Kevin Bentley is an evil, soulless wretch, and has caused me nothing but pain, misery and utter suicidal despair.
We were once (I thought) best friends. I remember the first day of school, a frightened Kevin stood all alone in the corner of the playground and only I cared enough to talk to him. Our first few years of friendship were great, we would hang out at each other’s homes, sit next to each other in class, share our toys and video games but alas then puberty arrived and although it was remorseless to me, (my nickname was pizza face) it transformed the runty Kevin into an adonis, and that’s when his utter cruelty began.
Steve was struggling. The vaguely familiar face,- was it himself or Nige? Prosopognosia was a real bummer. Dr Shah had suggested focussing on a distinguishing feature. For Steven it was hair,or the lack thereof. His own scalp was silky smooth, shaven each morning at Ali Barber’s; Nigel had locks that tumbled to his shoulders Some sufferers could not differentiate between a face and a car so the fact he could now recognise both his own face and the mirror, evidenced, he had been told significant progress.
“Two Peas, two pods” his mother would say when strangers remarked on the dissonant appearance of the non-identical twins,- different in height and physique, yet incongruously ditto-dressed with strangely duplicate faces. They dressed identically over the boundary-pushing teenage years, into adulthood and beyond into middle age . That and their penchant for wearing copy-cat beanie hats come rain, come shine, was their USP. Nigel, taller, red-headed, a beanpole, was the brawn and he, a Billy Bunter, the brains. Brawn, brains and sibling rivalry make for uncomfortable bedfellows. In adolescence Steven would invariably get the girl whilst Nigel, having been caught copying Steven’s homework, would spend the evening in after-school detention.
Dr Ima Kwak hesitated. The oblique angle of the antique mirror captured him seated in his wood-panelled office; the leather olive-green captain’s chair highlighted his status. He caught himself glancing and sighed. That advert had sounded promising.
“Immersive Scenarios ensure every trainee surgeon is practice-ready for ONLYa fraction of your traditional cost.”
Still he held back from clicking the know-more link. The responsibilities of Regional Post-Graduate Dean in Medical Education had over the 26 years seeped, morphed and varicosed as if from an untreatable haemophiliac. It now included fiscal responsibility and he was at heart a clinician not an accountant.
“Save it for best,” Mum always said, squirrelling away the fancy china and silk pyjamas.
The saddest thing about sorting through Mum’s possessions is that there are no memories attached to most of them. The house is full of relics that, like Mum, have gathered dust for decades, waiting for a day that never came.
What would have been a special enough occasion to don her finery and leave the house? A meeting with the Queen? Certainly not lunch with me. My wedding. A day out with my children. That is why I stayed away, even as her health declined. It made sense that Adrian, my brother, should look after her, given his closer proximity and the fact that he doesn’t have children.
“If yer want my opinion,” says Bill. He looks up at Alana, with his runtish face twisted into an intense expression.
“Frankly Bill, I don’t,” Alana interjects before he can launch into one of his tirades about the subject at hand, one of his favourites—why elves would be better employed getting some time in—and monopolise the conversation with tired but well-practised jeu de mots and superficially plausible conclusions that pay scant regard to any logical rigour.
His studio had posters of naked women on the walls, empty beer cans littering the floor, and the company line was “Harlan Ray is God”. Should have quit when the guys dubbed me a faggot for choosing to go to the ballet rather than a football game. Well, it was winter, and I’d rather be in doors.
What with the encircling memories crowding in, Engineer Ozob completely forgot to recalibrate the composter. The consequences, cataclysmal, are well-documented in the journals recently unearthed, an appropriate descriptor, given the tons of earth mixed with meteor fragments that had entombed the Obmil Annals. 110 year-books, carbon-dated 5630 AD to 5740 AD, then silence.
The previous evening, prior to Ozob’s dream, Deputy Toidi had reported, “Composter one’s out again.” with that smug look that said “You must have it done it wrong again.”
“I’m onto it. Good timing; a new rubbish cloud is orbiting.”
Friends. Looking back on my years as a magistrate, I can offer the following insight into human nature: honesty boxes are a gateway drug to a life of petty crime. The whole concept of the honesty box is an oxymoron; a temptation to the weak. They create the conditions for dishonesty.
In a wonderful, imaginary world, humanity would show basic decency and charitable intentions towards fellow citizens; we could all be trusted. Magistrates would rarely be required. And, in truth, many do strive towards this ideal. But life is full of people taking more than their fair share of sweeties out of the communal jar.
Tobermory held his daughter’s hand as they walked along the corridor, their footsteps echoing from the stone walls. He sensed her looking up and gave her a little squeeze.
“Don’t worry, daddy,” Eleanor said, “I’ll be okay.”
“I know, Pumpkin,” he said, displaying a sad smile. “We’ll all be okay.”
“Did you bring Flibut?”
Tobermory pulled the stuffed, one-eared camel from his bag. “Yes, he’s here.”
“Because I couldn’t go without Flibut.”
He looked down at her earnest features, a pixie face in a halo of red curls. Just five years old, he thought, how could there be a god?
He could have scooped her up right there and bounded back down the corridor. But he knew the guards would pick him off before they got out. And a stranger would make the long walk with her.
Walking through the early morning mist, I remember years ago thinking I was walking on clouds. When the mist was higher it would wrap itself around me pulling me to the old mansion.
It all started with a dare that I could not refuse: entering the local haunted house. I pulled the board from the entrance and an earthy musty smell raced out, as though it had waited too long to escape, and disappeared into the undergrowth. Opening the entrance further, I caught my first glimpse of the damage inside. Stairs were misshapen, lurching this way and that. Rustling erupted, balls scurried into the depths away from the light. Once inside the dust swirled around my feet and a breeze caressed my cheek like fingers, but I didn’t feel threatened.
Clarence had been a disappointment to his mother from the day he was born. He had been expected to be a she, to fulfil the prophecy of the seventh daughter to the seventh daughter.
Throughout his life, she had never forgiven him for spoiling her dreams. His sisters on the other hand, were delighted that they didn’t have a sister who would rule superior over them. He grew up, being showered with their love and also all the things they didn’t want to undertake themselves.
This morning, my algae soup tasted even blander than usual. Lifeless. Flavourless. Purposeless.
“Seems familiar,” I mused, granting myself a rare indulgence – not washing the bowl. Why bother? It joined the stack of unwashed dishes, each marking days of the same hollow thought.
Outside my house, I stood before the only soul who would have cared. She would have made me wash up; she made me a better man. Kneeling, I placed a small metal flower upon her makeshift grave. Its subtle blue hue was a stark contrast to this monochrome underground world of dirt and metal.
Colonel Halcro considered the relative merits of the two options. “Accommodations comfortable and elegant, the surrounding countryside abounding with objects of antiquarian interest.” That descriptor would appeal to his lady-wife. His own preference was Flett’s Private Board and Lodgings, “reasonable rates, on-site availability of books for shooting and fishing, guns for hire, the Dog-Cart available for resident parties, refreshments good and cheap, and the plentiful supply of firewood.” The decision was made. Susan was a reasonable soul, hardened by the realities for military wives returned from the colonies. If Halcro was contented, she could almost persuade herself that she was. If both, then no contest. She envisaged a restful week together but apart, the short Scottish days, Halcro up to his thighs in waders, casting into the Sound, or lining up his sights for the grouse, whilst she, intrepid amateur female archaeologist, continued in the Dog Cart to the fossil site, pointing trowel and extractor hammer in hand. Cosy evenings before the blazing fire in the panelled drawing room would follow, then later maybe a rekindling of the passionate nights of their early marriage.
‘Could I actually just go in there and…? Let me think. Smother him? Yes, yes I could.’
‘We might not need to, Natasha. I’ve not been feeding him.’
‘You’ve been cutting back on his meals?’
‘I’ve not given him any food in seven days. Just water.’
‘He’s looking very gaunt, Annette. Do you mean you’ve been deliberately…?’
‘I want him dead. I hate him. This way we just say he wouldn’t eat, we say he…’
‘Refused food… we say he didn’t want to live any more with the pain of the cancer… we…’
‘We wait two more days. He can’t last out if we starve him.’
/
In his studio they looked at the paintings, many of them of themselves in the first flush of puberty, thin, uncomfortable, unhappy, all naked. Natasha remembered him painting Annette many times, then her turn came. She didn’t quite know what was going on. It’s art, darling, her mother insisted, keep still for Daddy and stop complaining. Her mother had practically pimped her. Creation from exploitation? That wasn’t art. Post-Jimmy Saville his reputation had crashed. Now he was reviled by many, his works removed from galleries. Quite right. Burn them all. A vile paedophile.
His sister though believed they had aesthetic value, said each haunted portrait revealed her mixed feelings: fear of her father and her unbreakable connection to him.
The wind bayed relentlessly as it had for the last three days. It forced its way through the cracks and crevices to send darts of ice through the cottage.
Megan huddled under the blankets cuddling up to her siblings on their pallet in the rafters. Her grandfather lay shivering on his bed in the alcove besides the hearth. Their fire burnt low as the peat was running out. They would soon be dependent on the droppings of the animals in the byre.
Mother and father spent most of the day trying to clear a way through the snow to provide water for the animals before the water froze over again. Desperation was etched in their faces. They would have to slaughter some of the animals if the snow did not stop soon, something they could ill afford as they kept food on their table .
As a hybrid Goggapod /Cockaigian, Chief Prommy was trapped in a dual awareness. The cull wasn’t working as expected. The Goggapods, who regarded themselves as The Legitimate Inheritors, were as innovative…. and devious…. as ever,- hiding in the tunnels of Plurian’s moons: shape-shifting so expertly that even with A.I. advance diagnostics they were routinely identified as unalloyed Cockaigians: using non-galactically recognised W.M.D: in short evading all efforts of obliteration. The new order was unambiguous, one word, “Annihilate.”
Comply or Defy,-.that was the dilemma. The sensation of Goggapods crawling over the proximal tendril’s communication device was a by-now familiar precursor to the resultant odour of a singeing short circuit. Of course the Goggapods were not actually crawling, but to The Cockaigne Higher-ups, and in a half-hidden corner of Prommy’s own consciousness, it confirmed the presence of doubt, possibly treason.
Lorenzo had booked the local pub, boasting to a few hopefuls that they’d win “oh fifty quid” and have the attention of a hundred people when they performed.
The worst thing that could happen was that they’d be laughed at, although this crowd tended to look away in embarrassment when a no-talent embarrassed themselves.
This was isolation in its purest form. Loneliness inescapable. No rescue, no relief, no companionship, no comfort, and no end.
How long had he been there? A million years, merely a week? Another agony was that in his sightless, soundless state, he could not even measure time.
He would never again know fresh air, a good meal or the touch of a warm hand.
*
“Make me immortal,” he yelled at the Djinn, and it granted his wish.
He gleefully drank down every poison, feeling no ill effects. He had his armed guards charge at him, and even the sharpest blade never pierced his skin.
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