10-book 3D Bookshelf

A MATTER OF CHOICE

“All you gotta do is make a choice.” The Collections Officer smiles gently at Margaret Worksop, his gaze flicking briefly to his two companions. “It couldn’t be easier, señora, could it?”

Frantic, she wrings her hands. Her eyes dart from place to place; the table, the chair, the cupboard and the hidden bed. All the while her mind seeks other options. “I can’t do it!” She snaps her gaze to the officer, her breathing ragged.

“You already know the consequences if you don’t but let me make it simple for you.” His tone is condescending. “To be clear…”

“You’ve already said…” She growls at him, but he silences her when he places a black-gloved finger on her lips and shakes his head.

“As I was saying, to be clear, I will explain once more so there is no misunderstanding.” He pauses, a patronising little smile on his thin lips. He waits, as if to provoke further reaction. “One child has to be selected. You cannot be selected, nor can you refuse to make the selection. Either of these options will mean the selection of both children.” He jerks his eyebrows up, looking directly into her eyes. “Any questions?”

She glares unflinchingly back at him. “How did you find out?”

“Neighbours are such wonderful people, don’t you think?” His hand makes a circle encompassing the entire neighbourhood.

Her head shakes with the smallest of movements.

He jerks his chin up and his companions step forward and take hold of her arms. “It’s a pity, Señora Worksop,

that you were unable to decide eleven years ago, isn’t it?” His mouth curls down at the ends. “If you had made the decision then, you wouldn’t have to do it now, would you?” His hand whips up and across, slapping her hard, rocking her back on her heels.

Her teeth clench, and she stifles a cry of pain.

Her daughter, Charlotte, is not so reserved. Still kneeling on the floor next to her brother, she is weeping. Each breath getting deeper until finally she moans in her anguish.

At her side James, her younger brother, keeps still and silent. His eyes closed, breathing slow and steady with his chin high.

“It’s all right Charlotte.” Margaret tries to sound calm. “They can’t do this…”

“Oh, but we can Señora Worksop. We have the power of the judiciary behind us

to enforce the laws relating to uncontrolled population growth.” The officer’s tone is superior, smooth and clear. He knows his rights and it shows in his not-so-gentle smile. “One child per couple. That’s the law and there is no room for negotiation.” He folds his arms across his chest. “The laws were published well in advance of when they became effective. They were publicised in every form of media, including word-of-mouth. You could not have missed hearing them even if you had been on another continent. These are global laws and apply to every single member of the world’s population.” He draws a slow, deep breath. With a disparaging look up, and down, her body he uses his most officious manner to continue. “Those laws came into effect…” He raises his right hand and cups his chin. “…let me see…” His brows form a shallow ‘V’ over his dark brown eyes. His hand snaps away from his chin, and he raises a

forefinger in triumph. “I remember! It was just one month after you conceived James, wasn’t it?”

The pregnancy had been an accident, but an accident founded in the love Margaret Worksop had for her husband. His death hadn’t diminished her love for him. Never had she imagined that her love would bear such a cruel consequence. Her brimming tears finally spill.

She had been unable to terminate the pregnancy even after only one month. It would have been a cold and heartless act even though, at that time, it had been a sexless, nameless thing inside her.

Now it is James; her son, and it is Charlotte; her daughter that must face the consequences of her rebellion.

Her eyes keep looking from one to the other. Thankful that they are facing away from her; that they can’t see the terror in

her eyes.

The officer unbuttons his holster and withdraws a pistol with a silencer. He offers it to her butt first.

For an eternity of fear-filled moments she stares at the gun. Her shoulders droop and she tries to lift her arm to take it.

The officer looks at the pistol and covers his mouth with his hand. “Oh! What am I thinking?” He withdraws the gun.

Margaret takes a deep breath, hoping that he is just playing a cruel little game and that she won’t have to make the choice.

“We’re in a basement…” He begins unscrewing the silencer. “…so, we won’t need this, will we?” A weak, weasel of a smile crosses his face, before he offers the pistol again.

A deep, body-wracking sob pulls her

upright. She balls her fists, her jaw clamps shut. “You’re a bastard.” She grinds the words through her clenched teeth. Her arms are released, but the officers remain close by, their weapons drawn and aimed at her head. She reaches out and grabs the pistol, points it at the officer and pulls the trigger three times in quick succession.

The trigger does nothing.

He slaps her hard again, snapping her head round. “That was foolish Señora, very foolish.” He takes the pistol, flicks off the safety and offers it to her once more. “This time you raise the gun slowly.” He tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow. “Understand?”

A pistol is pressed to each of her temples to add weight to the officer’s words.

“Yes.” Quiet, almost inaudible.

“I’m sorry Señora Worksop, but I

didn’t hear you.” He cups his ear.

“Yes!” She snarls. “I fucking understand, you shit.”

The officer’s companions fiercely jab their pistols into her temples.

He lifts his hand and the pressure is reduced.

Then he gives the pistol to her once again.

She lets the weight settle in her hand and sinks deep into herself. There is no turning back now. She closes her eyes, and her lips move in silent prayer.

“Oh God Mum!” Charlotte wails. “Please don’t, please… please…”

“Face the wall.” The officer commands and glares at her.

The pistol begins to rise.

James opens his eyes and remains calm with his chin high. “You’ll be all

right Charlie.” He murmurs.

“I don’t want to lose you…” Charlotte wails, her attention fixed on the wall.

Margaret allows her eyes to open but keeps her vision out of focus.

The officer leans forward. His arms tense, his fists ball and a faint smile of anticipation settles onto his face.

She takes a deep breath, and everything falls silent. The clock in the hallway above can be heard counting down the remaining seconds.

The pistol bucks in her hand, the explosion of the shot deafening in the confines of the basement.

Charlotte lies face down. At least she would be face down, if she still had a face.

James looks at his fallen sister for a long moment. Then he turns to stare at his mother. Grief and an unabated fury form

a tempest in his eyes. He gets to his feet.

“James I…” Margaret begins.

He looks through her. It’s like she doesn’t exist anymore as he walks out of the cellar.

She turns the pistol on herself and pulls the trigger. Nothing. No more bullets.

“Thank you, Señora Worksop.” The officer holds out his hand for the pistol. “You are now free to continue raising your child.” Cold laughter twinkles in his eyes as he takes back the gun.

His colleagues use their feet to roll Charlotte’s body onto a bag, both unwilling to touch the newly dead corpse as they cover it. The bag is half dragged and half carried out of the cellar.

The officer moves to walk past Margaret but pauses at her side. “Tell me Margaret…” He doesn’t look at her. He

keeps his gaze on the cellar stairs.

She stiffens at the use of her name.

He waits, absorbing the tension between them. “…what made you choose Charlotte, and not James?”

Empty eyes turn to stare at him.

“I see.” A shrug accompanies the words.

She stares at the bloodstains spattered on the walls once more.

The officer nods. “Fair enough.” Then he is gone.

Margaret’s eyes lose their focus. In her mind she answers the Collection Officer’s question. Charlotte would have folded and withered without James. But James is strong enough to carry his hatred of me to the end of my days...end of my days...end of my days...

She stays in the cellar a long time after that. Now she has another choice to make.

She can face the ghost of her daughter in the cellar, or she can face the fury of her son.

Which is worse, she can’t say.

It is, after all, just a matter of choice.

The End

AN OBJECT LESSON

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep… The alarm clock on the bedside table announced the arrival of the morning.

“Shaddap!” A disgruntled voice shouted blearily from beneath the mound of quilt that had piled up at the top of the bed.

The alarm clock obviously wasn’t listening… beep-beep, beep-beep… A movement at the bottom of the pile warned of the emergence of a pale hand that fumbled its way through the air as it made its way towards the insistent alarm. For long moments the clutching fingers found nothing. Then they touched the top of the table. For the briefest of moments they stopped moving as they absorbed the texture of the wooden surface.

When they next moved, it was with a sense of purpose. The clock beeped only

twice more before the button on the top had the life crushed out of it.

With the clock silenced the hand lost all sense of purpose, slumped down onto the tabletop, and lay motionless.

Then, without warning, the alarm sounded again.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep… The hand struck again with the speed of a snake. Had the clock been the least bit sentient, it still wouldn’t have known what hit it.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep…

On and on the clock droned.

The hand dispensed with the pleasantries, picked the clock up and hurled it against the wall. A cracking of plastic as it hit the wall and the gentle thump as the clock struck the carpeted floor evoked a huge sigh from the person under the quilt.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep…

The quilted mound erupted as Pietre sat bolt upright, furious at his failure to despatch the clock. Whilst he fumed, the beeping faded until it sounded more like someone tutting.

With his eyes still closed Pietre reached for the lamp and switched it on.

To his utter amazement all remained dark. He opened his eyes and tried again; off then on; and again; still nothing. The bulb must have given up. He sighed in frustration, closed his eyes again and stood up.

To his utter surprise someone spoke to him!

“Still refusing to wake up, I see.”

Pietre’s eyes crashed wide open then he froze, a chill running down his spine. Everything was pitch black and there was someone in his bedroom!

“Who the hell are you?” He tried to sound calm and strong, but his voice was a little higher than usual and it echoed with vibrato.

No answer.

He calmed his nerves, slowed his breathing and listened intently for any sound that might indicate where the intruder might be. He could hear a faint rasping noise, followed by what sounded like a sigh, repeating over and over.

Was that the intruder breathing?

He slowly turned his head in an effort to locate the source of the sound.

“Now that you’re more… relaxed we should have a little chat.” The voice spoke again, startling Pietre, but not enough to stop him from using the sound to guide his attention.

“Very good. Much better than I’d expected.” It was a deep voice, though it

sounded synthetic, or perhaps it was being modulated.

Pietre sat down again, electing to remain silent particularly as the intruder was being so patronising. That sort of tone usually indicated one of two things. It was either the absence of fear, a very dangerous possibility; or it showed the presence of supreme confidence, which was usually backed up by the means to prove that the confidence was justified.

“What I want to know is…” The voice interrupted Pietre’s musings. “…why you depend so heavily on such an under-utilised sense. The one that you call ‘sight’.”

“You know I can’t see?” Pietre blurted out before even realising that he was talking.

“Ah, you do have a voice.” The intruder chuckled, or at least that’s what it sounded like to Pietre. “Of course, I know

you can’t see, for that which you so readily take for granted, is now mine.”

“Huh?” Pietre grunted, confused.

There was a huge sigh. “A little slow on the uptake I see.” The voice of the intruder lapsed into mumbles for a moment. “I have taken your sight as my own. You see, or rather you don’t…” The intruder laughed at his own joke. “…no, of course you don’t see. Never mind. What I am trying to say is that I am now able to use your sense of sight, and I must say that it’s really quite wonderful.”

Pietre looked puzzled. “Are you God, or something?”

“Or something…” The intruder replied.

“The Devil, or a demon?” Pietre’s spirits sank, and fear rose like a tidal wave.

“Wrong kind of ‘something’… look,

this really is getting away from the point.” Impatience showed in the intruder’s voice. “Which is why do you waste such a wonderful gift?”

“I don’t waste it, I use it to get around, to read, to learn, to…”

“To ignore the spectacular vistas that are presented to you each and every day.” The intruder halted Pietre’s protests. “You use it to identify things without ever knowing anything more than what they look like. You cheat your other senses by misusing your sight and that, more than anything, is why I have taken it from you.”

“Oh yeah, how would you know?” Pietre was tiring of what appeared to be a futile conversation.

“I have been with you for the last seven days, and during those days you have not once seen the sun rise or set. You do not even know what your

neighbours look like. You handle at least three types of wood each day, but to you they’re all just wood. You handle various types of paper, but they’re all just paper. You see the trees, the grass and the flowers, but you do not smell the wonderful scents that they produce. You eat food though you hardly ever take the time to taste it before swallowing. You use it simply to fill your stomach. You see the birds in the sky and the trees, but you never hear their songs. Shall I go on?”

Each of the observations was accurate, but Pietre’s resentment was fuelling his resistance. “So…” He wondered what he should call the intruder, but didn’t dwell on the issue for too long. “…whoever, or whatever, you are, what am I supposed to do about it now?”

“Perhaps you’d care to join me in the lounge?” The tone was languid as the intruder responded, and the reply ended in an abrupt silence.

Pietre listened intently for a moment, but the rasping and sighing sounds of the intruder’s breathing had gone. He heaved a sigh of relief. The relief was short-lived as he realised that he was still blind.

“Are you coming, or should I come and get you?” The voice of the intruder called from another part of the apartment, presumably the lounge.

“Alright! Alright.” Pietre snapped in disappointment. “I’m on my way.” Instinctively he made his way out of the bedroom, down the corridor at least as far as the bathroom then he began to have doubts. So far, he had followed his daily routine; get up; stagger blindly to the bathroom; do the business then switch on the light. Now he was unsure. He had to try to remember the way to the lounge. He laughed at his own timidity. He knew his flat well enough to get around!

He paused at the bathroom door then

took a couple of confident steps towards the lounge. An action he instantly regretted as his toes struck the side of the chest of drawers in the hallway.

“Shit!” He shouted in a hoarse whisper and stepped back.

“Oh dear. Had an accident, have we?” The intruder taunted him from the lounge.

“Yes!” Pietre’s humour was beyond soured. He flexed his fingers then bent down to check that his toes were in one piece. A sharp rapping sound echoed in his head as it made contact with the top of the chest of drawers.

An uproarious chuckle bounced from wall to wall as the intruder enjoyed every last moment of Pietre’s discomfort.

A furious heat surged through Pietre, causing his heartbeat to pound in his ears. He wanted to lash out but was all the more frustrated by the fact that he would, most likely, only hurt himself further.

“The ‘phone…” He whispered to himself as he stepped to one side, arms outstretched, fingers lightly brushing the wall. He felt a coarse, uneven surface. For a moment it confused him then he remembered the patterned wallpaper that covered the walls in the hallway. “Huh...” He grunted and moved on. In his mind he visualised his location relative to that of the telephone.

With one hand moving in slow, sweeping arcs he made his way along the corridor and into the lounge.

At the doorway he paused and listened. No sound. No strange breathing noises. “Are you in here?” He asked fervently hoping there would be no reply.

He was not disappointed.

He entered the lounge and made his way toward the phone.

Halfway across the room he tripped over a stool that had been left where it

had last been used. As he fell, he instinctively reached out with his arms and his hands immediately made contact with the small table that stood at the side of his favourite armchair. A brief creaking sound was immediately followed by cracking as his weight proved far too much for that delicate piece of furniture.

The top broke from the main stem and spilled him off to one side.

With a grunt he struck the floor, landing on top of the tabletop. The stop was too sudden for him to anticipate, and his arms failed to support the weight of his upper body. He shouted his pain as his face struck the hard surface of the wood.

He lay still for a moment, cursing his situation under his breath.

After the thunderous destruction of the table the silence in his apartment was as tangible as a thick fog. He felt the aches and pains that had been caused as a result

of the fall, each point of injury as distinct as if it had occurred on its own. There was the thumping ache on the side of his face, the throbbing in his hands and the burning stress in the muscles of his arms and chest.

He became aware of the fresh smell of wood, no doubt coming from the newly exposed grain along the edges of the break. Behind that there was a dry, dusty smell of old carpet underscored by the faintest tang of the scent of fresh blood.

Pietre worked his way into a sitting position and began to examine his injuries by hand, searching for the wound that oozed the precious liquid from his body. A small cut had been made on his cheek and it was this that had provided his nostrils with an indication that all was not as well as it might be.

Suddenly it became much more important for him to get to the telephone.

Rather than stand up and risk another accident, he crawled on hands and knees as he finished his journey towards the bureau on which the telephone was situated.

He stubbed a finger on one of the legs and spat an expletive at the cause of his pain. Tentatively he reached out and made contact with the smooth finish of the bureau’s side panel. Slowly, and carefully, he rose up onto his knees, all the while sliding his hands along the silky surface. His hand came to a gentle halt when it touched the lower edge of the top board. He eased his way past the overhang and traced his fingers over the glass-like surface. But it was not as cold as glass. It was as if there was an underlying warmth seeping through the highly polished finish of the wood.

By contrast the textured surface of the telephone was cold and unwelcoming. He carefully picked up the instrument and

brought it down to rest on the floor. Holding the body of the telephone still, he raised the handset to his ear. There was no dialling tone. The hand holding the telephone scurried to the receiver rest and operated the switch-hooks a number of times.

“Can I help you?” Someone spoke to Pietre.

“Uh… yes.” He hesitated. “…I hope so.”

“How can I help you?” The speaker politely enquired.

“This is going to sound bizarre, but please don’t hang up. I’m not some kind of weirdo.” Pietre took a deep breath.

“Oh, but you are.” The voice, changing into one that he recognised, responded before Pietre managed to get another word out.

A brief moment’s silence ended when

Pietre spoke again. “Excuse me?”

“You are some kind of weirdo.” A patient, somewhat condescending tone crept into the voice.

“Hey! Hold on a…” Pietre began to protest.

“Why else would you waste such a precious gift, only to complain at its absence?” There was more than a hint of mockery in the voice.

“What gift?”

“The one that you so dearly miss at this moment in time.”

Pietre stayed silent.

“The one that you have taken for granted for so long.”

“How do you know?” Pietre found his voice again.

“It was removed to teach you a far greater appreciation of its purpose.” The

speaker’s attitude changed. “To teach you to understand what you will miss if you don’t keep your eyes wide open.”

It's you. You did this to me.” The penny finally dropped as Pietre made the statement. “Why?”

“It is as I explained.” The voice became a little impatient.

“Who are you? Are you God?”

There was a short laugh. “No. Not God, just someone – you might say something – a little different from you.”

Pietre became thoughtful for a moment. “An alien then?”

“Yes, that seems most appropriate.” There was another short laugh.

“Wow…” The word barely made it past Pietre’s lips.

“You’re wondering why I should teach you a lesson, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have been with you, sharing your experiences, for a short while and during that time I have marvelled at your sense of ‘sight’. I would be ecstatic if this sense was transferable, for I would steal it for myself.” The talking ended in a deep and heartfelt sigh.

“You can’t see?” Pietre couldn’t keep the amazement out of his voice.

“Not in the way that you can, no.”

The conversation lapsed into an intense silence.

“Will my sight…” It was a question that suddenly burned brightly at the centre of Pietre’s thoughts.

“Goodbye Pietre.”

“What! You’re going? Just like that?” The words hung in the air and echoed through his mind as he slid gracefully to the floor.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep… The alarm clock on the bedside table chimed on and on.

“Shaddap!”

The clock beeped only twice more before the button on the top had the life crushed out of it.

Pietre reluctantly sat upright.

Then all was still and quiet once more.

He kept his eyes closed as he lifted himself onto his feet and made his way to the bathroom. He stood in front of the toilet, lifted the seat and made himself comfortable as he waited until his bladder was ready to do its duty.

A few minutes later he heaved a huge sigh of satisfaction, indicating the completion of the first part of his morning routine. He smiled wearily as he flushed the toilet, feeling a dull ache in his cheek as his lips curled.

He reached for the light cord and pulled it. A painfully brilliant light filled the small bathroom, causing Pietre to wince and close his eyes tightly.

He walked over to the basin, turned on the tap and slowly opened his eyes. Sparkles and flashes of multi-coloured light dancing on the flowing water teased him as it poured into the bowl, washed round it and disappeared down the drain. He smiled as the image dispelled the illusion of having been blind.

The smile vanished when he looked up and saw his face in the mirror.

There was a cut on his cheek and a large bruise surrounded it. He checked his arms and legs identifying the bruises that had been caused by his fall in the lounge. He stood upright, span on his heels and ran to the lounge. It was as he imagined it would look. The small table had been broken, the stool was on its side and the

telephone, with the handset lying next to it, was still on the floor.

As he stared, he heard a faint, but insistent tone coming from the handset. It was the telephone system’s way of telling its customers to replace their handsets when the line wasn’t in use.

Pietre walked over, picked up the telephone and replaced the handset before setting it down on the bureau.

As if in a daze, he made his way to the window. After a moment of hesitation, he drew the curtains and stared open-mouthed.

For a long time, he stood and stared, allowing every last detail of the view to be absorbed. Revelling in the newness of the colours, the variety of the shapes and the sheer beauty of a spring morning. He had never really seen the houses, trees, plants, people and animals that existed outside the confines of his apartment. But

now every last item held him entranced.

It had been an object lesson. Well taught and well learned.

The End

CRITIC

“The latest release from Crowthorne Publications – Death by Chocolate – would be a joke, if it were as funny as the author intended.”

Delicate fingers with light purple nail polish typed at an old laptop. A gloating smile curled the scarlet painted lips. Ice blue eyes sparkled with vicious humour.

“If anyone bought this novel, I would expect them to be below average intelligence, as it is at this level the storyline might actually work.”

She had read only the first chapter, and it had not impressed her. She, Elizabeth French, critic to the masses and, of course, the elite, could not allow this germ of a man get away with not impressing her.

“The jokes are hackneyed clichés of

the worst kind, and most teenagers would probably use it to stabilise a chair, or desk, with uneven legs. And for that, it is severely over-priced. Some free advice for you Mr Dix, why don’t you try doing some serious writing now?”

She sat back and re-read what she had written, stretching her arms above her head pulling her T-shirt tight across her generous breasts. Hands reached round and cupped them; warm breath blew on her neck, and she giggled. “Stop that! I’m working!” She dropped her hands and placed them over those that gently squeezed her.

“No. You’re not. You’re gloating!” Lips by her ears whispered. “So, stop it now, you ego maniac, and come to bed.” Perfect teeth lightly nibbled the lobe of her ear.

“Jennifer!” She tried to sound shocked, but it was such a sham. She

twisted round and kissed her girlfriend full on the lips and soon all thoughts of the laptop were forgotten.

The next morning Oden Dix attended a signing for his new book. By nine a.m. there were six people waiting to enter the bookstore. By nine-oh-five they had all got what they wanted and left.

The store manager came over carrying a copy of the paper. “This would explain why there’s so little interest in your book Mr Dix.” He handed the paper over with the literary reviews ready to read.

Oden took the paper and read Elizabeth French’s commentary. He staggered a little and the store manager helped him to a seat. “What did I ever do to her?” He whispered as his elation at being published crumbled into dust. He stared at the review for a long time. Even as the staff cleared the signing area

around him, he just stared. The shop manager eventually had to ask him to leave.

Twelve months later Elizabeth had her own office and a secretary. She performed her reviews in a comfortable, high-backed chair. She dyed her hair a light golden blonde because it went better with her eyes. She had it all at her fingertips.

She got to the office at 09:15, which allowed sufficient time for Janet, her secretary, to open up the office, set all the climate controls, read the mail and emails and get the day started. “Morning Janet.” Elizabeth breezed past and went straight into her luxurious office.

“Morning Miss French…” Janet began as she followed her into the office, arms laden with various documents.

“How many times Janet? Hmm? It’s Ms French, Ok?” Elizabeth snapped

testily as she leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed.

“Sorry… G’morning Ms French.” She put the newspapers on the desk in front of Elizabeth and put the mail by her left hand. “Here’s the urgent stuff, the rest I’ll keep till later.”

“Coffee.”

“Right away Ms French.” Janet nodded and hurried out, grabbing her coat on the way past as she went to get Elizabeth’s first coffee of the day.

A knock on the doorframe distracted Elizabeth from her read of the paper.

She saw a short, bald man wearing a tweed jacket, a chequered shirt and light brown pants. “What the fuck?” She murmured but loud enough to be heard by her unexpected visitor. “Janet!” She yelled.

No response.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” She ground the words out wearily. As she made to rise, he stepped towards the desk.

“If you are calling your secretary, I believe that she has gone out. She said something about an urgent dental appointment.” He explained apologetically.

“Damn! She’s always doing that!” She huffed, fumed and sank back into her chair, a scowl bursting onto her face as she spoke, her eyes roving over her desk as if searching for something.

“Uhm… she did ask me to give…” He began.

“I suppose I’ll have to go and get my own coffee now!” She’s lost in her own world, more worried about the coffee than her assistant.

“…you this.” He placed a large cardboard cup with a plastic cap on her desk. He then placed three sugar sachets and a stirrer alongside it.

“Oh, thank god!” She snatched the lid off, tore open the sachets and emptied the contents into the coffee. The stirrer whisked round several times before she even gave him a second thought. “And, I suppose thank you Mr…”

He went to answer, but she slipped back to normal swiftly enough.

“…whatever your name is. If you want to talk, call back when Janet’s here and make an appointment. Good day.” She slurped twice, put the cup down and resumed reading the newspaper.

“I wanted to talk to you about a review you did a year ago.” He fidgeted with the flaps over his jacket pockets.

“Really?” She looked up at his round face. He had one of those faces that

seemed to be ready to smile in an instant, so ready that you might have thought that he was already smiling. “What was the book called?”

“Death by Chocolate.” He sighed the title. “It was a comic-horror novel for young adults…”

“Oh yes, I remember. Terrible little book, so drab and predictable… was that you?” A look of dawning realisation crept to her face only to be replaced with repugnance and contempt. “It was, wasn’t it?” Her tone sneered even more than the curl of her lip. “It was so you!” She declared viciously, shaking her head. “How old are you? 55…60? Look at you, balding, old, fat and boring.”

She snorted and picked up the paper. “I said all that I wanted to say at the time, so there’s no point in trying to discuss it further, Mr Dix.” She placed a heavy emphasis on his name.

“No, I suppose not.” He said and walked out.

Elizabeth took two more mouthfuls of her coffee, put the cup down then fell flat on her face on the desk.

Oden stepped back into Elizabeth’s office. “I’m ready to do some serious writing now – Ms French.”

Elizabeth became aware of the world again as bright light forced its way into her consciousness. The bright light surrounded her, though everywhere else was dark. She felt a little sleepy, but otherwise she actually felt quite good.

“Ahhhh, goooood! You’re awake Ms French.” A white circle appeared in the darkness in front of her. It was a face, eyes invisible in the shadows under the brows. It seemed to be smiling. The head moved as if the person was peering into one of her eyes, then the other.

“I do hope that you’re Ok.” His forehead furrowed and his eyebrows rose in concern. “You passed out at your desk. Do you remember that?”

She became serious for a moment as she tried to remember.

“It’s fine if you don’t remember at the moment. Don’t worry your memory will come back very soon.” He placed his hand tenderly against her cheek. “I wonder if I might call you Elizabeth, we have been introduced already.” The apparent smile became reality as the lips separated showing only a segment of blackness in place of teeth. “No. I shall call you Lizzie as I feel that I already know you well enough to be that presumptive.”

She recognised the face as the fog in her mind finally cleared. It was the man from her office. She smiled. He had such a happy face.

“I thought you might like to know what I’ve been doing since you wrote your masterpiece about my book.” He murmured sweetly. “Would you like that?”

Her smile seemed to grow. He was such a nice man.

“I sold my house after my wife left me and I began to prepare for the time when you and I would meet.” He looked a little embarrassed, shy perhaps, she couldn’t really tell. He walked her over to one side of the room and showed her a high bed.

“I bought this for you.”

Then he took her past the bed to a counter.

“I bought all of these for you too.”

She looked at all the shiny things that were laid out on the side. Each gleamed and glistened beautifully.

He walked her back across the room.

“You’re feeling happy and a little numb right now, aren’t you Lizzie?”

She smiled again, but not as brilliantly as before.

“Oh my.” He chuckled. “It’s starting to wear off already.”

His face began to focus and sharpen.

Features separated.

“Wait a moment.” He went away and she could hear him moving something. He was dragging it, bringing it nearer.

Her breathing became laboured and sweat beaded on her forehead.

A pale white hand emerged from the darkness close to her face and a finger extended to touch a single droplet.

“It’s not the heat in here, is it?” The brows were raised in question making the darkness of the eyes larger. “I have set the temperature to a very moderate 24º

celcius which is comfortable enough for anyone who is in your condition.” The face withdrew into the darkness, sniggering laughter echoing in the shadows.

Her eyes wandered, searching for the answer to his cryptic comment. Then she heard a huffing, blowing sound and she felt a chill across her belly, which then moved up over her breasts to her neck.

She shivered. The happy feeling was fading.

Chill, or fear, it did not matter.

She was a prisoner.

She had been muted.

She had been immobilised.

She felt numb.

She was naked.

She could not see him, but she could hear him moving around in the darkness.

She could hear him breathing, mouth closed, air rushing into and out of flared nostrils.

“I have taken your advice Lizzie!” His voice called from further away. “I have done some serious writing!”

She listened intently, trying to place him.

A whisper next to her ear made her skin crawl.

“A horror story. One that I know you will like.”

Silence returned.

The luminous face reappeared. “How could you not like it?” An expression of innocence showed for a moment. The head tilted forward, the eyes looked at her from close to the brows, and a broad, evil smile, curled the lips. “You are the star of the show.”

Fear bit deep.

“I already have a publisher lined up. What about that?” The face withdrew into the shadow. “The book will be released next week, aren’t you excited?” A jovial tone that quickly changed to apology. “All proceeds to go to Janet’s family – she was the unfortunate victim in all this.”

A long silence followed.

Ears pricked, desperate for an indication of his presence.

“Oh yes! The story, I almost forgot.” His voice erupted into the quiet. “It’s called Critic and it’s about what you did to me, and now includes what I have done to you.” He chuckled. “It was so inspirational having you help with the storyline. I couldn’t have written it without you.”

He moved about in the darkness and began doing things that she couldn’t see. Then he raised a projection screen in front

of her and she became confused.

“We already know what you did to me, and I am about to show you what I have done to you. But first I want to tell you how the story ends. Throughout the process of creating this story, I have left clues for the police. Admittedly some of them have been a little cryptic so they may not get them for a while. You know, a month or two, but don’t worry I have set up certain safeguards to ensure that you are found.”

Panting, drooling, wanting to scream and shout, but making no sound, confused, frightened and trembling. At least she thought she was trembling. She couldn’t be sure.

Something stabbed her arm, and the happy feeling came back.

“That’s a drip I’ve just put in your arm, my dear. It should last about an hour. After that your memory and your feelings

will return to normal.” He made the sound of sharp intake of breath. “I’m glad I won’t be here when that happens.”

She tried to fight the giddiness, fought to keep the smile from her face, but the anaesthetic was too strong.

“That’s a good girl, now listen Lizzie, please!” He gently admonished her before continuing. “The part which will happen in just a moment is when I run the recording of every last little thing I did to you, knowing that you can’t run, or even look away, as it loops over and over again.”

There was a sound like a key being pressed on a keyboard and images appeared on the screen. They were a little blurred until he adjusted the focus.

“Pay attention now. Here is where I have my revenge, Elizabeth. I hope you enjoy it as much I will.” Oden on the screen smiled and winked into the

camera.

She saw a woman, naked and bound, lying on what looked like an operating table. A man wearing surgical clothing appeared and stood over the woman. It was Oden. He held up a pair of scissors and began to cut the woman’s light blonde hair off close to the scalp. The camera zoomed in, and she recognised the woman.

The seed of a scream was planted in her stomach.

Oden bent down and winked at the camera. The he took up a scalpel and carefully trimmed her eyelids so that the eyes could not be closed.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she could not blink them away.

Next, he moved to stand in front of the camera with his back to it. His movements indicating that the scalpel was skilfully wielded again. When he stepped

clear of the camera the nose had been cut back to the bone.

Then the mouth was forced open. Forceps gripped the tongue and extended it out of the mouth. A swift stroke of the scalpel and blood gushed everywhere. A hot iron was pressed against the torn remnant, steam hissing as blood vaporised. Oden proudly showed the tongue to the camera.

She wanted to turn away, wanted to close her eyes, wanted the images to go away, to not be true. Her eyes told the truth behind the chemically induced smile.

Now he moved down to her chest. He pinched a nipple, lifting it high before he casually sliced it off. Again, it was shown to the camera.

Her breathing was coming in great sobs now. Tears overflowed.

The same happened with the other

nipple.

“Enjoy the show Lizzie” Oden whispered close to her ear.

She started as a shotgun boomed behind her.

The smiling eyes above the mask hardly blinked as Oden continued his impromptu surgery. The breasts were removed, and set aside, the nipples being set back in place.

Wretched and miserable she could not look away. Second after tortuous second the surgery continued until she knew exactly what was left…

She wished she hadn’t been so cruel.

The video looped.

“Pay attention now. Here is where I have my revenge, Elizabeth. I hope you enjoy it as much I will.” Oden smiled and winked into the camera.

She wished she’d chosen another

career.

The video looped.

She wished she could say goodbye to Jennifer.

The video looped.

She wished the police would come.

The video looped.

She wished there was more anaesthetic in the drip.

The video looped.

She wished for death…

The video looped.

The End

DO ZOMBIES EXIST?

“Happy birthday Thomas,” the banners declared as he entered the office on his fifty-sixth birthday.

But this was no celebration.

No party hats, no drinks and no cake.

His colleagues steadfastly ignored him as if speaking to him would hasten their own departure from the company in which most had worked their entire lives.

This was the way that the company “retired” the older members of staff.

His desk was clear, save for the two small boxes that contained those few items of personal property that he had taken to work to make the working days a little more comfortable.

The door to his manager’s office opened and Jenkins stepped out. He pointed to the boxes on the desk and then

at the door behind Thomas before ducking back into the office and closing the door behind him.

A cursory glance around the workplace told Thomas that was the most he could expect.

He was now officially “beyond serviceable age”. A euphemism for “Useless”, or “No longer wanted”, or “What? Are you still alive?”

Suddenly there was nothing to do, but leave and that’s exactly what he did.

After a few days of “resting” and adjusting to life at home Thomas found that he could rest no more.

He still had his faculties, his qualifications, his knowledge and his experience. Surely he could be of use to someone?

He began job hunting.

Within days he had come to realise that every door in his home country was closed to him because of his age. In silent anger he raged “I am not dead yet!”

Just a few months passed before he began to realise that other countries, whilst more lax with their age restrictions, were refusing him work because his qualifications were not of the right “type”.

Nothing wrong with the subject, or the grade, but it was the institution that was unacceptable. He had taken the option to start working first. Then he’d acquired his qualification by studying at home in his free time. It had taken longer, but he’d had the benefit of gathering experience as he studied.

Other qualifications were acquired by studying via the ‘net and he had excelled, passing the courses first time with little, or no coaching. But because he hadn’t

been in a classroom these were not allowed.

He’d been working in his preferred area of expertise for ten years, and had a list of achievements that were the envy of many of his colleagues. But experience wasn’t necessary. It was believed that any “monkey” could be trained to the same level.

Now all he was required to do was die and cease to be a burden to the state and those around him.

Friends lingered for a while, but even they began to disappear over time.

His home began to feel like a prison, yet it was one he was reluctant to leave lest the world should recognise his stigma. He was unemployed and unemployable, despite being alive, vigorous and as capable of performing his duties as he had ever been.

“Is this how it feels to be a zombie?”

He muttered as he stared at yet another rejection of his offer to work. “I am not dead, yet to all around me I am.”

Only his stubborn streak keeps him from doing something to change his status of “dead” to a permanent state.

Is this the future for all people? Are they to be declared worthless because of age, or because qualifications are far more important than practical knowledge or experience?

Oh no, dear readers this is not the far distant future, nor the near future. It is a condition of society that has existed for some time and it is a condition that is worsening with the passage of time.

This is your future because this is here and now.

Zombies do exist. But, they are the product of our society, not of our imagination.

Are you ready to join “the undead”?

The End

ECHOES OF ANOTHER WORLD

“Peregrine!” An angry voice smashed its way through the tranquillity of the forest glades.

“Oh, dandlebrush!” said Maydew “She’s onto us!” She swiftly wiped her mouth, removing the last remnants of the pie from her lips.

“Not us, it’s Peregrine she’s after.” Wallowdrop grinned wolfishly. “It’ll be his hat that she found.”

“You did that on purpose!” Maydew stepped up to Wallowdrop and stabbed him with her finger.

Wallowdrop responded in kind. “So what, if I did?” He stood head and shoulders above Maydew, looking down at her with his bright yellow eyes.

Maydew’s mouth opened for a moment, then closed again. She had never

been one for confrontation. She span on her heel and stalked over to Peregrine. “Let’s go. Shimara can’t do anything if she can’t catch us.” She barely paused before linking arms with the little man and leading him away from the big bully.

Peregrine, short, round and as old as the hills, looked up at her and smiled. “What a sweet child you are.”

“Oi!” Wallowdrop shouted after them. “I know where you’re going and I’m gonna tell her. Then you’ll be for it!”

Maydew ignored the shouts. “Don’t you mind him, Peregrine, he’s just as likely to be in trouble as we are.” She looked warily about as they travelled further into the forest.

Peregrine gently pulled on her arm to slow her down. “You don’t have to go. It’s not your problem, is it?”

She slowed slightly, “It’s as much mine, as it is yours.”

Peregrine stopped and stared at her back as she walked on. “Maydew, you should go back now. I’d be far happier if I knew you were safe at home with your kin.” The voices that he had been hearing were becoming more than just a nuisance. They were commanding him to return, but to what, and where?

He had no idea.

His life in Darrowvale had begun some fourteen years before when he had walked out of the forests. Where he had been before then was a complete and utter mystery. He just assumed that he should return to the forests.

Maydew glanced over her shoulder and, noticing the distance between them, she stopped. Her head fell forward, and she began crying. “It’s not fair! It’s just not fair…”

Peregrine hurried to her, reached up to wipe her tears away. “Hey, hey now,” he

murmured soothingly. “There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Why did the voices have to come, and why is that you must go with them?” She protested against his leaving Darrowvale. Peregrine had been with her for the past fourteen years, and she didn’t want to lose him.

“Who knows?” Peregrine had no answers. “I just feel that I must do as the voices say.”

“Please stay, Peregrine, please!” She pleaded with him.

His grey-haired, balding head shook slowly from side to side. “I can’t and you know it. The voices tell me that if I stay, I will die. That’s something that I don’t want to happen any more than you do.”

“But if you leave here, you’ll die. Not for real, but here,” She touched his chest. “…inside. You’ll just wither away to nothing because of your sadness.”

“No. I won’t.” Peregrine put on a brave face.

Maydew placed a hand against his cheek. “You forget that I can read auras, and yours tells me that you are as afraid as you are brave.” She smiled wanly.

He returned the faint smile. “All right, I’ll admit it. I’m scared. Does that make you feel any better?”

“No, but at least you are being honest with yourself.” Maydew sniffed and looked away. The sound of something heavy falling to the ground startled her. She turned and found Peregrine laid out, his hands pressing at his temples. “Peregrine!” She gasped as she hurried to his side.

“Leave me be, I’m coming now.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“What can I do, what can I do?” Maydew panicked as she watched her friend and mentor wracked by the pain of

the voices.

Peregrine’s expression softened as the pain faded. He panted after the exertions that his agonies had caused. “You…” he took a deep breath. “…are to go home. Now!”

Maydew helped him to his feet. “I can’t leave you like this.”

He patted her hand. “I’m afraid that you have no choice. I can’t stay here, and you can’t come with me.” Pale blue eyes locked onto dark brown, tear-filled eyes. “It’s just the way things are.”

For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, they just stood there regarding each other with a deep affection, until Peregrine tensed as the voices returned.

“Maydew my beloved child, you must go home.” He gently removed her hand from his arm, where it had rested since she had helped him up.

Tears filled her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks as she nodded in defeat. “May your journey be swift, effortless and bring you to your heart’s desires.”

“May your life be filled with the joys that you have brought to those around you, and especially to me.” He smiled gently, swallowing hard as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

With slow, reluctant steps Maydew walked away.

Peregrine watched her leave until she was out of sight. Then he turned and resumed his journey into the forests. As he walked the scenery began darkened and blurred. The colours faded to shades of grey, darkening all the while until a dense, suffocating blackness surrounded him.

Whispering voices drew Charles Winston Peregrine Atherson III from the

dark shadows of a deep coma. Slowly the whispers became words, and the words became sentences.

“It’s just a matter of time Mrs Atherson. We have to let him heal naturally, there is nothing more we can do at this time.” A man’s voice, patient yet tinged with exasperation, spoke softly and reassuringly.

“You said that two weeks ago, when they brought him out of surgery!” A woman’s voice, one that he recognised. It was his wife. Marjory Ellen Atherson. They had been married for forty-five years. They had no children… A tsunami of sadness smashed through Charles’ thoughts, almost instantly fading to nothingness.

“There really is nothing more that we can do. I’m sorry.” The man’s voice spoke again but left no room for further discussion. A door was opened, only to

close again just a few seconds later.

Charles felt himself rising further, moving much nearer to the light. So much so that he feared he would burst through his eyelids. He opened his eyes by the smallest amount and the rising sensation faltered, then stopped.

The gentle sound of weeping brushed against his ears, and he turned his head towards the source of the stuttering, whispering noise. Marjory was at the side of the bed in which he was lying. Her face was buried deep in the handkerchief she was using to absorb her tears.

Tears very much like those that Maydew had spilled…

The thought jarred him. Maydew was surely a figment of his imagination caused by the injuries he had received in a fall from the ladder. He had been showing off, as usual, proud of his state of health and eager to demonstrate it to

his wife and their visitors.

Yet Maydew had been very real to him. An intense feeling of loss swept through him. Tears filled his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks. She was gone now, as was Wallowdrop and Darrowvale.

“Perry?” Marjory’s voice rang with uncertainty as she reacted to Charles’ unexpected awakening. She had always thought that his forenames were all too stuffy, and almost from the moment they had met she had called him Perry. “Oh my God, Perry!” She squealed in delight and leapt across the short distance between them, almost landing on the bed beside him. The weeping of just a moment ago was replaced by body-wracking sobs as she hugged and kissed him.

They were alone for just a few seconds longer, then all hell broke loose as Doctors, Nurses, and Technicians burst

into the room and began examining Charles to investigate his current state of health and the reason behind his sudden and miraculous recovery.

Barely a month later Charles had been discharged into the care his wife. The mystery hadn’t been resolved, but the doctors could no longer argue against his leaving.

At first, he revelled in the familiarity of his surroundings. The old, battered, leather chair in his study welcomed his return making his resting a pleasurable experience. The short walks through the garden allowed him to exercise in the fresh air and delight in his wife’s company as they talked about his accident and discussed how things would now change for the better.

He spent a lot of time in the study searching through his books for any

reference to a story about someone called Maydew, or Wallowdrop, or indeed a place called Darrowvale. After several weeks he had exhausted his supply of fiction and was contemplating making a start on his non-fiction collection. As he considered this he dozed briefly only to be awakened by the sound of crying.

“Oh Peregrine…” A voice gently sobbed. “Why did you have to leave?”

He opened his eyes and searched for the source of the voice, but he was alone in the study. He shivered involuntarily. Did he recognise the voice? He tried to review the short sentence again, but the memory was fading too fast.

He was about to give up when realisation dawned on him. The voice had spoken the name Peregrine. No one called him Peregrine, no one except the people of Darrowvale.

He shook his head in disbelief. He

wanted it to be true and so his mind played had played tricks on him. He chuckled quietly to himself.

“Oh, so now you’re telling yourself jokes?” Marjory had entered the study and stood just inside the door watching him, a warm and gentle smile on her lips.

“No. I’m not telling jokes, just deluding myself a little.” He returned the smile.

Marjory’s smile faded slightly. “Not that fantasy again?”

Perry shook his head. “Not in the way that you mean, no.” He stood up slowly and turned to face her. “It was just a dream, wasn’t it?” He grinned as he tapped his temple. “That’s what those ‘quacks’ at the hospital called it. A delusional experience caused by the embolism.”

“Yes, they did, but that didn’t stop you from arguing that it was real, did it?”

Marjory countered his assurances.

“Am I arguing now?” He teased her.

She stared at him for a moment. “I don’t know, Perry, you don’t normally give up on your ideas so quickly.”

He walked over to her and took her into his arms. “Well, I have this time my dear.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Hmmm.” Marjory didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t pursue it any further.

A few days later he experienced another “waking dream”. This time he knew that it was Maydew that he heard. The child’s pitiful mourning of his departure clutched at his heart. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he could not even see her. He was unable to find his way back to the idyllic rural lifestyle of Darrowvale.

Within a week Charles Winston Peregrine Atherson III was re-admitted to hospital. He had lapsed into a dream state in the presence of his wife, and it was on her insistence that he was back in the same room as before. She fretted and fussed over him at every opportunity. But the times when she was there were becoming more and more rare with the passing of each day. So many doctors, many of them neural specialists, demanded so much of Charles that he was often too weary to stay awake during his wife’s visits.

He only found peace when he was, at last, able to speak to Maydew. At first, he had frightened her, speaking to her as a disembodied voice, but on subsequent occasions she began to anticipate his visits.

“Are you coming back to us?”

Maydew asked after struggling to find the courage to force the question past her lips.

“I hope so, for I can think of far worse places for me to be.” Peregrine answered with a calm assurance.

“Why can’t I see you?” She sounded more than a little disappointed.

“I don’t know, but I can’t see you either.” He, too, was disappointed.

Maydew sighed deeply. “Oh well…” She sighed again then giggled for a moment. “…at least I like the ‘voices’ that I can hear.”

“As I like your voice. It is calming and more…” He fell silent abruptly.

“Peregrine?” Maydew called out his name, worried by the sudden silence. “Are you alright?”

He did not respond.

“Hello, Perry darling. How are you feeling today?” Marjory spoke softly as she gently awakened him.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was looking thin and drawn. “I’m feeling a lot better than you look.” he gently scolded her.

“I don’t know why you worry so much about me, I’m not the one in hospital.” She protested.

“No, you’re not, so you should be resting between visits instead of fretting and calling the hospital every twenty minutes or so.” He tried to sit up but struggled because of his rapidly atrophying muscles.

Marjory helped him. Lifting him up into a sitting position then holding him there as she adjusted the pillows behind him. Between them they managed to shuffle him back onto the pillows.

“I don’t know why you didn’t call the

nurse…” He objected to her straining herself.

“For the same reason you didn’t, you stubborn old fool.” Marjory interrupted him. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away, not wanting him to see her so distressed.

He reached out and took hold of her hand, startled by the sparse flesh. “It’s a strain on both of us…” He whispered.

She gently squeezed his hand, but did not turn around.

By the time that she found the courage to do so, he was asleep.

“Peregrine!” Maydew squealed in delight. “I can see you.” She ran forward to embrace him only to stumble straight through his diaphanous form.

He turned around and smiled at her surprise. “I’m not there yet little one, but

I don’t think it will be long now.”

“But I can see you!” She protested in disbelief.

“And I can see you sweet child, but I am still with the voices.” Peregrine instinctively reached out to stroke her cheek but stopped before he frightened her further by passing his hand through her face.

Maydew sighed in exasperation. “But I don’t understand it. I can see you, but I can’t touch you. Why?”

“Who knows the answers to those questions?” Peregrine looked embarrassed. “Not I.”

“But you will come to be real, won’t you?” Maydew sounded hopeful.

A pale ghost of a smile teased Peregrine’s lips. “That is entirely possible.”

She stomped her foot in frustration.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“No, I…” The sentence ended.

Maydew stared at the empty space where Peregrine had “stood”.

“Mr Atherson… Mr Atherson…” A patient, quiet voice called to him over and over again.

Despite his automatic resistance to awakening, he emerged from his slumbers. His eyes opened drowsily.

“Ah good…” The blurred figure before Charles’ eyes sounded relieved. “…you’re awake.”

“Who are you?” Charles was polite, though he desperately wanted to go back to sleep.

“It’s Doctor Markham. I need to speak to you, before I speak to your wife.” There was more than a hint of regret in the doctor’s tone.

“Very well. What is it that troubles you so?”

“We have found the cause of your condition…” There was a moment’s hesitation. “…and we don’t know of any cure, Sir.”

Charles became lucid. “I presume my wife doesn’t know?”

“No Sir, she does not.” Doctor Markham answered without hesitation.

“Very well. You should write this down, please.” Charles’ tone was insistent and at the same time full of apology.

Doctor Markham took out his pen and opened his little notepad.

“Last will and testament.” Charles struggled to stay awake. “Marjory gets it all.”

The doctor hesitated before frantically scribbling down what Charles had said. “You should check it before signing it Mr

Atherson.” He handed Charles the pad.

For long moments Charles stared at the pad, struggling to read the writing that moved in and out of focus as he struggled to maintain his conscious state. With a shaking hand he reached for the pen, took it and scrawled a signature across the bottom of the page.

Doctor Markham retrieved the pad and the pen.

“Thank you, Doctor…” Those were Charles’ last words as he sank into a coma.

He walked out of the depths of the forest and stopped, took a deep breath and began to chuckle.

“Hi Peregrine!” Maydew shouted as she ran across a small clearing to greet him. She stopped short, fearing that she might pass through him again. Her face

became serious. “Are you really here this time?”

He stepped forward and hugged her tightly. “Yes, I am my beloved child.”

“To stay?” She hugged him in return as she voiced her concerns.

He held her at arms-length. He experienced a spasm, then smiled a smile of such warmth she almost melted. “I am here to stay.”

“Forever?” Maydew’s hopes soared.

“For as long as I shall live, my child.” He drew her close once more. “However long that may be.”

In the quiet loneliness of a private room in the hospital, Charles Winston Peregrine Atherson III passed away peacefully in his sleep.

The End

Whale.

Trahira.

MY FATE.

I'll never forget the day I met my fate - a small, ugly creature with a twisted body: his smile cold beneath coal-chip eyes. "Time's up," He grunted.

"Now? But..."

"Nowt ye say'll change owt. Tis yer time." Smile became sneer. "It's better than most deserve."

And that was it.

My life was over... and I've been at this tropical holiday resort ever since!

NICE GUYS ALWAYS FINISH LAST

In the stranger’s house the vidcom pinged for the first time in a very long time, but it was just an email.

Dear stranger,

I hope you’ll forgive me calling you that, but it’s what you are to me. We haven’t met, nor have we ever exchanged any form of communication.

I expect you’re wondering why I am writing to you. Well, here’s the thing. Out of the millions of email addresses in the world my little random selection program chose yours. So you, though you may not think so, have the privilege of being the recipient of my last ever email.

You’re reading this and already you’re thinking ‘what the fudge?’ (I’m not allowed to swear, you see) and I can understand that. But please bear with me

and read this to the end. I have seen and experienced very little of this big, wonderful and beautiful world in which we live. Time hasn’t been on my side. So I would like you to consider getting out of your chair, walking to the window and taking a good look outside. But don’t just look at what you see, look beyond the horizon. Look to the far shores and foreign lands that are out there for you to discover and enjoy. Don’t read National Geographic, live it; don’t read travel brochures, write them; and don’t think about your family, visit them and tell them that you love them.

These and many other things will make the world a better place for you, and for those around you.

I think I’m out of time now, so I’ll just say ‘thanks for listening’ and I hope you heard what I told you.

Your friendly stranger,

Malcolm

In Malcolm’s house the vidcom pinged, the stranger had sent a reply.

Malcolm,

What the fudge? Why not come out and say it like it is… WHAT THE FUCK? You snot-nosed little shit. You know nothing of me, and my life, and you have the nerve to tell me what to do?

I hope your Mama bitch slaps you from here to next week just to stop you from annoying strangers, who just happen to be happy with their life just the way it is.

And as for family, shit. If you knew my family, you’d burn the family album.

Looking out the window? Hah! I can’t

get outta my chair 'cause I got bad legs, and I ain’t got no money for no hover chair. It hurts me just to walk to the bathroom and back.

I hope that I never get to hear this shit from you ever again.

Just call me,

Pissed Off.

In the stranger’s house the vidcom pinged, a reply from Malcolm’s house.

Dear ‘Pissed Off’,

Thank you for replying to Malcolm’s email. Fortunately he didn’t get to read it as he died shortly after it was sent. Having suffered severe muscular dystrophy, chronic asthma and other less severe complications for most of his life he knew the value of getting out of his chair.

He knew and he tried to be a nice guy and let you know what you are missing. Because he knew first-hand exactly what he was missing out on in his short life.

I am sure that he would have been heart-broken at your response, but that said, he would still have wished for you to live the life that he never could.

Whatever you may think, or say, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure that you are one of those people who believe that nice guys always finish last, and that’s why you have such great expectations of a better life. If you live longer, 'finish last' if prefer, you think that you are the nice guy.

Well, in this case, I’d say that the nice guy has beaten you to it. He has gone to a better place ahead of you. He has left you and your cynicism and sarcasm behind and he is living the life he so richly deserved while he was here.

You may call me

Malcolm’s mother.

In Malcolm’s house the vidcom never received another message from the stranger.

In the stranger’s house the vidcom never pinged again.

The End

Whale.

Whale.

Trahira.

PEST CONTROL

A sudden silence claims my attention. It is not unexpected, but the sound in my head has disappeared.

The recall signal has finally stopped.

After months of constant repetition, I wonder at the consequence of the loss of the signal, but only for a moment.

My attention snaps back to the creature in my hand as it wriggles and squirms more fiercely than before.

I lift it up by its neck.

It’s gasping for air, drool and spittle spilling in strings from the gaping mouth. It claws and scratches at my hands. The eyes grow wild, and I see the dawning of realisation. It knows it will die.

The futile struggle slows as I tighten my grip. A moment later it stops struggling and everything becomes loose,

almost boneless.

I bring the creature’s head close and look into the eyes. They are dull and empty.

It’s just like one I had encountered on the first day of my assignment. I recall that I had taken a moment for further study at that time too. It had also been a dark colour, with light blue eyes and had fought the same desperate fight.

My initial task had gone well, eradication 100% effective.

Then the recall message started. I started back, but the moment I began the journey I knew it was too late.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

The infestation had spread.

They were everywhere, running, walking, crawling and jumping. Under desks, behind and even inside cupboards,

in the washrooms, the halls, the stairs, elevators, subways, vehicles, streets…

The recall message repeated but I ignored it.

Others may have been going back as I had intended, but I could not join them. There was an infestation to eradicate, a very persistent one.

Those early days had been extremely busy.

I eventually discovered a nest at the source of the recall message. But when I responded to the message, it simply repeated in its entirety every five minutes, as it had been doing since it started.

With the local infestation eliminated I made use of the resources, refilling my tanks with toxins and combustibles and, at the same time, I reloaded my weapons then moved on.

There had been so many nests.

Small, with three or four creatures: medium, up to one hundred creatures: large, up to one thousand creatures and then there were the mega-nests. I dedicated myself to the eradication of each.

Resources were limited and swiftly depleted. The toxins were exhausted first, and shortly after, the combustibles. Not long after that my munitions were spent. Hands, feet and various swords and knives were all that remained.

There are fewer and fewer vermin to be destroyed now, leaving more time for me to think.

I have begun to wonder what happened to my colleagues. I do not understand the absence of my kind, nor why my messages go unanswered.

But I cannot stop.

The infestation has to be eliminated.

This latest find was a small nest. A juvenile had ventured out alone. It did not run. It did not make any sound. It was not even aware that I was present. It had dark skin, but the eyes were an unusual, cloudy-white colour. The only movement was back and forth in a chair supported by chain suspended from an iron framework.

As it swung towards me, I put my hand around its neck and flicked my wrist to the right very quickly.

With a small pop the neck snapped.

The action was so swift that it barely interrupted the momentum of the chair, and the juvenile continued to move backwards and forwards, the arc decaying with each swing.

It was simple and efficient.

Almost immediately an adult female appeared, roaring, screaming, howling and wailing.

My first attempt to catch the creature failed, it was too erratic, out of control. It picked things up and threw them. Some struck me, others missed.

I had seen this behaviour before.

If I stood still and waited, it would come to me.

I noted the differences. The female was paler and had clear, green eyes. It was, naturally enough, bigger than the juvenile, but not significantly so.

Then it came, clawing, biting, kicking, gouging.

I raised my right arm swiftly, striking with the back of my hand. It lifted off the ground and fell on its back. Other than the chest rising and falling there was no further movement. I stood over it, lifted

my left foot and stomped down hard.

Blood spattered, eyes popped, and the skull cracked open; crushed brains spewed out.

As I studied the result of my actions a slight movement in the periphery of my vision warned me of danger. A creature leapt on me from behind, its arms around my neck, clamping on. It squeezed tighter.

But it did not matter, any more than the damage caused by the female mattered.

I did not breathe, and I would heal swiftly.

I reached behind and took hold of a leg. With a grip that squeezed flesh between my fingers I pulled it from my back. I dropped it on the ground, and it tried to crawl away, arms pulling, dragging the injured limb.

I followed, kept pace and watched it.

It was an adult male with pale skin and blue eyes. The mouth was moving. But I could not hear what it was trying to say. Even if I could, I would not have understood.

How could I?

It was vermin.

It was the infestation.

Even as it hangs lifeless in my grip, I feel my hands and face healing. The bleeding stops, cuts close, grazes smooth out and bruises fade to nothing.

My attention is drawn to a glass panel and in it I see myself with the creature hanging limp and lifeless.

For a moment I wonder at the similarities.

Paired limbs, head, torso, abdomen,

eyes… then discard them as pure coincidence.

It could not be a person. I am, and it is not like me.

It got tired, needed to sleep. I do not.

It was flesh and bone. I am not.

It could be killed. I cannot.

It was weak and inefficient. I was built fit for purpose.

It could not communicate. I can, but I have had no one to communicate with since I was first activated.

No one has ever answered me.

I am alone.

I look at the image in the glass once more and drop the creature.

My armour, though old and battered still carries the markings of my trade, which has reminded me of my purpose.

“Pest Control”.

And, despite my efforts, there is still an infestation to eradicate.

The End

RED GENIE

Earphones in. Press play. Music pounding.

Dad shouting, mom screaming, stuff being thrown, he’d had to get out of the house. Same argument every time: money. Dad’s got no work, mom’s doin’ two jobs: waitress and cleaner, she’s always tired and dad’s frustrated ’cause he can’t get a job. Companies are leaving, and those that can afford to, go where the work is.

The town is dying and it’s gonna take Dan and his folks with it. It seems there’s nothing he, or anyone, can do about it. He’d thought about stealing from the rich folks, but that would be short-term and came with a high cost. His mom would never let him forget what he’d done.

“Always do to others, what you would like them to do to you,” she’d say, and

then “If you want to be robbed, you go right ahead and steal, but don’t expect me to come dig you out the hole you get in!”

Dad would always back her up. It’s one of the few things that they could agree on.

He walked past an empty shop and looked at his reflection. Holes in his jeans, threadbare T-shirt, tatty hoodie and a beaten-up pair of sneakers just about summed him up right now. He had better clothes, but today was ‘downtime’, no school, and where he went during ‘downtime’ would’ve made his folks worry. Abandoned factories, derelict buildings... anywhere where he could ‘chill’ and be alone with his imaginings and his music.

As distance from home increased Dan’s mood improved. He shimmied down the street. Eyes half-closed and the world and its troubles light years away.

Sun-warmed air wafted on a breeze bringing a peaceful smile to his face.

The music stopped. Silence.

Dan paused.

He tapped the battered Walkman clipped to his belt.

“Awww… come on!”

No response.

The Walkman received a slap.

It continued to sulk in silence.

“Damned batteries.” The day’s ruined, the smile gone.

"May Day, May Day, May Day. This is the module Red Genie. Base. Do you read me? This is the module Red Genie. Please. Can anyone hear us? May Day, Ma—"

“What the…?” Confused he tapped the Walkman, but it was dead. “You’re a

freakin’ Walkman, not a radio!”

Something whooshed low overhead.

Dan ducked.

Whatever it was, it bounced high on the sidewalk, flew over the street and skittered down the alley between the barbershop and the pharmacy.

“Whoa.” Had anyone else noticed?

There was no one around to notice.

He shrugged, about to continue when the Walkman crackled again.

“…Red… …May… …anyone…”

His attention was drawn to the thing in the alley.

Slow, careful and not a little scared, he let his feet carry him toward a shiny object that lay at the side of a dumpster.

“No way!” His eyes went wide. “A

genie’s lamp?”

Entrance, exit and any windows were surveyed before Dan made his move.

Lamp in his hands, he grinned. “I wonder…”

“No don’t.” A shrill, reedy voice shouted.

Dan almost dropped the lamp. “I was just wondering how much this was worth, is all.”

“Do be careful!”

He stared at the lamp. “Was that you?”

“Who else would it be? Genius.” It was an impatient and condescending tone.

“Oh man, I’m sorry.” Dan went to put the lamp down.

“Wait, where is this place?”

Dan paused. “Uhm, my hometown. Not really a town anymore… most people just drive straight through.”

“What planet? Stupid!”

“There’s no need to be so rude!” Dan fought back. “Where’s your manners at?”

A pause, a deep breath. “Could you please tell me which planet we are on?”

“’s better.” He pouted. “We’re on the Earth.”

“Awwww crap!” Frustrated and angry the voice ranted. “Of all the hell holes in the twenty-three dimensions of the known macroverse, why did I have to end up here?”

“It ain’t that bad…” The protest was automatic.

“Ain’t that bad…” The voice mimicked. “Do you know what happens when a genie comes to this rotten, maggot infested, pestilential…”

“Got something to say about my planet, have you?” Dan got mad and shook the lamp.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, owwwwww!”

“You finished now?” He stopped shaking.

“How would you feel if you came for a visit, and then found yourself trapped here for millennia, huh?”

Dan’s head jerked back in surprise. “Millenia? Like thousands of years?”

“Yes…” The tone changed to sadness. “…like thousands of years, and now I suppose you want your three wishes before you hand me on to someone else?”

The surprise intensified. “It’s true then?”

“Hmph!” A grunt was all he got.

“But why can’t you leave when you want to? If you’re all magical and stuff how come you can’t just snap your fingers and be gone?”

“That’s not how it works!” A snippy answer.

“Oh.” Dan fell silent, wondering. “So, how’d you end up here?”

“…someone… …not… …result…” The voice mumbled.

“What?” Dan strained to catch the words, lifted the lamp to his ear.

“I said… someone wasn’t happy with the result of their second wish, so then they wished this on me!” Hurried, embarrassed and angry.

The lamp lurched to a safe distance. “So, you don’t give people what they wish for?”

“Yes, I do!” Indignation now. “They just aren’t careful what they wish for.” Followed by a little chuckle.

“I see.” Dan thought hard. “So, I have to say exactly what I want, in exactly the right way, or you’ll give me what you think I want instead?”

“Wow. So quick!” Sarcasm took over.

“And here I was thinking you were all just dumb animals.”

Dan ignored the sarcasm. “Are you on your own in there?”

“Of course. Who else might be here? The housemaid?” The sarcasm continued.

“So ‘us’ was a lie, huh?”

“What?” Snapped out. “Oh, that…” Lie exposed, excuse to follow. “Nobody would worry if it was just one person, would they?” Embarrassment.

Sneer twisted lips gave Dan’s reply. “Ever tried to be honest?”

“Yes! There was that time…” A momentary pause. “…no. I said ‘us’ that time too.” Rambling mumbles continue. “Actually, no. Not once.”

“So, no one is going to rescue you. Is that it?”

Self-pity now. “No. No one.”

“And this…” He lifted the lamp. “…is not a module either?”

“Uhm…no.”

“My mom’d love to get her hands on you.” Dan shook his head at the lamp. “She’d bend your ear good and proper.”

“Okay! So, I over-elaborate with my claims.” Casual dismissal and denial.

“You lie!” Dan lifted the lamp and stared hard at it. Pouting with eyebrows knitted into a harsh frown.

“Unh!” A muted grunt, but not really an admission.

“You don’t belong here.” Dan observed sulkily, then brightened a little. “What if I wished that you could go home?”

No reply, just a long intense silence.

“Did you hear what I said?” Persistence.

“You’re joking with me, right?” Cynicism.

“So, you did hear.” Dan huffed. “No, I’m not joking.”

“You are serious…” Almost whispered, awe filled words. “…then…” A throat cleared and the voice got stronger again. “…then I would be most grateful.” The voice was very sincere, then hurriedly. “But, before you do, …isn’t there something that you want?”

“Yeah, sure. A well-paid job for dad, mom not having to work, bills easy to pay, no more arguing day and night, oh and enough money for me to finish high school and go to college, how ‘bout that?” His tone was bitter, it left a bad taste in his mouth and his eyes felt like they wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude.” He sniffed a little. “You gotta see it would take more than three wishes to get me what I want…”

Dan explained. “… so, no thank you.”

“Not even gonna try and sell me?”

Dan straightened up. “Nope.”

“But but I thought all you humans were the same?”

He shuffled his feet a little and raised his chin. “Yeah, well, we are, and we aren’t. Sure, we all want something, but not everyone will take it from you. Some of us wait for it to be offered, you know.” Proud and dignified, yet humble too. “So, if you want me to, I’ll just wish you on your way.” He rubbed his aching eyes.

“Oh, well, as you put it that way…” Confused, yet grateful. “…yes, please do.”

“Mr Red Genie, I wish that you could find your way safely back home, without further mishap.”

Barely was it said, there was a flash, and the lamp disappeared.

Dan jumped a little then sighed. “Well now, THAT was different.” He observed dryly.

He wandered back to the sidewalk. He hitched up his jeans and patted the Walkman. “Gotta get you some batteries.”

In the store he bought the batteries, lay the Walkman on the counter and slid open the cover. He just stared a moment, looked around, noticed no one was watching him, took out the old batteries and put them in his pocket.

New batteries in place he clipped the Walkman back onto his belt.

Earphones in. Press play. Nothing.

Eyes looked heavenward in frustration.

He unhitched the Walkman and slid open the battery cover. He stared again as he extracted two more solid gold

batteries, just like the pair that he already had in his pocket.

The Walkman crackled for a moment. “Thank you.”

A twisted smile came to Dan’s lips. “How in heaven’s name am I going to explain this to mom and dad?”

The End

STUD

“Danny Markridge, the world’s greatest lover!” The small brass plaque by the front door proudly declared. And to Danny, it was the absolute truth. A wide boy with a penchant for the latest in technology, and women, he was a serious collector of both.

As you might imagine it really made his day when a technology seller, in the form of an attractive woman, brought a new ‘toy’ to his attention. Her clothing, though formal and almost austere, hid nothing of her figure.

“It is absolutely the latest in V.R…” The saleswoman persisted despite his being thoroughly absorbed in the task of assessing her as his next conquest. “Perhaps if you tried the unit using the demonstration model, you might find it at least as interesting as my breasts?” She

pulled her jacket closed and buttoned it in place, barely hiding the ample charms that fought for freedom behind an almost transparent blouse.

Danny grinned, not the least bit embarrassed by the fact that his attention had strayed away from the poor bitch’s sales pitch. “If it’s as good as you say it is, then you never know, I might bump into you in there!” He leered at her then stepped back and opened the door just wide enough for the woman to squeeze past him and into the apartment. As her jacketed tits brushed against him, Danny’s grin widened.

She strode into the centre of the room, looked around at the sparse, though very modern, furnishings, admiring the high level of technology that was strewn about the place. “If you would like to make yourself comfortable Mr…?” She prompted him for his name. “Danny’s the name and women’s the game!” He

quipped as he strolled over to a multi-recliner. “Yes, well… Danny, if you’d like to get comfortable, I will run the demonstration for you.”

Even before she had finished Danny was settled into the m-r seat. “Ready whenever you are, my darlin’!”

The woman sighed deeply, the action emphasising the twin protuberances beneath blouse and jacket.

“What’s your name, love?”

“Robinson… Miss Robinson.” Her response was abruptly formal.

“Well, miss Robinson, I think that it’s only fair that I know your first name, don’t you?” In Danny’s mind, he was already running through the agenda. It wouldn’t be long before this ‘miss’ became a ‘hit’.

“Rebecca, if you really must know…” The deep sigh repeated. “…Shall we

begin?” She offered Danny a barely veiled glare.

“I’d love to!” His grin faded into a lewd smile as he murmured his reply. “Becky…” He added as an afterthought.

Rebecca opened the folio she carried and produced what looked like nothing more than a narrow band of dark coloured plastic. She held it up for inspection. “The visor is slim, comfortable and fully attuned to the thoughts of the user.”

“That’s new. I haven’t seen anything like that on the market.” Danny expectantly reached for the visor, but Rebecca withdrew it from his reach.

“When you’ve bought one you can handle it as much as you like, but not before…” A look of warning crossed her face, but swiftly faded into a gentle, reassuring smile. “Ready?”

Danny folded his arms. “Okay, I’m ready.” He was clearly disappointed.

Rebecca walked around behind him, eased him back into the seat and gently lowered the visor to rest over his eyes.

Instant darkness, followed by a slight spasm of pain, like a small electrical shock, that passed along the length of the visor.

A moment later he could see his room. He was still in the m-r seat and Rebecca’s folio still lay on the floor. “It doesn’t seem to be working…” He teased as he reached up for the visor.

It wasn’t there!

He tilted his head back as he searched for Becky.

She stood over him, an anxious look on her face. “Sorry. I should have warned you about the little jolt.” The visor, now in her hands, was carried back to her folio. Once it was safely stowed, she stood up and turned to Danny. “If I can make it up to you…?”

“Nah…” It was an automatic response, which Danny cut short. “…well perhaps I can take you out for lunch?”

Becky pursed her lips then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, but it’s not a date, or anything.” She fixed her gaze on his eyes. “Just so that we’re clear, alright?” Twinkling lights danced in her blue irises and it appeared that something more than the cold shoulder was being offered.

“Sure!” Danny readily agreed. “What’s gourmet for you?”

“Uh… it’s a bit of a cliché, but I actually do like Italian food.” She grinned weakly and shrugged her shoulders.

Danny’s gaze flicked to her chest, observing natural movement. “Nothing kit-form about this one!” A warm smile came to his lips. “It just so happens that, next to Chinese, Italian is my favourite too!” He rose easily to his feet and gathered up a jacket. “Come on then!

Let’s eat!” He guided her to the door.

Following behind her, he was pleased to note that she had not gathered up her folio, which would mean that she would have to come back to his place to get it!

Two and a half hours later they returned to Danny’s apartment.

“I’m really sorry. The folio totally slipped my mind!” Rebecca slurred the words slightly, having consumed the better part of two bottles of Chianti.

Danny offered a teasing, sidelong glance. “Before I let you loose on the world again, I’d better get you a strong cup of coffee!”

“I suppose you’d like me to apologise for that as well!” She giggled, spoiling the stern expression that had risen to her face. Her shoulder rested against the wall, allowing her to stand upright without wobbling.

Danny ignored her as he made the coffee. When it was ready he carried it over and offered her the cup, handle first.

“Oh…” She took the cup and immediately placed it to one side. “…screw the coffee!” Her arms embraced him, drawing him close. The warm cushions of her breasts pressing against his chest as her lips brushed lightly against his.

He responded with equal tenderness, his arms easily wrapping around her slender waist.

The light kisses became more intense as their passions became aroused.

Her hands moved to his chest and began to smooth across his muscular frame.

His right hand dropped to her left buttock, gently squeezing at the firm flesh. The left hand found its way to her right breast. A moment, or two, of gentle massage produced the desired result, a gentle

friction in the palm of his hand as her nipple rose to erection.

Breathing became an audible process as the kissing continued, forcing them both to inhale, and exhale, through their nostrils.

Garments loosened, disengaged and were discarded.

Danny and Becky slid gracefully to the floor.

Bodies merged, writhing and intertwining. The sheen of sweat facilitating the smoothest of actions as their bodies glided easily against each other.

Movements became more and more urgent.

Rebecca convulsed, juddering as a climax ravaged her senses.

Danny didn’t even break his stride as he also came.

Moments later a second, slightly less turbulent orgasm rocked Becky’s body.

The strain was beginning to tell as a grimace emerged on Danny’s face.

As Rebecca reached a third climax, Danny relented and satisfied his body’s demand for a final release. His energy spent; he allowed his body to settle gently to one side.

A gentle kiss touched his forehead before Rebecca lay back to rest.

Their breathing slowed as they rested.

Danny’s eyes closed as he drifted into the euphoric oblivion of post coital sleep.

When he awakened Rebecca had gone, leaving a scribbled note. “Call me!” Beneath that simple message was a telephone number. Danny smiled. Another woman had surrendered to his charms.

The smile faded as he read the note again. He wanted to call her and that unsettled him. He offered the scrap of paper to the waste disposal unit, changed his mind and pinned it to the notice board.

He took a shower. Then, having dressed for a night out, he headed for the door. He glanced at Rebecca’s note. “A pity about the visor though!” He murmured as he closed the door behind him.

Across the room from the m-r seat in which Danny sat unmoving, visor over his eyes, Rebecca Robinson lifted her watch to her mouth. “Three hours elapsed. Subject Daniel Markridge is stable and ready for transport.”

“Are you sure he’s the one? I have no record of a Daniel Markridge after that...” She got a barely audible reply from the watch.

Rebecca interrupted the speaker.

“Then I’ve got the one I’ve been looking for.” A tension-releasing sigh hissed between her lips. “Initiate.”

A moment later they were gone, vanishing into the ether.

From the sterile environment of the observation lounge a woman stared at the still forms that lay in a row in the adjoining room. Her eyes wandered from end to end, pausing momentarily as they rested on Danny’s body. Tubes, catheters and wires connected the body to the machine under the bench on which he lay. His physique reduced to a pale, flaccid shadow of its original condition. Had Danny known anything about it, he would have been mortified.

A small cable connected the woman’s right temple to a console in front of her enabling the monitoring of his activities within his V.R. prison. Her eyes lost their

focus as she witnessed yet another moment of tender affection between Danny and Rebecca.

Then it was just Danny going to his favourite nightclub.

“Watching again Becca?” A man’s voice broke into her daydreaming.

“Hm!” She grunted in response, angered by the interruption. “He’s a-typical. The victim count is currently five and… wait… ssshhhh!” Becca became motionless as she closed her eyes.

The man moved to stand behind her, took up another cable, pressed the tab to his right temple and ceased moving. A moment later he winced as Becca screamed in synch with Danny’s latest victim.

They both snatched off the cables and discarded them.

Becca’s chest heaved,

her breathing deep and rapid. “Make… that… six.” She looked at the man, her face pale and drawn. “I didn’t see it coming.”

The man’s expression settled from shocked to thoughtful. “How did you find him?”

Becca shook her head. “Blind luck really. I had a vague trail to trace back, but with only three victims on record it was hard to connect.” She sighed. “Before the incursion the only thing I could say for certain that they had in common was that they all went to the same night club, and the same bar.”

“Danny Markridge.” The man mused. “A name that would have been synonymous with rape had he ever been caught.” He patted Becca on the shoulder. “Good work, even if you think it was luck I still credit you with the capture.” A gentle smile backed up his words.

“Thanks Daryl.” She placed her hand over his. “Did you know not one of the victims dated, or even spoke to Danny?”

“Yes, which is all the more reason for giving you credit for taking him out of society before the first one.” Daryl’s eyes had a faint glow of pride in them.

“Was it before the first?” Becca’s brow beetled.

Daryl tapped his temple and gave a small nod. “I spoke to him in person.” He shivered. “A nice, sociable young man with everything he could ever want. Except to be dominant over his women.” He turned his gaze to Becca’s eyes. “When I say dominant, I mean it in the most brutal fashion. His imagination is even more vivid than what we just witnessed.”

It was Becca’s turn to shiver. Daryl was the toughest prison psychologist that she knew and if Danny scares him…

Thank the stars he would never walk the streets again.

Danny smiled, oblivious to events outside of his head. He was as happy as a ‘sand boy’. Women, and gadgets, seemed to be queuing up for his delectation. Not only that, but Becky was a constant in his life of change. She seemed to understand, and everything fitted nicely together.

Plus, of course, she was coming round tonight!

The End