Harry stood in the doorway, his jackdaw black suit hugging him like a second skin, a bunch of flowers dangling from almost limp fingers.
Two nights away. A conference in Bournemouth. Thirty blokes getting drunk and talking about writing down expenses. From day one, he just wanted to get home to his wife, Sarah. He spoke to her last night in the casual terms of long familiarity.
“Love you.”
“Love you, three.”
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“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Martha laughed “but first, close your eyes.”
What was this little surprise? Martha would probably hold up a deformed jumper, which she had knitted over many nights, and Chris would force herself to wear the itchy ill-fitting thing with a “Oh it’s just what I wanted!” kind of smile. That was typical Martha. A trait Chris still found rather charming.
Her birthday surprise as it turned out was much more alarming, for as Chris sat cross legged upon her lavender sofa, she felt the warm sensation of something soft pressing against her lips. Her eyes bolted open to find Martha, her BFF, kissing her.
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Sitting at his desk Father Time, opening his journal, gave vent to his frustration. Why, oh why, couldn’t people be happy with their lives? Time after time they try to hold back time, or pelt through, as in a race against it.
Mothers wanting their babies to arrive quickly; at months old they wanted them to be walking and talking, and to know what ails them at three in the morning. And once in school wanting them to little again, holding back the natural rhythm of time.
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The quaint and characteristic muddle of smells has stayed with me since the earliest of days. I can look back down the years and remember visits to great aunt Violet (my grandmother’s sister): first as duty visits with my mother and then more eager and self-willed visits on my own. I can well recall her face and details of the tiny cottage and surrounding garden, but it is the smells stay in my memory.
Each beam and hook and cupboard handle in the kitchen held drying herbs and flowers. These were later crumbled into jars and packets and used in cooking or medicinal remedies. Herbs were kept perky in jars of water, ready to be freshly chopped into oils, alcohols or distilled into tinctures. Soaps and lotions, vinegars and essential oils filled cupboards and shelves. Sometimes Violet sold her wares to local shops, and she also had postal enquiries and word-of -mouth recommendations.
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“I can travel through time,” the murderer explained.
Ah, of course. PC Milo, the officer tasked with the interrogation, pondered if Roger Sheen had a brain tumour or was perhaps banking on an insanity plea.
Sheen had no history of violence or aggression, was an honours student at college as a matter of fact and hadn’t as far as anyone knew even met Luke Moore before.
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Mam was in a jumpy phase. Carl had been hoping her new boyfriend would bring her some calmness. After all, Astro had been patient with him. He’d taught him songs, and school stuff like showing him how to remember his tables.
‘If you feel that way about me, you can go!’ Mam was saying. Her face was red, her eyes wild like that panicking horse he’d see on tv, and which he kept thinking about in bed when the light was off.
There were days when Mam seemed to be in a hurry like a racing car round a circuit. Other days she was quiet, didn’t want to go out, was touchy. She took medication to help her condition, but she was still a different person from one week to the next. Was her medicine worsening things? He worried about that sometimes.
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Memories of the past ebb and flow around me like a fast-running stream. Here and there, I pick out snatches of melody, laughter or tears, heartache or guilt. Occasionally, small groups clump together in eddies, circling round, threatening to drag me into the whirlpool of emotion of a particular moment; a birth, a death, singing with joy until my voice is hoarse. I linger at each of these, but the need for closure presses me onward.
This is my personal Hall of Ancestors and, as I walk its length, portraits on the wall show each reincarnation; the twenty-first century social media star, the patent office clerk, the eighteenth-century Swiss craftsman. Here, a rural Italian mother garnishes a steaming pasta dish, and there a mediaeval herbalist offers a concoction of their own devising that claims to be a panacea for any illness from a sore throat to parasitic infections.
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My heart races against the clock. As 17:59 becomes 18:00, it looks like the word ‘Boo.’ Mum says a swear-word and I jump. My swimming lesson starts now but we haven’t even parked the car.
On the radio, the newsreader says an asteroid will narrowly miss Earth tonight. I picture myself riding it, flames shooting behind me, and diving into the pool just in time.
Mum stops the car so suddenly that I jolt forward. ‘Jump out here, Thomas!’
My bag is wedged in the space in front of my seat. I tug while another clock inside my head counts down until Mum explodes. Beside me, she inflates like a balloon. Three, two, one…
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Inspector Camden Ironbell glared through the taxi window. He sighed and stroked his long beard. It would have been quicker to walk, he thought. He turned to his sergeant, who had her head stuck in a magazine.
“What are you reading, Lightwarble?”
Umros Lightwarble held up the magazine so he could see the cover. “Scientific Gnomus.”
“I see.” He raised an eyebrow. In his opinion, young Gnomes spent far too much time on human science and not enough on old-fashioned magic. “And WHAT is the article about?”
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Trowel in hand Felix bends down over the charcoal. It’s dark down here. Orange-filtered head torches are the chosen form of illumination; more authentic at replicating the flickering firelight of old and less harmful than arc lights for the delicate surfaces of excavated artefacts.
“Enough! Eight hours running! We’re off for a jar. You coming?”
“No, must dust Him off first. Catch you later”
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Are you:-
If you can answer yes to all of the above and have a superpower, we want to meet you! Interviews here, commencing at 9.00 a.m. on Tuesday, 3rd May.
Henry and George were both seated in front of the stage.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” asked George.
“Yes, a Superhero will be someone the common people can look up to, someone they can believe in, it is exactly what we need right now. We need a big distraction to stop them focusing on us.”
“Can’t you just bribe them? That’s worked well in the past.”
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“This is all of the candidates?” I heard him ask his advisors, sotto voce.
His gaze swept me dismissively, no more interested than had I been a speck of lint on his finely tailored collar. I took no offence; clients who have underestimated and tried to double cross me in the past have regretted it, albeit very briefly.
“This is most irregular.” An acolyte was addressing me directly now.
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An obituary published in the local paper caught Martha’s eye.
“Poor Mr. Aldridge has passed away.”
Martha’s husband hid behind his Times, “Humph” his reply.
“Do you think we should attend his funeral. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of.”
“Humph.”
Martha knew Mr. Aldridge enough to say hello, him not being very social or active in the neighbourhood. The thought of his funeral being unattended was unthinkable. On a chilly but bright morning Martha wandered down to the church with a bouquet of flowers from her garden. Walking up the path of the churchyard, she noticed a crowd of military men all in full-dress uniform. She hesitated slightly, and a gentleman behind her urged her on. Walking into the church, she marvelled at the beautiful flowers; half the pews were full of military men. Sidling into the back pews, she watched the ceremony.
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“Woe to the warrior, woe to the woman of the street, and woe most all of all he who hears but does not believe!”
The braying, bleating voice was once again calling out in the square. People came to trade and gossip, often from ten miles away and the last thing anyone needed was the shaming voice of a pious preacher.
So, Herndon, retired but still a respected war hero, decided to talk some sense into the young Christian, and if not sense, perhaps a little muscle.
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On his haunches outside the toilet, whimpering. Of course his mistress would return. But what if she stayed there for ever, studying the face she saw reflected in the tiny pool fixed on the wall above the sink?
Anxious? Indeed. He hadn’t forgotten his first eight years, had he? Living in a shed, Mr Phillips cursorily leaving him food, then ignoring him. Occasionally the house dogs, big as buses, would come out and get angry with him. ‘Outsider!’ they would snarl. ‘Stay out of our house. Not welcome!’ One of them, an Alsatian called Farage, the head on him the size of his shed, bit him once him on top of his skull. Mr Phillips had put a bit of rag over the cut, muttering, ‘Now what’ve you been up to? Flipping nuisance!’
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I met with my hero twice a day, everyday. Morning and night. He wasn’t your average hero, he didn’t wear a cape, or fly, nor did he have highly advanced technology. He was small, white, round and tasted of talcum powder. He did have superpowers, he could fight against illness, look after me and was very strong.
Yes, he was a tablet. My hero was a tablet.
We first met when his fellow tablets couldn’t handle me. He was recommended by the doctor because he was so strong. I did some research on him. Found out what his strengths and weakness were. If I were to work with this fella, let him into my life, I needed to know who he was.
He seemed suitable.
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Mavis Potter reclined in her seat, her body visibly deflating.
‘That’s such a relief, Dr Parker. I was certain it was a brain tumour. Thank you for seeing me out of hours again. You really are a hero.’
‘Just doing my job. The migraine should subside soon, and the tablets will help. In future, remember that stress can be a trigger – that includes googling symptoms.’
Dr Paul Parker’s smile reached the corners of his eyes, kindness radiating out of him. Mavis basked in it for a moment. A visit to the GP was as good as a holiday.
She floated out of the surgery. ‘Thank you, Dr!’
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The family last got together at their family ranch in the spring of ’06. Mike Profaci, tired from a three-hundred-mile drive along I-15 from Calgary to Great Falls, pulled his RV into the yard fronting the house just as a warm May-wind whipped through the Engelmanns lining the packed gravel driveway that cut through the forest from the Interstate to the Lucchese casa-di-famiglia.
His mother stepped onto the porch, her familiar gingham apron flapping in the breeze, a warm smile on her face and arms opened wide.
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The fellow smoked his pipe, stroked his messy mane of a beard, and Johnson who it must be said lacked insight was unsure of what to make of him.
The man was intelligent yes, or at least, confident, and all around the walls of his innermost chamber, (a converted garage in truth) showed a life well lived. Framed photos proudly depicted the gentleman, shaking hands with Andy Warhol or standing in front of the pyramids of Giza.
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The syringe went in. As small wisps of raw power arced between her fingertips, she let out an involuntary gasp. She’d been expecting something of course, just not… this. Her entire life she’d been told she was special. “One in seven billion,” said the very serious looking people in white coats, who’d crowded round her prodding, poking, and doing all sorts of other tests, then shaking their heads.
Now, those same men stood back, as awestruck as she was, before turning to shake each other’s hands.
“We’ve done it!” one of them whispered reverently. “We’ve tamed Clarke’s Third Law.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and then… she did. Information was there for her instantly; every electron that had ever passed through any electronic storage device available for her to access at will. Some of it was fascinating, some too disturbing to contemplate, but suddenly she understood what she was. Who they were. What they’d done to her. Her brain and body felt truly alive… electric.
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