The Word Cloud

This is just a short story, about 4000 words. I wrote it as a script originally, for another artist to draw out as a comic, but he disappeared, so I used it for practice instead ^^

EDIT: And posted it ages ago, long before I understood about making things public, haha ^^;

"Yes, I understand. We will report to you directly. Yes, I'll tell her. No, no, it's all right.
  "Yes, I hope so too." Saeed put the handset down gently, and sighed.
  "Great." He turned round, carefully avoiding the taped-together tangle of cables that floated near the comm board. The gravity on their old ship was one of the many things that needed a bit of work, and was also one of the many things that would have to wait just a bit longer. Given the conversation of the last few minutes, though, perhaps it wouldn't ever get the chance to be replaced. Saeed leaned towards the door, and yelled down the corridor, pitching his voice to carry.
  "Kalle!"
  

  Kalle appeared through the door within minutes, looking irritated. She was dressed in a greyish dressing gown and rubbing her hair dry. It frizzed around her face as she pulled the towel away and slung it over one of the chairs, where it rested uneasily on the battered stuffing.
  "What?"
  "That was Exoplanet Central."
  "What do they want now?"
  Saeed looked away, bracing himself.
  "They want 'oomph'."
  "What?"
  Saeed sighed. "They're not happy with our results. They say if we don't find anything more.. interesting.. soon, they may have to let us go."
  Kalle's face went white, then flushed with anger.
  "What? They want what?" She spun around and kicked off the doorway, launching herself in a half-flying leap across the little cabin and narrowly avoiding the loose panel that hung disconsolately from the ceiling where its duct tape had broken yesterday.
  "We had two papers out last year! In decent journals! What, do they expect us to find a mummified alien or something? The key to the lost civilisations? What do they think we are, some kind of Indiana Jones outfit?"
  She barged into the captain's seat and reached for the comm switch. Saeed moved to intercept her motion, and caught her glare instead.
  "They'll be out of range by now anyway," he pointed out, reasonable calm in the face of her temper. "They're not expecting us to respond. And we have a ruin to examine, too." He gestured at the proximity sensor, and Kalle followed his gaze. The screen was a fuzzy grey, flickering occasionally. Exasperated, Kalle leaned over and thumped it, catching herself on the ceiling as the reaction propelled her upwards. The sensor flashed and settled into the same fuzzy grey as before, but this time showing three small dots among the flickers. Two were marked with the symbols that indicated rock and ore, but one bore a question mark and the 'semi-metallic' symbol. Her expression brightened.
  "Yes, we do! Good, I hadn't expected to arrive so soon. You get the crew up, and I want Daniel on point. It's about time he got a bit more experience."
  She spun round to give Saeed a flashing smile, anger lost in the prospect of new discoveries.
  "We don't need much more for the Xenoarchaeology Reviews paper - maybe that will convince Exoplanet Comical to give us more money."
  She breezed out of the cabin in a waft of ship-soap-scented air. Saeed looked down and sighed.
  "I don't think that will be enough this time," he said quietly, but only the ship heard him.
  

  The interior of the little ship was cramped and twisty, with equipment jammed wherever it could be fitted, held in - and occasionally held together - with bits of rope and gaffer tape. Health and Safety hadn't been near them for years, and the clutter of shipboard life and research overflowed the one small lab they were able to fit in the limited cabin space. Despite its obvious age, each piece of equipment showed signs of frequent use and care. There was no room for extraneous cargo; everything on board was necessary and carefully tended. Even so, age tells eventually, and most of the battered bits of technology, like the proximity sensor, were long overdue for service or replacement.
  The ship comm came on, crackling slightly. Extra loudspeakers were strung up overhead, trailing cables attached to the bulkheads with more duct tape.
  "All crew to the bridge, all crew to the bridge. We have a ruin to explore. All crew to the bridge."
  In his tiny, squashed cabin, Daniel raised his head from his book, looking grumpy. This was supposed to be his off shift, not that that ever seemed to make much of a difference. The door hissed and rattled open, and Vian, the junior post-doc, stuck her head round the door, her expression as excited and enthusiastic as Daniel's was gloomy.
  "Come on," she bubbled. "We've got another ruin!"
  Daniel sighed theatrically and dropped his book onto the bed, where it settled lazily into the covers.
  

  The small bridge was cramped by the four crewmembers who gathered there. Saeed wore a calm expression as always, but he was the only one. Vian and Kalle both fairly glowed with excitement and enthusiasm, while Daniel stared at his feet, wearing a badly-repressed scowl.
  "Right," Kalle started, "we have another ruin to examine. This one's all on its own, way out here, so we don't have much to go by. I want everything noted down, everything photographed - and be careful with everything!" She looked over her assembled team members.
  "Vian, I'm afraid you'll be staying here still. Your regeneration isn't complete yet."
  Vian looked downcast, but nodded. Her fingers strayed over her arms, where the skin was still tender.
  "Don't worry - you'll have a chance in a month or so," Kalle encouraged her, but Saeed looked away, knowing she was, if not lying, then at least taking a very optimistic view of their future. There might never be another ship to look at. "Stay ready," Kalle went on, "you'll be backup." She turned round, one hand on the control chair to steady her motion.
  "And for point - Daniel!"
  Daniel looked up, startled. He hadn't been paying much attention.
  "I want you in the light biosuit mech, all right? You've been on enough digs that you should know the ropes by now, and it's good experience for you." Daniel looked horrified, but Kalle, not noticing, went on. "Saeed, you take the heavy mech and go with him. Both of you take Sec-recorders - that way, if one fails, we still have a good record. I'll be intermediate; I'll wait at the ruin's entry." She looked around at her crew; Vian's determined, if disappointed expression, Saeed's inscrutable gaze and Daniel's sulkiness met her eyes. She scowled, and clapped her hands.
  "Come on, jump to it!"
  

  Docking with alien ships was never an easy task; many of the designs used by the long lost races were known and well-studied, but they all differed radically from each other and were not usually made to be operated by small creatures with two arms and five digits per hand. Kalle and Saeed between them had had plenty of experience operating alien airlocks, but each new one provided a fresh challenge, the first of which was maneuvering their ship into contact with the ruin without wrecking either.
  Vian's hands on the controls were nervous but steady as she matched velocity and tumble. Kalle and Saeed, by the airlock, scrambled into the large, powered exosuits. Beyond, in the semilit corridor, Daniel sulkily donned the more expensive biosuit which he had been assigned. Vian's voice came over the loudspeaker, hissing on the higher pitched syllables.
  "Ready when you are, captain."
  In the airlock, Kalle and Saeed checked each other's suits thoroughly, and closed the internal door. Daniel fiddled with his helmet, and checked over his own readings. In the cabin, Vian sat back, letting the autoguide follow the tumbling wreck, but keeping ready in case something went wrong. The readings showed her when the captain and Saeed drifted clear of the airlock, attached to the ship by slender cables.
  "Ready, Vian," Saeed's voice came over the radio.
  "Releasing grapples," Vian responded, and prodded a switch on the board. With an arthritic wheeze that only Daniel half-heard, the grapple doors opened, and the huge padded claws exited their container. Kalle and Vian caught them, controlling their velocity, and allowed themselves to float towards the wreck that, to them, waited motionless about a kilometre away. Vian held her breath.
  Saeed touched down an instant before Kalle, but his boots did not stick, and he scowled as he spoke to his recorder.
  "Non-magnetic hull," he said, and bent over to lock the grapple round the convenient protrusion he had aimed for. Not far away, Kalle locked her own grapple round a similar handle, and, anchoring herself to the wreck, started snapping photographs.
  "Grapples attached," Saeed reported to Vian, and she began slowly winding in the cables. Saeed watched carefully, but the alien hull seemed sound enough, and the Daedalus approached to the correct distance without incident. Vian shut down the cable winder and ran through the checks in the cabin.
  "All clear," she said. "I'm coming down to suit up." Saeed acknowledged her, and waited while she made her way to the airlock and got into the last exosuit. She and Daniel performed each others' checks, and she returned reluctantly to the cockpit, to sit and watch while the others explored the ruin before her. She didn't want there to be a problem, of course, but she did envy the others. Even Kalle, who as intermediate would probably not be going any further than where she stood now.
  Daniel waited in the airlock as the internal door closed and self-checked. When the button flashed green, he activated the external door, and it irised open in fits and starts. He almost wished it would jam, but it opened fully, if jerkily, allowing him a proper look at the alien wreck that floated below him. It was battered, and pocked with small craters, but his suit readings were already telling him that the space within was intact. He knew from previous reading that most ships from the Tetrarch period onwards bore a protective layer under an outer coat, but that didn't narrow down the age very much. He took a deep breath, and pushed away from the airlock, coming to rest on the hulk with a gentle impact. Saeed, six feet away, looked over; Daniel could hardly see his face, but he didn't need to. He knew the senior was wearing the gently disapproving expression he so often did.
  "Daniel," Saeed said, deep voice soft. "You didn't attach your cable to the ship."
  Daniel said nothing; he had forgotten, but he had known he had forgotten. And it was important. He bent and fumbled his cable clip out, attaching it to the hulk.
  Saeed let the transgression pass, and moved over to Daniel's side. Kalle, absorbed in her examination of an unfamiliar mechanism, had not noticed the exchange.
  "Ready to begin, Captain," Saeed said, and she turned round.
  "Excellent. Carry on," she said, and for good measure, took a picture of the pair of them standing by what they hoped was an airlock. Her postdoc and the College student on his first proper placement. It looked good.
  Saeed bent towards the putative airlock, and fiddled with the lock mechanism. It was familiar.
  "Airlock confirmed," he reported. "Functional, S-type, age unclear."
  "Go on," Kalle replied. " I'll have a closer look while you're inside."
  

  Inside, the alien ship was dark and cold, although neither should have mattered to the pair in their mechanised suits. Their lights made nothing of the darkness, and their suits maintained the perfect temperature for comfort, but somehow, the alien chill lurked behind each bulkhead, hiding just out of sight in the dark that fled their bright lights as they approached. And so Daniel shivered despite his suit's warmth, expecting something, not sure what, to jump out of the stealthy darkness and overwhelm them both. Beside him, Saeed, absolutely focussed, took notes, moving the Sec-recorder around to record everything. He occasionally broke the silence, but only with a comment about what he was observing, and that to the captain. Daniel, overhearing their conversations, felt left out and confused, not knowing much of what they discussed.
  "Kalle, we have some really interesting architecture here - it looks like squid-style computing, but the fixtures - what there is that's left of them - resembles that recorded from arthropodean ships."
  "Show me."
  Saeed pointed the Sec-recorder at some of the fixtures in the room they were in, a large hall with a high ceiling and odd panels and pillars around the edges.
  "You know, that might not be squid-style," Kalle said after a while. "I saw a paper once about Tetrarch period ships.."
  Daniel lost interest, but it seemed like his senior would be here for a while, and he hardly wanted to venture on alone into the vaguely ominous dark. Disconsolate, he wandered to a different corner, and poked about in the heap of stone and rubbish that nestled there, barely taking notice of the conversation taking place over the radio.
  "No, I remember the one you mean, and this looks different."
  "Well, record all the details. None of it is working, is it?"
  "We should be so lucky."
  "It has happened." Kalle's tone was light, as though the possibility of finding working alien electronics was not important. Only four functional or semi-functional ships had ever been found. Even Daniel, scarcely the keenest student in the world, knew that.
  "Oh - and I keep noticing these odd stains.."
  "Show me."
  Over in the corner, Saeed swung the camera around, focussing on the wall where black lines ran down the wall, top to bottom.
  "Oh yes.. that is odd. Can you get a sample? What's Daniel doing?"
  Saeed paused for a second. "Investigating elsewhere. I'll get the sample."
  "Well, call me when you find something else."
  Daniel sighed, bored. He kicked idly at the small heap of rubbish, and pushed himself backwards slightly. His drift through the large room was intercepted by Saeed, who had finished with his camera work. The tall senior caught his motion and stilled the pair of them with practised ease.
  "Daniel," Saeed began, "don't be upset, but why did you sign on with us?"
  Daniel was silent for a minute.
  "I wanted to go into space," he replied, "and there was room on the xenoarchaeology course at College. But this - this is just old ships and old dust..."
  He felt more than saw Saeed push them back towards the corner he had been in.
  "This is someone's old ship and someone's old dust," Saeed said, deep voice quiet in the vast stillness of the alien ship. Daniel was suddenly aware of how big the hall was, and how little their lights actually illuminated at any one time. "And look here.."
  He let Daniel go and moved on to the corner of a room, catching himself on the wall. Bending over, he picked something up and held it out, apparently heedless of its status as probable alien artifact. It glinted dully in the light of his headlamp - small, metallic, with flecks of colour here and there. It had a hole at one end, but whatever had been in it was missing now. No mechanism was visible.
  "What was this?" he asked.
  Daniel peered at the object, but it was nothing familiar. "I don't know," he admitted reluctantly, oddly ashamed to admit his lack of knowledge even thhough he was aware Saeed knew how he felt about xenoarchaelogy.
  Saeed gave him a slow grin, barely visible through his visor. "Neither do I. But it was someone's once - they used it, they left it here - and millions of years later, you find it. Isn't that even a little interesting?"
  Daniel, staring at the object, did not reply. Saeed handed it to him and moved on, smiling, to the door in the far wall of the big chamber. He pushed the switch, but the door didn't budge. There were no pads to type in the multiple overrides that had been found to work on previous wrecks; Saeed set his gloved hands to a protruding part of the door, and braced his suit against the far wall. Its servo mechanisms whined as he pushed. Daniel belatedly noticed the uneven struggle and moved to help him, shoving the object in a pocket of his suit.
  The bulkhead eased open, and air rushed in. Beyond, it was utterly dark, past even the ability of their headlamps to illuminate. Daniel, wide-eyed, poked his head in. Saeed squinted beside him, and drew in a sudden, horrified breath. He swung round to his companion and grabbed his mech bodily, hoicking it over his shoulder. Behind the door, something stirred in the blackness, but Saeed was already legging it, carrying the surprised Daniel, both shouting incoherently into their suit mikes.
  

  Saeed stopped behind the next bulkhead and twisted the door shut before dropping Daniel. He sagged back against the door, taking deep, gulping breaths in relief. Daniel stood up, brushing himself off and turned to face his senior, partly convinced that Saeed had lost his mind.
  "What was all that for?"
  Saeed waved a hand for space, still catching his breath for all that the suit should have done most of the work for him. His breathing, over the radio, sounded hoarse and still slightly panicked, and Daniel felt a rush of desire to get out of the abandoned, alien wreck, with its incomprehensible corridors and halls full of a dark that moved and responded. Then Saeed caught his breath, and spoke.
  "This is quite unusual," he began, "but it has been seen before. It's common on these ships to have had genetically modified creations - like bacteria - that we think they kept to eat certain kinds of garbage. They appear to have selected or engineered their creations so that they couldn't swap genetic material - whatever they used for genetic material - between them."
  Daniel's eyes were wide. He'd never come across this before, but his reading had, to be fair, been somewhat scanty. This was actually interesting.
  "On some ships, though," Saeed went on, "the selection or creation went wrong, and the garbage eaters combined somehow - symbiosis, we think - and pretty much ate portions of the ship. They couldn't eat everything - there's special plating put in the hull and the bulkheads on every ship found with the garbage eater tanks so far, so these combined eaters lie dormant when they more or less ran out of air. They're still around on some ships, and incredibly dangerous."
  Daniel's eyes widened in horror.
  "And this is one of them?"
  "Yes! It's fantastic!" Saeed clapped his gloved hands together and raised a clenched fist on high with a whoop. Daniel looked at him like he'd gone mad.
  "These growths are the last remaining life known of the aliens! They're full of information, they mean we can date this ruin reasonably well - and they're worth a fortune!"
  The wreck vibrated as Kalle bounced up, breathing hard and laughing in delight.
  "I never thought we'd find one.. they're so rare! And this means we can date this ship - it must be part of the Elliptical Transit, don't you think, Saeed?"
  "Actually, given the style, I suspect it might be a very late ship from the Orgarian Period.." Saeed required very little encouragement to begin listing his conclusions.
  "No..!"
  "Pity we just lost a section."
  Daniel, feeling slightly excluded from their obvious jubilance, looked at the door again. Kalle nudged him.
  "Go on then - you got to get some," she said, and grinned at him expectantly.
  "Me? Why?" Daniel demanded, horrified.
  "You've got the biocontainment suit on," Kalle said, as though it were obvious. "Vian's still recuperating so she can't operate it. Give me and Saeed half an hour to get clear and then go in. It can't get you. Use the category 3 sample tube; you don't need much."
  She looked at Daniel as though, horribly, she thought of him as competent. Daniel realised then just how wrong she was, but he also realised that he wasn't about to let her know that.
  "OK?"
  "... OK."
  

  The time it took for Saeed and Kalle to return to the Daedalus and release the grapples felt like an eternity to Daniel, nervously waiting by the locked bulkhead. The little ship edged away, maneuvered by Vian's light touch on the controls, with Saeed and Kalle clinging to the outside of the hull, too excited and eager to bother cycling the airlock.
  

  "Daniel, go ahead."
  The bulkhead hissed open at his touch, and Daniel stepped through. He had switched off his light, at Saeed's suggestion that that was probably a stimulus to the mould. The air rushed past him and into the locked chamber, but his wide eyes saw only blackness within blackness. The biosuit's expensive scanner provided, instead, what he needed; the mould lay, quiescent, about halfway to the door. Daniel edged nervously towards it, flinching every time his foot hit the deck. His suit might be supposed to be proof against the mould, but he didn't care to test it.
  Shivering, he pulled the tube out of his pocket, and the object Saeed had given him earlier came with it. He paused, knowing what it was more because it was the only other thing it could have been than by recognition.
  "These people," he said, quietly, "these aliens who left this ship here for millions of years... Did you make them leave?"
  He looked over to where the suit scanner told him the mould lurked.
  "Did you eat their ship out from underneath them? But the ship is almost intact.."
  The mould didn't reply.
  "Where did they go?" The question was quiet and not transmitted, but somehow it seemed to echo off the walls of the chamber that now belonged to the engineered lifeform of the original owners. They were gone, long gone, and he felt very small beside this monument to their ability and skill. Only the void remembered their efforts, only this wreck, hanging unremarked in space, commemorated their existence.
  The radio beeped softly, bringing him back to himself. Just outside, a small ship hung in space, festooned with people who waited eagerly for him. He was here, now, and the original builders were not. More, their mistake lay before him, waiting for him to take a sample, waiting so, perhaps, he and his might not fall victim to the same error its creators had. Daniel bent and swiftly scooped a small sample into the tube he held, and stoppered it tightly. Then, stepping out of the room and toggling the door shut against the curious goop, he switched the radio back on.
  "I have it," he said, and grinned at the tumult that greeted his announcement.
  

  On the Daedalus, the specimen tube was packed into a biocontainment box, keyed to the highest security. It rested on the bridge table, unremarkable in every way but surrounded by grinning xenoarchaelogists.
  Kalle slammed the handset down and turned round, grinning.
  "Exoplanet have promised us more money and a refit to find more ruins!"
  "This is new space - there could be anything out there!" Vian's eyes glowed; she'd get her ship to explore. Saeed waved squeezy bulbs on high and Kalle, seeing them marked with the rare symbol denoting alcohol, gave enthusiastic consent.
  "Saeed, you should get writing tomorrow," she added, as her second handed out the bulbs. "Forget the review for now, this is more important."
  Saeed nodded in acknowledgement, and then turned to Daniel.
  "You too," he said. Daniel blinked in surprise.
  "Sorry?"
  "You should be on the paper, too," Saeed said. "After all, you found it."
  Daniel had never even considered a paper, never thought about publications or even much beyond avoiding work and getting home as soon as possible. Somehow, he found himself nodding enthusiastically. Vian drifted close to him.
  "You know that means you're going to be doing most of the writing," she said quietly, and gave him a mischievous grin.
  Daniel grinned back.
  "Fine by me," he said, and squirted champagne over his face. He spluttered and laughed with the rest of the crew, and took the tissue Vian handed him to wipe it off. Round his neck, on a cord, the small metal object thumped against his chest, and he tucked it gently inside his top, and took another drink.

 

Pilots Chapter 4

 

Weeks went by as I became a professional outpatient. Mum came with me every time I was scanned, screened and tested for every flavour of cancer known to human kind. I suffered the incredible claustrophobia of the bastard brother of the industrial tumble drier – the MRI scanner - as I was shoved in time and again, just in case they’d missed something.

 

They put a tap in my arm because they were taking so much blood for so many different tests…

 

The day of reckoning finally arrived. I was to meet with Dr Smith and possibly one of his minions to discuss the awful outcome of all this exploration.

 

I was now monitoring my weight a little more rigorously. I’d lost nearly a stone over the last four weeks. I’d gone from the boy who’d clearly eaten all the pies to my ideal weight. I looked fabulous, better than at any time since my teens. My moobs had been replaced by pecs, my one-pack had transformed into a four/ maybe a six pack. I was lithe and springy. My double chin had gone. My profile was magnificent.

 

I was fucking terrified.

 

None of my clothes fitted. Mum had gone shopping on my behalf – coming home with sundry jeans, shirts, tee-shirts and wot-not that she thought I’d like. I stopped looking in the mirror now. What started off as an episode of self-adoration had rapidly turned into an image of sand running through an hour-glass.

 

For mum it must have been the reverse of my teenage years. A time where I’d grow 6 inches in as many months. I remember how she’d struggle to clothe me, “You’ll grow into that…” and, “Ooooh you’ve got a few weeks left in them yet…” were common currency then.

 

But now nothing was said. She’d come in with a seemingly endless stream of stuff for me. Tops and trousers would appear in my wardrobe. Nothing was said in case we acknowledged this strange and unknown predator that was slowly devouring me.

 

It was all well and good having this endless supply of new and fashionable clothing, but I never went anywhere with it. I’d stopped going out. I couldn’t let people see me like this. Well, it wasn’t my physical me I couldn’t let folk see – it was the mental me. I was in a state of almost permanent trauma. Only daytime television could save me.

 

I hungrily sought any reality TV chat shows where some poor cunt was worse off than me. That said, if they were being strong, achieving great things in the face of adversity, I’d quickly switch over. I was languishing in my misery – I didn’t need some born-again fucking marathon runner who’d saved an orphanage to make me feel guilty as well.

 

We didn’t talk over breakfast. I had my usual – everything in the house – eggs, bacon, toast, beans, cereal, M & M’s, anything that came within arms reach.

 

I read the ingredients on any packaging in front of me. Any distraction was welcome.

 

I knew why mum wasn’t talking – partly the stress of the situation – but mainly because I’d become an obnoxious twat. I didn’t want her compassion or her care. I didn’t want her support with anything – any act of kindness, intentional or otherwise was met with an adolescent recalcitrant glare, grunt or slam of the door.

 

Mum was less vibrant now. Conversations were practical and polite…

 

“Would you like a...?”

 

“What’s this you’re watching?”

 

“Have you heard anything from..?”

Jen had mysteriously vanished from my life as suddenly as she’d crashed into it. My phone calls were unanswered – I even popped onto her ward a couple of times to be met with, “She’s busy,” or “She’s not in today,”

 

True, I hadn’t been terribly diligent in my pursuit of her. But you’d think…

 

“Are you ready to go?” mum asked quietly as she put the last of the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

 

“I guess…” this felt huge. The tension was unbearable.

 

The old, ‘I saw my life pass before my eyes’ adage is supremely overused – but sitting next to mum, as she drove me to the hospital I thought about all my places, the things I’d done, the things I hadn’t, my work, my university years all culminating in this.

 

My so-called fucking life.

 

The world seemed so vibrant – so stark – so loud – I was hypersensitive to the minutiae of everything. Mum over-revving the car at traffic lights – the blueness of the sky – just the act of physically being was tortuous.

 

Mum looked forward at all times. There was no idle chat. No laughing. No touching. She was on automatic pilot. We were floating in our little bubbles – separate lives inextricably linked.

 

“There’s a parking space there!” An angry explosion rather than a friendly direction. Why was I like this? Why was I barking orders at my poor mother?

 

“Where?” soft and gentle as ever.

 

“There… there, next to the…Fuck!” as a Ford Fiesta stole our place.

 

I was still seething about the Ford Fiesta fiasco as I slumped down into one of the comfy sofas in the Oncology outpatient’s waiting room.

 

Mum picked up a six-month old copy of Homes and Gardens. She was instantly absorbed by the hot tips for everyday living that lay within.

 

My anger dribbled away gradually only to be replaced with the guilt caused by my obnoxious behaviour.

 

We hurt the ones we love the most. Oh really?

 

I put my hand on her leg, “Mum, I’m sorry…I…”

 

Her hand appeared on mine, “I know John. It’s ok,”

 

And that’s how we sat for the next ten or fifteen minutes – my hand on her leg – her hand on mine.

 

“That’s us…” Mum stood instantly as my name was announced over the tannoy.

I stood outside Doctor Smith’s office. What had I done last time? Did I just walk in? Did I knock? Did I just materialise in front of him?

 

My heart pounded as I stood paralysed, rooted to the spot.

 

“C’mon John,” Mum almost whispered as she opened the door.

 

Doctor Smith was alone. He was a slim man in his mid fifties – maybe even late fifties. He had a tanned face that suggested he was always ready to smile – his blue eyes twinkled – the corners of his mouth tilted slightly upwards – his shock of grey hair, a stark contrast to his tanned face, looked like it had been tousled by his proud Mum as she saw him out the door…

 

“John, please take a seat,” he shook my hand as I sat down. Was his tone matter of fact? Was it informal? Jovial? Was it good news? How long did I have? Fuck, why wasn’t he talking?

 

He nodded, and smiled openly to my mum as she shook his hand and sat next to me on an orange bucket seat. Didn’t they expect supporting friends and family? I got a comfy seat and she got something that would elicit bedsores if she sat on it for longer than five minutes.

 

My eyes scanned the room. On the wall was a posed photograph. Him, some ageless woman and three grinning children. Was this his wife? Maybe it was his daughter? Maybe her husband had died from some particularly nasty strain of cancer and he, as the doting granddad had taken them all on. If that were the case, where was his wife…?

 

“John, I’ll cut to the chase as quickly as I can,” he took a breath, but didn’t pause long enough for me to start asking the thousand questions running through my head, “You don’t have cancer…”

 

I collapsed back into my seat with relief – only to be bounced back into the stressed position as I was hit with the question – what the fuck have I got?

 

Mum squeezed my leg.

 

Sensing my ping-pong response, Doctor Smith held up his hand, “This amount of weight loss would suggest that something’s going on – it just isn’t a cancer…”

 

“But that’s good news though, isn’t it? I haven’t got cancer?” hey, I liked the sound of that, I’ll say it again, “I haven’t got cancer? So what have I got?”

 

“We don’t know? I’ve spoken to a colleague of mine, Doctor Asanovic, he’s an endocrinologist.”

 

As with so many words in common usage in the hospital, ‘endocrinologist’ rang a dim and distant bell from my ‘O’ level in Human Biology. As with so many words like this, I came to a mental dead end.

 

“What does an endocrinologist do exactly?” Don’t say it…don’t say it…

 

“He looks at your endocrine system,” he said it.

 

“Which is what…exactly?”

 

Doctor Smith allowed himself a little smile, perhaps acknowledging that he’d been a bit of a knob, “It’s the system that looks after your hormones – they’re basically the chemicals that tell your body to do stuff – like grow, break down sugar, lactate… you know?”

 

“Vaguely,” it kind of made sense, “So you think my problem is to do with that?”

 

“Possibly, I’m just not sure – Doctor Asanovic had hoped to be here to meet you and answer any questions you might have, but he’s been called away just now,”

 

“Ok, so do we wait for him? What should I do?” I felt myself falling into the patient trap – absolve myself of all responsibility – I will do what the doctor tells me.

 

“He shouldn’t be long… I’ll probably have to go, but he can see you here, in my office if you like…”

 

I smiled vacantly. So I just wait here, in Doctor Smith’s office, until Doctor Asanovic arrives?

 

Mum got up to leave.

 

“What are you doing?” I blurted.

 

“We’re going to the waiting room – to wait for Doctor Asanovic?”

 

Of course…of course, we couldn’t just sit around in…what had I been thinking? Jesus, what was happening to me?

 

“Ok,” as I stood up Doctor Smith came round to my side of the desk and shook my hand.

 

“Good luck,” he said warmly.

 

The word ‘luck’ rang in my head as I walked out holding mum’s hand, what good was luck going to do me?

 

We sat and waited in silence. What an anti-climax! Here I was thinking that Doctor Smith was going to tell me if I was going to live or die… and now? Nothing…just nothing.

 

I tried to read the magazines – everything from ‘Peoples Friend’ to ‘Horse and Hound’ but nothing was going in.

 

“Do you want a coffee?”

 

Mum’s voice came as such a shock I nearly leapt out of my seat, “What?”

 

“Coffee? There’s a wee café just round the corner – d’you want a latte?”

 

Why was everything taking so long to process? It felt that mums words were being delivered on a slowly running stream of treacle.

 

“Coffee?” even my own voice sounded unfamiliar.

 

“Yes John,” she smiled, stroking my face, “Y’know, that hot beverage made from squashed up beans and milk?”

 

“I’d love a coffee – thanks mum – I’ll wait here though…”

 

“Of course, of course… I’ll be back in a couple of minutes…”

 

It was good that she had something to do. She liked to be busy. All this sitting around must have been doing her head in.

 

As she walked out she passed a tall guy with blond hair and sharp features. He wore a dark Armani suit and walked with an heir of confidence I could only dream of now. The reason I knew from such a distance that it was an Armani suit is that this tall, well presented fellow was an ex-colleague of mine – Claus Hansen - the worlds best dressed social worker.

 

He flitted from potential punter to potential punter until he spotted me. What does one say in situations such as these?

 

“Hi John,” Claus shook my hand in a friendly way, “how’s it going?”

 

My mind flooded. What do I say? What should I say? I’m a social worker, after all – I’m not a client. I’m not like these people – I’m a helper, not the helped.

 

“I’m here with my mum…” empty trail off to allow him space to fill in the gaps.

 

“Is she ok? I mean, obviously not if…” was Claus the unflappable actually blushing?

 

“Yeah, I’m sure she will be…” use the silence John. Use the silence.

 

“Listen, here’s one of my cards…” He has a business card?! “I’m the palliative care social worker – it doesn’t mean I just work with folk who are dying – I work with the rest of the team looking at support – pain control – talking to their families – and professionals for that matter…”

 

“Thanks Claus, I’ll give it to her.”

 

“Yeah, well, anyway John – take care…” and with that he wandered off sprinkling his business cards amongst his flock. Fuck – I can’t believe he’s got business cards.

 

“Who was that?” Mum plonked herself down next to me – sounding a little lusty for my liking.

 

She handed me my coffee as I explained who he was.

 

“That sounds great – why don’t you go and see him?”

 

Why don’t I go and see him? Because he’s a bloody social worker, that’s why. I’m not going to talk to a guy who’s been a colleague about all my hopes and fears now that I’ve got God knows what. I’m not the kind of guy who needs help.

 

“I, er, I told him that I’d think about it…”

 

We sat in silence again. This time I didn’t make any pretence of reading – I stared at my cardboard coffee cup praying for Doctor Asanovic to make an appearance so I could go home.

 

“John?” well bugger me if it wasn’t Mr. Hansen coming to distribute more of his good cheer, “This must be your mum…she doesn’t look old enough…”

 

Fuck off!

 

“I’ve made sure she’s had a particularly easy life,” I meant to grin – but it came out more as a grimace.

 

Mum, predictably, melted on the spot. To be fair, he was rather lovely.

 

“I was very young…” she giggled.

 

“You still look very young…” he oozed, “The reason I came back was I forgot to mention that we have a social group for folk who attend outpatients like this…”

 

He was talking directly at mum.

 

“For carers?” she looked puzzled.

 

I closed my eyes tightly. This wasn’t really happening.

 

“No,” now he sounded puzzled, “it’s for folk who are receiving support from the oncology department or the palliative care team.”

 

“What do you think, John?” she nudged me into opening my eyes, “That would get you out of the house.”

 

Sprung.

 

“Get you out of the house? I thought you said it was your mum who…”

 

“I’ve taken one of your cards – I’ll give you a ring,” I snarled.

 

“Ok,” he smiled quickly at mum who gave him a ‘I don’t know what’s going on either’ kind of a look, then he walked off.

 

“John?” she squeezed my hand.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” end of.

 

After an hour and a half of sitting in the subsequent silence, looking into the middle distance, my name was called out.

 

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Mum, determined in her support.

 

“Yes – bloody right I do!” the closest I’d been to declaring my undying love for my mum in ages.

 

With the Doctor Smith door incident in such recent memory I was able to enter the office unaided.

 

Mentally I hadn’t yet associated Doctor Asanovic with the gift of life and death. He was just another in a long line of folk who’d recently come into my life. As such, I wasn’t preoccupied with what was wrong with me when I set eyes on him. I was gobsmacked – he must have been nearly 7 foot.

 

“Dr Asanovic,” he stated has he shook my relatively tiny hand in his. Then, possibly by way of explanation, he said,  “I’m Serbian.”

 

“I’m John and this is my mum, I’m…” what? The king of the little people? Shorter than you? “…pleased to meet you.”

 

He sat down and was still slightly taller than me, “Please…” he indicated the seats – we sat obediently, “You spoke to Dr Smith earlier?”

 

We both nodded.

 

“He told you that you didn’t have a cancer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He told you that I was an endocrinologist?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who specialises in endocrinology?” A slight smile played around his lips.

 

“Yes.”

 

“He came to me because he thought there maybe something going on with your hormones…”

 

“Yes…” I felt like a nodding dog in the back of someone’s car.

 

“And, to be frank, there is something going on with your hormones.”

 

It felt like he was talking about someone else. Hormones were something that weren’t that important – you grew, you ate, you had sexual urges…

 

He pointed at a picture of the brain on the wall, “Just here, hidden away is a very important gland. It’s the master gland. The pituitary.”

 

“Ok,” I nodded as ‘O’ level Human Biology kicked in.

 

“This gland tells the other glands what to do…”

 

“Yes,” I smiled, “I remember this from school…” 

 

“Unfortunately, your pituitary has decided to tell your glands what not to do…”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It would appear that it is producing some manner of hormone that is… er… shutting you down.”

 

Whoa! Rewind. Dr Tall Guy who has a slightly comedic appearance, who sounds not dissimilar to Dracula in a Hammer House of Horror rerun, is telling me that… is telling me I’m…

 

“What does that mean?” suddenly my heart felt like it was beating in my throat. I felt terribly far away. My legs felt damp, my scalp prickly.

 

“At the moment, it would appear that your body is slowly, er, I mean gradually, coming to a halt…”

 

“Which means?” Mum butted in as I tried to assimilate this seemingly simple piece of information.

 

“If this continued without our input, you would probably die within a few months…”

 

He always seemed to stop when he had more to say. He definitely said ‘die’. The doctors that I worked with never said ‘die’. They would always say things like ‘they were doing everything in their power to…’ and ‘don’t go buying any long-playing records…’

 

“But it’s treatable?” I coaxed.

 

“Everything’s treatable,” he enthused, lightening my mental load for the briefest of moments, “It’s just about finding the right treatment for your condition…”

 

“And that treatment would be…er…what exactly?” mum jumped in again.

 

“Well, first of all we have to stop the pituitary doing what it’s doing. And then we have to tell all your glands and organs to get back to business as before.”

 

“And you’re how close are you to doing this?”

 

“We’re working on it just now. Come in next week at this time and we’ll talk about your treatment.”

 

We got up to walk out. I shook his massive hand again, “Thanks,” I spoke quietly but it felt with some determination.

 

“See you next week,” he smiled.

 

We walked out into the cold glare of the outpatients waiting room again.

 

I turned around, opened the door and walked up to the desk where Dr Asanovic had started writing up his notes, “Am I going to die?”

 

“Not if I can help it,” he held my gaze for the few seconds it took me to think about this.

 

“Thanks,” I said as I turned and walked out the door.

 

****

 

On getting home, I retired to my room and lay on my bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. As I was growing up I always imagined the ninety-degree angles in the cracks were waterfalls cascading and crashing on their way to the sea. There was something inevitable about rivers and waterfalls that I loved. You just knew where you were with them. I’d always thought of my life as a river, meandering it’s way fatalistically towards my eventual demise.

 

But this all felt a bit soon. I was still at that carelessly winding stage of riverdom before it gradually straightens out into that wide, slow moving old man…

 

The words that had stood out for me today were ‘I don’t have cancer’, ‘die’ and ‘not if I can help it’.

 

I can’t believe I lied to Claus. What an arse. Anyone can get ill. Anyone. I was forever telling my punters, ‘There but for the grace of God’. Strange given my atheism – but I was sure it was a sentiment I really believed. And now, here I was – Gamekeeper turned Poacher and… what?

 

I didn’t like it.

 

I decided to call Claus tomorrow. All this introspection was doing my fucking head in. Maybe a bit of socialising was just what I needed.

 

I came downstairs early the following day, motivated by the fact that I’d made a decision. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red and wet in her sadness. For the first time in years I was seeing her without makeup. She looked older in a way, but at the same time she had more character in her face, like she’d become a real person – not just a mum.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

She looked up as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She moved to stand up, “John...I…you’re not usually up at this time,” her voice shaking through the tears.

 

I rushed to her side, “Mum, it’s ok…it’s ok,” I pulled her head towards me as she wept into my stomach.

 

I stroked her hair, quietly soothing her, “It’s going to be ok… everything’ll be fine…sshhh now, shhh now…”

 

Eventually she stopped crying and looked up at me with a wet snottery smile, “I love you John…”

 

“I know mum, I love you right back,” I tousled her hair as I pulled her towards me again.

 

“I’m going to phone Claus today. You’re right, I could do with getting out of the house.”

 

I knelt down next to her and looked into her lovely face. She grabbed my head and kissed my cheeks and my forehead. She left the kitchen and went up the stairs.

 

“Claus? Hi, it’s John,”

 

Claus responded warmly as ever, “Sorry about yesterday mate, I didn’t know what was going on,”

 

“Don’t worry, that was my fault entirely – I don’t know what I was thinking,”

 

“Ok – what can I do for you?”

 

“Well I was wondering about the social thing you were talking about yesterday.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was hoping to join,”

 

“John, you need to know…”

 

“What?”

 

“These guys are terminally ill with cancer,”

 

“I thought so,”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“I haven’t got cancer, but I might be terminally ill…” Jesus fucking Christ – this was the first time I’d ever said it to myself or otherwise. The tears began to flow freely.

 

“Do you want to come into the office? It’s better than doing this over the phone.”

 

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

Just before I left mum reappeared, fully made-up and mother-looking once again. I held my hand to her face, “Are you ok?”

 

“Don’t make my mascara run,” she laughed, sniffing back the tears.

 

“I’m going along to the hospital now to see Claus.”

 

“What about the famous social work waiting list?”

 

“There’s got to be some perks to this bloody job,” I smiled as I walked out.

 

Claus and I talked at length about what had been going on for me. Everything from being suspended, the pending court case and this mysterious illness.

 

“As I mentioned earlier John, the folk in the social group are terminally ill with cancer,”

 

“Ok? Does that mean I can’t come and play?”

 

“The stuff we do is partly funded by the cancer charities - although the social work department does chuck some cash our way from time to time,”

 

“That’s fine – I’ll pay my way,”

 

“You don’t have to,” he grinned, “Mates rates, ok?”

 

“Ok.”

 

It just so happened that the next social outing was something that I’d been promising to take myself along to for years. Go-kart racing in a funky indoor arena. It had a ‘Grand Prix’ with Champagne and (plastic) laurel leaves and the smell of oil, and the screech of rubber and fireproof suits and, and… a bunch of guys wearing NHS wigs.

 

“I’m Jim,” smiled the tallest of three guys in the small group. He wore an ill-fitting tope wig with no discernable parting. He had no eyebrows or eyelashes. He looked youthful, surprised and burnt all at the same time.

 

He shook my hand vigorously.

“We’re the Ball-Boys,” he laughed as he introduced me to the other two guys who looked remarkably similar to him.

 

“The Ball-Boys?” I smiled as I shook their hands in turn.

 

“”Testicular cancer,” he whispered as if he were letting me in on some gang secret.

 

“Of course,” I smiled back.

 

He told me the names of the other two, but their names didn’t really matter. They were the Ball-Boys and that’s how I would remember them.

 

 We went through all the safety stuff associated with hurling oneself three inches above the track at seventy five miles an hour in a hundred cc racing car. We were told all about the dangers of bad cornering, of crashing and of the petrol tank catching fire and killing you to death.

 

“If I see you driving dangerously, I’ll wave the yellow flag at you. If you do it twice, you’ll get a black flag. If you do it three times – or if you do something really stupid, it’s the red flag, ok?”

 

Geoff, the master of the track, held our attention with consummate ease.

 

There were twelve of us in all. I watched as the NHS wigs bobbed up and down to show their agreement.

 

“Hey John,” whispered one of the Ball-Boys conspiratorially, “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Fuck-all. I’m a social worker – I couldn’t resist the offer of free go-karting,” I kind of winked at him. I’ve never winked at anyone in my life.

 

He looked at me as if he momentarily believed me, “Haaa!” he laughed as he pushed me hard on the shoulder, “Funny cunt.”

 

We all lined up for our fireproof clothing with full-face helmets and manly leather gloves combo.

 

I’d automatically asked for the extra large suit. I knew there was something wrong as I was putting it on. By the time I’d finished pulling up all the zips and assorted fastenings I knew that I looked like a ten-year-old who’d pinched his dads biker leathers.

 

“You look like a prick,” Jim giggled supportively.

 

At least I’ve got my own hair… Best left unsaid, “Cheers,” I smiled lamely.

 

Geoff came to my rescue. He sounded ex-forces as he spoke in his matter of fact way, telling me about the pitfalls of having an ill-fitting outfit.

 

“Blah, blah, blah…fire…blah, blah, blah, horrific burns… blah, blah, blah… death,” I think he said.

 

There is nothing more exhilarating than lining up in your first proper go-karting race. Nothing. We’d had the practice laps. We’d had the qualifying laps. And now… This was the big one.

 

We’d been split into two semi-finals of six. I’d qualified in the middle of the pack. Perfect. I could watch my adversaries, their techniques, their cornering as I carved my way through the field. To be fair, I didn’t have to do much carving. I only had to come third to get myself into the final for a chance for the cup, the Champagne and associated glory.

 

All thoughts of my ridiculous illness had gone. All that mattered now was qualification. I was disappointed to find that the three Ball-Boys, of whom I’d become strangely fond just by virtue of the ridiculous label they’d given themselves, were racing in the other semi-final.

 

My race was wholly uneventful. The three folk behind me found themselves locked in a comedy pile-up that meant I could romp home, still in third, waving to my adoring fans as I crossed the line.

 

“You were magnificent,” Claus smiled at me as I pulled myself out of my car.

 

“You didn’t fancy a bit of petrol head action yourself?” I asked, looking at my astonishingly well turned out ex-workmate.

 

“In these shoes?” he laughed.

 

“No, maybe you’re right,” As the laughter subsided I became all too aware that, from here on in, I was the client.

 

I watched the second semi-final, impressed at how the Ball-Boys worked as a team to support each other around the track doing everything in their power to ensure the success of their team-mates. Even if it meant using sneaky blocking techniques. The crafty blighters. This is what I was going to be up against in the final.

 

The track, being indoors, was pretty bendy to accommodate a reasonable distance for each lap. There was only one place, at the end of the long straight at the end of the lap, where courage would come in handy. If I could brake later than the opposition then I could take them on the tight curve at the end. Obviously, if I went too fast, or braked too late then I’d make a complete arse of myself by crashing into the tyres.

 

My heart was in my mouth at the start. I couldn’t believe that my waving to the adoring fans had cost me valuable time which meant I’d found myself in last place on the grid. Never mind, I had a cunning plan that would demonstrate my superiority over my fellow drivers.

 

Stay close, brake late on the last straight, overtake just before the last tight bend – job done. The final was ten laps long, so I’d have plenty of chances.

Quite surprisingly for any plan of mine, it appeared to be working. I overtook the two folk from my semi-final in the first two laps. I imagined their look of surprise as I raced past them at the end of the straight and over the finishing line.

 

Now for the Ball-Boys.

 

I knew they worked as a team. They’d be aware that I was moving up the field, so they’d be ready for me. True enough, for the next couple of laps I was successfully blocked by two of them going round the final bend in parallel which meant there was really no way through.

 

Fuck this. These cars have bumpers for a reason. As we approached the bend at the end of the 8^th lap, I could see them both braking, blocking my way completely. Not this time though. Where they were braking, I was accelerating. I knew that the guy on the inside of the curve needed to slow down the most to get round the corner, so I rammed hard into him from behind. All too late he braked hard, his wheels locked as his car went into a skid, running into his team mate in the outside, allowing me a free path straight past them on the inside.

 

Geoff waved the black flag angrily at me. At least it wasn’t the red.

 

I had no idea which two I’d taken out with my expert manoeuvre, but I imagined that Jim was to be all that stood between me and the top of that podium. He’d taken advantage of the blocking techniques of his fellow Ball-Boys and had taken quite a lead on me.

 

I braked later than him at the end of the ninth lap, but was still too far ahead to sneak past.

 

Stay close, brake late on the last straight, overtake just before the last tight bend – job done. I kept playing my mantra through my head.

 

As we came into the final straight on the last lap he was still too far ahead. I wasn’t going to be able to brake late enough to sneak past him on that final corner.

 

And then I was struck by a thought.

 

Fuck it – I’m going to die anyway.

 

I’m not terribly sure what was on my mind as I pressed my foot hard on the accelerator instead of even considering the brake.

 

Jim was just going around the apex of that last bend as I ran straight into the side of his Kart doing God knows what speed. Thankfully, the frame of his vehicle was up to such a crazy impact.

 

Although my frame showed similar resilience, physics was clearly against me. My go-kart somersaulted over his and the protective tyres around the track and crashed into the wall of the building with a sickening crunch.

 

I was surprised. Surprised to be alive, relatively unharmed and conscious. I was also surprised at what a cock I’d been. Most of all, I was shocked at this strangely competitive John that had manifested himself over the course of the two races.

 

It had been Jim in the Kart in front. He’d managed to limp over the finishing line before the other two caught up.

 

Once Geoff established I was ok, he disqualified me and banned me for life from his indoor karting arena. I took my punishment on the chin. Fair enough, I’d been a complete arse.

 

As I gazed upon the wonderful sight of the three Ball-Boys standing together on the podium, spraying cheap Cava all over each other, laughing and cheering, I realised I’d had no right to break that up. They had been pulled together in this wonderful bit of fun that Claus had laid on for us.

 

I’d nearly wrecked it.

 

“You twat!” Jim cuffed me round the head in the car-park afterwards, “What were you thinking?”

 

There was something wonderfully intimate in a relationship where a guy, who I hardly knew, felt comfortable enough to hit me in a boyish fashion whilst insulting me with a lower order expletive.

 

“I don’t know, Jim, I guess I wanted to win…”

 

The other two gave me that, ‘You dozy arse’ look as they all climbed into Jim’s car. I waved them off, at the same time having a very strange feeling of belonging.

 

“John, what the fuck were you doing,” Claus didn’t normally swear, I must have really pissed him off.

 

“I have no idea – I was kind of overwhelmed by a feeling that…”

 

“That what?”

 

“…I dunno, it’s weird…”

 

“Go on,”

 

“That it’s ok to try my hardest – even if I might make a mess of it – does that make sense?”

 

“Yes… you’re talking about your illness,”

 

“Yeah – also, slightly more alarmingly, I thought, ‘what the fuck, I might be dead tomorrow,’ that’s not good, is it?”

 

“Don’t worry, John, no-one was killed, injured, maimed or burnt to death,” he smiled kindly.

 

“No, I suppose not,”

 

“I’ve got to tell you something…” Claus suddenly blurted.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You know Geoff?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He refused to take a penny off me for the groups’ go-karting.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I think he felt – kind of sorry for you all – maybe he thought by not charging he was helping just a little bit,”

 

“Do you think?”

 

“Yeah – I know it sounds a bit patronising,”

 

“No, not at all… not at all. You know what it makes me think though?”

 

“No, what?”

 

“Terminally ill – licensed to kill!” I grinned only slightly demonically.

 

“Oh my God!” he laughed, followed by, “Drive carefully,” as he ushered me into the old Ford Fiesta.

I'm not sure where I'm supposed to post my work on this site so I'll post my first competed short story on the blog.
I finished writing it last year and is my homage to those great post apocolyptic novels such as The Stand and I Am Legend.

BEACON.

His eyes opened sharply, the world around him seeping in vaguely, blurred, choked vision. His eyes ached, sharp fleeting pain bolted down from his head into those deep sockets that held is soft vulnerable eyeballs.

His vision returned to a stable hum that broke if he were to make any sudden movement,

Neil

That was his name, Neil... yes, that was it.

Neil put his left hand on his forehead and rubbed to massage the pain away, it helped a little, he looked around him, his bedroom, just where he was last night

Jesus how much did I drink last night?

Did you go to the pub last night?

I must have, how else can I explain this stupidly banging headache?

I don't remember going to the pub...

He got up off his bed, pain surged through his back, hot jagged knives stabbing him from his lower back, up his spine and into his head.

What the fuck did I do last night!!!!!?

First he had a shower, cold, cold was good when you had a hangover

I'm not sure if I'm hungover though

then he went through his usual process, breakfast, have a shit to flush out any of those unwanted chemicals of last nights antics.

 

Everything was deathly quiet that morning, he heard no birds, no dogs sniffing around the rotting rubbish bins, nothing.

He opened his front door to taste some of the mornings fresh air (and to smoke a quick fag). Nothing. The air was still, not a single breeze fluttered a leaf. He sparked up his cigarette and inhaled deep, then exhaled out a long plume of smoke, no breeze to carry it away, the smoke just hung in mid-air, motionless at first, then slowly began to decompose before his eyes. A feeling in his gut told him something wasn't right, he couldn't place his finger on it, he didn't let it play on his mind though, first he needed to change into some clothes.

 

Nothing seemed strange to Neil any more, since the plague had killed everyone, including those he loved and cherished, nothing would ever seem strange to him again.

Then why this feeling in the back of his head?

Why can't he help but think

What's wrong with today? I've got to see Bruce, speaking to him will put my mind at ease, he can confirm if we were drinking last night and perhaps he can explain why today seems so strange.

He looked at his watch...dead...he looked at his wall clock...dead...he looked at his digital radio FM clock...dead.

OK now something really is wrong, the power can't have shut down because my watch would still be ticking, and so would my wall clock, hang on a second...

He walked over to his TV, it came on, it was working, static, there was always static, when the final days of the plague chewed it's way through mankind's brain, there was nothing but static.

So the power is still on, but time is not still on, time has become static just like the damned TV!!

He pulled his clock off the wall and slung it across the room, it smashed off his door and shattered into bits.

OK I'm starting to lose it, calm down man, just go and see Bruce, he will have all the answers, he always did know everything, all those little facts that kept your day going fine.

But I have to get ready

You are ready

Oh yeah, of course I am, I must have forgot in the panic.

Yep that's how it goes I'm afraid, oh well, lets just go and see Bruce.

Bruce's it is then.

 

He packed his bag with a book, some food and a porn magazine to keep him entertained.

Bruce would know, he always knew, he just needs some clarity.

 

He began to walk, slow silent strides, pacing calmly up his quiet street, the air was still dead, no breeze...dead. Dead like the victims of the plague. Dead like his mom, Dead like his brother. Dead like his girlfriend. Dead like everyone who he came to love.

He began to falter, breaking his steady beat of a walk, all the memories, all the pain came flooding back to him, but he did not cry, he regained his step and carried on with his trek.

Bruce would calm him, he liked seeing Bruce. Before the plague Neil had known Bruce since school, they were never the best of friends but still spoke on those one off occasions. When everything went to hell only him and Bruce were left alive.

Neil asked why.

Bruce answered.

Neil asked many more questions.

Bruce answered.

It was from that moment Neil had found his partner, his information box.

Bruce was always right, never wrong, never stuttered and never back tracked.

Bruce talked fluently, Bruce's words flowed with such beauty it made Neil cry on occasions.

Everyday Neil visited Bruce, everyday he asked Bruce another question.

And every time.

Bruce answered.

Neil even asked him the question: “Why don't you come and live in my house?”

To which Bruce answered: “This town is small, very small, it couldn't hold the population of London. The plague killed everyone in London, it killed everyone in the country, maybe the world for all we know, and it killed everyone in this town. Sedgley, population 2. It maybe a small town but it's huge with just us two living in it. If we were to live together in such a desolate bone yard then we would kill each other from tension, cabin fever and what not, whereas if we live 10 minutes away from each other we have enough space and room to breath, we wouldn't be breathing down each other's necks. And besides it's not like I'm going to just go away and leave you to your own devices, and I'm sure you won't leave me.” Neil shook his head in response 'I would never leave you' his eyes said.

Bruce coughed and inhaled deep on his pipe.

Neil understood because Bruce was right. Bruce was always right. Bruce would never leave. Bruce was his soul mate.

 

Walking hurt his legs, and he was hungry. He decided to stop for a break. Bruce only lived a 10 minute walk from him but in a time like this, what was the rush? There was no-one to tell him to hurry up, no-one to call him a pervert just because he wanted to read a porn magazine for light entertainment. He had all the time in the world

especially now my watch has stopped.

He sat in a bus shelter and ate a sandwich of cheese and salt and vinegar crisps, he looked at the board to check what time next bus is due:

558 RUNNING TO WOLVERHAMPTON---- 1.15PM

 

There is a bus due...

he looked at his watch, frustration sparked in his eyes

I forgot, my fucking watch doesn't work!!

He pulled his watch off his wrist and slung it across the road

there no more stupid mistakes like that again

He smiled faintly to himself feeling a little more satisfied. He got up and began walking again, not to Bruce's, no not just yet, he only wanted to get away from that damned bus shelter so he didn't have to think of the concept of time.

I need to know what time it is though

Why?

Just to put my mind at ease

But why? Time is just a perception of the mind

I don't care what it is, I need to know what time it is, if I don't then I won't sleep tonight, and I need sleep because I will get tired and feel grumpy, and Bruce doesn't like me when I'm grumpy

Fine then check the time, it won't make a blind bit of difference though

But I need to know what time the next bus is due.

He walked to the church. He stopped. He looked up. He saw the huge clock at the top of the steeple. Sadness and anger filled his mind, confusion gnawed at his heart.

That has stopped working too

Told you it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference

Oh shut up, how was I to know?

You should have listened to me

I only listen to one person, and that is...

Bruce, yeah... I know

Neil turned away and walked on to the park, he sat down on the bench and ate another sandwich, when he had finished eating he pulled his porn magazine from his back pack and began to masturbate, no-one to see him, no-one to call him a dirty pervert and no-one to help him out. He began to cry, he couldn't hold it in, tears flooded down his face, his cheeks streaked wet, he promised himself not to cry, not until he had spoke to Bruce, but something in his heart told him nothing was right with today. He cried for half an hour exactly, then he stopped, wiped his face and began walking.

OK now I really need to speak with Bruce, he is my only hope of getting through this day sane.

 

The door was a dirty green, weather beaten and its paint peeling pointless like flakes off of its frame. Neil knocked loudly on its hard wooden surface

Once

Twice

Thrice

No answer....

Fourth

Fifth

Sixth

No answer....

Seventh

Eighth

Ninth

Still no answer, then with almighty thud,

TENTH!!

That was his last knock, he never knocked more than ten times, if their was no answer then there was a problem, he looked down and placed his hand firmly of the door handle and pushed it down...it clicked...he pushed the door open, the sickly smell of dust and decay filled his nostrils and made him wretch, he turned his head to the fresh air then put his t-shirt to his nose. He entered, taking cautious steps he called out “Bruce?” over and over...there was no answer, he became confused and scared.

He never goes out, not without me, even when I'm late, he always waits for me, we're the gruesome twosome, partners in crime, thick as thieves, he wouldn't just leave!!

Neil searched the entire downstairs level of the house, nothing, no-one, just that horrid smell of dead flesh. He walked to the stairs

maybe he is asleep, Bruce always was a deep sleeper, maybe he fancied a lie in

and began to climb, one foot at a time, taking it slow. The stair case, as small as it was, seemed very steep to Neil, maybe it was the smell making his head bad, blurring his vision.

and what the fuck is that god awful smell!! Jesus what was he eating last night?

First he entered the bathroom, the door creaked as it opened, nothing, just an empty room, the blue tiles on the wall discoloured from neglect. Bedroom 1, he pushed the door open, it didn't creak

is this Bruce's house?

Of course it is you donkey, you've been here hundreds of times, before and after the plague

Okay then, I was just checking

he stepped inside...nothing, but the smell was getting stronger, penetrating his make shift gas mask. Bedroom 2, the last room of the house, the core of that devilish smell so it seemed, Neil's hands trembled as he slowly pushed the door open, this door creaked, it creaked something fierce making him wince.

He stepped inside and stared straight at the bed, the sight that befell his eyes made him step straight out the room and vomit, when he finished he walked back inside to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

No wonder there was an awful stench in this house, Jesus Christ almighty!

He found himself staring at two bodies lying on the bed, decaying, one appeared to be male and the other female, they were both naked.

The plague must have killed them in their sleep, poor bastards.

He picked up a photograph that was perched on the bedside table, the image was that of a couple aged in their 60's, they looked happy, and alive, behind them were green bushes and plants, a colourful picture it was, taken in the days of sunshine and happiness, where no dark force could touch that sense of knowing. Neil began to cry, soft at first, but as the realisation of being alone kicked in, his sobs became fits of hysterical cries, he was in the right house, he had no doubt about that, but his confusion lead him to believe that Bruce had left him, that Bruce must have came up with a cunning plan to ditch him once and for all.

He exited the house streaked with tears, face flushed and eyes weary and bloodshot, millions of thoughts raced through his head, all of them about Bruce. He began to walk back to his home, taking it slow, he had all the time in the world.

How am I the last person in the world?

How do you know you are?

I don't know, I'm just assuming, seeming that the plague spread fast and killed fast

You are still alive

That I am

Why did Bruce leave?

So how do you know if there aren't more like you?

I don't

I need Bruce

Where did he go?

He wouldn't just leave like that

Maybe he was fed up of you asking questions

That's not true, he always enjoyed answering my questions

Do you know that?

Yes

How?

 

He walked past a house that he hadn't seen for a long time, William Groves' house, there were a lot of memories at that house. Neil and his friends all used to gather at Wills house, there were 5 of them, it was 3 o'clock in the morning, Will and his family were in bed and they were armed with a variety of weapons such as; eggs, tinned tuna, tomatoes, tinned sweetcorn, jars of curry sauce and spray paint. The way it used to go was like this:

First they stuffed the tuna into the front grill of Wills car so when his dad turned on the air conditioning he would get a nose full of rotten fish.

Second, they poured the tinned sweetcorn onto his window sill.

Third, they sprayed random shit onto his garage door with the spray paint.

Fourth, they smeared the curry sauce onto his front windows.

And finally, when all was said and done, they would get themselves ready, some with eggs and some with tomatoes, then they would throw them at the upstairs windows as they ran down the road and back into the dark alley.

They never hated Will Groves, they just found it funny to do that to his house, they never did anything to seriously damage his property, Neil and his friends were just a bunch of 15 year old lads who wanted to have a laugh.

 

Neil faintly smiled as he walked solemnly past Wills house, his mind was a flood of old memories, some bad some good, he began to cry again, asking himself where Bruce had dissipated to. Once again he felt lonely.

 

The front door to his house slammed shut behind him as he quietly stalked his hallway. He slumped into his sofa, a blank expression smeared across his face, he didn't think, no thoughts had entered his head on the last leg of his journey home, his whole body was blank, there was no way of telling what he was feeling at the time.

Slowly he turned his head left and looked at his coffee table, there sitting proudly on top of it was a framed picture of him and Jenny, the girl whom he had loved from beginning to end. He picked up the framed photograph and stared at Jenny, in the corner of the frame was a little teddy bear holding a big red love heart and all across the rim of the frame were more little red hearts with the word 'love' next to them. That framed picture was his first valentines day present off Jenny.

Neil stared longer, he felt his cheek become wet as tears began falling from his eyes, all the memories began flooding his mind, the happiest days of his life were the times he spent with Jenny, the most vivid memory however, was the most recent, of Jenny dying in his arms.

 

The plague had spread fast, no one knew where it came from, or how it started, all they knew was that it killed anything and everything. Neil had first hand experience.

The day was warm and humid, the air was sticky and it was hard to breath for the both of them, it was unnatural weather for England, it was like a tropic summer. Jenny fell ill the day before, it started with what seemed like the sickness bug, vomiting, diarrhoea and cold sweats, the next day she was dying, Jenny knew it but Neil didn't. He held her in his arms comforting her,

“Babe I wouldn't hug me if I were you, you don't want to catch what I've got” she coughed,

“I don't care about getting ill Jen, all that matters at the moment is that you are looked after”

“Aww you're good to me Neil” another cough, this one filled with phlegm “but seriously, I really don't feel good at all, I think I might be dying”

“What? Don't be silly, you're gonna be fine babe, you've just got the sickness bug”

“You don't have chesty coughs with the sickness” her voice became a whisper and remained that way until the end,

“Maybe you caught the cold as well, listen you're gonna be...” he was cut off by the savage fit of coughing and sneezing from Jenny, she turned and vomited off the edge of the bed,

“I'm sorry” she said softly looking at him with pain in her eyes, she began to cry,

“Don't apologize, it's not your fault” he hugged her tightly as she sobbed into his neck “everything's gonna be alright Jenny, I'll always be here for you, I made a promise to you, when we first met I said I'd promise to look after you no matter what” tears began to fill his eyes, he began to realise that this could be the end, he cried with her.

“Neil, I love you, I always have loved you, and I always will love you, in this life and the next” she stared deeply into his eyes, he kissed her passionately not caring about the fresh vomit in her mouth, when he finished he gazed back into her eyes,

“You're going to be fine Jen, no more talk of this next life thing, you've just managed to catch the cold and the sickness bug at the same time, it's just bad luck” he tried to hold back his tears but he couldn't,

“we both know what's happening, it isn't just me who has this, there are many more people with the illness I have got, the news said it's becoming an epidemic, haven't you been watching the news?”

“No, I haven't had time with work and all, I've noticed people in the area have the illness so I just assumed it was a local thing, everything works out though” he found it hard to speak, he cried more, now it was Jenny who comforted him,

“Neil remember when you told me what your idea of heaven was? You said it would be just us two, together for eternity in that hotel room where we first made love, remember?” Neil nodded “I'll be waiting for you, I always said I could wait an eternity for you, when I go I will be in that hotel room lying on the bed, naked, waiting for you to give me an eternity of pleasure, but don't rush, I want you to ride this out Neil, promise me you won't follow me straight away unless this illness gets you too”

“I promise, I always said I'd do anything for you, but I'm so scared Jenny”

“So am I Neil, but in the end, it'll all work out, we will have each other again” she coughed some more, her body became more wet as the sweat dripped off her, but Neil still held her close to him,

“Neil Meridian, I love you” Jenny whispered into his ear softly as her breathing became more shallow,

“Jennifer Polly, I love you too” Neil whispered back, her body became weaker, Neil could feel her grip on him loosening, with the last piece of energy she had left Jenny smiled at him and Neil fought back the pain and smiled with her. That day Jenny died in his arms, that day the world ended.

 

Neil still held tightly onto the photograph as he cried hard into his sofa, he imagined he was holding Jenny, he felt like ending his life, the illness never got to him, he was immune like Bruce, but he couldn't end his life, he had made a promise to Jenny, he had to wait, he had to ride this out, but to what end? And what cause? Where is this life leading him? What will he do now he is completely alone.

 

That night was white, snow fell softly and emotionally, the flakes fell as if they were rocks, there was no breeze to blow the white ice, it stuck to the ground, clung to the trees with desperate need, that night was cold, freezing, a contrast to what the temperature had been like in the morning. Neil stood at his door smoking a cigarette, inhaling deep and exhaling shallow, his face was smeared with moist fear, from the moment he woke up the day had been strange, now it had become downright weird.

Still, it was all so still, Neil turned on his television, static,

fucking static, that's what today has been, nothing but fucking static,

your whole life has just been static

what the fuck do you mean?

not now, isn't time to go into detail

no come on, you've got my attention, I'm not up to anything tonight so you might as well explain

 

Neil sat in his lounge staring at the small white maggots that scurried all over the black surface of the entertainment box, his mind had become empty, no voice, not he or himself, just the sound of static, infesting his brain, infesting his T.V.

That night he broke routine, he turned off his television

I can still hear the fucking static

and went straight to bed, he had no source of heat so he wrapped himself up with extra jumpers and t-shirts, it was deathly cold.

maybe that's what it is, maybe the reaper has finally took mercy on me and decided to take me in my sleep, maybe the coldness in the air is his touch, reaching into my life to take me out.

He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, his thoughts empty, nothing to declare, nothing to declare, nothing to declare, his eyes growing weary, he can see his breath, it puffs out with every heavy exhale, it is hypnotizing, it is clarity. It is bliss.

His eyes fell like lead weights and he slept.

 

His dreams were a taunting joke, a sadistic reminder of how beautiful his life was compared to the one he is living now. Was this his long spiral to hell? Had his mind been so full of guilt and upset that he'd sent himself into Satan's bosom?

His eyes opened to darkness, it was warm, not hot, but not freezing cold, luke warm was the term he searched for in his brain.

He was sweating, breathing hard, he threw his duvet off and stripped some layers of clothing off his weak body.

Smoke, he could smell smoke, the strong aroma of pipe tobacco, he searched around his bed making sure he didn't leave a lit cigarette before he slipped into a disturbed sleep.

Nothing, so

where is the smoke coming from?

He heard a cough, in his room, Neil panicked,

“who the fuck is that!?” he shouted cowering in his bed,

“have you forgot the smell of my famous tobacco already?” a hoarse deep voice spoke into the quiet dark, Neil opened his eyes, in the corner of his room Neil saw the faint glow of burning tobacco, he reached for his bed side lamp,

“don't turn that on Neil” the voice spoke again,

“why not? Who the fuck are you?” Neil shouted,

“you tellin' me you forgot the sound of my voice?”

“Bruce? Is that you? Jesus man is that really you?”

“finally, I thought you'd never ask, yes Neil it is me”

“holy shit man, I thought you left me! Where have you been?”

“I have left you, as to where I've been, I'm somewhere that's not here”

“Bruce what do you mean? What's going on? Is this a dream?” panic filled Neil's voice,

“no, this is no dream, this is reality, or at least your reality”

“Bruce what the fuck man? You never used to talk in riddles”

“I'm not, I am merely stating the truth, don't you know what I am?” this question struck Neil as very strange, he asked 'what' not 'who',

“you're my friend, a survivor of the plague, a person, is that the answer you are looking for?”

“actually Neil, no it wasn't, your friend I am, but the latter two I am not, see Neil you are a survivor of the plague, I am a creation of your loneliness and desperation”

“what do you mean Bruce? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“when Jenny died, you had a complete mental breakdown, you had lost your soul mate, your one true love, you couldn't handle life without her, then to top it off you were the last man alive, until you met me, until you created me”

“what the fuck!? That can't be! What the fuck is wrong with you man!! why do you want to fuck with my head!? Just fucking act normal!”

“I am acting normal, just calm down Neil”

“calm! How can I be fucking calm, I've got you here in my room telling me that you are just a figment of my fucking imagination!! but I knew you in school so fuck you!”

“you knew a kid called Bruce from school who was not I, think about it, personality wise I am like you, I'm everything you are, but you needed more in a companion, in your confused state you needed someone who would answer all of your questions, no one else could so I filled in”

“so what? All the answers you gave me were false?”

“in a way yes, but they were your answers, you couldn't bring yourself to answer your own questions, so I filled in for you”

“this is a fucking dream”

“I wish I could say so”

“So where are you then? What's this bullshit about 'other realities'?”

“You won't believe me if I told you, it would sound too mad, too 'science fiction'”

“try me, you've already told me one mad thing so you might as well ejaculate some more weirdness from your mouth”

“okay then Neil here it goes. I thought you already knew this first part but since you have been wrapped up in you own world I don't think you were aware from the start,”

“what do you mean?”

“I was never real Neil, I never existed, only in your mind, you created me just after Jenny died, you couldn't handle the fact that you were alone, the only one left alive, no family, no soul mate, no way of finding out what had happened, I became all those things for you, and more, you made me what I am, I am you, except I have brown hair and a beard and I'm slightly thinner than you and a my voice is more husky, your mind made the changes so you would convince yourself I was real. The reason why this revealing has happened is because there has been a change in clouds, and this brings me into the more bizarre part of my explanation.”

Neil remained calm, he knew Bruce wasn't real, he conditioned himself to believe otherwise.

“So what's the bizarre part Bruce?”

“I will answer your question Neil but you must believe me, and follow my instructions, my time here is growing short.”

“So you're not really here?”

“No I am not, I'm in another dimension Neil, another version of here, when the plague wiped out everyone no survivors were left, only you, Earth: population 1. There are many many countless dimensions parallel to ours and more that are different, when this world ended it became a dead dimension, nothing is ever going to become of this world, you created me in a dream Neil, your subconscience is the key to unlocking other dimensions, it only becomes accessible when you dream, you created me in another world and brought me to this one, remember what you said to me the first time we met?”

“I dreamt about you” Neil said softly,

“Yes that's right, I've been brought back to my world because the clean-up is about to happen, this is my main reason for coming tonight”

“What do you mean by clean-up? And if you are in another world how can you be here now?”

“There are many drugs that can enable you to communicate with other worlds, and the clean-up does exactly what it says on the tin, this dimension is old, used up, past it's sell by date, it needs to be removed so that new worlds can be born, They will be coming Neil.”

“what do you mean? Who are They?”

“They are the ones who will be coming to eradicate this dead world, the Daemons of the in-between. Dimensions are not all stuck together, there are spaces in-between worlds, dark spaces where creatures of your nightmares lurk, these are the creatures that are responsible for cleaning up the dead worlds”

Sweat began pouring from Neil's face, he became terrified, Bruce was right, Bruce was always right, doesn't matter if he was created in Neil's mind, the son of a bitch was always right,

“Why are you telling me this? Are you getting some sort of sick pleasure in watching me suffer? Why couldn't you just leave me and let it happen!?”

“I'm trying to help you Neil, just listen to me a bit more, I need you to do something, to go somewhere, it will save your soul trust me”

“Go on then, what is it?”

“Tomorrow at noon I want you to go to the Beacon and sit on the hill, that's all, you have to be there at noon or else your hope fails, can you do this for me?”

“Yes I will Bruce, but what's it going to do for me? Can you bring me into your world? Can I be saved?”

“I can't say Neil, just follow my instructions.” The smell of pipe tobacco dissipated, the room became deathly silent, Neil stared at the emptiness and fell back on his bed, he slept until the sun came up.

 

Neil opened his eyes slowly, they felt sticky, filled with gunk, his mouth tastes of something awful,

I hate when that happens

he sits up slowly, head throbbing, sweat pouring, heart hammering to some mad bass line that he could not hear.

What the fuck happened last night? Was that a dream? Must have been, it felt like one, but so real.

He looked at his clock,

fuck I forgot, time is fuckin' broke

but he heard a faint ticking, he turned his head to the left bedside table, there it was staring at him like a dumb struck kid, his watch,

I thought I broke that thing, Jesus, I'm confused now

it was ticking, ticking, ticking, ticking, faintly but it was working. He picked it up and strapped it to his wrist, the time was 11 o' the clock. One hour.

One hour, I gotta get going. But what if it was a dream? Shit I shouldn't take the risk though, besides it's not like I've got anything important to do.

He got out of bed slowly, his bones creaking, his sweating ceasing.

 

Neil drew open his curtains...no snow, no cold, everything was clear again, the grass green, the trees green and brown, the snow had melted, but there was still no breeze, all was still and empty as it had been the day before. He decided to change into some cleaner clothes, and have a damn wash, he smelt foul from the sweat.

The door creaked as Neil pulled it shut, he began his short journey to the Beacon.

 

It was Sedgley's landmark, a big hill with a small tower that sat awkwardly in between two electric pylons, Neil was going to the main hill which was actually a huge water tank that had been disguised, the hill had a large flat field on top where you could stand and see for miles around you.

It took Neil fifteen minutes to reach the Beacon, he was wearing white trainers, dark blue jeans and his favourite t-shirt that Jenny bought for him on his birthday many years ago.

The walk was not tiring for him, he felt quite refreshed but rather hot, he felt happy about bringing a bottle of water with him.

 

Neil made it, the top, the hill, the Beacon, at 11:55am he sat down in the grass. At 11:57 he felt something that brought a tear to his eye, a soft cool breeze washed across his face, he smiled and waited.

 

12:00pm the waiting ceased.

 

“So this is it my friend, it's come to this, I hope you are ready” Bruce spoke from behind Neil,

“What's going to happen to me?”

“You are going to sit here and admire the beauty of the world Neil Char, you are going to stare at the sky and watch everything that happens until the end”

“What the fuck do you mean? I thought I was coming to your world, I thought there must be door or some portal that leads into other dimensions”

“I never said I was bringing you into my world, it doesn't work like that Neil, doorways and portals do not exist, unfortunately this is where your story ends, the reason I brought you here was because I wanted to to see how beautiful this world is before it gets taken away.”

Neil began to cry, he felt distraught, scared of his inevitable demise, it had all come so sudden.

“Don't cry Neil, all's not lost, Jenny will be waiting for you somewhere, all you have to do is think about that time you and her were happy alone. Can you feel that breeze? It's getting stronger”

“Why has the wind came back? Why did it disappear?”

“This always happens, the only way these Daemons can enter worlds is through the clouds. It's almost time Neil, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, you created me, it saddens me that it has to be this way, I wish I could hug you but I can't”

“It's not your fault Bruce, but I could really use that hug right now, it's been a ball man.”

“Goodbye my friend.”

Neil turned round, but Bruce wasn't there, had he been there from the start? Or was he communicating through Neil's mind?

Didn't matter now.

 

The wind blew hard and fast, it was cool and refreshing, Neil could taste it in his mouth, his blond hair flapped around his head, he admired the view and spoke his last words,

“I love you Jenny.”

He looked to the sky and saw the clouds turning a dark grey, they twisted and spiralled, the wind blew extremely hard now, but Neil never lost balance nor could he feel the force.

His eyes beheld a terrible sight, creatures leaping from the clouds, grey beings that looked divinely mechanic and frightfully organic, they spat thick globs of phlegm onto the earth. Thus began the clean-up, the eradication of a dead world to pave the way for a new one.

Neil chased all fear from his mind and body, he swallowed his saliva and breathed in, he held his breath and closed his eyes.

I'm there.

 

 

 

Sedgley, West Midlands,

12^th July 2008

 

 

Pilots

Chapter 3

 

“I’m never going to sleep with one man again,” hardly tactful, I thought, given the circumstances.

Jen dragged me into one of the side rooms on the ward, babbling excitedly about her night out with Steve and Mark.

 

I think I stopped listening when she said ‘spit-roasted’. I had an image of her being slowly rotated, her skin oiled, and instead of a bright red apple in her mouth she had a…

 

“John, are you listening to me?”

 

“Yes… but can’t I tell you about some of my stuff?”

 

“Yeah, in a minute, just let me finish…”

 

And on she went in astonishingly graphic detail. I got lost a couple of times when it sounded like Mark had three arms and four testicles – but I did my best to keep up.

 

We both looked a little flushed when she finished her monologue. I felt a sudden urge to start smoking.

 

“Are you seeing them again?” I felt deflated having to ask – how could I ever hope to compete against two young, lithe… fuck, I fancied them myself.

 

“Bloody right I am!” she exclaimed, slightly too enthusiastically for my liking.

 

“What about your rule where you said you wouldn’t go out with the same guy more than once?”

 

“Rules, dear John, were meant to be broken,” she stroked my face in a ‘patting my head’ kind of style. I felt thoroughly patronised.

 

I took the opportunity to fill the momentary silence with all the shit that had happened to me since I’d seen her a couple of days ago.

 

“And now the fucking bastards have suspended me.” I concluded.

 

“Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven’… ”

 

“That’s exactly what I said – bastards. I’m suspended pending the outcome of the trial. Bastards…”

 

“Bastards!” she empathised.

 

“Cunts,” I agreed

 

“Fancy going out for a beer after I finish up here?” she asked in a matey sort of way.

 

My eyes widened – perhaps a sympathy fuck would be on offer here.

 

“Just as friends – is that ok?” she obviously saw the craven look in my eyes, and chose to spray as much cold water on the situation as she could.

“Yeah,” I rubbed the back of my neck and avoided eye contact at all costs, “Of course, that’s fine…”

 

And, somewhat strangely, it was fine. We met up time and again. We talked about everything. I tried to steer her away from the wide and varied sexual conquests she’d encountered in the previous week and I’m sure she tried to prevent me from feeling too sorry for myself. That was met with limited success though – I was still decidedly pissed off that I’d been suspended. I seemed to fill the empty hours contemplating my navel.

 

How could they do this to me?

 

What the Hell was I supposed to do with my time?

 

Why couldn’t the bloody union be more helpful? All they’d done is talk about ‘due process’.

 

They were useless bastards as well.

 

It turned out Jen knew my mum. Mum was a nurse as well, albeit in middle management now – so it wasn’t really a surprise when I found they’d known each other for ages.

 

After my first night with her, I’d hardly thought of her as the kind of girl I’d take home to meet my mum – but given the fact that she’d already met my mum…

 

My only hope was that Jen could manage to be discrete.

 

Jen discrete?

 

Does the Pope shit in the woods?

 

Oh God.

 

****

 

The wonderful thing about losing substantial amounts of weight is that it doesn’t half make your cobblers look big. As I bent over, looking over my shoulder into my mirrored wardrobe doors, I could see my cock swinging pendulously between my lithe thighs.

 

The interesting thing was that I’d done absolutely nothing to encourage this de-Mitchelinisation.

 

My exercise regime remained the same – five-a-side with my mates on Fridays followed by several lagers and a curry.

 

My diet remained the same – er, several lagers and a curry…

 

Not to worry, I was beginning to really enjoy the way I looked.

 

“Are you still losing weight?” Mum bustled into my bedroom, put some clean clothes on my bed and opened the curtains.

 

“Don’t you ever knock?” I scolded as I straightened up, covering my strategic bits with a nearby towel.

 

“Oh John, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before…” she chided.

 

“Yeah, but…” It didn’t feel like the strongest of arguments.

 

She plonked herself down on the bed next to me. She looked at me in that way that only mothers can – pride and love – and respect – and adoration – it was just that motherly gaze kind of a moment.

 

It made me feel happy, almost in a childlike way – a bit uncomfortable too – sure, I wanted to feel loved and cared for – but I wanted to show that I was independent too, and that I could take the world by the… by the bits that you can grab the world by, and get on with my life.

 

Living with my mum when I was thirty-something didn’t really scream independence though.

 

Dad had left before I was born and, from that moment on, it had been me and her against the world.

 

“I’m a bit worried about you,” she spoke gently as she stroked my face.

 

I looked at her. I couldn’t believe she was in her 50’s. Her complexion was fantastic – positively glowing – her shoulder length hair, as ever, looked beautifully conditioned – although there were a few hints of grey here and there now.

 

I remembered that, when I was a teenager, my mates had voted her ‘Most Shaggable Mum’ – I’d felt kind of proud and kind of disturbed all at the same time.

 

“Why?”

 

“You don’t seem yourself…” she began vaguely.

 

“How d’you mean?” I felt a little defensive.

 

“Well – with the court case coming up, and not working – you just seem a bit flat…”

 

“Yeah…” I nodded

 

“And you’ve lost quite a lot of weight – I’m worried that you might be a bit depressed.”

 

“Yeah…” I nodded – I felt quite disconnected. I found myself wondering what had become of the lovely Mr Stuart in my absence.

 

“How much weight have you lost?”

 

“I’m not sure – couple of stone maybe?” Funny, two stone didn’t sound that much until I actually said it out loud.

 

“I think you should go to the GP,” she repeated softly.

 

“Yeah…” I nodded.

 

The doorbell rang.

 

“That’ll be Jen,” Mum patted my knee, gave me that ‘my brave little soldier’ smile, and walked out.

 

Tea was a strange old affair

 

“Steve and Mark sound like such lovely boys…” Mum was a bit pissed – she’d downed the wine that had been intended for the risotto and was now making her way through my ‘Buy 4 for £5’ ciders. She put her hand on Jen’s and giggled.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you were no angel in your time…” Jen coaxed.

 

No, no, no, no, fucking no, no, no…

 

I was not going to sit at the dinner table with my mum and some woman who had used me and dumped me and listen to… Listen to what? Mum’s sexual conquests? Do I sit here and let it happen around me? I’m liberal minded – older people are allowed a sex life and a sexual history.

 

But she’s my mum!

 

It was strangely compelling though – not unlike a hanging.

 

It was all fairly Mills and Boone for much of the time as mum recounted how dad had swept her of her feet… how they’d gone to the pictures… how they’d baby sat together… All the action was implied, left to the reader to expand…

 

“Oh, come on Wendy! Dish the dirt – we’re all friends here…” they were holding hands across the table.

 

All I could see was two teenage girls – “And he was like –you know- and I said – oh my God – oh shut-up – oh my God, just shut up…”

 

“Do you remember Jonathan?” she was talking to me. Mum was actually talking to me about one of my friends.

 

“I, er, my friend Jonathan? Yeah…” Jonathan had been a man-child in our youth. While I’d been running around making stuff out of Lego, he’d been shaving. I hadn’t seen him since he was 18.

 

Mum and Jen looked across the table at each other and laughed uncontrollably.

 

“If anyone wants me, I’ll be upstairs killing myself,” that’ll teach them – I stormed off.

 

 

****

 

Dr Higson had been my GP forever. He’d dragged me into the world kicking and, eventually, screaming in mums’ bedroom. He’d even been around to clean up the mess. He’d given me every jab and inoculation I could ever need. And now, here he was being his same old methodical self as he tested my blood pressure, heart rate, peak flow – he looked down my throat, in my ears and sounded my chest.

 

He sat looking at me across his desk, his chin resting on his thumbs while he bounced his forefingers off his pursed lips.

 

“How’s your mood?” his voice was deep and manly. His brown eyes held their gaze with mine through is thick, black-rimmed spectacles. His dark-brown hair slicked back with Brylcreem – a homage to his younger days.

 

He always wore a cheap looking suit that only just managed to contain his expanding body. A tie and shirt combo that had invariably been bought matching.

 

He was dependable. Not flamboyant in any way. I knew I was in safe hands.

 

“It’s not bad…” the opening to the story of my suspension.

 

He said nothing throughout my diatribe. He nodded and smiled in all the right places.

 

“You don’t sound depressed.”

 

I don’t feel depressed…” I agreed, “More – pissed off than anything…”

 

He looked perplexed, “Any pain anywhere?”

 

“No.”

 

“Fatigue?”

 

“No.”

 

“And you say your appetite is the same as it’s ever been – and there’s been no change in your diet?”

 

“Yes – and er, none…”

He sighed heavily, “I’m going to take some blood and urine – if you’ve got any?”

 

“Sure, whatever you need,”

 

We finished up pretty quickly after the delivery of the fluids, “Don’t I normally come back for another appointment for the blood and urine stuff?”

 

“Well,” he smiled in a fatherly way, “The samples are all collected in an our or so, I thought it would be a shame to miss them.”

 

With that, he escorted me to the door with his hand on my shoulder, “I’ll see you soon…”

 

And there I was back in the waiting room. People looking at me – the solace and comfort I’d got from Dr Higsons’ friendly hand on my shoulder both dissipated rapidly – replaced immediately by fear and uncertainty.

 

****

 

A friendly hand on the shoulder? It would be ‘a shame’ to miss the test rather than go through the usual long-winded administration of the medical practice?

 

I was in the shit, and I knew it.

 

“Why haven’t you got a girlfriend?”  Jen asked in that equally friendly hand on the shoulder kind of way that drove fear into my very soul.

 

We had decanted into one of Edinburgh’s café society hostelries on Rose Street. A busy, buzzing pedestrian thoroughfare for the young upwardly, sidewardly and occasionally downwardly mobile folk of the city.

 

Do I tell her? What do I tell her? Do I feed her some elongated platitudinous nonsense about waiting for the right girl to descend into my life? Or do I tell her the truth?

 

“I suffer from a terrible condition.” There, that’s a start.

 

“You do? I thought you hadn’t got the test results back?” her face full of concern.

 

“I haven’t… I mean I don’t…I mean I don’t know – I suffer from an altogether different condition to this condition – that is if this is a condition…”

 

“What?” I might have lost her there…

 

“I suffer from ‘Subbuteo Finger’,” ok, it’s a made up condition, but it’s terribly real to me.

 

“What?” I felt like I’d dropped her down a deep well and she was falling in slow motion – further and further into the darkness…

 

“Subbuteo Finger…” I repeated with even less conviction than my earlier mumble, “Have you ever played Subbuteo?”

 

There was a pause while she looked at me with not a little incredulity.

 

“Don’t say ‘What’,” I pleaded a little more enthusiastically than I’d have liked.

 

“Subbuteo Finger,” she replied slowly – in the same way that one might speak to a child, or a dementing grandmother, or maybe an armed terrorist.

 

“Ok, do you remember, “My Perfect Cousin” by *****?”

 

“Yes…?”

 

“Do you remember the line, “He always beat me at Subbuteo, coz he flicked to kick, but I didn’t know”?”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“That song really…really…you know…spoke to me…” Did I sound like a twat?

 

Jen ran her hand through her shiny hair and shook it completely unnecessarily, “John, what the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“We need to go to my house,” I concluded.

 

****

 

Thankfully, I still had my Subbuteo pitch nailed to an expanse of chipboard in the attic. Jen managed to persuade me that the floodlights and the little stand with all the fans sitting in it would not be required to enhance her Subbuteo playing experience.

 

She did concede, however, my need to have the little camera man on his little stand with his little camera sited just next to her goals.

 

“I don’t want the fans to miss any goalmouth action…” I was firm, yet crackers.

 

“It’s not a real camera,” Jen began, just in case I might have thought…

 

“I know it’s not real – but you’ve got to admit – it adds to the authenticity?” that hadn’t started life out as a question.

 

I chose the gold and blue of 1970’s Brazil, with the mighty Pele playing up front, sporting, not his name, but that number 10 that he’d made his own during that era.

 

Jen chose the yellow and red away strip of 1970’s Partick Thistle. She thought they looked, “Kind of pretty” – I’m sure they would be delighted.

 

“The ball’s bigger than the players,” Jen said flatly – I thought for a moment that my little plastic Pele could fit inside the ball, just like a hamster…

“It’s meant to be like that,” I said churlishly, “You couldn’t hit the ball otherwise…”

 

“Go on then… ‘My perfect cousin’?”

 

“Ok, watch,” I placed the ball between my two front men for kick off, flicked Pele with the index finger of my right hand and we were away!

 

“You just flicked the little man and he hit the ball?”

 

“Yes, that’s what you’re supposed to do…”

 

“Yes, I know that,” she began testily, “but the song says, ‘…he flicked to kick, but I didn’t know’…You just flicked to kick.”

 

“Ah yes, but watch…” I had been just a little over zealous in my opening play, and now I was going to have to swerve one of my players (A sundry Brazillian who wasn’t Pele) around one of Jens players to strike the ball, “It’s all well and good when it’s an easy shot but…”

 

I stood, my index finger poised behind the ‘little man’, memories of my youth flooding back.

 

“See?” I was straining – surely she could see my discomfort.

 

“See…what exactly?’

 

“My finger?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I can’t move it,” my finger was paralysed just as it had been all those years ago.

 

“Of course you can, look…” and Jen gratuitously flicked sundry Brazilian into oblivion with one smooth action.

 

“He’s supposed to hit the ball – you were supposed to make him swerve around that player to make him hit that ball…” I pointed aggressively at each of the objects of my statement.

 

“Does it really matter if you miss?”

 

Does it really matter if I miss? Should it really matter if I miss?

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

What is worst thing that could happen? I snatched up the little sundry Brazilian from under the table.

 

“Ok,” I whispered, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

I placed him back to where he’d started before the journey through time and space that the evil Jen had sent him on. I stood, my index finger poised behind his base. All I had to do was swerve him around the Partick Thistle defender and I’d be on for a shot at goal.

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

Paralysis.

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

“John, just flick it!”

 

Jen should not have intervened.

 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!!!” I exulted as I smashed my hand down on my unsuspecting centre forward, “Cunting bastardly shitting fuck fuck – I can’t fucking flick it. That’s the fucking problem – I’ve got Subbuteo finger!”

 

I quietly collected up all the players, the ball, the goals and the little camera man and all his bits and pieces and put them all into their pristine boxes to be put away, back in the attic, forever.

 

Jen watched me in my little obsessive-compulsive world, open-mouthed until everything had been tidied away.

 

“John?” she spoke quietly, “What the fuck happened there?”

 

“Subbuteo Finger,” I seethed through clenched teeth.

 

“About 3 hours ago I asked you why you didn’t have a girlfriend,” still soothing and gentle, “What’s all this got to do with anything?”

 

“It’s a fucking metaphor!”

 

“What’s that? A metaphor for fucking? Because I certainly didn’t experience any paralysis…”

 

“Fuck off!” I intercepted.

 

“Tell me…” coaxing and gentle once more, “Come on, I want to hear.”

 

My heart was pounding. My palms sweaty. Most of all though, I felt a complete cock.

 

“Take your time…”

 

Gradually I could feel my body coming back in line. The fury I felt at myself subsiding as I slowly gathered my thoughts.

“You remember stripy haired woman?”

 

“Yes, you certainly won’t…”

 

My Paddington Bear hard stare was sufficient to stop her in her tracks, “…even with you… it was like taking the centre at the start of the game…”

 

“How?”

 

“It was an unmissable shot – it still mattered – but I couldn’t miss. Well, with stripy haired woman, it didn’t matter – but I still couldn’t miss – that made it even easier…You both asked me…”

 

I knew I was babbling.

 

“John, have you ever asked anyone out on a date before?”

 

She understood.

 

****

 

“I’d like you to see an oncologist,” Dr Higson spoke quietly.

 

I guess I’d been in denial. I hadn’t been thinking about this moment. I hadn’t been thinking about any of this.

 

What had I been thinking?

 

Why would I be losing weight if it wasn’t fucking cancer? I couldn’t think of any reason other than a disgusting, pulsating, hungry tumour lurking somewhere inside me.

 

“Shit…” I whispered, “Do you think it’s…”

 

He held his hands up, “I’m not sure – we just need to check it out just now…”

 

“When will I…”

 

“They’ll contact you soon…”

 

“Is that NHS ‘soon’ or real ‘soon’?” I still managed to smile

 

“Real soon,” he smiled warmly, taking my hands.

 

Fuck, this must be bad. My ordinarily restrained, no-nonsense GP is holding my hands. I’m fucking doomed!

 

“I feel great though…” was I pleading?

 

“Let’s see shall we?” and, once again he escorted me out into the harsh reality of the waiting room.

 

****

 

“Ask her over there…” Jen had taken on a somewhat directive approach to my Subbuteo Finger.

 

It was Friday night and we were sitting in the Black Bull watching all the potentially eligible women go by.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“She’ll think I’m taking the piss – she can see I’m with you…”

 

“But you’re not,”

 

“She doesn’t know that!”

 

“She,” Jen spoke slowly and purposefully, “might think you’re my brother…my friend…my workmate…”

 

“Come on Jen, it’s Friday night – who goes out with their sister or one workmate on a Friday evening?”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Jen stood up.

 

“Where are you going?” With Jen, any sudden movements made me nervous.

 

“I’m just going to the loo, ok?”

 

She was right to be pissed off. We’d been at this for the best part of 2 hours. I’d made prevarication into an art.

 

“She might have a boyfriend…”

 

“She might not like me…”

 

“She looks like a Conservative…”

 

had all been used to mentally fend off the need to approach potential suitors.

 

I saw Jen as she confidently strode across the bar with a wicked little smile dancing on her lips. She dropped herself dramatically into the sofa seat opposite me.

 

“Well,” she grinned, “She knows you’re not with me…”

 

“How…?”

 

“And, before you say, I know she isn’t gay…” she licked her lips provocatively.

 

“You didn’t?”

 

“Well, she might be a little ‘Bi-curious’ – but I think that would mean more work for me than it would for you…”

 

“You did, didn’t you?”

 

“Just a little  - she wasn’t terribly receptive to any tongue action though…”

 

“We’re leaving…”

 

“But why? I’ve just shown you that the door’s open,” she shrugged, “So to speak…”

 

I felt dizzy. I felt like I needed to vomit, “I can’t…”

 

“Can’t or won’t?”

 

“What do you think?” I said as I picked up my coat and walked out the door.

 

 

****

 

I knew the Eastern General in Edinburgh very well. I’d had a whole range of punters there who’d had a whole variety of ailments that effected their ability to look after themselves. I’d walked the corridors confidently, approaching ward staff and medics – attending ward rounds – fighting the corners of the frail and elderly to ensure they got the best deal possible from the social work department and the NHS. I felt big – I felt strong – I felt powerful…

 

Today though the hospital felt terribly big. The buildings higher – the corridors longer. I felt horribly on edge. Maybe it was just that I felt smaller – a child in a grown-up world.

 

Vulnerable and alone.

 

I could have asked mum to come along with me to the appointment with the oncologist, Dr Smith. But I didn’t. I’d have felt… Stupid.

 

I could have asked Jen. She knew about all this kind of stuff. But I hadn’t. Why hadn’t I? It wasn’t like it was a date or anything. I mean, a date to the oncology department – well, it’s different from going to the pictures.

 

Why hadn’t I asked Jen to come with me? Why couldn’t I ask Jen to come with me?

 

Subbuteo finger?

 

This was crazy.

 

Whenever any of my clients found themselves in this situation I always told them to make sure they had someone with them. Someone to be there for them. Someone to care for them. Someone who was able to listen carefully to what was said.

 

So often all patients heard was, “Blah blah blah – cancer – blah blah blah – Mrs Brown – Blah blah blah…”

 

Not terribly helpful really.

 

The corridor sloped down to a small reception area. It bottlenecked at a seemingly arbitrarily placed set of automatic doors. I watched as a young couple came through – she, I think, would have been ordinarily pretty – slimish, tallish with her light brown hair cascading in ringlets onto her shoulders. He – slightly taller and of a rugged appearance appeared to be supporting her as her face contorted and her body was wracked with grief. He whispered gently as he held her tightly to him.

 

In that wonderfully British way, they both dismissed their joint dismay as they smiled at me as I let them through the doors first.

 

Fuck.

 

Now, more than ever, I needed someone to carry me. My legs felt weak and I felt drenched in a cold sweat. Suddenly, I was that woman – that girl, God she could only have been in her early twenties.

 

What had she been told? How long did she have?

 

I remembered the dark humour that I’d been privy to when talking to the junior doctors in their private side rooms away from the wards.

 

“Well Mrs Brown,” Dr Gareth Jones had laughed as he portrayed an imaginary bedside scene, “my advice to you would be to avoid buying any long playing records…”

 

And it had been funny. I’d laughed. What a fucking hoot – the fictitious Mrs Brown wasn’t going to survive the length of a record. Ho-ho-ho.

 

Fuck.

 

Those same junior doctors had laughed their way through ‘The killing Season’ – the time when folk would die at the hands of inexperienced and occasionally incompetent medics who stood at the foot of the ladder of their heady career.

 

Death was an accepted occupational hazard.

 

“Hi, I’ve got an appointment to see Dr Smith,” it felt like someone else was speaking on my behalf.

 

“Are you taking any drugs, prescribed or otherwise?” smiled the bright young thing on the other side of the counter. Her suit, shirt an waistcoat had something of the fast food restaurant about it.

 

I was overwhelmed with a desire to say something ludicrous. Something that would break this horrible inner tension that I felt.

 

Instead of something dazzlingly witty or sharp, I said, “No – nothing…”

 

“Well, just take a seat, please and you’ll be called through.” She pointed in the general direction of the waiting room were a vast range of folk sat slouched in various stages of physical and emotional breakdown.

 

I joined them. I sat for what seemed like days staring at the huge sign behind reception that declared, “Oncology Department” and “Investors in People”.

 

What did that mean?

 

No matter, it was something to fix my gaze on. It was something that helped me to focus on nothing. Anything that meant not thinking about me or the rest of the ‘soon to be given bad news’ folk around me was a welcome respite.

 

Fast food woman appeared before me, “John? Dr Smith wants to see you now,”

 

I was startled by her appearance – as I snapped back into reality I could see all the other waiting-roomees smiling nervously at me…

 

We were all waiting at the gates of death and yet here, my little fucks- pax was the source of a ripple of merriment. Silly man hadn’t heard his name being called out.

 

What a shame.

 

“John? Take a seat…” we were all friends here – Dr Smith welcomed me in and pointed at the very nearly comfortable seat opposite his.

 

“This is Dr Patel, she’s…” fucking gorgeous, “…the senior Registrar with us at the moment.

 

This is what I hated. If I was social workering some poor innocent member of the community, I would write to them and then phone them beforehand to ensure it was ok for me to bring someone else with me to their particular party. It showed respect. What would happen if I didn’t want Dr Patel, beautiful though she was, present at this, the most traumatic moment of my entire life.

 

What if?

 

What if I actually said something that indicated my pissed-offedness?

 

No – best not. I don’t want to cause a fuss. I didn’t want to be seen as the ‘bad patient’. I didn’t want to…

Subbuteo finger?

 

No, not here, it couldn’t be.

 

No, the British don’t like to complain, therefore, I, being British, will not be complaining…

 

“You were referred to us by Dr Higson…”

 

and then it all went kind of blah, blah blah.

 

I might have heard the words, “Tests” but I’m not entirely sure.

 

I definitely heard, “So, we’ll see you in a week then?” as I got up to walk out the door.

 

“Is that it?” Mum was astonished at my lack of details.

 

“Er…”

 

“What tests?”

 

“Hmmm!” I said with little cohesion, raising my eyebrows.

 

“I’m coming with you next time…”

 

She should have come with me this time, then we wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation.

 

 

It could have been worse. I could have been interviewed by police officers who were able to spell ‘fascist’, ‘oppressor’ and/ or ‘proletariat’.

Probably for the best. 

On reflection, it would have been good to have been arrested by police officers who had a pen that worked between them.

Or who hadn’t chucked me in with a variety of life’s waifs and strays for several hours while they decided what to do with me. The fear of being spotted as someone’s social worker was pretty intense.

I was finally decanted from the Robert Peel Home for the terminally deviant at lunchtime – just in time to have a very quick shower, a donor-kebab flavoured pot-noodle and to turn up four and a half hours late for work.

“You could have phoned…” Pauline, my senior was terribly unimpressed at my tardiness.

“It wasn’t like ‘Police-Stop-Shoot-Action-Camera-Slow motion action replay just in case you missed the poor sod getting beaten unconscious in the first place…”

“What?” she stared at me through her social work issue, oval (ish) frameless glasses. Everything about this woman screamed androgyny. The sensible short back and sides. The white shirt and grey trouser combo. I fucking hated her.

“I didn’t get a phone call. Or a lawyer. That said, I didn’t get a large, latex covered hand shoved up my arse either…”

“Were you charged?”

“Well, yes…”
“So should you be here?”

“I think the phrase you’re searching for here is, ‘innocent until proven guilty’, aren’t you?”

“Are you innocent?”

“Until proven guilty, yes.”

“John, you know what I mean. Is there anything that you’ve done that would prevent you practicing as a social worker?”

“Well, no, not really…”

“What do you mean ‘not really’?” she was clearly somewhat narked, “Are you innocent?”

“Innocent…ish?” more of a question than an answer.

“Ok, that’s fine,” she turned back to her desk, “you’re on duty this afternoon.”

“But I was supposed to be on duty this morning…”

“You weren’t here though, were you?” she stated each word slowly and clearly to demonstrate just how under control her anger was.

I don’t like being shouted at so I beat a hasty retreat.

Being on duty at Wellspring House Social work centre meant being the unfortunate recipient of a large basket of papers that described a variety of crazy situations that folk found themselves in.

Some tragic, some bizarre, some downright comedic.

Thankfully, Pauline had put them in some order of priority for me – so thought wasn’t really essential at this stage.

The lovely thing about a big pile of papers that had been haphazardly placed in a basket was that they were soft and bouncy to the touch. They were ideal for resting my somewhat weary and traumatised head upon.

Pauline must have heard me snoring.

“John!” she exclaimed angrily.

I was slightly concerned to find that my sleep-drool had glued my left cheek to Agnes Taylor’s file. Pauline wore her well practiced, less than impressed expression as I gently peeled my face from her papers.

“I forgot my contact lenses,” a brilliant response to being found with my face in such close proximity to the duty basket.

She mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “Do you normally wear them in your ears?” but that would have been way too funny for her.

“We’ve just had an emergency call from housing,” Pauline handed me more papers. With the advent of computers we were supposed to be working in a paperless office. I’m sure that, as an office, we’re responsible for the death of the polar bears and other sundry cuddly critters around the world.

“Why didn’t the call come through to me?”

“It did.”

I momentarily wondered what Pauline would have looked like had she let her hair grow long – styling into a long, sultry bob-thing. She had a lovely mouth – some nice Rimmel would have set it off nicely, I felt.

“I was probably so engrossed…”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Er… sorry, not any more. I’m all ears,” I self-consciously stroked the spittle on my cheek.

“You’ll need to go out and see this man now.”

I glanced over the referral – a thirty-something man living in a tenement in one of the less salubrious parts of Edinburgh – he has long-standing schizo-affective disorder – his downstairs neighbour was complaining about water and assorted cracks coming through her ceiling.

“How about a plumber?” I’m here to help.

“Housing can’t gain access to his flat…”

Gain access? Gain access? No-one speaks like that…

“How about the police?” Was I passing the buck?

“John – just remind me what your job entails?”

“To be honest, loyal, trustworthy and brave…or is that something else?”

“Check his computer records and go and see him – you can tell me all about it when you get back.”

Driving my left-hand-drive and ancient Saab 96 on the way to see Mr. Stuart, my mind meandered around in its usual Rorschach inkblot sort of a way. Sex played a central theme, as did the fear of being caught with alcohol still coursing through my veins, as did the fear of losing my job due to over zealous policing…

I pulled up outside the flat. Mr. Stuart lived on the third floor. His records stated that he’d been sectioned a few times in his mid-thirties following a few intense episodes of his illness. He’d been decanted out of Gogar Brae, a Victorian institution that he’d lived in since he was 10, when the community care Act had come into being. He’d been given support for a number of years since then – both from social work and community psychiatry.

Thankfully, he had no history of violence. Well, he had no recorded history of violence.

I’d heard that one before.

“Mr Stuart?” I bellowed. The doorbell was clearly out of commission, so I chose to communicate with my would-be client through the medium of battering shit out of his door. I opened the letter-box to shout through and was struck by the pungent aroma of… what? Soggy foliage sprang to mind, not unlike the smell I remembered exuding from the jungle hot-house at the Botanic gardens.

“Mr…” I started to yell, only to be confronted by Colin Stuart’s genitals dangling casually just before my face.

This was a fucking stupid job.

“Hello?” Opening the door, he greeted me warmly, shaking my hand as he ushered me inside. He made absolutely no reference to the fact that he was stark and, indeed, bollock naked.

I made a move to wave my City of Edinburgh, “I’m a social worker, honest” badge in front of him.

“Please, sit down,” he said indicating a dilapidated sofa that had a shit brown colour and condition that made it a perfect match for my somewhat unloved motor. I could see them on ebay now, matching sofa and Saab set, free to a good home.

I had an unwritten rule regarding sitting on the sofas of unknown clients. I would politely decline the offer of a seat if it looked like I was going to stick to it. By the looks of Mr Stuarts flat, my adhesion to his furniture would be the least of his worries.

The situation was very odd. I had adopted my social work “nothing surprises me” demeanour as I scanned his living room.

Colour television? Check.

Coffee table? Check.

Gaudy seventies curtains? Check – sort of.

There was, of course, an elephant in the room. Not Mr Stuarts nakedness – I’d seen far worse in my time as a social worker, let me tell you…
No, the elephant in this case was a fucking great tree – possibly an oak, but don’t quote me – growing on the floor, well, out of the floor of his flat. Its upper branches were squashed up against the ceiling in a way that made me think of Alice in Wonderland.

Perched in the tree were at least three exotic and colourful birds that would not have been out of place in the Amazon.

Just in case I hadn’t quite grasped the ambient mood Mr. Stuart was trying to set here, his stereo was blasting out the sounds of cicadas, whooping monkey things and some creatures I couldn’t quite place.

The scene was completed by a stifling heat and humidity that I’d only previously experienced in a sauna in Leith.

I put my hand over my mouth in a futile attempt to stop myself from laughing. Every time I took my hand away my resolve was thwarted by a snort or a blurt of mirth.

Mr Stuart gazed humorously at me, his dark eyes sparkling.

“I will stop laughing in a second,” I grinned holding up my hand in an attempt to fend off the external world.

“Fine,” he smiled right back at me.

After a full fifteen minutes of gradually settling myself back into some semblance of professionalism I said, “Right, I’m fine… let’s talk.”

“Coffee?”

That sent me right back into hysterics – my mind flooded with tropical Kenco ads with terribly English men dressed in khaki shorts telling anyone who was willing to listen that they used exactly the same beans in their real and instant beverages.

Slowly, and with great determination, I quietly talked myself down. Only once did I laugh out loud – but that was when I thought of him scalding his nads whilst making me a drink.

“Housing got in touch with us because they were a bit worried about you…”

“Were they?” he nodded sagely, reflectively, his eyes darted from me, to his tree, to his birds. He turned off his jungle soundtrack.

“Start at the beginning,” I watched as he sat in a battered armchair opposite me.

He stroked the day old stubble on his chin, “I’m fucking crackers,” he said. A blunt statement of fact.

Had I been a lesser social worker, I’d have blabbed a plethora of meaningless platitudes like, “Don’t be silly,” and “Look what society’s done to you…”

Instead I said, “Go on.”

“I can’t live on my own.”

“You’ve been doing it for the last 10 years…”

“I’ve grown a fucking tree in my living room in the last 10 years,” he smiled laconically at the behemoth before him.

“Fair point, well made,” I smiled back.

“My friends and family are shit scared of me…” he began quietly, “Friends? Fucking friends, I haven’t seen any of them for years…” exasperated suddenly.

“Did any of them see the, er…” I nodded at the tree.

“Yeah, that probably did it.”

“How do you get food in?”

“Tescos – I buy on line – I use their bags to chuck my stuff away down the rubbish chute outside…”

“You never go out?”

“Why should I?” his arms spread out indicating his small world, “I’ve got all I’ll ever need here…” a hollow ring of irony.

I was suddenly struck by a scary thought, “Mr Stuart, how heavy do you think that tree is?”

His eyes widened, it was like he’d never considered it, “I, er… shit, I dunno – about a tonne – or so? – I dunno…”

The good news, as far as I was concerned, was that it hadn’t fallen through the floor on top of Mrs. X while she was watching a rerun of Dempsy and Makepeace.

It was only a matter of time though.

“Would you allow some folk into your flat to assess the weight of the tree – more to the point, would you allow some folk into your flat to assess the likelihood of the tree falling through the floor and killing someone?”

“Er, yeah – would they, like, strengthen the floorboards – something like that?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I lied. I knew the tree would be dismembered and taken off to that great Ikea in the sky faster than I could say, “I’m a lumberjack and I’m ok…”

“Would that be housing, then?”

“Yeah, I’ll give them a ring when I get back to the office – you might want to put some clothes on for when they visit,” I smiled.

“I don’t have any clothes,” Deadpan – fact.

“I, er, could get someone to contact you who could kit you out…”

“In dead men’s clothes?”

I grinned, “Probably…”

“I don’t need clothes – I never go out…” obstinate teenager?

“But they might think…”

“Doesn’t matter what they might think,” he spat angrily, “This is my house, my home – I can wear what I want…”

“What did you do at Gogar Brae?”

“I, er, I just wandered about the place.”

“In the countryside?”

“No, in the gardens – they were massive,” he had a bit of a far off look in his eye.

“Did you wear clothes then?”

“Yeah, jeans ‘n’ that…I didn’t want to frighten anyone,” he smiled a huge, warm smile.

“So if you didn’t want to frighten anyone there…” I said, clearly leading the witness.

“No… this is my home, I can do what I want…”

That, as they say, was that.

Changing tack, I asked, “How are you managing your illness in here on your own?”

“I do fine,”

“Are you up to date with your meds – injections and the like..?”

Mr Stuart stared at me, thinking, for some time before answering.

“Listen son,” he was speaking quietly, almost conspiratorially, in case someone could hear.

“John, my name’s John.”

“Listen John, this schizophrenia, it isn’t an illness… it’s a gift.” He leaned forward, his face in his hands – his gaze intense – he meant what he said.

That hung in the air for hours until I managed to say, “A gift?”

“Yes – it’s fantastic, marvellous – all you could ever dream for – and more…”

“I, er, what do you mean exactly?”

“Everyone with schizophrenia can communicate with everyone else with schizophrenia using telepathy – we talk to each other through the TV as well.”

Before I could get any handle on that, he went on, “John, come here,” we walked to the window, he pointed, “Do you see it?”

The sky? The bit of waste ground with a burnt out sofa lying in the middle of it? What?

“The Evil Eye, John, The Evil Eye…” 

I found myself looking into the sky – was I really looking for the Evil Eye?

“Er, no Stuart, I don’t see the Evil Eye…”

“It’s only a few of us that can, John. But we can warn you… Tell you what its plans are for you…”

“For me?”

“Yes – coz right now it’s looking right down at you…”

“It is? Is it? Er… ok, Mr Stuart – let’s get a few things straight…”

“You don’t see it?”

“No, I don’t see it…” I was always amazed by mental illness – how it seemed to transport a seemingly lucid guy, Mr Stuart, from speaking about day to day things – like trees (albeit in his living room), clothes and strengthening the floor so his tree didn’t kill old Mrs Wotsername downstairs, into someone who talked about scary eyes in the sky. 

I took out a large pad of paper from my bag. I drew a large circle on the front page then tore it off – I then drew a large circle on the second page, and tore that off. This was a little trick I used from time to time, with mixed success – but I thought in this instance it was worth giving it a shot.

“Ok Mr Stuart,” I began by writing his name on the top of one circle, and mine at the top of the other, “This,” I said pointing at my circle, “represents my reality, and this,” I said pointing at his…

“Represents my reality,” he interrupted.

“Yes – they’re different – I’m not saying mine is right and yours is wrong – I’m just saying they are different…”

I wrote a few words in my circle – “tree falling through floor”, “Mental illness”, “Clothing”, “No such thing as telepathy”, “The only people who communicate through the TV are the BBC”, “Mr Stuart hates living alone”.

I wrote a few words in his circle – “The Evil Eye”, “Telepathy”, “Tree falling through the floor”…

“There are areas where our realities overlap,” I explained as I drew 2 overlapping circles on a new piece of paper, “So – in this overlapping bit, I can put...?”

“Tree – and tree falling through the floor – and clothing…and that I can’t live on my own,” Mr Stuart joined in.

“And that’s where we can work together – does that sound ok?”

Mr Stuart smiled his smile – “Yeah, I can do that… I can do that.”

We chatted for a little while longer – small talk mainly – I was delighted that we’d appeared to have some connection. Not telepathic – just a working relationship that could be developed.

As I got up to leave, I decided to ask the question that I’d been avoiding throughout, “Mr. Stuart – the tree?”

“Yes?”

“Did you plant it deliberately to show folk that you were unable to live on your own?”

He said nothing – he just smiled and saw me to the door. He shook my hand warmly before closing the door behind me.

I felt just the smallest of shivers go down my spine. I’d encountered the Evil Eye thing a number of times now – but never had I had it pointed at me…

“What the fuck are you doing?”

To be fair, I was finding it a little difficult to hear what she was saying due to the somewhat uncompromising situation I now found myself in.

“Do you know what a clitoris is?” her tone was definitely a little tetchy.

Of course I knew what a fucking clitoris was. My mind meandered back to GCSE Human Biology where I had come top in the class for naming the bits of the, er, fanny. Not a massive claim to fame – but a claim to fame nonetheless. The thing that had always troubled me whilst gazing at the artistic impressions of all the male and female giblets – both internal and external – was that they never looked the way they were supposed to. 

Which kind of brings me to the matter in hand – so to speak. Well, more the matter sort of sitting on my face and wriggling about in a frustrated manner that I’d only previously seen in my cat, Jake, when he’d had worms – so to speak.

My problem was that I found it very difficult, at this very close range, to discern the difference between one part of the female frippery from another. As such, I was, I felt, more than making up for my lack of technical know-how with an enthusiastic, albeit orally cramping, random and far reaching tongue waggle and thrust combo.

Previous conquests had been more than happy with my input. Previous conquests probably felt sorry for me, faked their orgasm and rolled over cursing the day when the batteries ran out on their vibrator leading me to be the ‘any port’ in this particular storm. The thing was with these fine women is that they didn’t complain. They clearly saw that I was doing my best, chose not to say anything about it at the time, and refused any offers of hanky and indeed panky in the future.

Jen, much to my dismay, was not one of these women. Was she doing a service to all those women that lay before me, or was she was just hedonistically wanting me to get it right for her? At this moment? Right now!

I suspect it was the latter.

“Just up a bit…” her demands were slightly muffled by her thighs.

“Not that far…” she stopped short of calling me names, but I knew what was on her mind.

“There! Fucking there! Now just do that and don’t fucking move!”

 Suddenly it felt like I was in a bank raid. Do that – but don’t move. What was I supposed to do? My tongue was really aching after all it’s earlier exaggerated movements. I prayed that I’d be able to keep going for just a little longer…

This was our first date. Jen was a nurse on one of the wards where I’d been social workering. She’d caught my eye and, hey, you know the rest… Well, in reality, she’d obviously seen me as some kind of interesting specimen upon which to experiment and had asked me out.

“D’you fancy going out for a drink?” she’d smiled whilst holding my gaze just long enough for me to engage the fight or flight response.

“Sure,” I began kind of nonchalantly, any thoughts of Mr. Galbraith, the elderly client who I’d come to visit just dribbled away – in a very similar manner to the rest of my response which kind of went, “weeaaargghh…” a sort of gentle, drooling sound that didn’t really mean terribly much.

Ignoring my obvious mental seizure, Jen carried on, “What about tonight? I finish up about 6, I could meet you in the Black Bull around 7?”

Given my earlier failure to produce any coherent noises, I nodded meaningfully and manfully, turned quickly and clattered into a drip stand that was attached to some unfortunate individual who was talking to his relatives on the hospital payphone. He screamed, a little ostentatiously if you ask me, as the needle that attached him to his drip was torn out of his arm. I smiled meekly at Jen and then scurried off down the corridor before I could wreak any more havoc.

****


‘Disinterested’ is probably the best word to describe Jen’s demeanour as she sat nursing her gin and tonic in the bar of the Black Bull. I had been terribly excited and had led the conversation on everything from Mr. Galbraith’s massive hernia to the distressing news that West Brom had just been knocked out of the cup by Burnley.
I knew it wasn’t going well when she looked up at me with a bored expression. That caused me to babble more and faster.

“Listen John, I’ve had a hard day at work and I’m really tired…”

Fuck, I thought, and it had all looked so promising…

“I’m not up to all this small talk – so can we just go back to my place and fuck?”

So that’s what we did. Well, that was partly what we did. The rest of it was a kind of journey through every pornographic fantasy I’d ever had – and several pornographic fantasies I hadn’t.

What is the social etiquette when a woman you’ve only recently met manages to take the whole of your erect penis in her mouth? Thankfully I managed to stifle my first urge, which was to clap, replacing it with an equally embarrassing response which was to say, “Well done!” slightly more enthusiastically than I’d have liked.

I was genuinely amazed. Sure, I’m not endowed with the biggest cobblers in town, but I couldn’t help but think about the sword swallowers who’d appeared on a variety of shit magic shows in my youth. I wasn’t terribly sure if I found this erotic. It was definitely a neat trick and, if much of the internet porn I’d waded through in my time was anything to go by, it was what guys really loved. For me though – well, I could have done with just a little more kissing.

She came on, er in my mouth with celebratory cries and yells that were only slightly less ambivalent than her demeanour had been in the pub. She looked at me scornfully with a look that implied, “Thank fuck for that…”

I wasn’t done yet. Oh no, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

“Do you want to fuck me up the arse?” she still sounded slightly aggressive and almost businesslike. I wondered where we might go with the next suggestion if I refused. Again, shagging someone – ideally female – up the arse was something I felt I really should be terribly enthusiastic about. I’d never done that kind of thing before – and had never been in a position where I felt safe enough or even interested enough to suggest it.

“I, er…” I rubbed the short hairs on the back of my neck as I looked down at the floor – avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Go on,” she enthused, playfully tweaking my hard nipples that acted like mini loudspeakers, declaring, “This poor, inexperienced and naïve fool is willing to try anything you come up with…”

She rifled through several drawers in the Ikea cabinet next to her bed. With a satisfied sigh she pulled out a plastic bottle with the word “JOY” emblazoned on the side of it in jagged yellow letters.

Then she assumed the position. You know, the ‘anal sex’ position - well, the doggie-style position with which I had some level of familiarity.  She used the handy pump dispenser on the bottle to squirt the viscous gel-like substance over her arse-hole. Her, erm, chocolate starfish. It glistened as she fingered the lubricant in.

My heart was pounding. Not out of rampant male arousal – more out of anxiety and fear. Fear of losing my anal-sex virginity during an unexpected liaison with a nurse that I didn’t know terribly well. Fear of doing something that I wasn’t terribly sure that I wanted to do. Fear of all these thoughts getting in the way of my performance and my cock going all flobbery under the psychological pressure.

I could hide nothing from my penis.

   Usually I think of Russian tractors to ensure the longevity of my performance. If I really focused I could see the hairy faces and warts on the faces of the peasant women collecting the harvested potatoes – this could keep my coming to fruition at bay for ages.

Inexplicably and somewhat excruciatingly, I found myself not only struggling with the rights and wrongs of sticking my willie up someone’s bum, I was also doing this under the impassive gaze of the horny handed mothers of toil. My brain had engaged a kind of Pavlovian response – we’re in bed with a woman of the opposite sex, so to prolong the pleasure/ agony/ suspense, call it what you will, we have to think about these gnarled lovelies.

Flaccido Domingo springs to mind.

My internal dialogue suggested that if I were to do the deed, then we might have to mentally introduce some more attractive guests to the forefront of my mind. I flicked through the readily available images I’d prepared earlier. Suddenly I could see a couple of women with whom I’d had the pleasure in the past doing all the lovely kissy, sucky, licky things that I’d particularly enjoyed. Their hair cascading over my cock as they gave it their full, undivided attention.

That did the job. I knew that this psychological tussle would continue for a while yet and that this would have a profound effect on my knob. As such, I seized the moment and stuck my cock straight up Jens’ arse.

She made a strange pain/ pleasure kind of sound as I began to thrust and er, unthrust in the statutory shagging motion.

It felt odd. Whereas the front bottom of your average lady friend is lined with a mucusy tube of tissue and muscle that welcomes the sword of love in a similar way to peristalsis welcoming a sausage, for example, at the other end. The arse, conversely, has none of these accoutrements. It has a tight elastic sphincter that provides limited friction and rubbage to one’s ning nong. I felt that I’d pushed my cock into a tight hole only to find a large underground cavern on the other side. Had I been a pot-holer, I’d have been delighted.

However…

After a minute or two of thrust and counter thrust I decided that this really wasn’t my cup of tea and withdrew. I hoped that Jen would have further plans for my journey.

Unsurprisingly, she did. Wahay! She decided that enthusiastic oral attention would be what I required. I was carried away in a wonderful fugue state of ecstasy as I watched her blonde bob going up and down on me. This was going to be quick.

I could feel the point of no return come and go. I was just about to…

Suddenly, she stopped sucking and clenched her hand hard around my cock in what could only be described as a vice-like grip.

‘Preventative’ is a word that applies well here. She held me like that for 30 seconds, a minute, a week, four years… who knows? Her grip yielded and she wanked and sucked me until I ejaculated in her mouth.

I’ve always had a bit of a problem with the word, ‘ejaculate’. I feel that, if the word hadn’t been made up by a man, then it was surely a man who had first applied it in this sort of situation.

Ejaculation to me implies an explosion of stuff, of fluid, of passion – similar to the water gushing out of a fire hydrant after being knocked over by an out of control police car. The disappointing grunt and subsequent or, indeed co-ordinated, grunt and squirt that at the very most produces a teaspoon of sperm and semen, does not, to my mind, constitute an ejaculation.

Now, I’ve got to say that I’m with my male counterparts that live in internet pornland in that I find doing the old grunt ‘n’ squirt into a woman’s mouth terribly horny.

Why?

Why would that be remotely sexy? Why is it sexy when some guy on the net does this to some woman floating around in the same digital ether?

Am I some misogynist monster, dominating and claiming my woman by marking my territory?

Am I gay? I mean, watching some guy splodge onto some woman’s face… If it had been custard that he’d squirted into her mouth that wouldn’t be anywhere near as arousing. There is something about it having to be the male lovejuice…

Ok, if it was just a guy having a wank and spunking off into space, would that turn me on?

Oh fuck, maybe I am gay?

It’s displacement. I’m not looking at that guy per se, I’m imagining it’s me doing the squirty love thing. So when I’m imagining a guy having a wank, am I thinking about me having a wank?

Fuck, I think I’ll file this under, “Things not to discuss with your friends.”

“Cup of tea?” I hadn’t even noticed Jen get up, let alone leave the room.

“Er, yeah, thanks,” I was amazed that we could still speak to each other as humans after what had gone on.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, Honey?” I’m fucking funny, I am.

“I mean, do you take sugar?” she snarled

“I’m sweet enough?” I offered.

“Is that a ‘Yes’ then?”

“Yes.”

I took the tea to mean that I wouldn’t be having a sleepover at Jen’s. So, gone was the need for the “How do you like your eggs in the morning – unfertilized” gag.

Ambivalence had given way to a cold indifference. Even with my clumsy, uninsightful and manly ways, I could tell I was no longer welcome here. I drank back the scalding tea so quickly it tore away the inside of my mouth. Ok, I drank the hot tea and it hurt a bit.

“I’ll be off then, Jen,” I said, ambling towards the front door.

“Great, see you then,” she barely looked up from whatever deed that suddenly required her urgent attention in the kitchen/ diner.

“I’ll see myself out…”

It had to be raining. An apt obituary to the night. Fuck, how odd was that?

***

“John?” it was Jen, I didn’t know she had my work number.

“D’you fancy going out tonight?”

It had been three days since I’d heard from her. I’d tried to contact her at work and at home, but without any joy. I hadn’t been playing hard to get.

“Hi Jen, I thought you’d…” What? Died? Fled the country? Decided that you never wanted to see me again?

“…I thought you’d, er, lost my er, number…”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, I er…” there was no way of getting out of this without sounding completely pathetic.

“I thought we could go to Scorpion tonight.”

My heart sank. Throbbing music and lasers. Probably pole dancers. Fuck, probably dancing. I hate fucking dancing. I feel so bloody self-conscious. What does it mean? What’s the purpose of it?

“You do like a bit of a boogy, dontcha?” she coaxed. Shit, I could imagine her doing a little demonstrative shimmy as she said it.

“But it’s a school night…” It was. It was a bloody Wednesday. What kind of lunatic goes out in the middle of the week? Well, sure I’d done it as a student, but that was in pursuit of extended drinking hours. That, and the prospect of bagging off with some inebriated soul who should know better. The thing was, you couldn’t hear what people were saying. God, you couldn’t hear yourself think.

“I’m not working tomorrow,” she insisted, “C’mon, I’ll have you in bed before 2…”

“Yeah, I know, and if not you’ll make sure I go home…”

“Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

“Ok…” Fuck. Shit and fuck. Assert yourself, John!

“Great, I’ll pick you up at 9?”

“Er, where?”

“Your house. Oh, one thing – I haven’t got any money. I don’t get paid until the weekend. You don’t mind subbing me a few quid?”

Fuck. Dancing, going out to play on a week night, and now I’m paying for someone else…

“Ok…” I wonder if she’ll kiss me tonight, “You don’t mind if we finish up kind of early tonight?”

“Absolutely fine – it’ll be a quiet night – seriously.”

***

When Jen turned up that evening her appearance, and general demeanour come to that, didn’t exactly scream ‘quiet night out’.

Her freshly washed blonde hair was tied up in floppy ‘shag me now’ bunches. She wore almost no make-up except for a very ripe and shiny red lipstick. I remember reading that red lips were a sign that a woman was in oestrus. That’s why lipstick came into being – to make women more attractive to men by indicating that they were more, er, receptive.

As I stood gazing upon the deliciously sexy form that was Jen, my mind drifted to the events of that night. All the sexual gymnastics mixed in with lipstick into a great erotic splurge.

This was all brought to a sudden handbrake halt when I thought of rimming - the act of licking someone else’s bum bit – tied in with Rimmel, a famous manufacturer of lipstick… What does it all mean?

What about Red ring showers?

On her tee shirt, as a kind of homage to a famous high street brand, the word ‘Fuck’ was printed across her breasts. Less of an invitation, more of a demand.

Oh God.

“You look…” Nice? Shaggable? Like the woman I want to spend the rest of my life/ evening/ next twenty minutes with?

She smiled her smile and I was carried off to Scorpion.

As expected, it was shit. There were lasers and smoke and an astonishingly loud pulsating fucking racket.

“I’ve made a policy with myself never to sleep with anyone twice…” she bellowed at me over the sticky glass table.

“What never?” I may have sounded crushingly disappointed.

“Not at the moment anyway,” she grinned as she flicked my nose and vanished off to the dance floor.

I’d read somewhere that dancing was a kind of elaborate foreplay – or perhaps a display of property – or availability – or physical prowess. Whatever I’d read, didn’t to my mind, mean I’d ever have to actually do it.

So that was my evening. I sat and watched Jen dancing – for whatever reason – as the sound and lights gradually melted my brain. Occasionally she’d skip back, grinning so happily, flattering me with her presence – a bit like a daughter chatting to her old dad – until I gave her some more money for a drink, and then off she’d go again.

I drank too many expensive bottled -  ‘I can’t believe it’s not chemicals’ – ciders. I looked around at all the dancing folk. What were they getting out of this that I couldn’t even begin to see? I looked at some blondesque women, who, to the casual observer, had stripy hair. Why was stripy hair supposed to be attractive? What bloody maniac decided that stripy hair was going to be the next big thing?

Jen was dancing with two men in tight white shirts and significant hair product. They appeared to be playing some kind of sexual ping-pong with her as she laughed and whirled between them.

By the time she came back to the table I was astonishingly drunk and not a little maudlin.

“I’m going back to Steve’s tonight,” she yelled at me, “He and Mark are having a bit of a – er – party…”

My face felt several sizes too big as I managed to drool, “All I want is a girl with stripy hair…”

Jen afforded me a patronising, “Aww…” before she rubbed my head and vanished off with fucking bastard Mark and Steve.

Aside from its wonderful self-marketing properties, alcohol has a number of other fantastic intrinsic talents when blended with the human grey-matter. In this case it was the sudden, almost compulsive, desire to return home. It didn’t matter if the drink was half-finished. It didn’t matter if I hadn’t bagged off. Home and bed were all that mattered.

“Hi!” suddenly a pretty woman clattered through my malaise.

I squinted at her in a vain attempt to focus. She appeared to pulsate. Through the fog though I could see she had shoulder length stripy hair.

“Jen sent me over…” she smiled.

“Hi,” I grinned, “stay here, I just have to go to the loo…”

With the music from Mission Impossible one, two and three playing loudly in my subconscious I sped to the bog. If I allowed myself to metabolise any more of that chemical cider nonsense, I’d be incoherently pickled.

“I must puke, I must puke…” went the inner mantra.

I did, indeed, vomit. A golden waterfall of apples and bile. It wasn’t exactly an advert for shampoo, but it was wonderfully purging.

But no-one’s going to snog you with a mouthful of fetid flotsam and jetsam, are they? That’s why God invented the handy, buy in the bog and stick them in your gob, chewable toothbrushes.

I piled four into my mouth and chewed and crunched and licked but the taste of the lining of my stomach wouldn’t go away. I looked at the condom machine. Ribbed, flavoured, fuck, you could even buy ones with a little vibrator on the end…

Flavoured!

Ok, they were whiskey flavoured, but well worth a try. I pumped in my money, got myself four flavoured condoms and quietly secreted myself in one of the cubicles. I opened all the wrappers and, without a moments thought, stuck them all in my mouth and chewed vigorously.

Flavoured my fucking arse! They all tasted like rubber with a hint of God knows what. I momentarily panicked as I thought, “Rubber breath” but really, I was too pissed to care.

I got back to the table to find stripy haired lady waiting for me. How lovely. It was time for the smoochy dances and we found ourselves draped languidly all over each other…

Then I woke up.

This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t my bedroom. This wasn’t my house. I have a friend, Gordon, a chemical engineer who travels around the world, who, when he finds himself in predicaments such as this looks at the ceiling and returns to his default setting which is the Hotel Moskva in Moscow. So, if he’s not at home, and he’s got no idea where he is – he’s usually there.

I, unfortunately, had no such default setting. If I wasn’t in my own bed I’d usually close my eyes, think, “There’s no place like home” three times, and then find myself… well, in the same place really.

I looked around for clues. In the darkness I could make out the gently snoring form of stripy haired woman.

That wasn’t good enough for me. I needed more. Where did she live? Was it near me – if it was then that was a good thing because I had to get changed out of my vomit spattered clothes –

Oh Jesus, had I really chewed on condoms?

I also needed my car for work. What kind of moron goes out drinking on a school night?

Oh bloody fucking shit.

I didn’t even know stripy haired woman’s name. I’d actually done talks on sensible sexual behaviour among teenagers, and now here I was. Well, here I was. At least if I knew her name, I wouldn’t feel… well, I wouldn’t feel such a tart.

I could make out the shape of her bag on the floor next to the bed. If I could find her purse, there must be something in there, like a driving licence, an identity badge of some sort to tell me what her name was.

I quietly rolled out of my side of the bed, round to her side where the bag was. I gently opened it and looked inside – a veritable Aladdin’s cave of womanly accoutrements.

I reached inside and quietly lifted out her purse/ wallet thing. It opened out into three sections. There was an NHS card in one of the transparent windows. K. Wilson it said underneath a ridiculously unflattering photo. I decided I couldn’t call her Ms Wilson for the rest of the morning, and so I dug deeper in my search for her identity.

God, she had loads of credit and store cards. I spread them out across the bottom of the bed as I went. I could just read them in the half-light. Many of them didn’t give me any further information – until I got to her bankcard – her name was Kate.

But was she a ‘Kate’, or a ‘Katy’ or a ‘Kitty’ or..? I emptied all the contents of her purse on the floor. Surely there must be something?

“What are you doing?” Kate, Katy, Kitty sounded kind of drowsy, but a little angry too.

“I was just…” and then I looked at the fruits of my labour. The open, rummaged through bag, the empty purse with all the credit and debit cards lined up across the foot of the bed, and the little pile of money and bits of paper on the floor between my legs…

“I know what this looks like…” but what? Go on John, impress her. But what? You were rifling through all of her personal possessions, because?

“I’m phoning the police,” she looked at me defiantly as she pressed 999 on her phone.

“I, er…” I had nothing to say. Should I run away?

“Police please,” she almost spat.

“Can’t we...?” What? What could we do? Dance? There’s a great idea. Talk? Yeah, we could talk – ‘So, how often do you have guys home who help themselves to your things?’

Calmly, she gave her name and address. The good news was that she lived just round the corner from where I stayed. I could have gone home and had a shower, got changed and picked up my car. However, things were now looking altogether less certain.

She explained how she’d invited me home – paused while she was admonished by the voice on the phone – defended herself by saying I was a friend of a friend, and then explained how she found me emptying her bag and wallet.

She was succinct and factual. I thought she did rather well in the circumstances.

She put the phone down.

“They’ll be here within an hour…” she sat on her bed, folded her arms and stared at me, daring me to make a false move…

“Will I just pop your things back in your bag?” I offered brightly.

“That’s evidence – a crime scene,” she snarled.

I nodded in agreement and sat like a naughty primary school child awaiting the headmaster.

We sat there for the full hour. I didn’t want to leave because I thought that would make me look even more guilty in the circumstances. I thought I’d be able to talk to whatever police officer who arrived and explain away this whole unfortunate affair. Goodness, how we’d laugh.

Bad cop, bad cop finally arrived in the shape of PC Berryman and WPC Salisbury. He was tall and slim with a slightly pointy nose and piercing grey eyes. She was about a foot shorter, quite Mediterranean looking. I imagined her taking her hat off as her glossy auburn hair cascaded down her back, her lips pouting in wet anticipation…

Kate, Katy, Kitty explained what had happened. I nodded enthusiastically in agreement at all the bits I could remember.

“Did we really not have sex?”

She rolled her eyes and blushed slightly, “You fell asleep and started snoring before your head it the pillow…”

“Oh…”

“You’ll have to come back to the station,” said WPC miserable.

“Fine, I understand, it would be more than your paperwork could stand to have a section that said, ‘Misunderstanding – no further action’ in it, would it?”

“It wasn’t a fucking misunderstanding, you were going through my bag while I was asleep…”

“…and I told you that I was just looking for something with your name on it,”

“You could have asked me when I woke up…” she did have a point.

“We’ll have to handcuff you, sir,” PC Berryman had got right into his role.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, my name’s John. And you don’t have to handcuff me  - I’ll come quietly…”
“Sorry sir, health and safety. If you refuse, we could call for backup,” PC Berryman would have made a great straight man for someone. He’d even have made a good straight man for many of the straight men I’d seen.

“Health and safety!? Health…” I was stammering with incredulity, “She,” I said pointing at WPC Salisbury, “Would have no difficulty putting me in the back of the police car on her own. I’m a fucking social worker. I’m I lover, not a fighter…” God, did I really say that?

I put out my hands and PC Berryman cuffed me. I smiled a goodbye to Kate, Katy, Kitty as I was ushered out of the door. I was amazed by the amount of people out and about on the street. The whole world seemed to stop and watch me as I was escorted, handcuffed, into the police car.

Women portrayed in Science Fiction may be the most maligned species in the Universe of this Genre. I say this more as a point of discussion, however, when I look back at my old Pulp SF books, graphic novels and I see the princess of Mars characters often beautifully illustrated by the likes of Boris Velejo. Women are often sexy cyber-chicks like the bespectacled assassin in Neuromancer, or helpless busty blonds who needs to be rescued from her virginity to save the Universe. True or false?

Where next for Woman?
I write with female characters and I'm finding that I envisage them to be beautiful, highly intelligent, adaptable, and high adept at many skills. I wonder though whether I'm missing the point about using female characters. Should they be just people who happen to be female, or should the feminine and the female become a representation of the modern. Should woman become the new man in the future or does the woman transcend sex and develop into something more than either male or female?

Society
Female utopias and dystopias have been written about such as Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale where there is a tipping of the balance in favour of women, or where the female has found that society is more stable without the male. I’ve yet to explore this area. I do wonder if this concept is maybe outdated as feminism has moved on considerably from the eighties let alone the sixties.

Body
Still I find myself looking at women’s physical beauty as being a major theme in many books, comics and other visual media. Is this simply the adoration of the female form or titillation? In the book of Genesis Women comes after man. This, to me, is not a signifier of women’s inferiority as I know for a fact that women are anything but inferior, I would say from my male perspective that God got the body better with Mark II than the Mark 1 version, probably the same with their minds. Evolution would suggest that there could come a time where we gain a critical mass of change and become something different – this will be inevitable as our environment changes, but what effects do our thinking and society have on our evolution?  

Mind
What literature is there that explores the way women think. Am I being sexist in thinking that women think differently? I don’t think so as women do. They perceive life issues differently and can solve problems using different approaches. Of course there is a problem with that thought as people think differently but I’m sure people can clarify that better than I can here. I wonder if the way that a woman’s brain operates is more efficient or simply adapted to the roles undertaken of millions of years. If that’s true will women in the future think faster than men or develop senses that man does not have. Some say that is already the case when looking at mothers with their children.

Men
Now as you may know I’m an artist by background and I love figure drawing especially women I see, as countless artists before me that the female form has transsexual appeal. The male figure is not something that men like to talk to other men about but it’s funny how they can spend so much time working on keeping their body good; quite right too. I should exercise more often rather than typing on a computer. Men and women’s bodies representation over the last thirty years seems to have changed so much. So will women’s bodies change in the future? If there was no need for menstruation, natural birth and longer life span would women become more like men or something different all together. If we did not need to physically ‘interact’ with each other, in other words have sex, would become similar?

Superwoman
The obvious theme of women is where they have become superior to men, they become stronger and more aggressive – Amazonians. Six foot goddesses with laser guns. There we go now I’m doing it. The Barbarella movie springs to mind now. In the real world, women are now doing more of the jobs previously considered male only. The soldier is now a brave young career woman, a devoted mother, a prudent house owner and a loving wife. That’s a tall order. 

I think men have a problem dealing with this multi-role lifestyle. Yet there are already so many women who take on incredible responsibilities. Where next? Prime Minister. Well Margaret Thatcher was proof that a woman could lead a country (joining ranks with Boadicea). Women politicians I feel can be really scrutinised by the press looking for an excuse to discredit them. Jacky Smith has had a hard time – her husband let her down. I tell you chaps we’ve got to do better. I should say we’re not all the same, but we all have our moments.  

So is what new areas of the female condition can we explore? We’ve covered: boy meets girl, girl meets boy, girl thinks about girl but feels obliged to meet boy, girl think boy is rubbish and goes for the other girl, girl doesn’t need to meet boy or girl, and girl knows best and is better than boy. What does girl do now? 

Do I need to be a woman to be able to do this? I hope not, otherwise I’m in trouble.

As ever I will love to read your feedback and advice.


For information on Feminism in Science Fiction visit:
Feminist Science Fiction on Wikipedia 

I attended the Writer's Workshop course for beginners writing a novel. It was brilliant. It was also the first time I realised that: a. I was one of three chaps and fifteen women on the course – no complaints; b. the only writer to be working in the SF genre on the course.

So what?

Indeed. But it seems to me that there's always been a certain stigma attached to SF. The problem? Geekness: socially dysfunctional nerds who dream of robot men from Mars rescuing the galactic princess from the evil sex-mad beast lord from ...whatever. Is that what you're thinking?

Maybe.

Well who else is writing SF? An amazing array of men and women. The breadth and depth of the genre is equally broad. From Mary Shelley's ‘Frankenstein’ to Ian M Banks  'Matter'. Covering, evolution, sex, the mind, the end of the world, a new world, the end of a universe, a new form of life, machines alive, computers taking over the world, and all the grass dying. Some amazing things.

It seems to me that the genre is often miss-treated, and miss-understood. For example, War of the Worlds by H.G. Well's has been made into films and television series depicting metal Martians taking over Earth and dropping dead at the last minute because of bacteria. That's it right? No quite. Herbert George Wells was a visionary writer, a scientist and a humanist not a MCcArthyist. His aim was not to provide a thin veil to disguise a dislike for another culture or social order (As with the 1953 film version). It was to illustrate what could happen to mankind in the far future - would we be like the Martians. His other goal, to explore how late Victorian society at the time would, in his view, fall apart rapidly, loosing the social morals at the time.

Science fact or fiction, the distortion of ideas, timelines and histories, what if’s and new ideas are all very useful tools to handle difficult social issues, taboos and explore ‘blue sky’ thinking.

Challenge everything.

So what's everyone's view on Science Fiction then...?