Stream of Conscience

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She clambered up from her kneeling position, dropping the screwdriver down onto the carpeted floor.
Her neck ached.
Grabbing the base unit of the desktop PC, she pushed it as hard as she could, forcing the box against the grain of the carpet with some difficulty at first, gradually finding momentum until the plastic and metal box slid into position.
She grunted her satisfaction, then leant down to hit the on switch, relieved when the familiar sounds of the machine powering up began, flopping into the chair in front of the computer desk, hitting the button on the monitor, waiting patiently as the boot-up process worked through, typing in her username and password when prompted.
“Sally88”
“Indigo451”
As the hard drive clicked and buzzed, the tiny needle scanning the surface, finding the data it needed in order to load the OS, she leaned forward on her elbows, the screen too large in her field of vision, blinding her almost, so she closed her eyes, content simply to wait, emptying her mind of all thought, aware only of the routine sounds, so well known that she could identify the precise moment the computer became usable.
Bzzzz.
Bzzzz.
Click.
Stop.
Bzzzz.
Stop.
Now it was ready.
She clicked on the browser icon on the desktop, waited a second or two for Firefox to load, then, two clicks more, she was on her Facebook profile.
One private message waited for her.
She opened it.
Read the words once, quickly, then again more slowly.
A glance at her watch confirmed she was on time.
She moved the cursor down to the tiny chat box, clicked on the name she sought.
Aston4.
‘I’m here,’ she typed.
‘Are you prepared?’ came the response.
‘I am.’
‘All is ready.’
‘When shall I start?’ she asked.
‘Now.’
The single word blinked at her from the screen.
She nodded.
So it begins.

She leaned forward, staring straight into the lens of the webcam that sat atop her monitor. For long seconds she did not move, simply gazed at the unblinking eye, imagining the world beyond.
‘My name’s not important,’ she began at last, ‘But maybe my story is. Perhaps, if I tell my tale, it can make a difference.
To one person?
To a hundred?
Who knows? I’m going to tell it anyway.’
She sat back, now, relaxing into her chair, taking a quick swig of coffee from the mug on her desk, wincing when she found it was cold, drinking some more regardless.
She sighed.
Then started speaking again.
‘Truth is, I’m not sure if anyone will even hear this. I hope so. I really do. But that’s out of my control.
I’ll start at the beginning.
I’m a nobody, really. A grunt. One of those people you can pass by everyday in the street and not even notice. It’s not a criticism of myself. I like it that way. I prefer being anonymous. Well, I used to.
I worked as a care worker at a local hospice. Elderly people, mainly, though all had something wrong with them besides their advancing years. Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, motor neurone conditions. You name it. Most could fend for themselves to some extent and, fortunately, most of them could tend to the intimate bodily functions –but not all – so my job was mainly about keeping them company, taking them where they wanted to go and generally keeping them active.
See, one of the myths about the elderly is that they like to stay at home, like to be indoors where it’s safe and quiet. Not in my experience. Most of my clients liked nothing better than being out and about, as much as was practical, and I always supported them as best I could. Cinema visits, trips to the park, the swimming pool. Whatever they wanted, if I could help them, I would.
That was my job.
Or so I thought.
I had one guy under my care – let’s call him Alf. Alf was a prickly character, quick tempered, and one sure fire way of setting him off was to make him feel as if you were helping him too much. He liked his independence, liked to do as much as he could for himself, despite the fact his Alzheimer’s was fairly well advanced and his frail old body was blighted by a form of muscular dystrophy which meant he had trouble walking unaided. Still, the old swine had attitude. And he could swear like a sailor when he lost his temper. Nothing malicious, comical in fact, and I never took it to heart.
Admired him in many ways.
His effort.
His resilience.
His insistence on doing all that he could for himself, even though he probably couldn’t tell you what he had for breakfast.
A proper character, you know.
In the home, we had a contraption called a rollator. We had a few of them, but one in particular I’d set aside for Alf’s use so, when we went out and about, he could hold onto the handles, and guide himself where he wanted to go with the four wheels.
He loved it.
Then, an inspector came in, a medical inspector, checking out the equipment and reading lists of clients and their individual conditions and, as soon as he read Alf’s file, that was it. No rollator for you, squire, despite the fact he had been using it for over a year without an incident. Despite the obvious evidence that it was beneficial for him. No, the inspector decreed that Alf should sit out the rest of his days in the home, unable to leave, effectively cutting off the very independence that I was sure was the only thing that had kept him going in the first place.
It would kill him.
I knew it would.
I broke the news to Alf and the look on his face near broke my heart. His bottom lip trembled, and he started weeping, the daft old sod and, wouldn’t you know it, that set me off, too.
Well I couldn’t have it.
It just wasn’t acceptable.
In defiance, I allowed Alf to keep using his rollator. Allowed him the independence he so badly craved and, for my efforts, I got sacked.
No questions.
No discussion.
Just out the door.
I tried to appeal and they pretty much laughed in my face, my manager waving a time-stamped photograph of me with Alf and his bloody rollator at me, citing it as proof of gross misconduct.
Jobless, angry, I was climbing the fucking walls. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been out of work. Didn’t know what it meant to have a huge void of time spanning out before me, no way to fill it. It only took three days for me to crack. Still raging, I went back to the care home, snuck in really, furtive and nervous, a trespasser now. I made my way to the cupboard where Alf’s device was stored, anxious, wondering if it would still be there.
It was.
Removing it quickly, I exited the building, breathing deeply, now adding theft to my list of apparent crimes against the company. Two streets away from the scene of my felony I began to relax, feeling suddenly elated.
Manic almost.
It was as if this act of defiance had liberated me from the tumult of dark anxieties that had been pressing down on me. I felt like a child, not a care in the world all of a sudden, and I knew I could do anything I wanted. Without thinking about it, I headed for the park, the very place me and Alf had spent our happiest times together, me on the park bench, observing, he ambling about on his four wheeled contraption, watching the people pass him by, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, occasionally swearing for no reason, but always vibrant, always alive.
To this day, I don’t know what came over me.
I dashed to the edge of the lake that served as centrepiece to the park.
I folded the rollator up to its smallest state and then – don’t ask me why – I started jumping on it, started smashing the damned thing up. Maybe it was a symbol of all that had suddenly gone wrong, something that needed to be destroyed in order for me to move on with my life. In the past, after a break-up, I’ve changed my hairstyle, changed the way I fix my make-up. Changed something. Perhaps this was similar, though in a destructive way. I needed to rid the world of the bloody thing, to reset the balance of the universe for, in my mind at least, it seemed improper, somehow, for the rollator to still exist, yet not be put to correct use.
So I jumped up and down on it.
I kicked it.
The wheels fell off first, and I picked these up one by one, hurling them into the lake, as far as I could manage, far enough that they could not be retrieved, anyway, and that was good enough. In they went, arcing through the air and, as I released them, I bellowed at the top of my voice: ‘Piss off, wheels.’
I was like a thing demented.
Never having acted in this way previously, I felt so energised by the bold spontaneity of my actions, I didn’t even consider how I must appear to passers-by. Heck, I wasn’t even aware of the crowd that had started to gather to watch the mad woman smash up a stroller and chuck it in the lake.
Who wouldn’t want to watch that, right?
I kicked down again, this time snapping off part of the frame, picked it up, swung my arm back to hurl it, too, into the water, when the backward motion was abruptly halted, so my own momentum caused me to swivel and spin on the spot, bringing into focus what had prevented my intention. A child, no more than thirteen, had apparently snuck up behind me. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps to try to stop my crazy behaviour. Perhaps just to get a closer look. Either way, he wouldn’t be looking at much of anything for some time after. The metal pole I had smashed off the rollator was now stuck into him, jabbed right into his eye socket, so he stood and stared at me with just one good eye, apparently rooted to the spot.
‘That’s gotta hurt,’ was my first, utterly inappropriate thought, the wildness of the spectacle before me preventing any rationale response.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I heard from somewhere else, a woman’s voice, then someone bursting out of the gathered spectators, grabbing at the boy, screaming, holding him, screaming some more, and it took a while to realise she was screaming at me, demanding to know what I had done to her son.
My memory gets fuzzy after that.
Vague recollections of more people shouting at me, of flashing lights, handcuffs. Of questions and accusations.
Then the magistrate.
The man who decided to take away my son.
Perhaps it was fitting punishment for me. After all, I had taken away at least part of another’s only child. The boy lived, but he would never see out of the damaged eye again.
But they took my boy away from me permanently.
I was an unfit mother.
Damaged goods.
Bipolar disorder, they said, with an emphasis on the manic side of the spectrum. I was liable to make rash decisions that could endanger the safety of myself and anyone under my care therefore, it was the duty of the state to absolve me of that responsibility.
Jobless and now childless, things were about to get much, much worse.’

The newsroom bustled with the usual frenzy of activity. Journalists scuttling from desk to interview room, from canteen to computer.
The wall clock read 11:45am as the telephone on Samantha’s desk began to ring. She snatched at it, annoyed that her train of thought had been interrupted.
‘News desk,’ she said.
‘You’ll want to make a note of this,’ the voice at the other end of the line said, a peculiar quality to the tone, distorted somehow, processed, the caller clearly speaking through some form of electronic device to mask his (her?) true voice.
Sam’s pulse quickened instantly.
Only one type of person made an effort to disguise their voice: someone newsworthy.
And she had the scoop.
‘Are you next to a computer?’ she was asked.
‘I am.’
‘Fire up your browser.’
‘Already open.’
‘Type this into the address bar: ustream.tv/sally88’
‘One second.’
Sam did as she had been asked. The screen loaded, quickly, but the media player at the centre of the page took a while longer as the data buffered.
‘What is this?’ she asked while she waited, anxious to keep the caller on the other end of the line.
‘You’ll see. No more talking. From now on, you just listen.’
Not wishing to provoke a hang-up, Sam complied.
The media player finally completed loading and, on screen, a woman, maybe mid-twenties, stared out at her, speaking, though no sound could be heard. Sam cranked up her speaker volume.
‘Who is she?’
‘Name’s aren’t important, Miss Telegraph journalist. All that matters are the words. I’ve given you a heads up, here. Soon, all eyes will be on this woman.’
There was a click, then then phone line went dead.
Sam replaced the receiver.
Stared at the screen.
Listened.

She took another sip of the still cold coffee, pausing momentarily, throat dry, requiring lubrication.
‘My husband was furious with me and, honestly, who can blame him? All those plans we had made. The ideas we had. The thoughts we had shared about the life we would spend together: gone. Not forever, I hoped. No, it was just a temporary set back. That’s what I tried to tell him. That’s what I tried to explain. But he wouldn’t listen. He just kept telling me it was all my fault. Kept saying that he had stuck with me when all of his friends and family had told him he should leave.
Why?
Because I was trouble.
He came from a reasonably wealthy family. They weren’t millionaires, not by any stretch, but they were successful enough. Me? I’d been dragged up on a Black Country council estate. No prospects, no chance of doing anything with my life. Not that I’m complaining. I was happy enough with what I had. Then, we met. Total chance. In a supermarket. As clichéd as it gets, really. He took a shine to me, and I was suitably flattered to agree to a first date. We never looked back.
But they never forgave me.
His friends.
His family.
Never forgave me for my upbringing. They couldn’t see beyond the accent and the lack of qualifications so, when I was prosecuted, it gave them the opportunity to squawk ‘I told you so,’ to him. He resisted for a while, I’ll give him his due, but they got to him in the end. He hit me that last day. I was in his face, calling him every bastard under the sun as he was packing his stuff. He’d agreed to pay for the upkeep of the house for six months, to give me time to sort myself out.
Decent of him, really.
But I didn’t see it like that at the time. Instead, I was shouting and cursing at him, playing every bit the manic nutcase, effectively proving the diagnosis correct, and reinforcing his commitment to leaving me. Our boy as well, of course. He couldn’t get over that. So he’d made the choice. He could take custody of his son, but only if he had no relationship with me.
His son or his wife?
A tough choice if you think about it, and he made the one that most men would, I suspect.
I wouldn’t let it lie as he tried to leave, started pushing him, threatened him even then, in the blink of an eye, he snapped, took a swing at me, caught me on the chin and knocked me off my feet. It took the wind out of me, physically and mentally, so I just stayed on the ground whilst he finished his packing.
I’ve never seen him since.
Nor my boy and, for a couple of months, I was lost, adrift.
Desperate.
What purpose was there to my life?
What point continuing?
I contemplated suicide at the time, but I simply didn’t have the stomach for it back then and, given my medical condition, the doctor was hardly likely to prescribe me something strong enough to do the job efficiently. I could have found the means, I suppose, but the thought never crystallised sufficiently powerfully to explore it.
Then, I found my calling.
It was like something I should have been doing all along. I couldn’t believe I had never considered it previously because, once I started, it was like a drug.
I couldn’t stop.
I became an activist.
Name a political cause. Name a grievance against the government, big business, the banking world, I was on it. Using the internet, I started out joining forums, rallying people, trying to stoke up annoyance, dissent, hatred if I could manage it. Then, when sufficient people were engaged, we’d take to the streets. Placard waving warriors, we thought of ourselves as, a small but dedicated band of business and bureaucrat botherers.
To begin with, they paid us little attention. Who were we, after all? A cluster fuck of nobodies, armed only with permanent marker daubings on pieces of cardboard. They didn’t have to worry about us. They mocked us sometimes, but that was progress, was the way I saw it. One of my proudest moments came when a Conservative politician mentioned our group on Have I Got News For You. He was sarcastic about us, of course, made a quip that got him the laugh he wanted – humanising him, perhaps – but still that seemed to me a small victory. If he was talking about us on national television, we’d clearly started to get under his skin.
Then, a strange thing happened.
Almost overnight our ranks began to swell. We went from a few dozen dedicated souls to several hundred, several thousand and, before you knew it, each time I arranged a rally or a march, hundreds of thousands took to the street.
We were shaking things up, and no mistake.
Suddenly, the politicians began to take notice.
Gone were the snide quips on satirical panel shows, in their place came forthright and worrisome interviews on Newsnight, Question Time and the like.
We had arrived.
But the best thing about it all?
Nobody knew who I was.
I was the ringleader, but nobody had a clue. Not even the people who attended the marches. As far as they were concerned, I was just another one of them, following orders, doing as I’d been asked.
And I kept the secret for six months.
Then a journalist broke the story. Revealed my identity. And, by doing so, for a second time, my life was taken from me.

Aston4 typed urgently, hammering at the keys with barely a pause, eager to spread the message. Forum after forum was visited, both friendly and enemy territory, urging those online to watch the video feed, to fan the flames.
Online, news travels fast.
Within twenty minutes of the commencement of the broadcast, the ‘active viewers’ figure read 87,000.

‘Of course, my past was soon exposed. Front page stories ran about my prosecution and mental health diagnosis, both used to sully my reputation, as well as various stories cut straight from clean cloth, just plucked from the air by a journalist with an overactive imagination. Strangely, though, the public didn’t seem to buy any of it. To this day I have no idea why they rejected the claims – even those that were true – so instead of dampening the flames down, the constant headlines disparaging me only served to spur me on and, as more and more people flocked to our events, so the tactics used against us, but me specifically, intensified.
It was like something from a movie.
The moment I realised just how deeply I was in over my head was when I visited a cash point to take out a small amount of money. Maybe twenty pounds, I can’t remember now. I knew the money was there, but the machine informed me that I had insufficient funds and, to add further irritation, swallowed my card. I thought nothing of it at the time, instead walked into the branch itself and explained what had happened, asking that they check my balance and retrieve it. To begin with, the woman behind the counter was polite enough, smiling and nodding as I spoke but, once my details had been entered into the computer, her manner changed completely. In an instant, she became frosty; hostile even. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched and, awkwardly, she excused herself, explaining that she had to speak to the branch manager.
I sat and I waited, wondering what the hell was going on.
The manager himself emerged soon enough, sat opposite me whilst the original clerk hovered nervously behind him. I couldn’t have my card back, he explained curtly, and the reason the request for cash had been refused was that my account had been frozen, pending criminal investigations.
I was flabbergasted.
Criminal investigations?
What kind of criminal investigations?
He had no details, he replied then, unable to look me in the eye, he mumbled something about the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Did I look like a terrorist?
He had no response to that, but I could see in his eyes that there was some doubt. Maybe mud did stick, after all.
I left without another word, which didn’t please him, calling after me that the police were on their way and that I should wait. I had no intention of following his advice, headed straight for home, only to find that a welcoming committee awaited.
Handcuffed, I was dumped in the back of a police van, without explanation.

Sam recognised her now. Though familiar, it wasn’t until the monologue turned to protest marches that the penny dropped. A quick Google later, Sam had the name she needed.
Sally Harker.
Sam looked up the address, grabbed her phone from her bag and brought the video feed up on the small device, boosting the volume so she could hear every word clearly, then dashed from her desk, heading for her car, determined she be the first journalist on the scene when the broadcast ended.
The mystery caller had contacted her. Indirectly, true, but she had no intention of wasting such an opportunity.
She checked the address again.
A fifteen minute drive on a normal day.
Today, she would make it in ten.

The cell was bare, save for a seat and an information leaflet on the wall reminding those within the room that drink driving is a crime.
Christ, I could have used a drink right about then.
The journey to the police station had been short, so I knew I was still in my own locality, but nobody would speak to me. The officers remained resolutely silent as they marched me into the building, emotionless. I may as well have been accompanied by droids. The door was locked and I sat in the cell, alone, for the best part of four hours before anyone arrived, and only then to offer me some water.
I accepted.
No use going thirsty for the sake of pointless defiance.
Another couple of hours passed before I was escorted to an interview room. But this was a room like no other I had seen in a police station. The door leading into the room was made of thick metal, and was only operable by means of an electronic lock. Within the room, nothing at all. Just two seats and a desk between. I scanned the room on entry. No cameras. Nothing. No proof that I had ever been in the room.
I became very, very scared.
Dumped into the chair, again I was forced to wait before a tall, suited, bespectacled gentleman entered. He didn’t give his name. Gave no clue as to his identity or his status. He merely spoke at me.
‘You are being detained as a suspected terrorist. You are a menace to this nation, and you will desist from your anarchic activities with immediate effect, else face severe consequences.’
I just blinked at him.
‘Your life is no longer your own. We control it. We say what you can and cannot do. Where you can and cannot go. Who you can and cannot see.’
He reached into his pocket, and threw something onto the desk between us.
‘Read it,’ he snapped.
It was a large piece of paper, the size of a tabloid newspaper cover and, indeed, what I was looking at was a mock up of an edition of The Mirror.
‘Protestor’s Paedo Palace,’ screamed the headline, accompanied by a photograph of myself, clearly taken using a telescopic lens from great distance, but with sufficient detail to show me looking gaunt, tense.
‘This is bullshit,’ I began, but he stopped me with a raised hand.
‘Read it, he repeated.
I did so. In the sensationalised style of the tabloid press, the article detailed how my flat was used as a headquarters for the production and distribution of child pornography. My aberrant behaviour was explained away by the loss from my life of my own son, that this somehow twisted my mind and made me hate children. Desperate for money after being cut off from my husband, I turned to this most horrific source to generate income.
‘No-one will believe this,’ I said to him.
‘You have no choices here, Miss Harker. Retreat from the spotlight, tell those that follow you to cease in their activities, and resume a normal life. We have set up a job for you at your local supermarket. You will want for nothing. But you must stop. We will tolerate your interference no longer.’
I just sat there shaking my head.
‘Oh, one last thing.’
Once more, he reached into his pocket and again, he dropped something on the desk, a photograph this time and, with trembling hands, I scooped it up.
My boy.
Older though.
‘That was taken yesterday,’ he informed me.
‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Think of it as a warning,’ he said. Then, to remove all doubt. ‘We’ll kill him if we must.’
He left and, shortly afterwards, I was escorted from the building, to make my own way home to Stourhampton. Oh, and for the sake of clarity, that police station, that interrogation room, was in Dudley. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want you to know that.
So, here we are. It’s come to this. Every aspect of my life has been eroded. All reasons for wishing to continue have been removed, but the fight must go on.
Just not with me.
So here’s what’s happening. I started this broadcast with a clear purpose. Of course, I still have no way of knowing if anyone is listening. Maybe it’s been shut down but, assuming you are out there, loyal followers, and those beyond, this is my message:
Take my life as the price of freedom. We live in a society blinded, side-tracked, distracted. You think they want you thinking about what’s actually happening? Of course not so, every night, on the news, they give you the football scores instead, or talk about the latest celebrity scandal.
You think they want you questioning why most of us are getting poorer by the week whilst those at the top gather enormous sums - more money than anyone could ever need – to bloat their own estates. No, so they feed us reality TV and brainwash us with lies about the financial collapse.
I do this not for me, not even for you, but for those that follow us.
Don’t worry. It won’t take long.’

Sam pulled up outside the block of flats, snatched up the phone from the passenger seat, watched as, on screen, Sally held her left wrist up to the camera and slowly, with great deliberation, drew a razor blade across it.
Blood spurted, blinding the camera for a little while before a tissue appeared to wipe it away.
Sam leapt from the car.
Sprinted towards Sally’s home, glancing at the screen intermittently, cursing as the woman on screen repeated the action on her right wrist.
‘Each drop of blood has meaning.
Drip: a life ruined.
Drip: a life forgotten.
Drip: a life not given the chance to thrive.’
Sam pounded up two flights of stairs.
‘Not long to go now, but remember this day, please, and make sure my sacrifice is not a futile one.’
Sam reached the door of the flat, tried the handle – locked, of course – and, without hesitation, shoulder barged the wooden obstacle.
The door did not yield.
‘I can feel the life draining from me. Can feel my energy sapping, but know this: I have no regrets, nor would I change what I have done here, this day. If my blood can help forge a better future, I can die content.’
She barged once more with her shoulder, again with no result, so stepped back and aimed a hefty kick at the jamb. It didn’t give, but at least it splintered a little.
‘They can slander me; they can accuse me of crimes I did not commit. They can even silence me, but they cannot erase this moment from history.’
Sam kicked again and this time, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. She plunged straight through, into the corridor beyond, glancing at her phone, pleased to see Sally still speaking. She tried the first door off the corridor – kitchen, no use.
‘I love you all. Keep fighting the good fight.’
Sam burst through the second doorway.
Found Sally.
Slumped over the keyboard.
Blood pooled all around her, on desk, clothing and floor.
Sally did not move.
On screen, the voice continued to speak.
Numb, Sam moved nearer, reached out a hand, touched Sally’s neck, searching for a pulse, knowing it was useless, the cold, rubbery feel of her skin telling Sam all she needed to know.
Sally was dead.
And yet still she spoke.
Sam looked at the computer.
In the centre of the screen, a small dialogue box.
‘Time delay: 1:00:00’
‘I’m too late,’ she thought.
‘Goodbye. I love you all.’

© Ian Stevens (2012)
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‘Alright, son.’
‘Heh, Dad.’
I sat down on the threadbare sofa, eyes scanning the room briefly; Marilyn Monroe wallpaper, Beatles commemorative plates, a Star Trek cup on the coffee table.
All make believe.
No family.
Nothing real in sight.
‘How’ve you been?’
It was the same introductory question every time. What the hell else was I supposed to ask?
‘Alright.’
I waited a breath or four.
‘Just alright? You gonna help me out at all?’
A touch more feisty than usual. Normally, I would allow for his apathy but, for whatever reason, today I was in no mood.
‘’Elp you out?’
He appeared genuinely baffled.
‘Yeah. A bit more communication might be nice.’
He made a noise then, not really a word, more an utterance of annoyance.
‘Have I pissed you off already?’
Again, silence was all, only the sound of Chris Tarrant’s voice breaking the tension.
‘You can use a lifeline if you want,’ I suggested.
‘A lifeline?’
‘Yeah. You can phone a friend. Let them do the talking. That way, we don’t have to sit here in this crushingly awkward fucking silence.’
He shook his head.
The audacity of it.
‘What’s got into you?’
Yeah, that’s right I was the one with the problem. A 20 mile journey on public transport to see him. The certain knowledge it would be an afternoon fraught with disappointment and tension.
And I was the one in the wrong?
At least it was only twenty miles. Until last month I’d been a whole three counties away. Not that he’d know. He never paid a visit.
‘I’ve come to see you, Dad. Can’t you turn the TV off?’
His expression told me all I needed to know. Somewhere between quizzical and angry.
‘But I always watch this,’ he said.
‘So fucking record it,’ I barked.
He didn’t react at all to that. I may as well have been snapping at the cat that patrolled the room like something imprisoned.
I sat back in my seat, allowing my eyes to drift to the screen. It was a celebrity edition, Tarrant clearly enjoying himself goading, cajoling, teasing the contestants.
‘Do you know them?’ I asked, for want of anything better to say. Curious, too. I couldn’t have named them for all the money in Switzerland.
‘Er’s from a cookery programme. ‘E’s a rugby player.’
‘A match made in heaven.’
No response. Sure, it was hardly Oscar Wilde, but politeness should dictate some form of retort.
‘You want me to go?’ I asked, more forward then I had ever been before. Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say but, in my case, it appeared to have toughened me up.
‘Why doh you goo see your Nan?’ he suggested, apparently oblivious to my displeasure.
‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’
I left him to wallow in his own juices.

She only lived across the road.
It wasn’t quite a cul-de-sac, more a bend in the road. A wide, arcing dog-leg. Fraught with danger on an icy day, more than once a car had skidded out of control, speed misjudged, the driver’s eyes bulging with panic as they pondered the slippery descent down The Forge, a gravelly track that led steeply to the industrial estate behind the houses.
Today, though, the weather was clear and warm, so no fear of such a mishap. Still, I ensured nothing was coming before traversing the broad expanse of tarmac.
‘Afternoon,’ Mr Putney called as I was halfway across, on his way back from walking the dog.
‘Hi.’
‘Here to see your Dad?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good luck,’ he said amiably.
At least I wasn’t alone, I thought.
I hit the opposite pavement, approached number 29, and knocked sharply.
Nothing happened for a little while, but that was normal, so I waited patiently. Eventually, a curtain twitched back, a skeletal face squinted at me through the window. I waved, just to make sure the daft old bat actually noticed I was there, a combination of cheap sherry and third year onset cataracts rendering her vision suspect by this time in the afternoon. With Nan still at the window, the front door swung open and, for one ghastly moment, I considered the possibility that she had actually died, that what stood at the window was her spectre and that long, tremulous arms, dripping with ectoplasm, eked the door open, waiting to greet me, to welcome me into the ranks of the deceased.
Instead, Grandad peered out, squinting also, though not because of the brightness of the outside world, more to try to focus his eyes, and it was a miracle he could see anything at all through the thick, tinted lenses he had worn ever since I could remember. Like a balding, pale skinned Stevie Wonder, he ushered me into the house, though clearly he still had no idea who I was.
“How you doing, Grandad?” I asked, finally revealing my identity.
“Our Terry?” he asked, a slight smile quivering at the corner of his mouth.
“You got it.”
“Oooh. Eh, our Terry’s ‘ere,” he called into the living room at ear-shredding volume, despite the fact his wife was no more than four paces away.
I touched his shoulder gently, as close to affection as he would ever permit, squeezed slightly, then let go, not wishing to embarrass him further.
“Go on, then, go through.”
I did as he told me, stepping through the doorway into the living room, almost knocked off my feet by the blistering heat within. By now, Nan had made her way back to her seat directly beside the fire – not in front, but to the left, as if she only needed one side of her body to be kept warm - perched right on the edge, as always, as if she expected to be called into action at any second. A cigarette was clamped between her lips which, I now noticed, trembled slightly; a new development since last time I visited.
‘It’s our Terry,’ Grandad said again as he followed me into the room. ‘Take a seat, lad, I’ll get you a cuppa.’
I smiled myself, now. I didn’t really want a cup of tea, but I would accept it graciously just to keep him happy. His life was tough enough without denying him such a small pleasure. I sat on the sofa, watched as he left the room, wondering what I should say, eyes drawn to the large frame positioned above the fireplace. Where most folk would hang a lovely landscape or a soothing ocean scene, here instead was a home-made collage, fashioned from individual faces cut from photographs small and large. Haphazard in appearance, the dismembered heads had been pasted together somewhat clumsily so that, in places, lumps of dried glue bulged behind eyes or cheeks or throats, giving many in the tableau an air of the grotesque: malformed, misshapen, mutated. And as I glanced from face to face, a new realisation struck. Each image was that of a family member –nothing unusual there – but these were specifically chosen for a reason. I was nowhere to be seen, that was for certain, nor my father, nor any of my sisters, for the simple reason we were still alive. What I was staring at was a montage of deceased relatives, a grisly, constant reminder of loss and of tragedy and of grief.
I looked at my Nan, who was staring straight ahead, at nothing in particular, and wondered what precisely went on in her mind.
Why would anybody wish to be surrounded by the faces of the dead?
‘Nice montage,’ I said, not really sure why, knowing that I had to say something.
‘What do you mean?’
Sharp, brittle.
‘Erm, it’s a nice gesture.’
She turned my way now, the ash at the end of her cigarette beginning to bow downwards a little, on the verge of collapse. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
‘I call it my Wall of Memories,’ she said emphatically, cupping a well-practiced hand beneath the burning end of the cigarette at precisely the moment the ash finally dropped, catching it in mid-air before dumping it into an overflowing ashtray atop the gas fire.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I was feeling edgy, nervous even, though I was not sure of the reason. ‘I can see why.’
Even as the words came out of my mouth, I realised how sarcastic they sounded, how callous, but that had not been the intent.
Nan glared at me.
‘What the fuck do you want me to say?’ I thought. ‘Yes, Nan, seems perfectly healthy and normal to ignore all of your relatives that are actually, you know….alive, and focus instead on those who have been fed to the fucking worms.’
But of course I didn’t say that, instead mumbling something about how long Grandad was taking, clambering from my seat, eager to be away from the baleful gaze of both those on the wall and the one in the room who was still just capable of breath.
‘Back in a minute.’
I slipped through the door, into the kitchen adjoined, only to find that the room was empty. I had expected to find my Grandad midway through the tea making ritual but, instead, only silence greeted me, along with a back door positioned slightly ajar. Without pause, I stepped through, out into the passageway that led to the back garden, not breaking pace, straight out onto the lawn, to find him in his favourite place of all: outside, on his bench, away from the harridan within, pipe in hand.
‘Sit down, lad,’ he instructed, as he had done just a few minutes ago, but this time he patted the bench next to him to indicate I should join him.
I felt privileged, almost.
For long moments we sat in silence but, where inside, with the eyes gazing down at me, the silence had been heavy, weighed down by the lingering sense of an accusation yet to come from the woman opposite, here it was easy, natural, comfortable, just two men enjoying both the company of the other and the slight blush of breeze against the face.
‘Look at that,’ Grandad said at last, using his pipe as only an older man can, as a pointing device, the wet end jabbed in the direction he wanted me to look.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, groaning aloud.
Here, as within, death lingered, this time a rockery dominating one corner of the garden, from the centre of which jutted a crudely fashioned cross. At the foot of the cross, a black plaque with gold, embossed lettering which simply read ‘In memory of our beloved David,’ a cousin whose life had been snatched cruelly from him by that blight of the blood, leukaemia, at the age of twenty two.
‘She made me do that,’ he said, his voice weighted down with weariness. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘Well,’ I began, briefly considering dribbling out a platitudinous banality before realising that he deserved better than that.
‘It’s bloody awful,’ I admitted, holding my breath slightly after I had said it, not sure of the response to come.
‘It’s horrid,’ he agreed and, before either of us knew what was happening, we were in floods of tears, though this weeping had little to do with the funeral like atmosphere the rockery was meant to invoke.
‘She’s totally fucking insane,’ my Grandad managed between gales of laughter, his face ruddy, red and vibrant.
Slowly, the chuckles subsided and, once more, we settled into that comfortable silence that so often eludes.
Christ, I loved this man.
‘Best go in, I suppose,’ he said eventually, reluctantly. ‘See what the old cow-bag has got to complain about this time.’
‘Just blame it on me,’ I advised.
‘I might just do that.’
He led the way.

‘What the hell is it?’ she demanded.
‘What are you on about?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, young man.’
‘Young man? I’m twenty five.’
‘Twenty five, are you? So why are you acting like a stupid little school boy?’
Spittle flecked at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes bulged in their sockets so acutely I feared they may well burst out.
‘Why are you getting so agitated?’ I demanded.
‘That….that….thing,’ she spat, pointing around my head as best she could.
‘What, this?’ I said, grabbing hold of the small ponytail I had grown in the six months since the last time I visited. ‘It’s the year 2000. Everyone’s got them, now,’ I tried to explain. ‘It doesn’t mean…..’
But she would not let me finish.
‘I know exactly what it means, thank you. You don’t need to spell it out.’
Her eyes blazed more furiously than ever and, had she suddenly developed the ability to fire laser bolts from them to strike me down, I would not have been surprised.
‘Oh, you do, do you? Do you mind telling me then, cos I don’t bloody know.’
‘Don’t get cute with me,’ she barked, teeth bared. ‘You’re not too old for a good hiding.’
I laughed at that, I couldn’t help it, it was so ridiculous.
‘Oh, piss off, you old bag,’ I said. Unkind, I know, and I really should have controlled myself, but the blood was up and, in a strange way, I was kind of enjoying it.
It was just like the good old days.
‘What did you say?’ she asked in a manner so clichéd I half expected her to start shaking her fists at me, too.
‘You ‘eard,’ I bellowed, feeling like I may as well join in with the script.
That’s when she broke from the norm and jumped to her feet faster than she had any right to be able to at her age. For a second, I thought she was going to make a lunge for me, and I was at the door quick as a panther, not really interested in a fist fight with an octogenarian. But she surprised me again, not making a move for me, instead swivelling and stooping in one fluid motion, coming up with something in her hand, hurling it at me, rapid, forcing me to duck, startling me as something heavy and made of glass exploded on the wall at the exact spot my head had been but a moment before. I realised the mad old bitch had hurled her ashtray at me, a huge, heavy, faux crystal lump of moulded glass that, had it connected, might very well have taken my head clean off my shoulders. Grandad’s words from just a short while ago echoed through my mind, even as my ears still rang from the blast of the impact – ‘She’s totally fucking insane’ – and I began to see his point.
Without a second glance back, I was out of the living room door, stumped briefly by the locking mechanism of the front door, blood running cold in my veins as I heard her moving my way from the living room, but not quickly enough. Front door open now, I burst into the world of the normal, forcing myself to walk, but swiftly, past the privet hedge, out onto that wide dog-leg road, heading for my Dad’s house opposite, planning on just grabbing my coat and heading off as quickly as possible. A brief glance behind had me doing a double-take, as the mad old battle-axe was marching my way, dressing gown flowing behind her, still with a cigarette burning away between trembling lips, though the stride was determined and strong, the gait of a much younger woman, a geriatric Terminator, on the war path, unable to rest until the ponytailed enemy had been vanquished.
‘Oi, Oi, Terry,’ I heard from behind as I put on a spurt of speed.
‘At least she’s eloquent,’ I thought wryly, making it to the short driveway that led up to my father’s house, before stopping dead.
What the hell was I doing?
I’m not a child anymore, I realised. I don’t have to put up with this. Just turn around, and talk to her in a rational manner.
I span around, then light flashed bright, dark, bright, dark, as she hit me, once, twice, open palmed slaps, one to each cheek. I started to shake, knowing that I was about to lose my cool, equally aware how foolish I would appear if I were to floor an eighty year old woman with a fist to the face.
I stepped back, out of range.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shouted, probably screamed – embarrassing, really, in the middle of the street – ‘I should call the police.’
‘Ooooh. Call the police,’ she mocked. ‘Hello, officer, I’m a pufter, and I’m being beaten up by an old woman because I’m nothing but a pufter with a pufter ponytail and a pufter voice and a pufter dick and a pufter…….’
Her face was crimson, the words coming out in a torrent, a stream of consciousness that revealed a mind full of nought but hatred, and it was then I realised that she wasn’t really angry at me.
No, she was angry at everything.
Everything and everyone.
‘That’s right,’ I agreed softly, turning away from her, leaving her to rant to herself, knowing there was nothing I could say or do that would change who she was; what she was.
Best leave her be.
She’d calm down in her own time.
I went inside.

‘You’ve got to hear this,’ my younger sister said, as Emily, the eldest of the three of us, arrived.
‘Not again,’ I protested.
‘Come on. It’s really funny,’ said Donna.
‘I didn’t think it was very funny at the time.’
‘Tell me,’ Emily implored, and knowing the battle was lost, I recounted the encounter with our elderly relative from earlier in the day. Though usually, when telling a tale, each repetition gains in detail, and exaggeration becomes the norm, with this sorry story, no embellishments were necessary.
The truth was quite awful enough.
Emily shook her head as I finished, wiping a bead of red wine from the corner of her mouth.
‘She’s well and truly losing it,’ she aid. ‘Always knew it’d happen, but I didn’t think you would be her first victim.’
There was an edge to the voice, though I chose to ignore it, the subtext obvious: I was always the clean cut one, the one who never brought any problems home. I’d never been in trouble with the police, never been in a proper fight, never so much as stolen anything from a shop.
Yeah, me and Emily were quite different, and we both knew it.
Donna sensed the mood changing slightly, tried her best to lighten things.
‘Let’s play cards.’
‘No thanks.’
Emily again, properly frosty this time, staring at me defiantly, challenging me to say something out of turn.
‘I’ll play,’ I said.
‘Yeah, fuck you. I’ll play cards even if you won’t’ was the message. A tiny act of rebellion, true, but a rebellion all the same.
‘Why do you always have to ruin it, Terry?’
‘Emily!’ Donna protested, but it was too late. The words were spoken, the challenge issued, and I was never one to roll over.
‘What the fuck have I done?’ I demanded.
‘It’s no wonder she had a pop. You’re so bloody arrogant.’
The old accusation again, the old resentments.
‘How’ve I been arrogant this time, Emily? Is it the way I walk? Maybe the way I’m growing my hair. Am I growing my hair in an arrogant manner? Is that it?’
She smiled, her mouth a cold, narrow slit in her face, full of menace.
‘Just cos the sun shines out of your arse, you think you’re better than everyone else.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? Donna asked me to tell the story. That’s all I’ve done. You’ve only been here five minutes and you’ve started.’
‘Yeah, and is it any wonder?’
‘So what is it? Tell me. I’ve obviously pissed you off somehow.’
‘You haven’t done anything. It’s just who you are.’
‘Well that’s helpful.’
Dripping with sarcasm, but I couldn’t help it.
‘Maybe I’ll just travel back in time and ask Dad to fertilise Mother with a different sperm. Maybe I’ll turn out differently that way.’
‘See what I mean? The fucking smart arse answers. Always with the science and the knowledge. The Guardian tucked under your arm as you walk down the street, you think you’re some kind of brainiac. Well, you’re nothing. You’re like the shit on my shoe.’
They shouldn’t have done, but her words stung. I felt like I’d been slapped again and, unusually, I had nothing to come back with.
Something struck the front door.
Hard.
We all became statuesque.
It came again, if anything louder than before.
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked, acutely aware of the look of genuine fear on Emily’s face.
‘Does he know where you live?’
She was addressing Donna, not me, but still it was I who spoke first.
‘Does who know where you live? What’s happening?’
‘Andy. Her ex,’ Donna explained tersely, answering Emily’s question with a jerk of the head, side to side. ‘Don’t think so.’
We were at Donna’s maisonette, a couple of miles outside of town, a couple of miles the wrong way, too, where all of the houses had the dilapidated look of neglect and disrepair. Being a maisonette, it was effectively two rows of terraced houses piled on top of one another, and we were in one of the top ones.
A new sound now, the sound of metal clattering, as whoever was outside meddled with the letterbox, perhaps trying to squeeze an arm through to reach for a key, should Donna have been foolish enough to leave it in the door.
‘Go see who it is,’ Donna urged me and, reluctantly, I stood, a bit shaky on my feet, the combination of alcohol and adrenaline causing a dizzying effect on my vision. I paused, allowed myself time to settle, then made for the hallway that led straight to the front door. I flicked the light on, half expecting to see an arm poking through, but instead the letterbox was propped open by unseen fingers, and all I could make out were a pair of eyes staring straight at me, through the opening.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
A male voice, deep, angry.
Christ, he sounded big.
‘I’m Terry. Donna’s brother.’
‘Oh yeah, Terry. Well let me tell you something: when I get through this door, I’m gonna fucking kill ya’.’
I believed him.
Something about the way the eyes narrowed as he spoke, something about the sheer malevolence in the stare, even from such an awkward position.
I believed every fucking word.
I dashed back into the living room, where the two women stood, each with their arms crossed tightly against their chests, worry etched across the features.
‘We’ve got to call the police,’ I said forcefully.
‘Can’t do that He’ll kill me,’ Emily said, shaking her head urgently.
‘And what do you think he’s going to do when he gets through that door? Pour you another glass of wine?’
‘Can’t do it anyway,’ Donna said. ‘Phone’s out.’
‘What do you mean the phone’s out? What’s wrong with it?’
‘They cut me off.’
‘Fuck.’
Another bang from outside, loud, and I was certain I also detected the sound of timber splintering. It wouldn’t be long before he got through the door, no matter how sturdy it appeared.
I moved, headed to the window, looked out at the scene beyond.
‘I’m gonna have to do it.’
‘Do what?’ Donna asked.
‘I’m gonna jump.’
They both looked at me as if I were utterly demented but, with the sound of the maniac pounding away at the door, it seemed one way or another pain was about to be inflicted. Better to get hurt trying to go for help than sit here, waiting to be a victim.
‘You’ll break your legs.’
‘I know. Maybe.’
But I was already on it, moving to open the small, side window. Fortunately, the narrow gap was just wide enough for me to pass through and, by lifting the metal latch completely out of the way, the window folded right out, providing no obstacle to anyone wishing to exit the building via this route.
They were the plus points, but the clear negative still outweighed them: this was a second floor window, the drop to ground level probably thirty feet or so. I glanced down fearfully, pleased to note that the earth below was at least grass, but still my heart beat so hard I felt certain it might burst.
‘Terry, don’t.’
Another great smash at the front door was all the spur I needed. I dragged an armchair over, positioned it directly in front of the window, back to the wall, and clambered up, easing myself up and over the ledge arse first, barely able to breath, feeling a fear the like of which I had never experienced before. My knees balanced on the window ledge now, I reached down between them, taking firm hold before gradually easing myself out, past the point of no return, surprised at my own strength, adrenaline my ally, boosting my reserves of energy and providing me a muscle capacity I would not normally be capable of.
I hung there for a few seconds, stricken by abject terror, knowing there was no way back, but not wanting to let go.
There was no choice.
I released my hold.
Plummeted.
Waited for the impact.
It came, quicker than I expected and, weirdly, it felt like something had hit me from above, not below, as my body just folded up on itself, my legs giving way, knees bent, fortunately, as I struck so they just collapsed, along with the rest of me. I hit the grass face first, blood gushing instantly from a nose that must surely be broken.
Dazed, I scrambled to my feet, not quite sure where I was, all sense knocked out of me, again unable to breath, though this time it wasn’t through fear, it was the impact, winding me as surely as if I’d been hit by a train.
A flat, green train.
At ground level.
Stumbling, I headed in any direction which seemed to be away from the building and slowly clarity returned, my eyes focused once more, and I spotted the red telephone box, just twenty metres away. Moving as quickly as I could, I chanced a glance back, and was reassured to see Donna staring back at me, presumably meaning the brute had not yet gained access.
As I dashed across the grassed area, I fumbled in my pocket, momentarily looking for change, abandoning the search as I realised 999 calls are free of charge and, the funny thing is, it wasn’t until some thirty minutes later, when the police arrived and Andy was hauled away in handcuffs that I realised the extent of the damage I had inflicted.
Both ankles were broken, the ambulance driver said. It was a miracle I had been able to move at all. Fear had carried me through it all, he told me, and it was hard for me to disagree.
‘Jesus, what a day,’ I thought as the back doors of the ambulance slammed shut, me strapped down on the bed within.
‘Welcome to Stourhampton,’ I muttered. ‘It’s fucking horrible.’

© Ian Stevens (2012)
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The Cottage

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I had arranged to meet my father in his watering hole of choice. His idea, not mine.
Sweet Jesus, not mine.
Even as I approached the building I felt the first acidic squirtings of apprehension begin in my belly, the prospect of entering the bar the emotional equivalent of trapping a one millimetre flap of scrotal skin in a hastily hoisted zipper.
I hated this place.
Since the first unfortunate evening spent within its walls.
I saw it now, some hundred or so metres up ahead, the peeled paint of its sign making the name of the establishment hard to decipher, though I had no need to read it for confirmation.
The Cottage.
I played a quick game in my head, mainly for the purpose of distraction.
Word association.
The Cottage. Hateful.
The patrons. Hateful.
The staff. Hateful.
It was a simple game, true enough, but it entertained me mildly, forestalling the inevitable sense of worry and dread and revulsion and fear that coursed through me each time I swung open the shit-brown painted doorway that led into this particular Circle of Hell.
That first night in the bar still troubled me.
I met my sister up the road from The Cottage, in an altogether more pleasant drinkery, where the beer was good and the chance of having a glass thrust into your face before the evening drew out was remote at best. Her new chap was in tow, a sociable enough creature who seemed unlikely to beat her, which made for a pleasant change. We sat and we drank and we drank and we spoke. All was going well until, inevitably, my sister suggested a change of venue. Well, no second guesses on her selection and, as the boyfriend seemed keen, too, I wasn’t feeling contrary enough to disagree and tagged along. Besides, if she got sufficiently drunk, no doubt she’d break out the ketamine, which would at least make the experience tolerable.
There was already an atmosphere in the place when we arrived, though at the time I put it down to my own dislike of the establishment, heightening my sensitivity to mood, or perhaps imagining it entirely. As was always the way, as soon as she arrived she went for a cigarette and, normally, I would have joined her but, for whatever reason, I declined, complaining of a sore throat to explain my peculiar behaviour (“You don’t want to smoke? What’s wrong with you?”) and stayed at the bar. Getting bored, quickly, I headed to the gents to relieve my bladder, just to occupy myself really, and when I emerged: chaos reigned. I ducked beneath a flying beer bottle and made for the bar, eager to claim my drink before it was used as a projectile, turning, leaning up against the counter with another drinker, the only other person in the damn place not fighting. In the ninety seconds or so it had taken me to drain my bladder, a full scale bar brawl had broken out, my sister in the thick of it. I could just make her out, her reddish brown hair flying around before her head disappeared from view, like a bather pulled under by a Great White, one second there, the next gone, though with a violent jerk of the neck as a powerful force was exerted from beneath. I tried to spy her through the mêlée, my vision obscured by flailing arms and torso’s bent double as ten, maybe fifteen buffoons set about one another. From the outside it was hard to determine who was fighting who, whether there was a ringleader or indeed whether there were teams here. Maybe it was a Friday night ritual, I thought, like The Royal Rumble in wrestling, two captains pick sides and fight it out; last one standing wins a case of lager.
I saw her, then, emerging from beneath the pack of animals, on all fours, clawing her way out, shoulder barging her way through then, at the last moment, just as it looked that she would be clear, someone grabbed hold of her from behind, hauling her back into the fracas, and the gap she had created closed up again. It was like something from a zombie movie, a human victim scrambling clear of the slavering hordes only to be thwarted by the clunky script-writing and dramatic incidental music.
I drank the last of my lager and left, vowing never to return, a vow I managed to maintain for some two months before family obligation drew me back in, another fight and a pint evening of trauma to endure.
And here I was, on the threshold, one hand on the crap coloured door, wanting to turn around, to flee the way I had come, onto a bus, away from here, to find a place where drinking a beer did not automatically come fraught with the threat of violence but, when the doorway opened from within and Lenny made to leave, my presence was discovered and a chain of events that would end in me taking a life could commence.

We sat in an uncomfortable silence, each cradling a half empty glass. For my part, I was searching for a new topic of conversation, as we’d covered all the usual; football, The Beatles, my job. For his part, well, who knows really. Sometimes I look into his eyes and feel as if I am looking into the orbs of a bovine, the vacuous nature of the returning gaze seeming devoid of thought or sentience.
‘You seen Nan?’ I asked out of sheer desperation, knowing the answer in advance.
‘Not in a while. The silly cow.’
Another dead end there, then. Throw me a fucking bone, would you?
Feeling frustrated, embarrassed, and a little ashamed of my lineage, I decided on a new tactic: avoidance.
‘Just off to the loo.’
I stood quickly, not bothering to wait for a response as I was certain I would not be interested in his opinion of my weakness of character, and headed away, into the same lavatory as on that last night wondering if, this time, when I emerged, another fight would be in full swing, though I doubted it.
It was too early.
I headed for a cubicle and locked the door behind me, sitting straight on the toilet lid, not bothering to lift it, no interest in the facilities on offer, simply there as sitting in a tiny box filled with the acrid stench of piss was preferable to spending another moment in the presence of that man.
‘Just wait a couple of minutes,’ I told myself. ‘Build your defences up again. You can endure this.’
I had already been with him for forty five minutes so, in another fifteen I felt my obligation would have been fulfilled. An hour a month was the minimum limit I set myself, and I was near to achieving it.
I chewed my fingers as I waited.

I left the toilet, feeling slightly awkward. I had spent longer than I had planned in the lavatory, the psyching up process requiring more mental energy than I had anticipated so that now I felt I had stretched social conventions beyond breaking point. As I passed through the toilet doorway, I noticed that my father was not alone. Two men, strangers to me, sat with him, and all eyes turned in my direction as I approached the table. I looked from one to the other, taking in the new arrivals, noting two things instantly: their shaven heads and their sheer size. My father’s face was set in stone and, despite my earlier observation, now there was activity in those eyes, a burning rage that I could detect even from a distance. I took my seat opposite the three men, awaiting introductions, though none were forthcoming. To break the silence, I introduced myself as The Son, perhaps hoping for a flicker of amusement, perhaps hoping for anonymity in the title, though unable to read anything from the blank expressions the two strangers wore.
‘Is it true?’
It was my father who spoke first, a gravel to his voice, deeper than usual, sounding as if he were trying to restrain himself somehow, though restrain himself from what it was hard to know for certain.
‘What?’ was all the eloquence I could muster, the vagueness of the question confusing me.
‘Your new book,’ he expanded. ‘Is it true?’
I frowned back at him, though if I were hoping for more clarity I was to be disappointed. After a few seconds of silence, I replied.
‘Well, I’m writing a new book, if that’s what you mean. The last one only sold about a thousand copies, so just about covered a weeks rent…’
I allowed the sentence to trail off, pitching my tone to ‘knockabout comedy,’ expecting at least a glimmer of mirth, though instead my father’s eyes blazed with fury.
‘Are you ashamed of me?’ he asked, catching me completely by surprise, the voice in my head screaming ‘yes’ though etiquette required an altogether different response.
‘I asked you a question, young man,’ he said coldly, his tone of voice becoming menacing now, a trait I had not heard manifest since my teenage years.
‘What the hell is this?
It was a genuine question as, for the life of me, I had no idea what was going on.
‘The gays,’ was his response, eyes locked on mine, as if those two small words explained everything.
‘The what?’ I sounded like an imbecile, and I knew it, though was powerless to do anything about it.
‘In your new book. The gays.’
Suddenly I knew what he was talking about though, far from providing explanation, the truth spun my mind even further off kilter.
I stammered a little. ‘Well, there are two gay characters in my book. Is that what you are asking me?’
He slammed a fist down onto the tabletop, the two glasses still present jumping off the surface, lager slopping from the top.
‘And do they….?’
He left the sentence open ended, unable to bring himself to say the words, the revulsion he felt smeared across his features.
It was my turn to become angry, in part due to the narrow-mindedness of my own father, but also at the intrusion of privacy this conversation represented. I had shown the new novel to no-one, yet here I was being grilled about it, having the content sneered at, as if these dullards had the right to sneer at anything. The only way that my father could have discovered the nature of the narrative was for someone to have broken into my home, without my knowledge as no break-in had been evident, to read the damn thing. There was no other explanation, despite the lack of logic.
‘How dare you,’ I shouted back at him. ‘You’ve broken into my flat.’ It was an accusation, not a question, and I took his lack of denial as proof positive.
‘I’ll write whatever I see fit,’ I challenged, eyeing him coolly across the table, ‘And if I find out someone has broken into my flat again, I’ll call the police, father or not.’
Without breaking eye contact, he spoke again, though the words were not aimed at myself.
‘Do it.’
The Neanderthals moved and, though they were fearsome in size, they were cumbersome, allowing me just enough time to spring to my feet before they reached me, knocking the chair out from behind, retreating from the table, unable to comprehend what was happening. The two giants approached, trying to catch me in a pincer movement, though I saw their intent instantly. Something jarred against the top of my thighs and I knew I had reached the pool table. Spinning quickly, I jumped onto the tabletop, one of the advancing men grasping at my ankle, though I twisted sharply, left, right, and broke free of his grip. I moved forward on the baize, half crouched, my trailing hand grabbing hold of a discarded cue, launching it backwards, satisfied as I heard a grunt from one of the thugs, clearly hurt by the missile. I reached the far end of the table and dropped back to ground level, breaking into a sprint now, ducking beneath the swing top section at the end of the bar, into the service area. I dashed through a short corridor and found myself in the lounge, an area seldom used by regulars, though there were one or two punters, one of whom looked at me expectantly as if he thought I were there to serve him a drink. Instead, in a manner less athletic than my description may suggest, I vaulted over the bar counter and into the lounge proper, bolting for the door. I was swift, too swift for the ungainly pursuers who had guessed my intent and had headed to cut me off, though too late. Out of the lounge, now, and out of the pub altogether, sprinting down the road, the brutes hard on my heels.
The breath in my lungs felt like lava. I had not exercised like this in years, though the fear of what was behind spurred me on, prevented me from quitting, but what was I meant to do? Though I could outrun them in the short term, eventually I would be compelled to stop and, alone, on their patch, I was vulnerable. I had only one choice, and that was to head to the one member of my family who lived in the vicinity, the woman my father had just ten minutes ago dubbed a ‘silly cow.’ I broke right, checking once, twice, before crossing the busy street, a blare of horns greeting my arrival on the roadway, but I reached the other side without incident. Tiring, managing to keep moving only with the knowledge the house was just a couple of hundred metres away, so I redoubled my efforts, sure that the men behind me would not dare enter a private property in the middle of the day. I had a good twenty metres on them already and, by speeding up, hoped to gain ten further still.
My arms pumped at my sides, swinging in sympathy with the motion of my body, the legs doing most of the hard work, the lungs still aching in protest.
I reached the front door of the house I sought and knocked furiously, a dog’s bark from the next door terrace greeting the rattle of the letterbox as my knuckles struck wood twice, three times. I heard movement from within, then the door swung open and I bolted past the old woman, out of the street, urging her to close the front door quickly and she duly complied.
‘What on Earth’s the matter?’ she asked, concern in both voice and eye as she returned to the living room where I paced anxiously back and forth, half expecting the thugs giving chase to simply break down the front door and come for me regardless but, when nothing happened for twenty, perhaps thirty seconds I began to ease.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, a calmness to her tone that helped enormously.
‘It’s Dad,’ I managed through great lungfuls of air. ‘He’s sent them after me.’
‘Your father? What’s he done now?’ she asked, the lightness of her tone indicating she had no comprehension as to the gravity of the situation but then, why would she?
‘Let me put the kettle on, then you can tell me what’s wrong.’
I made to protest, but stopped myself before a word was spoken, knowing that she would not rest until we both had a cup of tea in hand and, besides, the couple of minutes it would take her to make a brew would allow me a little more time to recover. I sat myself down on the armchair in front of the coal fire, embers glowing in the base despite the heat of the afternoon. I heard the clank of crockery and knew that she was getting her best china out, before another sound came, one that had me sitting bolt upright.
‘What are you doing, Nan?’ I called.
‘Just putting Tom out,’ she replied. Tom, the huge ginger cat that had become her constant companion since Grandad had passed away, allowing me to relax once more, though foolishly. Out of the corner of my eye I detected movement and, turning in that direction disbelieving, I watched as the two giants that had pursued me walked into the room, calmly, knowing they had me now and there was nothing I could do, their enormous size too much to overcome in this confined space.
‘You shouldn’t have run.’
It was Nan’s voice, advising me from the kitchen.
‘Why?’
An obvious question and all I could think to ask, though I was not referring to my flight from The Cottage at all, more the sense of betrayal from my own flesh and blood. Relying on nothing but instinct, I reacted, surprising the huge men, one hand lashing out, picking up the fire poker that, until that moment, I had not even consciously noted, yet I had detected its whereabouts somehow. Springing from the seat I rushed the nearest of the men, taking him by surprise, the poker held aloft, aimed squarely at his face. One of his fat arms swept up his chest, but too slow and, before he could respond further I had speared him like a salmon, the lethally sharp point of the poker piercing his eyeball then, with a thrust that carried all of my weight, digging in further, bursting through the rear of the socket and into what passed for his brain.
His knees gave, and he dropped to the floor, lifeless.
I started to shake, shocked that I had taken a life, no matter the circumstance, the other gargantuan more wary now. Then, another sound, that of the front door being opened from outside, and into the room three new arrivals, two of them the same ilk as the thugs already present, along with my father.
Weaponless, penned in, I felt my bladder relax and pissed myself where I stood, even as the three brutes moved in on me.
‘Why?’ I called again as they forced me to my knees, one of them taking me around the throat and forcing my head back so that I was compelled to look upwards and, mind racing, I felt the moment my sanity snapped. In my field of vision, the faces of my father and my Nan loomed into view, both smiling down at me as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
‘We don’t hold with these new fangled ideas,’ explained my father. ‘You’re a working class boy. Why couldn’t you be happy with that? Why couldn’t you be just like us?’ he continued, before the woman chipped in.
‘Write about what you know.’
My neck snapped.

© Ian Stevens (2011)
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The Button

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It happened so suddenly I had no chance to react. One second I was sound asleep, dreaming sweet dreams of a beach in Nha Trang, cool beer on one side, girlfriend the other, when rough hands grabbed me.
I lurched awake instantly.
A scream built in my throat, but was stifled by a palm pressed down firmly against my face, muffling the sound almost completely.
“Don’t fucking move.”
The words were spoken quietly, hissed, seeming as if they were formed through teeth still clamped together, but there was such malevolence in the voice that I froze where I lay, certain that to do otherwise would lead to sanctions best not contemplated.
The hand was removed from my face and I spoke into the darkness.
“Don’t touch her. Please.”
Suddenly, the bedside lamp illuminated, blinding me briefly, forcing me to blink repeatedly to adjust. As my vision cleared, my plight was revealed.
At the foot of the bed stood two men, clad entirely in black, even down to the balaclavas they wore to mask their faces.
Both clutched assault rifles to their chests.
Their eyes were fixed on my prone form.
To my right, another figure, this one kneeling beside me, clearly the owner of the hand that had fastened to my face momentarily.
Lisa lay beside me and I chanced a glance at her, relieved to see the steady rise and fall of her chest, yet puzzled that she seemed able to sleep through this madness. My eyes lifted and took in the fourth figure in the room, his attire identical to his companions, though he wore nothing to shield his face – a worrying development - and, instead of a weapon, he held in his hand a hypodermic needle, the tip glistening with a drop of clear fluid, the barrel of the instrument now devoid of liquid.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the man, ‘We have no interest in her. She’ll awaken as normal in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’
I didn’t know what else to say.
‘You though, Mr. Jackson, may have a very different experience come daybreak.’
‘What do you want?’
The man shook his head, tutting as if irritated at the question.
‘Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Is it money?’
The man with the needle lowered himself towards me, pivoting at the waste and, for one crazy moment, I thought he was going to kiss me but, instead, with his face no more than three inches from my own, he swung his brow down savagely, connecting with the bridge of my nose, pain exploding through my head, rendering me blind once more as colours danced and flashed internally and my mouth, chin and chest were instantly covered by a stream of blood and mucus.
I groaned involuntarily, the sound coming out more as a gurgle as fluids bubbled.
Gradually, I regained my composure, though still my head pulsed with pain. I focused once more. Needles simply gazed at me with eyes utterly unreadable.
I dared not speak.
‘Don’t insult me again, Mr. Jackson,’ he said, pointing at the sleeping form of Lisa.
I nodded.
Message received and understood.
Needles sat on the edge of the bed, Lisa between us, and simply stared at her as she slept.
‘She’s very beautiful, Mr. Jackson.’
I remained mute.
‘You’ve done well for yourself.’
My mouth stayed clamped tight shut.
‘Tell me, do you think she’d have even looked at you twice if not for your bank balance?’
Silence.
‘Cos, let’ face it, she’s a fucking gold digging bitch, right? She wouldn’t have given you a second glance if you were poor, if you were an unknown. I’ve met her type before, Mr. Jackson and, a word of advice: she’s just waiting for you to screw up, she’s just waiting for an excuse to file for divorce as soon as she can. To begin with, you’ll be upset. Devastated even, losing the love of your life but, when the fog of blinkered emotion lifts, the tears of sorrow will be replaced by shrieks of rage as she takes you for every penny you are worth.’
The knots of muscle at the hinges of my jaw began to pulse.
He was trying to provoke me and, despite myself, he was succeeding.
‘Am I getting under your skin, Mr. Jackson?’
My plan was to remain resolutely silent but, as Needles grabbed a handful of Lisa’s hair and tugged sharply, I realised the rules had changed.
‘You’re starting to,’ I admitted.
He laughed, a delighted, sudden outburst, high pitched, feminine even.
‘I like you,’ he said, releasing Lisa’s hair, letting it fall back to the duvet where he gently stroked it straight.
‘So, Mr. Jackson: What’s the magic number?’
I shook my head instinctively, processing the question in an instant, but acting as if I were confused and attempting to glean some meaning from the words.
“Wha-?” I began, before being cut short abruptly.
“Don’t lie to me.”
He screamed the words, the sound so deafening I felt certain he must have torn a vocal chord or two, the ability to go from totally silent to ear-splitting intensity instantaneously seeming almost unnatural. No elevation, no crescendo, simply nothingness to all out rage.
He’d seen straight through me.
I pushed my head back into the pillows, instinct trying to force me away from the source of the sound but, of course, I was going nowhere.
“I’m going to ask you just one more time, Mr. Jackson and, if you truly love this woman beside you, you’ll jolly well answer.”
He nodded at the two men at the foot of the bed.
“My boys here aren’t quite as liberally minded as I am.” He paused, letting me think about that before elaborating. “They don’t hold with feminism and sexual equality. Way they see it, a woman’s place is to do a man’s bidding, no matter how depraved.”
He seemed to savour the last word, allowing it to trickle from his mouth slowly, emphasising his point with a suggestive waggle of the tongue, just in case I had any doubt what he was talking about.
I didn’t.
“So, what’s it going to be?” he asked. “Do I get my answer, or do these fella’s get to sample the merchandise?”
I shook my head, a battle raging within. See, I knew the answer to his question, and I also knew I loved Lisa and, in the end, it was no contest.
“17,” I said softly, as if the dimness of the words would somehow nullify the damage I had just done.
Needles surprised me, then. Instead of thanking me, or knocking me out or, worst case, killing me stone cold, instead he clambered to his feet and began to applaud. Quietly at first, but building in intensity until I felt I was a performer being commended at the end of a fine show.
“Good, good, Mr. Jackson,” he declared, humour in his voice and, for all the world, I half expected him to end with a ‘Bravo, bravo.’ Rather, he reached into the inside of his coat and retrieved a small brown envelope, opening it at once, glancing down at the post card sized piece of paper he now held, nodding to himself, apparently pleased.
“Very good, Mr. Jackson,” he said, flipping the paper so that I could read what was written and, in clear, black marker pen, two numerals: 17.
“You see, we knew the answer all along.”
“What the fucking hell is this all about,” I bellowed, suddenly furious. I was being toyed with, and I did not like it one little bit.
“Calm yourself, man,” Needles said impatiently, as if talking to a love sick fool on the verge of fighting a much stronger man. “You’ll do yourself an injury.”
I had managed to sit myself upright and, momentarily, Face-Holder had allowed me to do so, but firm hands pushed me back down now.
“That was merely a test. You’d have done the same if the position were reversed. Right?”
He gazed down at me, clearly expecting an answer.
“I guess.”
My nose throbbed, now, the sudden spike of anger setting my blood pumping, the added pressure intensifying the discomfort emanating from my shattered face.
“What’s say we carry this on over dinner?” Needles asked, the combination of his apparent sincerity and the oddness of the question, considering the circumstances, leaving me blind to the rifle butt that powered into my temple, sending the world suddenly black.

The room was white. Blinding white, or so it seemed to begin with though, as my eyes adjusted to the intensity of the glare, I realised the ferocity was more to do with perception than reality. Water swam in my field of vision, as though tears flowed, but this was just the residual effects of the blow to the head. Fact is, it wouldn’t have surprised me had little yellow birds started dancing before my eyes, cheeping and trilling, a melodious accompaniment to the dizziness.
Something banged on a hard surface in front of me.
Loud.
Hard.
“Wakey, wakey, Mr. Jackson.”
Needles. The voice belonged to Needles. Who else, really?
“See this?” he asked, a question surely intended as mockery, for I could see little just yet.
“Focus,” he demanded, a rap of knuckles against my brow bringing me somewhere nearer to attention, though still not all the way back to the real world.
“Here,” he said, the sound of something striking a hard surface coming again, though not quite as forcefully this time.
Slowly now, my eyes began to clear, the room I was in began to take form.
All around, the walls were bare. Pure, pristine white, like a make-believe hospital. No posters, no notice-board, not even a flake of paint chipped away to reveal the brickwork beneath. In front of me, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the chair upon which I sat: a desk, surface wooden, supporting legs metal; stainless steel, perhaps. And now, the object to which Needles drew my attention, set precisely at the centre of the desk. I had no idea what it was, so I piped up.
“What is it?”
Needles laughed, a short, sharp, bitter sound, like dried bark snapping underfoot.
“This, Mr. Jackson, is the most important thing in your life.”
He perched on the edge of the desk, gazing down at the object as if admiring a new ornament, determining the optimal position for others to view, though this was like no ornament I had ever seen. A square cube, matte black, made of either plastic or metal – it was impossible to tell without touching – with only two discernible features. On top, a red button, large, round, like something from a cartoon, a Wile E. Coyote ACME explode-a-matic, perhaps and, at the front, a red LCD display, with two digits illuminated:
17.
“Number’s familiar, isn’t it?” he asked, indicating the read out with a dip of the head only. “Like something you’ve seen before?”
“I know exactly what the number means,” I spat, feeling confrontational all of a sudden, no matter the circumstances.
“Don’t get chippy, Mr. Jackson.”
He sounded genuinely offended.
“Chippy. I’ll give you chippy. If I could get my hands on you I’d…..”
But I let the words trail off, knowing even as I spoke them how hollow they sounded. There was little I could or would do., especially not with my hands bound.
“So here’s how it is, Mr. Jackson. You’re here, with us, for as long as we fit. Get used to it.”
I felt like spitting at him.
“I’m going to leave you now. You stay here, and have a good think.”
Have a good think? Was he demented? What the hell was I supposed to think about, besides getting the hell out of here and curling up back in bed beside Lisa?
Needles made for the door and was about to leave when, seemingly as an afterthought, he returned to where I sat in the chair, leant down, and untied the binding from around both wrists.
“Don’t do anything silly now,” he advised as he removed the first, simultaneously reading my mind and preventing any recklessness on my part. “It’ll do you no good.”
He stood, and I flapped my wrists about a bit to get some life back into them, not really paying him any attention until he spoke once more, this time from the threshold.
He pointed at the device on the table.
“Whatever you do, Mr. Jackson, don’t press that button.”
Then he was gone, the door shut behind him, the sound of an electronic lock being activated briefly echoing through the room before complete and utter silence fell, so profound, in fact, it almost made my ears hurt, straining as they were for any stimuli, finding only the sound of my own heartbeat and the blood rushing through my ears.
His words reverberated through my mind, a dissonant feedback loop, over, over, over again.
“Don’t press that button, don’t press that button, don’t press that button.”
And why the hell not?
What would happen if I did?
A sudden hiss of inrushing gas, toxic, flooding this seemingly airtight room with a mist so poisonous I would be dead in seconds?
A burly mercenary assassin sort bursting through the door, ready to snap my neck?
What?
See, I knew what the number meant but, despite that, I was unable to tie it to any possible repercussions of pressing the button. The large, red, comic-book button. Like something Bugs Bunny would have Yosemite Sam press to scorch him with a flamethrower, or that Tweetie Pie would trick Sylvester the Cat into pressing shortly before a 1 ton lead weight fell from height, squashing the poor, bipedal feline into a cat pancake.
Could that happen to me?
If I pressed the button, would the ceiling suddenly start descending, spikes emerging as the room got steadily smaller, Indiana Jones style?
17.
Yes, 17.
The magic number.
That’s what we called it.
The number of personnel within the Ministry of Defence who knew about Project Potter, a sobriquet derived from the famous series of books about a young wizard. In the books, Potter came into possession of a cloak which, when worn, rendered the wearer invisible. Though not directly inspired by that source – the inception of the project predated publication of the original novel - certainly there were comparisons which could be drawn between the magical item in the book, and the technology the department was working on today. A soldier’s uniform, though quite unlike anything seen before. Worn head to foot, the material used relied on refraction of light particles – bending light, in layman’s terms – but refraction with pinpoint accuracy, the light bouncing from element to element with infinitesimal precision, so that the light beam continued on as if uninterrupted.
The effect?
The soldier simply disappeared from view, as if never there at all.
And it worked.
The laboratory tests had been conducted in total secrecy and the results had proved just as extraordinary as had been hoped. The project was one month away from conducting initial field tests, again under a veil of utmost secrecy and, in all likelihood, it would be many years before even the existence of such equipment was admitted to in public.
Yet Needles clearly worked for an organisation that had discovered the work in progress, and was even now…..what?
So far, no demand had been placed on me, at least as far as I could work out. The number had been demanded, true, but perversely it was clear that the number was no secret.
Yet there I was, locked in a pure white room, a red glowing 17 my only companion.
What the hell did they want?
And what the fuck was with the button?
I stood, took the one step required to reach the table properly, and peered down at the object, moving around the table, taking in every angle.
Nothing.
No clue.
The same matte black surface on every face, with no additional features on the blind side.
Gingerly, I reached out a hand and touched the damned thing – metallic, after all - half expecting a response; an electric shock to fry the skin, an audible alarm loud enough to perforate an eardrum; something.
All remained quiet, and my skin remained blissfully blister and scorch free. Emboldened, I lifted the contraption, and was surprised to find it came away from the table with ease. Not affixed in any way, I was able to carry it back to the solitary seat, where I dropped into place and examined the device more closely. Bringing it to my face, I squinted as I pored over every square millimetre, using the fingernail of my thumb to search for any hidden flap that may reveal some form of controls.
Nothing.
Not a thing.
It was as it appeared to be: a comedy device made by an insane scientist to test the patience and credulity of just one man: me.
I remembered seeing something, a TV show, an advert, I couldn’t remember which, where a hole was cut into a fence on a busy street, above which were written the words “Do not look through.” As inevitable as crows on a lawn after a rain shower, passers by who glanced at the words and spied the hole were drawn to it, seeming unable to resist the lure. Perhaps it was mere curiosity, perhaps it was a desire to be defiant, to break the rules, however trivial, but one by one they wandered up and peered through at….nothing. See, the point was made simply by their actions and, to a man, they walked away slowly, bewildered, confusion etched across their faces.
Why would someone do such a thing?
Who was it that was playing this mind fuck?
What Machiavellian purpose was served by toying with them in such a way, every one missing the point that it was they who had been the deceiver not the writer of the words. Their mind had processed the words. Their own synapses had fired and turned them towards the fence, man’s insatiable desire to know the unknown and to contravene the established ground rules overriding all.
Now I knew how they felt as, almost as if controlled by somebody other than myself, my hand began to move towards the button. Palm flat, now, rested atop the button, my triceps were twitchy, and it took some effort of will to restrain myself, to allow a moment to rationalise, think things through but, ultimately, whichever way I cut it, the same thought formed, again and again: What’s the worst that could happen?
I pushed the button.
Instantly, the wall directly in front of me which, moments ago, had seemed without feature, blinked into life, a flat screen monitor embedded in the surface with such precision as to render it all but invisible.
But shouldn’t the screen have been black? I pondered, aware even as I formed the thought of the delicious irony of myself questioning the sudden appearance of a TV screen when, in my working life, I was elbow deep in a project to make whole fucking humans disappear.
The screen took a moment to render correctly and, when it cleared, the image presented was utterly unexpected.
Simon Dawson, another from the Ministry of Defence, in a room identical to this one, leaning forward, examining the box that sat on his table which, from the angle the camera was positioned, revealed the same digital display: 17.
Suddenly, the door of his cell opened and in stepped a man, clad entirely in black, carrying an SA80 assault rifle, standard issue for the British Army. Even as he took his first step into the room, the rifle was raised and, though there was no sound, the action on screen was unmistakable as first one, then another circular puncture wound appeared on Simon’s chest, his body rocking back in the chair, only its proximity to the wall behind preventing him from falling.
“No,” I screamed, numb in an instant.
Simon’s body was still, clearly lifeless, but the man on screen fired once more, this one straight between the eyes.
Now the camera zoomed, though not towards Simon as may have been expected, but towards the device on the table, so that the digital readout was centre stage and, with the dispassion only insentience permits, the seven blinked to a six.
The screen cleared, but only for a moment, to be replaced by another figure, another known to me, this time Johnson. Sweet Jesus, Johnson, a man I had played badminton with not two weeks ago.
Same room, same contraption.
“Johnson, move,” I shouted, desperate now, knowing I was powerless, refusing to accept it. I swivelled my head, searching the room, looking for the camera I knew must be present but, like the monitor before it, the device was installed with excruciating attention to unobtrusiveness.
Without my wishing it my eyes returned to the screen, to what I knew must be happening by now and, sure enough, the rifle was aimed already and pop, pop, pop, two to the chest, one to the brow.
Sixteen flicked to fifteen.
And on and on it went, face after face appearing before me, slaughtered each and every one so that, as the final colleague was slain, no fear was left within me, only a tumultuous rage. It was my turn next, I knew that much and, instead of the thought terrifying me, the prospect of the imminent void seemed preferable to this, this….undistilled rage that coursed through me.
The screen cleared and, from the door, the sound of the electronic lock disengaging. I got to my feet, muscles tensing, preparing to spring at the black clad figure as he came through the door, my actions delayed when, instead of the hidden individual, Needles stepped through, hands held up, palm out, a placating gesture, ridiculously inadequate in the circumstances.
“Sit,” he said, indicating the chair with one hand, the other still held aloft.
Earlier, I’d wanted to spit at the son of a bitch, now I wanted to grab him round the throat, squeeze the life from him, maybe yank his tongue out whilst there was still some life in him, but all I managed to do was to slump back into the chair as instructed, an inertia sweeping over me as surely as if I had been drugged.
“You choose wisely,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”
I shook my head, unable to make sense of his words, no matter the simplicity of them.
“Welcome aboard?”
“You pressed the button first,” he explained. “You’re the kind we are after.”
“The kind?”
“Inquisitive. Confrontational. Defiant. Impulsive.”
“This was a test?” I spluttered, mind reeling.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson. And you passed. Congratulations. You work for us now.”
Needles turned abruptly, and left the room.

© Ian Stevens (2011)
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