, dad. Danny came over for tea last night. He gets on really well with Aunty Emma.”

Of course. Emma was his sister. Laura must be living with her now. Emma had met nearly all of Laura’s school friends (seven in three months: she was a popular child), and Danny was the only one she didn’t utterly despise. Which was lucky all round, really.

Carradine shot him a look. As much as he didn’t want to, he’d need to hurry this up.

“Listen, Laura…there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Are you coming back, dad?”

“Hopefully soon. But that’s not what I want to say.”

Ben got the impression that Laura was now all ears. But, suddenly, he couldn’t get the words out. The clouds parted in his mind, and he realised: he’d been more cut up about explaining Jessie’s death than the death itself.

“Laura, your mum…I told you she was going to be…coming back, but…I lied, Laura. She…isn’t coming back.”

“I know.”

Ben wasn’t sure if he was relieved or shocked. Maybe both.

“You do?”

“Yes. Aunty Emma told me last month. She said that I wasn’t to feel sad. We’ll see her again someday.”

God bless Aunty Emma. She always knew how to put things.

Much to his surprise, Ben felt tears forming behind his eyes. But he didn’t feel especially sad, and even if did, he wouldn’t cry in front of Carradine and Simon. He blinked a few times. It seemed to do the trick.

He heard a shout in the background, on the other side of the phone line.

“Emma says tea’s ready.” Laura said. “I’ve got to go. Can you call me later?”

He almost started crying again. But if she had to go, then she had to go.

“Of course. I love you, Laura.”

“Love you too, dad.”

Laura hung up. Ben flicked the phone shut, throwing it across to Simon. The “lawyer” caught it easily.

“I want out of here.”

* * * * *

The guard had just dropped off another meal. It was a cheeseburger, or at least that was the theory. Ben ate it anyway. The thought of having to use the bucket in a few hours didn’t bother him any more.

Things didn’t really make any sense. Of course, that was normal around here, but recently it was all extra weird. Carradine had said that, if Ben made that phone call, then he’d let him go. He hadn’t promised, not as such, but all the same…something should’ve happened by now. Ben had no idea how long it had been, even less so than usual, but it had definitely been long enough.

So why was he still here? Why was he even here in the first place?

Why were they doing this to him?

* * * * *

Ben had just woken up from a nightmare. Like all such things, he’d already forgotten what it was about: it involved oysters somewhere, and maybe bowling balls too, but that was all he could remember. What connected oysters and bowling balls, anyway? Jessie had been into dream analysis and all that kind of stuff, so maybe she could have explained it.

Something had struck him a few days ago, or at least what he judged to be that long. It was amazing how rarely he thought of his wife now, and the accident that killed her: both things were already consigned to history, a realm that his current situation had no time for. Even when he had to make that call, even when finally had to express what had happened, there was still a little part of him that felt detached from her memory. It wasn’t something he could entirely explain.

Besides, he had other priorities. This cell and Laura were his only thoughts now, that he might lose the former and reclaim the latter.

It was nighttime now. As always, there was no way to know, but he was fairly sure. In recent days, he’d regained his talent at gauging his body’s feelings on the time. Naturally, it was only his opinion that he’d done so, but again, what else did he have to rely on?

“Can we go see Melrose after this, Aunty Emma?”

The voice came out of nowhere. Ben yelped, despite himself.

His second thought was: how could he be hearing it? He was alone in the cell, as always, and seeing as these things were soundproofed, it couldn’t be coming from the corridor either.

But his first thought was: he knew that voice. He would be able to identify it anywhere, at any time, under any conditions. It couldn’t be anyone else.

It was Laura. She was here at last.

Ben felt like his heart had stopped. He started shaking, so that standing up meant consciously directing his limbs. He ran over to the window, squeezing his face close. Laura seemed to be off to the left, but no matter how hard he strained, he couldn’t see that far round.

The seconds dragged by. Where the hell were they?

“Yeah, sure. We’ll deal with that later, though.”

But…that didn’t sound like Emma.

Finally, Laura came into view. Ben’s heart stopped for a second time, though for an entirely different reason. She was unmistakably Laura, same beaming face, same black hair, same bony profile, even the same bright-coloured clothes. Except, she was older. Definitely older, at least nine, maybe ten, or even eleven. Nothing about her appearance had changed: she’d just become taller, less baby-ish.

Ben could only stare. How long had he been in here?

And the woman with her, she wasn’t Emma. Even with the passage of years, and maybe a decent diet too, that woman still wasn’t his sister. Emma didn’t have that kind of face, that almost rat-like thing, and he knew full well that she’d die before wearing a flowery dress.

More to the point, Laura didn’t have any other Aunty Emmas. That he was equally sure of.

“Dad!” Laura yelled.

But it didn’t matter. His daughter was back now, and everything would be okay.

Laura started running. Ben pushed himself even closer to the window, as if he could force himself through it.

It turned out that there was a guard nearby, just off to the right, out of his view. Ben jumped as the guard stepped forward, revealing himself. The guard grabbed Laura once she came close, lifting her up and spinning her in the air. It wasn’t a threatening thing: no, it was something fun, something loving. It was the action of a father.

The guard set Laura back down. “Hiya, kiddo.” he said. “How’s your day?”

“Oh, it’s good. We’ve started doing the Vikings this week. They’re really cool.”

“Aren’t they just?”

Suddenly, something else took over. Ben wasn’t sure what part of him it was, but it was sure making its voice heard.

He started hammering on the glass, and on the door around it.

“Laura!” he screamed, not entirely sure he could be heard. “Laura! It’s me! It’s Ben! It’s your dad! Laura! I’m in here! Laura!”

The guard and Emma, this “other” Emma, started walking away. Laura turned a second or so later. She saw Ben screaming, banging on the door. She stepped back a pace, as if afraid, then turned and ran after the other two.

That part of Ben, the one that made him start yelling, suddenly stopped. His universe closed in around him, blocking off any sensations outside of his cell. He barely even noticed his legs giving way, gently sinking to the ground until he was just lying against the door. He found himself curled up in a ball, a foetus almost.

Perhaps appropriately, he started to cry. He became a sobbing, howling mess, a small child lost and alone. He closed his eyes, so tightly that they hurt, but that only made the tears flow harder.

* * * * *

It was some time later. For once, Ben didn’t have a clue how long. It could’ve been years, Laura now a teenager, an adult even. He didn’t remember doing it, but he’d moved away from the door, back to his usual position on the side wall. He was still sat quietly, hugging his legs, and as far as he was aware, he hadn’t slept.

One thing he knew for sure was that he’d stopped crying. He’d ran out of tears long ago.

In a way, he was almost able to think rationally about it. Emma, whilst being a relative, could only have sheltered Laura for so long: it was inevitable that she’d be fostered at some stage. He knew what children were like: they needed a parent, for sure, but it didn’t necessarily matter who that parent was. Laura had always had an “all or nothing” approach to affection, so as much as it killed him to think about it…

…Yes. Maybe she had forgotten him.

And, at last, he understood.

The cell door opened. Ben wasn’t startled, though he did look up. Carradine was standing there, in his brown suit.

“You can go now, Ben Collins.” he said. “Your debt to society is paid.”

Ben just shrugged. “What would be the point?”

Carradine smiled. For perhaps the first time, it was a kindly smile.

“That’s the spirit.”

Rule Of Law

Teaching The Hard Way

2007-01-28T23:58:00.000Z

"I should be posting more regularly," he said. Yeah fucking right. Well, this time, I don't have an excuse: I get six weeks off uni to laze around on my arse, and now I decide to completely forget about this place. Still, I'm here now, and I have something to show you all. If you greatly care.

This is yet another university piece. Yes, I do write stuff outside of that place, but it's all novel stuff at the moment ("The Bad Seeds" in my link box, if you're interested), and I can't really post that here. I'm working on two short stories as well, and maybe I'll actually get on and finish them sometime this millennium. But until then, here's the uni piece. It's a short story from my "Life Writing" class, one of two times when we got to write an entirely fictional work. The only thing I can remember about the brief was that it needed to have loads of references, and so it does: some are easy to spot, and some aren't.

But anyway, that's enough from me. Let's see what you think...

The Man On The Street

Part One: Song Of Life

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Despite whatever you may believe, working life is boring. It’s not just 9-5 till-bitch stuff, either: sure, that’s rigor mortis-inducing, but it’s not the only one. Cleaning toilets, making clothes, sorting post, delivering milk, driving trucks, serving patients, writing news, committing crimes, fighting wars, chairing huge multinationals, it’s all just mind-numbingly tedious. No matter where you work, no matter what role you have, no matter how much money you make, you’ll just be spending all day waiting for the day to end. I don’t think there’s any great reason for this: it’s simply that all jobs are boring.

Yes, even for me. Especially for me. You might think dissecting dead bodies is good fun, or at least interesting, but it really isn’t. When you make an incision into the abdominal wall, or open up the pulmonary tract, you feel about as much excitement as slicing up cheese ready for your lunch. Unless, of course, you’re the kind of person who instinctively up-chucks at the sight of dead bodies: then again, fear and excitement are kinda similar. Either way, when PC Whoever wheels in another murder victim or accident fatality for me to look at, I’m not exactly going to jump for joy.

Take this guy here, for example. John Noakes, according to the clipboard that came with him. Even with the photo below his name, you couldn’t tell this just by looking at him, not the way his body is all crushed and broken and bloodied and stuff. Basically, it looks like someone dropped a building on him…which, according on the clipboard, is pretty much what happened.

Luckily, DCI Wallander is on hand to explain things. Though I found out everything I need to know from the TV this afternoon, he still wants to tell me all the unnecessary details. I imagine he just wants to voice his thoughts, so I might as well humour him.

“How much are they saying on the news?” he asks me. He seems to be worried about looking patronizing. Quite sweet, really.

“Just the basics, really. Someone blew up a university accommodation block this morning, with about fifty casualties. This guy here is the first you’ve wheeled in.”

“Naff all, in other words.”

“Seems that way.”

“Good. I like to work without distractions.”

Don’t we all. But if Wallander wants to talk, he can talk. I can cope with distractions.

“It was one of their own students, you know.” Wallander says after a few seconds.

I don’t look at him, but I still raise an eyebrow. This might just be interesting after all…

Wallander keeps on talking. “She turned herself in the moment we arrived. She was waiting at the blast site. We’re interrogating her at 7pm, so we’ll know why by then. Must be for a reason, though: she doesn’t strike me as the remorseful type.”

“I thought you said you haven’t interrogated her yet.”

“First impressions, Robert. I’d have thought you’d remember that from training.”

Ah, of course. I’d kinda forgotten about that: down this end of the building, character analysis is somewhat irrelevant. And speaking of which, why does Wallander always insist on calling me by my first name? It’s not as if we’re friends or anything. Still, it doesn’t exactly hurt: as long as he doesn’t start throwing insults, I suppose he can call me whatever he likes.

“Who is she?” I ask. Nothing wrong with feigning a little interest.

“Elizabeth Fawkes. Nineteen years old, from Quarley in Hampshire. A second-year Creative Writing student, or at least up until this morning. Very pretty little lass, too. Not to mention an IQ off the charts and being a stone-cold psychopath.”

“Your average girl next door, then.”

“Something like that.”

Whilst Wallander’s been blathering on, I’ve been having a look over the body. To be honest, I’m not really sure why they brought this Noakes guy down here: when you get dug out of a blown-up building, it’s pretty easy to figure out what you died from. And seeing as they’ve already got the culprit in custody, I can’t see why they’d need any evidence from the body. Well, not including for Fawkes’ trial, anyway. But seeing as this is technically a terrorist incident, I can forgive them for playing this by the book.

There’s one puzzling thing about this body, though. When someone gets involved in a bomb blast, they’re usually in an even worse state than this broken and bloodied mess. The puzzling thing here is that there’s even a body to look at. The way I see it, there’s only one answer.

I finally look up at Wallander. “I’m assuming the actual bomb only destroyed one of the lower floors.” I say to him. “John Noakes here was on one of the higher ones. Hence why he’s still relatively intact.”

“Based on what the techies and the first round of statements have to say, you’d be right. It looks like Fawkes hid small bottles of nitro-glycerine throughout the first floor. When those got set off, the building’s already piss-poor structural integrity was permanently compromised.”

Nitro-glycerine? I haven’t seen that used in a while. You’ve got to give full credit to Fawkes for trying a home-brew.

Wallander carries on talking. “Less than a minute after the explosion, the top four floors of the building collapsed onto the ground one. The end result you saw for yourself.”

So, basically, even though Noakes survived the explosion, the collapsing building killed him anyway. Hardly how I’d choose to go out.

I look back up at Wallander. “That must have taken Fawkes a while to prepare.”

“Months, probably.” Wallander pauses for a few seconds. “What would make someone do a thing like this? I mean, the victims were people she knew.”

“Perhaps that was the point. Either way, I get the feeling she’ll tell you.”

“Hmm. I get that feeling too.”

Of course, there’s something I don’t tell him: who really cares why she did it? It won’t make any difference, not in the grand scheme of things. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this job, it’s that nothing can change people. You can try anything from grease to a crowbar, but no one ever budges from the gaps they wedge themselves into. Once you figure this out, and you invariably will, then all pretences life has at being interesting just piss right off. Reasons are irrelevant, because there are no reasons. Just boredom, and nothing else.

Part Two: Freedom Forever

“So, Miss Peel, when did you first meet Elizabeth Fawkes?”

Why does he want to talk to me? How much does he think I can tell him? These are thinks I’d prefer to talk about. But you don’t want to be unhelpful to a copper. It makes you look like you’re hiding something.

It doesn’t take me long to answer. This is something I can remember. “On our first day at uni. She lived in the room opposite me.”

“In which hall?”

“Newman House. Second Floor.”

The copper doesn’t write this down. I imagine he already knows.

“How did you meet, exactly?”

I’d forgotten about this until recently. But That changed things. I’ve been looking through a lot of old memories since That happened.

I shift about a bit on the sofa. Always take time to phrase things in your mind. As long as it doesn’t make you look like you’re about to lie.

“I had my door open whilst I was unpacking all my stuff. The room was a bit stuffy, so I wanted some air in there. ‘Cause the door was open, I could hear music coming from Elizabeth’s room. “Open Up”, by Leftfield. Anyway, I went over to tell her she had good taste. I was feeling a bit lonely on that first day, so I suppose I just wanted an excuse to talk to someone.”

I’m not in Newman House right now. Second-years have to live off-campus. This conversation is being held in the living room of my Malbrook Road house. It’s not big and it’s not tidy. We’ve left it how the previous tenants did. Cream flowery wallpaper. Coffee carpet. Two chocolate sofas about ready to come apart. Our only addition is a TV set the size of a lunchbox. But it’s still home.

“And did Elizabeth?” the copper says. “Did she want to talk as well?”

“I suppose so. It was only small talk, really, but she was amiable enough. She didn’t tell me to go away, at any rate.”

The copper takes a sip of his tea. It’s not the best cup I’ve ever made. “And that’s how the friendship started, is it?”

Does he believe me or not? It does sound a little too simple for its own good. But this truth isn’t simple.

“I wouldn’t say we were ever friends, not really. I wouldn’t say Elizabeth was someone who needed friends. We were just two people who…got along, I suppose.”

“So what made you get along?”

The answer to this one is simple. “We just had the same tastes. Music, films, books, guys, those kinds of things. The basic stuff, really.”

The copper goes silent. The cheap plastic wall clock ticks loudly for a bit. Then he looks right at me. “Why did Elizabeth ask to move in here?”

He thinks I’m bullshitting. I know he does. He thinks I’m trying to cover for her about something. But she’s already confessed. She’s already told them why. There’s nothing to cover.

This copper’s called Wallander. He looks a lot like you’d expect a police detective to look. Middle-aged. Gray business suit. Slightly overweight. Receding hairline. Looks like policing is his reason to live.

“She didn’t ask. We were one person short for the house, and she didn’t seem to have started looking for her own place. It was convenient for everyone.”

Wallander nods. He seems to understand that one. “So, what was Elizabeth like?”

It’s been three days since That happened. His question is one I’ve thought about a lot. But it’s best to clarify things first.

“You mean, what was she like to live with, or what was she like as a person?”

Wallander shrugs. “Both.”

They’ll both be easy to answer. “As a person…well, I can’t really say I knew her as a person. I don’t think anyone did. She was always polite, always with something to say, but she wasn’t really someone you could talk to. You’d notice when she wasn’t around, but at the same time…I don’t know how to explain it, really.”

It’s a while before Wallander says anything. The clock ticks some more. “So she didn’t seem like someone who’d blow up a building?”

I’ve finished my mug of crap tea. I stand up and walk through into the kitchen. This is a room I actually like. It’s very modernist. Stone floor tiles and black marble-effect worktops. Plain wood doors and chrome appliances. I put the plain white mug next to the sink. Wallander’s looking very embarrassed about something when I get back to the living room.

“Sorry about that.” he says to me. “That was tasteless. You must have known people in Lee House.”

I sit back down on the sofa. I can feel one of the springs starting to poke through the fabric. “Actually, no I didn’t. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s always good to make coppers feel comfortable. That mostly bothers me because it was Elizabeth’s fault. I know we weren’t the best of friends. But I still liked her. I still hadn’t imagined her doing That.

I go back to answering his earlier question. “Elizabeth didn’t strike me as a…bomber, no. She had her quirks, sure, but what student doesn’t?”

Wallander eyes me curiously. “What kind of quirks?”

This is something else I’ve thought about a lot since That. “She was always Elizabeth. If you called her Liz or Ellie or Beth or anything like that, she’d go nuts. “Call me by my name”, she’d always say. I’ve never been able to figure out why.”

Wallander taps the side of his mug with his fingers. He doesn’t look impressed with that bit of information. He’s probably already found it out the hard way.

“Did Elizabeth ever say anything to you?” he asks “Anything that might have been a sign of what she was planning?”

I take my time before answering this one. Perhaps unwise. “There were a few times. Maybe only three or four in the year I knew her, but I still remember them. She’d start talking about how the university was just there to brainwash people, to make everyone the same. All that kind of conspiracy theory stuff. I never really saw her point, to be honest. I just thought she was drunk.”

Though people tend to be more honest when drunk. I really should have paid attention.

Wallander smiles dryly. “Yeah, that tends to happen with students.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to her talking or my not thinking. It’s best not to ask.

“Let’s talk about something more practical.” he says. “Our forensics team said Elizabeth used homemade nitro-glycerine as her explosive. I imagine you don’t know much about nitro, so I’ll just say that it’s not easy to make. If you were clever enough, you could make it in your bedroom, but you wouldn’t be able to do it without attracting attention. You must have seen something.”

I already know Elizabeth used nitro-glycerine. I overheard one of the forensics guys taking about it when they searched her room two days ago. I only found out how dangerous it was by looking online. Elizabeth was insane.

“No, I didn’t see anything. None of us did. For all I know, she did it whilst we were out. Between lectures, jobs and the bar, none of us are at home much.”

Such is the way of the student. I really should have paid attention.

Wallander put his mug down on the carpet. He hasn’t finished it. I can’t imagine he believes my lack of attention. But maybe he does.

“So you don’t really know why Elizabeth did this?” he asks.

“Like I said, I didn’t really know her.” I think now would be the right time to ask the obvious question. “Wouldn’t she have already told you in the interrogation?”

Wallander smiles. “Yes, she did. But until I can get a bigger picture of her personality, I don’t intend to trust a single word she says. Given her intelligence, she could have anything up her sleeve.”

I’ll give Elizabeth that. She was very intelligent. I’m starting to feel that maybe she was more intelligent than the rest of us. You’d have to be, to come up with That.

The Triple Whammy, aka Making Up For Lost Time

2006-12-17T11:52:00.000Z

You know, I didn't realise I'd been gone a whole two months. That really is a break.

For what it's worth, I've just been very busy. In terms of actual lecture time and subsequent work, there hasn't been much to do, but university has sucked up so much of my attention that I've found it impossible to focus on anything else. Including posting here. Which sucks. But anyway, my six-week Christmas holiday is now upon me, and one 2000-word essay aside, I've got nothing pressing on my time.

But before I go into that, there's something else I need to say. Though I haven't responded to them directly, I have been reading everyone's comments, and I'm very grateful for them. It's always nice to know people are reading your work, and it's even nicer to know that they think you've actually created things of value. So, basically, thanks for reading, and for being so positive. I don't deserve it, but hey, I'm not about to pass up free love.

But anyway, back to the other thing. As I said, I've now got muchos time to write and post and stuff. So, provided nothing unexpected and horrible happens, you'll be seeing quite a few random bits and pieces cropping up here. To whit, as the title indicates, I've now got three works to show you.

These are all poems from the "Writing Poetry" module I was attending last semester, and to my mind, the best things I created whilst I was there. This time around, I'm not going to give any explanations of what they're about or where they come from, simply because it would take too damn long, and I really can't be bothered. So, instead, I'll just say one thing: these poems are designed to be taken entirely at face value, so please don't go looking for a higher point.

Oh yes, and enjoy...

Sonnet Ω

“I cut my eyes with the shards of my broken dreams.”
Is this it?
Is this all we’ve achieved? Five thousand years
of poetry, and this is all we can say?
Say I love you.
Say my life sucks.
Say overturn everything.
Say everything is pointless.
The same old shit, day after day after day after day after day after day after day…
I think that says it all, but I have
three more lines to
fill. [smiles] Or not.

But the final couplet? Devastating.
“Poor little Johnny Culper. Always so tired.
Stays up ‘till sunrise, talking to God.”

Vessel

The Rosetta Stone

Something New

2006-10-19T14:43:00.000Z

I'm back, at long last. If you want to know why I've been gone so long, then it's because I simply didn't have anything I liked enough to post. But now I've got something, so here I am.

The following poem is an all-new work, the first time I've posted something that I haven't scrounged from my archives. [throws party] It's the second assignment from my Writing Poetry class, with the brief simply being to write something in Blank Verse: for those of you unfamiliar with the term, it's unrhymed iamic pentameter (each line has five pairs of syllables, with the first syllable unstressed and the second stressed), and the standard form of poetry for the last five hundred years. I wouldn't say this poem rivals the likes of Shakespeare and Milton (the two most famous users of Blank Verse), but I'm still rather proud of it. At the very least, I like it enough to show it to you guys.

So, enjoy...

The Time Capsule

Adam: photo of his friends, aged 16.
He doesn’t recognize them anymore.

Juanita: her dead mother’s grey necklace.
She couldn’t give away and won’t take back.

Charlotte: a worn first edition of Greer.
What use would baby Sam have for that book?

Locke: letter from his father, absent then.
His father’s not so nice when he’s released.

Tyler: his movie, with his friends as stars.
But only Asda ever came for him.

Arthur: his old copy of Hitchhiker’s.
A masterpiece he’s still yet to surpass.

Cassandra: her best poem, burnt next year.
“I cut my eyes with the shards of my broken dreams.”

Pratchett: his comb, mirror and aftershave.
He now as over fifty of all three.

Joan: her appendix in formaldehyde.
The rest of her body has followed suit.

River: her shiny modelling contract.
Guess what became of that hopeful future?

Matthew: “my life is more than one mere thing.”

Back In The Day

2006-09-26T13:37:00.000Z

Again, sorry for not being around just lately. I've just started my second year at uni, so I've been a bit distracted lately: though I'm not in halls this time, there's still been a fair bit to sort out. But irritating and pointless paperwork is all part of the process, so you just have to grit your teeth and get on with it.

Besides, if truth be told, I'm starting to run out of things to post. I've been working on a few new pieces, but they're nowhere near finished yet: until then, I'm left with the old stuff, and most of the decent pieces are already on here. Which sucks, but again, you just have to deal with it.

Of course, because I'm writing this at all, I've indeed managed to find something worth posting. It's my very first assignment for Life Writing, nearly a year ago now (and Christ, what a quick year it's been). Fittingly for something so "back in the day", the brief was to write about an incident from our childhood. A few things immediately sprang to mind, but with me decidedly not a member of the "writing = therapy" school, there was only one I was prepared to use. However, this left me with a problem: how do you write about something when you can't remember what actually happened?

This quasi-story is, for lack of a better phrase, my solution...

What A Wonderful World

Memory. A funny thing, memory is. The usual cliché thing is to compare it to an ever-filling cup: the more water/wine/other drink of choice you pour in, the more water/wine/other drink of choice gets forced out. There’s only so many memories you can store, and the new ones invariably force out the old ones. So I’d say that a hose is actually a better analogy, if you see what I mean. If you don’t, then tough shit. I’m here to tell a story, not to be a gentleman. And let’s face it, not knowing the words doesn’t stop you from liking the song.

Either way, I reckon that a hose is still a shit analogy. I’d rather compare it to, say…a filing cabinet. One where all the information is written in pencil. Because you’ve written them down in this way, your records won’t be hanging around forever. The record card itself will always be there, but the pencil markings will fade in time. Usually not much time. As the record gets older, it becomes harder and harder to read, and eventually it’ll be as if nothing was ever written down at all.

And this means what for your memories, exactly? Simple: the older a memory becomes, the harder it becomes to recall. Details will become transformed, obscured, even lost altogether. But even when no details are left remaining at all, the shape of the memory will still be there. You’ll know what happened, but that’s it. The “what” will be there, but with no “who”, “where”, “when”, “how” or even “why” to keep it company. Though as long as you remember the shape, maybe the rest doesn’t matter.

It might seem like I’ve been talking bollocks for the last 250-odd words. And, in a way, you’d be right…but you’d also be wrong. What I was indeed spouting was indeed bollocks, but it was relevant bollocks. It might not be an integral part of the story – or even a part of the story at all – but it’s not going to make much sense without it.

You see, my memory of what really happened is a little fuzzy. I remember the basic incident, but I couldn’t quote any specific lines or events with any degree of accuracy at all. After all, it’s been nearly eleven years since it happened, so you can’t really expect much in the way of recollections. But the basics of the incident have always stayed with me, so I might as well recount those if nothing else. And in terms of the basics, there’s not much to tell, which is perhaps why I’m putting in all this bollocks first. To keep the wordcount up or something.

This is more of a funny story than a tragic one, though the message behind it is still fairly serious. Of course, whether you find it funny or not is down to you, but there’s no great reason for me to care either way. As I said before, all I’m doing is telling a story.

“What A Wonderful World”. You know, the Louis Armstrong track. The really famous one of his that everyone remembers, and perhaps the only reason why we remember the great Satchmo at all (or at least, the “we” in the world of white Britain, which is a very different “we” from those who would remember Armstrong differently). Anyway, that’s beside the point. What is the point is what Wonderful World is about: looking at what’s positive in the world around us.

This, funnily enough, was a point that my primary school teacher seemed to miss. In one particular lesson, I don’t remember which, she used Wonderful World as an example of what life could be like. Then, in the way that teachers of all types and schools are wont, she used this example as what’s best called a “springboard”: to describe our own vision of a wonderful world, using the song as a foundation.

Though she didn’t say that last part. We were supposed to figure the catch out on our own.

Of course, we all did…but only in a subconscious way. In the end, our class delivered pretty much a blanket spread of world peace, eternal happiness, free love for all: the kinda shit voiced by hippy parents and Disney movies. You know what I’m trying to get at.

I, naturally, broke the mould. What I handed in was, shall we say, a more…personal vision. In my own little wonderful world, I had a big house, flash car, gadgets up to the fucking eyeballs: that kinda shit. A more selfish and materialistic vision, sure, but it was what I wanted. And it’s a list of wants that I ascribe to even now, maybe with a few other things thrown in that I would much rather not discuss.

Three times I handed this work in, and three times I got it handed straight back.

Let’s just pause for a second. Think about it: you get told to describe your perfect world, and you then get told that you’ve done it wrong. And then imagine that this happens when you’re only nine years old. Your more impressionable period.

It would be tempting to say that I put up a stand, nobly defending all that is selfish and materialistic, defeating the teachers in a state of wrongeous fury that got me immersed in primary school legend forever. It would be tempting, but it would also be a downright, bare-faced, inexcusable lie. I didn’t make a stand: after the third rejection, I just shut up and gave the teachers the hackneyed, Disneyfied bullshit that they seemed to want. Cased closed, problem solved, no harm done to any party.

It was a good six-seven years before I lent any more thought to the incident. Of course, that was when I figured out what inevitably strikes us all as the obvious – and, I daresay, slightly dull – truth. At best, it was simply a thinly-veiled way to get us all spouting the values of peace and goodwill, the ones that people seem to think it’s necessary for kids to have (though having this take place during the reign of Major, aka Thatcher 0.5, does strike me as something of an irony…). It was just a cheap propaganda exercise, a way to make learning “correct moral values” fun.

But I’ve got no great hang-ups about this. It’s what schools are designed for, in a way. And my bloody-minded, self-obsessed little shell seemed to survive it intact – though whether this is a good or bad thing is entirely up to you – so there’s no harm done either way. Besides, if it took me so long to get the point, maybe the point doesn’t really matter.

Which, I suppose, is where memory comes back into play. Though my 500-odd word recollection might not seem like it, my memories of the whole thing are decidedly vague. That’s the point I wanted you to understand at the start: I’m not sure if I’ve remembered it accurately, completely or even honestly. What really happened might have been something utterly different, but I’m just telling you what little I’ve managed to drag out from the dark corners of my own head.

It’s just a little anecdote I thought you might find amusing. There’s no great point I’m trying to make here, the ironies of teachers misinterpreting Louis Armstrong notwithstanding. If she’d figured that Armstrong was saying that our world was Wonderful, maybe she wouldn’t have given us such a dumb exercise. Now, I don’t ascribe to the view that we’ve already got world-wide peace, love and happiness, but it seems to me that considering such virtues to be non-existent is excessively negative. The existence of violence, disease and poverty doesn’t necessarily make us bad people…maybe not good people, sure, but not being one doesn’t automatically make you the other.

That might seem like a big point, but it really isn’t. For all I know, it could be utter bollocks. And that, funnily enough, is the point: if you don’t know for sure, don’t claim that something is true. I’ll leave you to figure out the full consequences of that one on your own.

Yes, I know I’ve taken so long to say something so simple. But that’s what stories are for, if you think about it. Which I suppose means that I’m making a point about making a point. Or maybe I’m just talking bullshit. Neither would surprise me.

Sorry for wasting your time.

Roses Are Red

2006-08-31T10:11:00.000Z

After a fairly lengthy enforced break, I'm now back with some more writery stuff. Basically, there was an assessment that I hadn't handed in for my degree, and the uni said that if I didn't give it to them in a month, I was royally screwed. The upshot of this was that I had to research and write three news articles in four weeks: this is trickier than it sounds, especially when you don't have a clue what you're doing. Still, after much blood, sweat, tears and cursing, I managed to get it all done and handed in on Tuesday (and getting to London on the same day as a train drivers' strike was an adventure in itself...), and that nightmare is now out of my hair. Remember, kids: do your work when you're told to do it, not two months after the deadline.

So, to celebrate my new freedom from work, I'm going to give you some poetry. This was something I did for Life Writing back in March, and at the time, under extreme duress. I despise poetry even at the best of times - reverse snobbery, I suppose you could say - but on reflection, this piece isn't so bad. From what I remember, the brief was to write a poem with three verses, four lines per verse and six words per line: we could choose whatever subject we liked, whether true-life or no, and with me having my twisted brain, I can up with this. And in case you're wondering, "Roses Are Red" was my original title, that legendary poetry cliche seeming like a fitting moniker for a poem on the mechanics of poetry: however, because only two other people got the joke, I decided to change it to the more self-explanatory title it now has. To my mind, the original title is still better, but never mind.

Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy...

On Poetry And The Writing Of It

The pen observes the page, ready
to strike. The words hidden within
wish only to be written. But
this combined assault will never happen.

Bombs in Baghdad streets. Eleusinian mysteries
of love. Even how leaves grow
on spring trees. Pen nor words
will ever form shapes like these.

They wish to form shapes. They
wish it more than we’ll ever
know. But no shape is ever
tough enough for their iron will.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2006-08-15T11:46:00.000Z

Well, kinda. I've been involved with a lot of fan-fiction over the last few years, sometimes on a more on-off basis, and I thought I'd change tack a little by offering up one of those pieces. For the most part, a lot of fan-fiction out there really is either rubbish or borderline porno, but there's also a great deal of quality to be found: at the risk of hubris, this is one of those quality pieces. I'd say it's one of the best things I've done, fan-fiction or otherwise.

This short story is loosely based on the Warner Brothers/Detective Comics/Cartoon Network animated series Teen Titans. For the uninitiated (and where have you been?! :-P ), this show is about five teenage superheroes who protect the fictional Jump City from its more cruel and unusual threats (aliens, mutants, criminal masterminds, etc). The major arc of season two concerned a new member of the group, Terra, who eventually turned out to be a spy for the arch-criminal Slade: after lots of unpleasantness, Terra eventually redeemed herself through a series of actions that resulted in her being turned into a statue (but of course...). In the very final episode of the series, the Teen Titan known as Beast Boy (who, fittingly, could turn into all kinds of animals) believed he'd seen a newly restored Terra: in the end, we never found out how she returned or even if this was Terra at all, but because the episode was about dealing with past troubles (just to make things extra complicated, Beast Boy and Terra were on the verge of a romance when things went bad in season two), that was kinda the point.

Anyway, this short story picks up the issue a few months later, when all is once again not so well...

Life Story

Outside, the snow is falling. Not a gentle, Christmas-card fall, but a raging, hell-on-earth fall. The kind of fall where you can’t even see your hands in front of your face, where the snow seems to be coming at you from every direction bar straight down. Where the kids would rather lock themselves indoors than march out with sleds and snowballs.

This fall, this storm of snow, it would kill you in the blink of an eye. And at nighttime, like it is now, it might not even need that.

Strange to think, this is California. In these tumultuous times, times of El Nino, global warming, climate chaos, maybe such unpredictable weather is to be expected.

This is a cemetery. That’s all there is to say about it. This is a cemetery, and it looks like a cemetery should. Headstones lined up on short-mown grass, the way Stone Age tribes built sacred monuments for their gods and ancestors. Gravel paths breaking up some of these lines, themselves bordered by tall streetlamps. The orange light from the bulbs seems to spread around them like a globe, as if the falling snow is being set on fire. A few trees are scattered about, some in the middle but most not, their leaves all gone at this bitter cold time of year. The whole place, at least a square mile, a high redbrick wall runs around the edge, topped with curls of barbed wire.

Outside the cemetery, city buildings rise high all around, or at least they would if you could see them through all the snow. But even on a clear day, a gentle summers’ day, the surrounding metropolis doesn’t seem to intrude here, in this serene place. Even if full-scale Armageddon was breaking out beyond the redbrick walls, you wouldn’t notice.

The cemetery protected from the city outside. Like the bodies protected from the dirt and the worms and the rats.

Even on a clear day, you wouldn’t see any more than two or three people pass through the main gates. But tonight, with the snow falling thick as fog and the wind roaring like a monster on some Jurassic plain, not even a bird would be dumb enough to wander through a place as open as this.

Though something clearly is dumb enough. It’s not a bird, but a fox, running across the snow-covered grass. There’s so much snow, it’s almost having to swim through it. Foxxie paddle, if you will.

The snow-darkened night makes everything seem in black-and-white, but you can still tell that this fox has green fur.

The fox makes its way through all the headstones, all the ancestral monuments, somehow looking like it knows exactly where it’s going. Which is because it does. Only a minute or so after it squeezed through the giant cast-iron gate, it reaches its destination.

A headstone. Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just a headstone, one in the middle of many others. Most of the headstones in this cemetery are new, but this one looks especially so. Truth be told, it’s only been here for about three months.

You can barely read it amongst all the snowfall, but the inscription is

TARA MARKOV
APRIL 16^TH 1989 – OCTOBER 5^TH 2006
“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to show you care.

The fox stares up at the headstone for a while. It tries to shake off the snow that’s collected on its back and chest, as if that would make any difference.

Suddenly, there’s a blur, and the fox is gone. Instead, a teenage boy is standing on the snow. This green-skinned, black- and purple-coated boy, the people of this city would know him anywhere. And they wouldn’t expect to see him here, especially not tonight.

Beast Boy, one of the five Teen Titans who protect this city, Jump City, he wraps his thick winter coat tighter around himself. He pulls his hood further down over his head and tightens up his goggles. Even then, he still shivers as if he’s having a seizure. His teeth still rattle so hard they hurt.

Doing what he intends to do tonight, it could very well kill him. Frostbite, hypothermia, pneumonia, any one of a thousand ways you can die sat out in the cold. But he knows that if puts this off, this sacred task, even one more night, death will be a certainty rather than a distinct possibility. It would be mental death rather than physical death, but it would still be death.

Which is worse?

Beast Boy sits down in front of the headstone, legs crossed like he’s in a school assembly. The snow’s piled up so high that his eyes are exactly level with the name of

TARA MARKOV.

Beast Boy and

TARA MARKOV,

looking at each other from across the mortality divide. In these international times, times of mass media, multi-culturalism, globalization, maybe this is the only true divide left.

Beast Boy clears his throat, wraps his arms round his chest. Clears his throat again. He pauses for a second or two.

“Terra.” His voice is a whispery croak, the kind of voice you’d use through a veil of tears. He’s too cold to cry, but his body’s going through the motions anyway.

In this bellowing wind, he has to strain just to hear his own voice. But that doesn’t matter. The girl he’s here to talk to, she’ll either be able to hear him even if he whispers, or she won’t be able to hear him even if he screams.

Which is worse?

“Terra. I never meant to kill you, Terra.”

This much is true. No one ever truly means to kill. Defending themselves. Making money. Getting revenge. Sending a message. Having fun. Whatever the motive, it won’t be killing just for the sake of killing. Even with the most unreasonable of people, there’s always a reason. It might shock and appall us, but that’s not the point.

“I’m sorry, Terra. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you so much. I never meant to, but I did. If you’re still out there, Terra, then I can understand if you don’t want to listen. But you’re the only one who can understand me. You always have been, and you always will be. I guess some things don’t change.”

Only a foot away from him,

TARA MARKOV

just stares silently back. As silent and as accusing as a grave. All she has to say is

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

As if she would be saying anything else.

“I’ve got no right to talk to you, Terra, I know. But I have to talk to someone, and no one else understands me as well as you do. I have to tell my story, Terra. I have to explain. This mess sitting in my head, I have to explain it. It’ll destroy me if I don’t. You’re the only one I can talk to, Terra, even if you don’t want to listen.”

This is a widely known phenomenon, but only if you’re a policeman. It’s one of their better-kept trade secrets.

Everyone needs to tell their story, to explain their presence in the universe. A killer, the only person they can tell their story to is their victim. The only one who won’t judge them, who will understand what they went through.

Even though you didn’t truly mean to do it, killing is still tough. Even an animal, something you can just step on, it’s still the toughest thing you can do. It still leaves a mark on you, forever.

A story like that, it needs telling more than others.

What the police do is, wherever the body was buried or dumped or dismembered, they’ll stick a hidden microphone or two. They’ll sit and wait until the killer comes back, to tell their story, then they’ll pounce. They’ll wait for years if they have to, because it always works.

Because the thing about us humans, the thing that makes us special, is that we need to tell stories. To explain things. In these individual times, times of alienation, mass apathy, social death, maybe this is the only part of human nature that hasn’t changed since Prehistoric times.

Which is worse?

“Move on, and start a new life. Everyone said it. Even you said it, Terra. You of all people. But why should I?”

Again, this much is true. At first, he’d been willing to accept that the newly-restored Terra would never be the same as the Terra of old. The cheerful, smiling, effortlessly cool earth-mover.

Crucially, the Terra who was madly in love with him.

At first, he’d been willing to let go. To move on, to start a new life. To leave the new Terra to her own new life, a life of high school, friends and family. A life of peace that a petrified statue or even a Teen Titan could never have.

After all, she deserved it.

“Why should I move on? Why should things change? Why shouldn’t we try to keep hold of things? Accepting change is just rolling over, Terra, letting things sweep by you. It’s accepting defeat.”

A Teen Titan never accepts defeat.

“Terra, you of all people should know that.”

The “at first” stage, the begrudging acceptance stage, it only lasted a few months. Maybe not even that.

“I couldn’t forget about you, Terra. I tried, I really tried, but I just couldn’t do it. Even the times when I managed to keep you out of my thoughts, I still couldn’t keep you out of my dreams. Awake or asleep, you were still on my mind. But I loved you, Terra. How could it be otherwise?”

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy knows he’s doing the right thing. Out there, somewhere, Terra is listening. Not

TARA MARKOV,

but Terra. The real Terra. She might not want to listen, but she is. She knows she has to listen, same as Beast Boy knows he has to talk.

He’s sure of this. After all, how could it be otherwise?

“I just wanted to see, Terra. To see if you were still okay.”

He watched her. When she was at school. When she was at home. When she was with friends. When she was with family. The fly on the wall, always sat there, always watching, always listening. When he wasn’t fighting, when he wasn’t being a Teen Titan, he was by her side. Just being there, where he felt he needed to be.

For his own peace of mind, you understand.

Terra, she didn’t mind. Truth be told, she didn’t even know. Sat in the classroom, working on the Math test they hadn’t revised for, who would suspect that the fly dozing on the windowsill was taking notes?

If she was happy. If she was sad. If she was angry. If she was lonely. If she was scared.

For his own peace of mind, you understand.

“I loved you, Terra. I still love you. You think we should just forget about those we love?”

Which is worse?

“You were never meant to know. It would’ve only hurt you, Terra.”

At the time, he didn’t really think about this. All he thought was, if Terra found out he was watching her, he was a dead man.

Stalker. Killer. Lunatic.

As it turned out, all three were true.

In these “me first” times, times of greed, self-obsession, self-importance, maybe Beast Boy’s actions aren’t so surprising.

As it turned out, she cottoned on anyway.

It was early July. In a few weeks, school would be over for another term. The long summer holidays would begin. Six weeks of fun and frolics in the warm sun.

It was about this time that Terra got a new boyfriend. No, not Terra, but

TARA MARKOV,

technically speaking. But Beast Boy wasn’t about to stand on technicalities.

Terra, she had a good life. A loving, caring, wide-embracing family. A big house in the rich Salisbury suburb. Half-a-dozen close friends, who would be right by her side for what little remained of her life.

All this, Beast Boy could accept. Be happy about, even. Terra was happy, content, so Beast Boy was happy, content.

A boyfriend, though, Beast Boy couldn’t deal with that. It meant that she was moving on, that she was living a new life. That she wasn’t Terra anymore, she was

TARA MARKOV.

It meant that she’d forgotten him.

Beast Boy, he couldn’t be having with that.

“I’m sorry, Terra. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. But you shouldn’t just leave things to one side. Things shouldn’t have to change if you don’t want them to. I just wanted you to see that.”

What the new boyfriend’s name was, what he looked like, where he lived, Beast Boy couldn’t remember. Even after he’d followed the guy to his house and beaten the living shit out of him, he still couldn’t remember.

In these violent times, times of guns, wars, hatred of all things, maybe this is something you’d do. Your own do-it-yourself jealous-ex hobby kit.

On reflection, this was where it all started to go wrong.

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy shivers. He’s cold. That one time, not so long ago, when he went to Siberia to fight some monsters, he’s even colder now than he was then.

This cold, it’ll kill him if he stays out here any longer. But he has to finish. He has to say his piece, because he can’t hold it forever.

Which is worse?

“Your boyfriend, Terra, I’m sure he was a nice guy. He probably didn’t deserve what I did to him. But it wasn’t fair on me, you know?”

The boyfriend, he didn’t report his beating. When a guy with green skin turns into a bear and puts you in hospital for three weeks, it’s not so hard to work out the who and why of things. But he didn’t tell anyone, not even the police.

The police, they have a tendency to protect their own.

He didn’t even tell his girlfriend. Then again, Terra was never exactly slow on the uptake.

Beast Boy didn’t have police swarming outside his door. He wasn’t done for GBH or anything like that. Instead, Terra just took him to one side and had a quiet word in his ear.

His dedication to her, it was all very flattering, but it had to stop. She wasn’t the woman he was in love with. She might never have been. He would just have to accept that. Move on, like she had.

And if didn’t leave her alone, she would be calling the police.

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to say her piece.

Of course, Beast Boy took no notice.

“You can’t just tell someone to not love you anymore. That’s not how it works, Terra.”

So he continued to watch.

At first, he made sure he was more careful. He didn’t do anything, he didn’t say anything. He just flew around after her, small and ignorable as a little insect. Flies were best, though having the odd newspaper swiped his way was a problem.

Terra, she has less of a clue than last time. She was bright, very bright indeed, but there was no way for her to know.

“If you’re thinking that I blame you for all this, Terra, then you’re wrong. I don’t blame you for anything. It’s my fault, Terra. It’s just me, my own head.”

In these confused times, times of no directions, multiple identities, mass migrations, maybe his own head is more important than he thinks.

Like the first time, it didn’t last. He lost discretion, replaced it with stupidity. Like last time.

Which is worse?

This time, at least he didn’t beat anyone up.

This time, he sent letters, pictures, videos. All the remnants of Terra’s old life, he sealed them in envelopes or parcels, sent them to her door. Anything that reminded him of his lost love, it might just remind her too.

“That’s when I got to thinking. What you had, Terra, it was just amnesia. Plain old amnesia. Something you can reverse, you know? If you could just see, hear, watch the right thing, all your memories would come back. There’d be bad things, sure, things no one should have to remember. But, Terra, you’d remember how much you used to love me. You’d remember the way things should be.”

It didn’t work the first time, but that was no reason to lose hope. In these pessimistic times, times of depression, futility, passive acceptance, maybe hope is the one thing we need the most.

At least, that’s the point Beast Boy was trying to prove.

After the first few times, Terra didn’t even bother opening the parcels. When the police searched the house after her death, they found twenty-seven of them in the trash. She hadn’t even lifted up the corners of the tape.

She didn’t report any of this. She didn’t even have another quiet word. She just ignored it.

The worst thing she could have done.

“I wanted you back, Terra. I wanted you back so much it hurt.”

If Terra still loves him, he’ll never know. From now until the end of time, all she can tell him is

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

Maybe this is true. Maybe it isn’t.

Which is worse?

Even with all these unopened parcels, Terra didn’t know that Beast Boy was still following her. She suspected it, because how could she not? But she didn’t know.

Though, eventually, she got her proof. Beast Boy got stupid, took to following her in person rather than in fly.

A guy with green skin ain’t exactly hard to spot.

This time, she didn’t have a quiet word. She finally made good on her threat, called the police.

As her boyfriend predicted, the police swept it under the carpet. But Robin still had his own word with his colleague. Needless to say, Robin wasn’t impressed.

“That’s when I finally realized. You know, Terra, I never meant it to come to that. But you gave me no choice.”

No one ever truly means to kill.

It only took a few days of planning, then another few days of following.

Terra went to the cinema with her friends one night. Sure that Beast Boy had been taken care of, she walked home alone. A cry for help lured her into an alleyway, and a gunshot made sure that she only left it two weeks later, in a zipped-up bodybag.

When an ambulance drives without sirens, that’s probably because there’s a dead body in it. Just one of those things.

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to see her dead.

A crime like that, the police never thought to pin Beast Boy’s name to it. With her phone and wallet gone, they just filed it away as one of Jump City’s many muggings. A tragic incident, but still a common one.

Thinking about it, perhaps

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG”

says it best.

“Terra, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. But at least you can’t change anymore. Now, you’ll always be the same as you were on that night.”

OCTOBER 5^TH 2006.

At least, that's what the pathologist reckons.

“With the new Terra dead, I can love the old Terra. We’re both at peace now.”

Death, the ultimate way of defying change. When you’re dead, you don’t have to roll over and accept anything.

The body rots away, but the spirit stays eternal.

Which is worse?

Whilst Terra was still officially Missing, in the two weeks before a passing tramp found her rat-eaten body, the police asked for Beast Boy. Considering the charges she’d filed against him, they couldn’t not. But he’d been expecting this.

Yes, he was as concerned for her safety as much as anyone. Yes, he wanted to see her found as much as anyone. Yes, he hated the bastard who’d taken her as much as anyone. No, he wasn’t more likely to hurt her than anyone.

After all, why would we hurt those we love?

Of course, then Terra’s body was found. Then she was just a victim of mugging. Suddenly, Beast Boy wasn’t an issue anymore.

Like everyone else, he could mourn her in peace.

“But this isn’t mourning. This, Terra, this is the opposite of mourning. This is celebration.”

Two lives saved. Beast Boy and

TARA MARKOV,

they’re both saved. Not destroyed, but rescued. Rescued from misery.

“I just thought you should know all this, Terra. I just thought you should know why. You’ve probably figured it all out already, you’re certainly smart enough, Terra, but I still thought I should tell you myself.”

A story like this, it needs telling more than others.

“I tried to keep it to myself. I tried, Terra, I really tried. Same as I tried to forget about you, all those months ago. But the same as I couldn’t forget, I couldn’t withhold. I had to explain it, and you’re the one who has the right to know.”

A story like this, it needs telling more than others.

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy yawns. How long he’s been sat here talking, he hasn’t got a clue.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be days.

Which is worse?

Knowing that his tale, his explanation, it’s finally coming to an end, Beast Boy finally takes his eyes away from

TARA MARKOV.

That’s when he sees it. At the base of the headstone, there’s a black speck. A black speck less than a centimeter across, poking out of the snow like a hedgehog on first day of spring.

He’s never seen one of these in person, but he knows what it is.

A microphone. A tiny microphone.

One of the police’s better-kept trade secrets.

Slowly, Beast Boy looks up. The other side of the gate, through the raging snow falling thick as fog, the blue and red flash of police cars can be seen. Their wailing sirens, usually deafening, they can barely be heard over the roaring wind.

Beyond the snow and wind, police officers are piling out of their cars. They’re breaking the bolt on the gate. They’re yelling at Beast Boy to stay where he is, to put his hands in the air.

As the police officers run down the gravel path, crunching only snow beneath their feet, Beast Boy puts his hands up over his head.

He’s not going anywhere. He’s go nowhere he needs to go.

Still hearing the order to stay still, he feels someone roughly pull him to his feet. Both his arms are pulled down behind him, meeting the small of his back. A pair of handcuffs snap on his wrists under his coat, locked tight with a snap. How cold he is now, the cold steel almost feels warm on his body.

For the police, protecting your own only goes so far.

As the police officers start to march him away, Beast Boy looks down at the headstone, at

TARA MARKOV
APRIL 16^TH 1989 – OCTOBER 5^TH 2006
“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

What will happen to Beast Boy now? In these knowledge-hungry times, times of chart rundowns, tight schedules, cash-in franchises, maybe you can be forgiven for wanting to know.

But, in reality, who cares? He’s explained himself, he’s told his story, he’s said his peace. Nothing else matters.

Which is worse?