Half Light One

It had been nagging at him all morning, like an itch he had to scratch.

He tried to bury himself in work. Pulling out old projects and chasing up leads.

He rang his wife, hoping to busy himself with the everyday mundane. But the itch was still there. He’d been here before; he knew that no matter how successfully he distracted himself sooner or later his treacherous mind would return to this insistent craving.

He’d always thought of it as the itch. Perhaps remembering a childhood summer with his arm in plaster and how he’d been driven half crazy by the need to scratch, experimenting with half the kitchen utensils until he’d discovered a knitting needle was just long and just thin enough to reach the spot. Christ that had felt good.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Long ago he’d decided that wasn’t the life for him. Wife, kids, nice house, that’s what he’d worked for, the suburban ideal.

So why this need? This gnawing want?

Sure it had been fun when young, he couldn’t deny that. But it hadn’t been what he’d wanted from life. Things that are fun at twenty can be sad at forty, he told himself. He’d grown up.

He could go for months without. It wouldn’t even cross his mind. Then he’d wake up one morning, or be driving home from work, or eating dinner and the old familiar urge would be on him.

And in his heart he knew it wouldn’t be gone until he’d satisfied it.

Sussex Gardens he thought, you could always get it there,

No, he thought. Not this time. He had too much; he’d built the life he’d once only dreamt of. It wasn’t what he wanted. He’d worked too hard to beat the habit.

He ate his lunch, a roast pepper salad prepared by Ginny. She was a good cook, he thought, a good woman. She kept him healthy, fretted over what he ate and drank, and though he complained it pleased him. He wasn’t afraid to admit that it was thanks to her he’d become the man he was today. The successful man. The kind of man people looked up to, he thought.

Eventually he threw the remnants of his lunch in the bin and forced himself to focus. He swept back into the office, shattering the afternoon torpor. Bantering with the sales team, shooting off emails to the regional managers and barking orders at his Assistant.

But still… that itch.

He spoke to his wife again, and they came close to arguing. Craig had been fighting at school again. He accused her of overreacting, getting hysterical. Sure he should know better but boys will fight, and he’d rather the lad learned to stand up for himself than grow up a pushover.

The Finance Manager came in with the monthly figures and ended up getting both barrels. His growing irritability became outright anger as they went through the profit and loss account, and the meeting ended with him roaring his disapproval at the disappointing results and hurling the cash flow statement across the table at the startled number cruncher.

Knowing why he was really so furious just made it worse.

He did something he hadn’t done for months and cadged a cigarette from the Receptionist. He’d kicked that habit but sometimes…

He’d come too far to risk it all. He thought of the kids, his friends, the career and the respect he liked to think he’d earned. He wasn’t the permanently stoned kid who hadn’t given a fuck what anyone had thought. The kid who’d do anything as long as it felt good. He had a life now. He was someone.

The office was quiet when he returned, heads down, everyone studiously avoiding his gaze. It was good to chew one of them out occasionally he decided, remind them who’s boss. Eighteen years he’d been here, starting on the phones and working his way up. Hard graft it had been, but he’d got to the top in the end.

He sat and stared at his big cluttered desk. At his sales awards and pool trophies and the school photos that took pride of place. The kids were everything to him he always said. His whole world. Family, he told himself, that’s what it’s all about, not some fleeting buzz.

He imagined the reaction if he was caught; his wife’s tears, his children’s shame, facing his staff. The stares and whispers.

Fucking hypocrites, he thought. They all had skeletons of their own. He wondered what secrets they were hiding, what deeds they would rather die than have revealed to the cold glare of the world.

He cracked his knuckles. Gazed through the office windows at the stark autumn trees. It wasn’t going to happen, he told himself. He was better than that. He was the one in charge.

He knew though. Even as he walked to his car that evening planning to drive straight home he knew. As he planned the evening; talk to the kids, dinner, slump in front of the TV.

He knew as he drove in the opposite direction to his comfortable new house on the nice estate and parked up on the gravel next to the scrubby recreation ground and left his life behind.

He’d have no peace until he’d had his fix.

Just scratching an itch he thought. Just now and again.

He began to very gently shake as he approached the place. Apprehension, excitement, shame. The old thrill.

Dusk was beginning to fall.

His little secret. His little treat.

Sometimes a man needs a little more.

He felt himself harden.

He stepped into the dank half light of the public convenience, slipped into the middle cubicle and waited.

Night Shift

Claudia awakes and is entirely sure that she would not be late for her shift. She would never be, never had been her entire working life. As the familiar whir of the capsules machinery retracting reaches her ears, she waits patiently for the familiar clunk of the magnetic seal and the light flooding in around her. Emerging the light was starker, colder and casts sharp shadows on the factory floor. She shakes the last of the sleep from her mind, the last of the dream and makes her way along the gantry supporting her home.

“Pleasant dreams?,” Toby at her elbow, his clean suit bright and pocketless, matching hers in its snug fit.

“Humane ones,” she murmurs, and he snorts and brushes past her, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Come on, come on Night Shift Two – make haste! I wouldn't want to have to recommend you for Storage now would I?” The foreman bellows up the gantry from his position at the clock in desk, his peaked hat marking him out among the bareheaded workers. “Make haste! Make haste! Shift change in six hours, make yourself useful or consider yourself stored!”

Claudia shivers. Storage was the greatest threat, the only threat that actually carried any weight. Extra boxes were not a problem, it was humane to be useful. Shifts couldn't be shortened, not even by the foreman. But Storage. Everyone knew of the sister stacks to their capsules, the ones that were never on any shift, day or night. No-one Claudia knew, or anyone they knew – had ever known anyone be stored. But nevertheless, the threat was there.

As she joins her shift team at her workstation, tuning into the conversation – the same topic as yesterday, as every day she'd worked.

“...and it was here, but not a speck of light – not even stars, just the blackness, totally...”, Fran was the youngest of the team – only recently graduated. In the six months she'd been on the shift, she'd constantly talked of darkness.

“...four HUNDRED boxes, four hundred! And you know we never have more than forty between the four of us! Four hundred! And we couldn't...,” Kerry was the eldest, the mother hen – and much like a mother hen, prone to clucking. Claudia smiles as the latest nightly terror of overwork came pouring forth.

“...oh and his clean suit was ripped right to, well, I couldn't help but to look – it's all in my head, but what a treat it was! I swear the air con in the capsule nearly malfunctioned!,” Rochelle occupied the capsule next to Claudia and had the closest thing to a one track mind that shift work would allow. “...anyway Claudia, how about you?”

Gaze for a second at the window, a second at the foreman and then in a low voice, “I dreamed about the Day Shift again,”

“Again? Oh heck girl, ideas above your station – better not let the foreman hear you, you know how protective of his nightbirds he is” Kerry said sharply.

“I know, to be honest I'm hoping to have something a little more Rochelle tonight” Claudia lies, grinning as they continue with their work.

The lie remains on her tongue. Of course she dreams of the day shift, who wouldn't? Shift selection was random, as they had been taught in school. Random and without appeal.

“Be grateful you're given a shift! Be proud you're being part of the process! After all, you could always be stored. It's the humane thing to do after all. Be pleased with your work, be fruitful and of course, be on time for your shift” In her mind, the booming voice of the Principal Educator drowns out the factory and the present, the last remark eliciting gales of laughter. She remembers the hand holding hers, and the bright smile and familiar dark eyes glancing over at her as they joining in with the joke. After all, no-one was ever late for their shift.

As her mind reels in the past, her eyes look unseeing at the building around her. White to the point of sterility, the large lit domes ahead and always that glimpse of the sky outside. There was time here, but measured by her shifts – and by the changing faces of those around her. No mirrors, except the occasional glimpse of yourself in someone else's eyes – their eyes seeking yours occasionally.

Or in this case, Toby's eyes. He sat seventeen stations away, as he always did. And his eyes always tend to range over the female workforce as they did now. Claudia meets his eyes, and as he arches his eyebrow sticks her tongue out and glances down at her work. He was persistent, she admits, as persistent as you can be on shift. It'd been five years since he had graduated to shift, four years after she had – the gap didn't seem to worry him, in fact not very much did not least her continued rejection of his advances.

Lunch was standard at three hours in. Protein, vitamins, water and basic biscuit. She swaps her biscuit for Kerry's, tradition rather than any mutual benefit. As she goes to bus her tray, Toby appears like every day – his step falls in with her with the timing of someone with five years of practice. And as always, she silently places her tray in the hatch and turns away before he has anything to say.

Back at the workstation an hour later, there is little left to do. The boxes contents have been sorted and catalogue and ticked off on the foreman's list. The final hour is as always spent with maintenance. Of tools, stations and the inevitable replacement of clothes – the source of Rochelle's night time delights.

“Claudia, look it's Toby. He's going in to change. This is your chance girl, go on!”, Rochelle was under the impression that Claudia's constant rejection was some sort of long game, and that at any minute the façade would drop and she would leap, unbound, into him. Instead as usual, she continues with cleaning down her station surrounded by an air of vicarious disappointment.

The shift ends, and as always they are clocked off and the huge clunk of the thousand magseals opening at once which always seems louder from the outside heralds their return home. As she exchanges the pleasantries with her neighbours, and wishes Rochelle further dreams of devilment, Claudia feels a tug from the reel cast earlier in the day. And she was back there.

The laughter died away, and the hand gripped slightly tighter as the graduation began. Called by name and number to the front, and filed off in the channels which marked the four shifts. She had not been called first, and had watched as she'd been funnelled off into Day Shift One her bright smile turned away into darkness. Then it had been the torturous wait, in anticipation of her calling – doubled by the imagined wait at the other end of that channel.

Finally, her turn came and the sonorous artificial voice scanned and decided, “Night Shift Two” and everything fell to pieces. In the now, together, she slides back into the darkness of the capsule without the tears of the first night, but with the certainty of the same dream of nine years. The dream compounded by the certainty that as the capsule sealed with the final thunk, somewhere around her one of the other capsules would be unlocking – and the girl she had loved, now as much a woman as her, would be awakening and stretching in the half light which greeted Day Shift One.

Homo Vampiris

It’s a shadow. I can watch from it. It’s not the cool before dawn, or the twilight sun death. Oh those are the moments. Immortality gets really fucking boring, a skulking half-life of tepid neons and muted monochrome. Colours, bled from the world. No preternatural night sight. No grand romances, gothic castles and no harem. Which in the end leaves you just the same geek leafing through newspapers and not eating popcorn at all night cinema outlets. Pretending to give a fuck about the French film that’s all extended close ups and random scenes of violence. But a twilight, ah that’s worth the risk.

Sometimes though, just sometimes, on a day when the winter sun burns weakest and you know your ground, your shade. You can dice with a second death. And aren’t those the grand moments? That’s living, vicarious yeah, but what else have I got?

Stake out a shadow, and take some care. There are patches of ever-dark, places that never see the sun. Some simple maths, weather charts. Watch the day folk walk day lives. Cornettos and strappy tops where the breasts strain against light cotton. A risk, certainly, a shadow shifts as the sun does, and nobody wants to be the sun-dried Nosferato twig who didn’t consider his shadows properly before venturing out.

But you take your chances. For a look at life that isn’t sucking at raw steak and associating with what can charitably be called nightlife. Even those, you cannot get too close to. Cool kid up in the club? Think again, unless you want an unexpected UV facelift. Do not pass Go. Street life? Feed on it or be arrested with it. Arrest is fine, until they put you out on the street next morning. In sunlight. The great lie of ab-death isn’t the healing myth, although there is some comfort in slightly accelerated recuperation. The notion of spontaneous miracle-healing was always a clear bullshit. But the idea that vampriric undeath makes you cool is the greatest falsehood. Fixed forever as the same fuck up you were when you had any right to label yourself human.

So cool you’re watching kids skinning up from the shade of a small chapel dedicated to Nuns who lingered to long with the victims of the Black Death. So cool you have no thumb on your left hand because you assumed ‘immortal’ meant ‘able to grow back body parts’.

So I watch. Shadow. There is no release from this tiny shaded segment of course. I’m playing with fire. With sun.

Before me a parade unfolds on the street past the graveyard wall, a dragon wends a way forth and ecstatic drummer girls smell of sweet sweat as they pass. As the sun reaches its nadir the floats cease.

Another failure. One more year to my existence. One day I’ll find the courage to step out of the half-light

Of basements and military installations

The postman’s arrival was not something Frank ever looked forward to, but today’s post would be containing The Letter, the one he had been dreading. As if the council tax bills, gas bills, phone bills, Palestine Aid leaflets, and demands for him to Drop Everything And Become A Crusader, weren’t enough, today’s possibility didn’t bear thinking about.

Birds twittered outside in that tone of voice which, whenever one was bracing oneself for bad or potentially awful news, always just seemed to say “Yes! I am happy! I can ponce around in the trees all my life! Fnar fnar de fucking fnar! You human gimboid!”.

Kids chatted in the streets as they ambled their way to school, their shrill tales of XP2ZI consoles, inane pop bands and football players assaulting his upper right eardrums in the most brutal manner. Mrs Janet from number 48b spoke to her husband about their new car radio, there were a few clicks and revs, and they departed.
He liked it here in the slight gloom of the basement, only ever fleetingly sunny, and being able to hear strangers’ voices pass him in the street so clearly as he stirred on a hazy, half-lit morning.

He pondered whether to prepare for The Letter’s arrival by blasting Sick Of It All, Minor Threat and Fugazi at full volume in a last ditch attempt at self-emboldening and postman-terrifying. Knowing that it would probably not have the latter effect, he decided to put “20 years of Dischord” on at full whack on the stereo anyway, and see what happened.

Making himself a cup of coffee and folding away his sofa bed, Frank paced up and down frantically, at first doing so while clutching his cup and then, remembering that, each and every time he did this, it meant more coffee being spilled on the floor, ever-lessening his chance of ever recovering his huge deposit.

He also loved pacing, particularly when the postman arrived. He had a personal superstition – if you were pacing away from the door as your post flopped through it, it would almost certainly bear Bad Tidings. If you were pacing towards the door, it would almost certainly not be The End of The World, rather just a Bit of A Financial Headache.

Today it was the former. Frank shuddered as he heard the postman’s heavy boots hit the top step. He put his cup of coffee down on the mantelpiece, and braced himself.
Through the letterbox dropped not just The Envelope, but four others, small, handwritten, numbered One to Four in thick black marker.

Frank opted for number One. He folded his sofa bed up, sat down with his coffee, and began to read.

Dear SV

That afternoon, besides Lake Apvid, do you remember what you told me, before you walked away?

As you did so, hands on your holster, long golden-black hair tied up into a bunch behind your head, heading down the path which led away from the lake and into the jungle, I touched the Jozantinium-embossed badge on my right collar.

My thoughts of your departure, were immediately interrupted as seven Astris warships blazed overhead, arcing in the sky and ploughing directly towards me, their lazers fixed directly at where I stood, firing at me, unable to penetrate the diluvian shield that the Joazantinium badge radiated, with the beams either whooshing past me, bouncing off the shield and flopping harmlessly into the lake, or reflecting and hitting the Astris warships themselves.

One way or another, with my shooting on absolutely peak form, the ships found themselves in the lake virtually as soon as they had taken off.

I sat for a while, watching their rusty, arrogant bulk sink into the green waters of the lake, and noted that the coming dusk was the perfect time for me to set off to the other side of Lake Apvid, to the military installation you told me to blow up.
I strode around the Apvidian banks in the half light, moon already rising swiftly, knowing that the Astris and their people tended to fear the dark, they could only come out during the day time, as their ghostly white skin tended to wither away and die without constant sunlight. They spent the evenings cowering under sunbeds, playing cards in starkly lit rooms whose lamplights emulated the effects of sun.

They’d be like sleeping doves at this time of day.

It would be in cold blood, it would be merciless, but it would be no less than they deserved.

Anyway, the warden’s nearly here. I’d better sign off for the night.

Love,

MB
Fucking scifi fanfiction. Who wrote this shit, Frank wondered. They must have got the wrong address anyway, as it wasn’t the sort of thing which interested him.

He scrunched the letter up and shoved it into his top left hand shirt pocket. He then decided to go for his customary 10:15 stroll, now that the postie had been and gone. The one advantage of being temporarily unemployed, in Frank’s view, was that you could go to the park in the middle of the day when all the kids were at school and the only people about were either crazy or in a similarly parlous position to himself, meaning that he could comfortably sit at a park bench, crack open a can of Something Stronger and/or light up a spliff with the minimum of worry.

As he sat down at his favourite bench, he reached to his left inside jacket pocket for his can of Special Brew, and then to his right hand outside pocket where the remaining three letters were stuffed. As he retrieved them, his neighbour Fred, a jovial old‘un with a penchant for drinking Gold Label, sat next to him and cracked open a can of same.

“Morning Frank, whatcha reading?”

“A few letters,” Frank replied, “Some writing competition thing. Wrong address.”

“So you’re reading them anyway? Nice going. What are they like?”

Frank opened Letter Two and read aloud to Fred.

“Dear MB

I can remember even now the explosions of the Astris ships you downed, the splashing noises as they hit the water, and thinking “That’s my boy!” as I walked into the jungle.

The Astresian jungle can be a scary place in the half light. Even to my finely tuned Silharvian senses, the trees appeared to be constantly shifting, the colours dying and fading and then coming back, the branches grabbing out, moving, disappearing, reappearing. After hours of hacking, cutting, writhing, and sliding, I made it through to the Astris encampment which stood some five hours through to the Western side of the forest, near our city of Del’Silver.

As you did, I realised as I stood there that now was the perfect time to strike.
My mind was ablaze as I gazed upon their ghostly grey tents, all translucent with the eerie red gas lamps they used to keep their skins alive during the long, dark nights, meaning I could see the Astris’ silhouettes as they sat round in circles, playing at LaTwigs, basking under their all-important lamps, and sipping Visteljuiz.
Catching them unawares like this at night time would be a schniz. All I needed to do was set fire to every tent as they sat there, the lamps would soon explode and the Astris would be at the mercy of the night sky.

As I stood at the edge of that clearing, I remembered well their blitzes upon Del’Silver, the mass midday incursions of their troops into our houses, killing and raping at will, and the night time bombings keeping us hemmed in. So few of us realised that night time was the time to hit back, that by the time anyone did realise, it was all but too late.

Was it right, despite all that, to kill them all in cold blood?

The blaze subsided, and the calmer side of my Silharvian mind took over.

As with you, my jailer returns. I’ll sign off.

All my love,

SV

Fred snorted in the particularly aghast way he was prone to as Frank folded letter two up and shoved it back in his envelope. He cracked open his can of Gold Label, then looked at Frank.

“Who sent you this crap?”

“I dunno,” Frank replied, “I haven’t moderated the writing competition at Transverational for a few years now. Anyway, that was more offbeat weird fiction. None of this sub-Star Wars nonsense. Anyway. I think I need a spliff before I read the final two. And I’ve got The Letter still to come!”

“The letter?” Fred replied, “Well, out with it, get the thing open!”

Frank paused and reached for his baccy tin, casting a brief glance over Millfields Common to check no rozzers were about. He wavered as Fred’s iron, rasping voice cut into him, but then decided to skin up first anyway. He did so very quickly, sparked it up and offered it to Fred.

“You know I don’t smoke that crap. Now, The Letter?”

Frank put the joint in his mouth, lit it and pondered a moment.

“Nah,” he replied “Number Three, first.”

Fred laughed.

“You want me to listen to more of that crap? You read it yourself boy, I’m off for a walk along the Lea. Let me know how the important one goes when I get back.”

Fred walked off up the tarmacked path which led up to the lock and the Prince of Wales pub. Frank smiled and finished his spliff slowly, before starting on Number Three, wondering where this odd little sequence was going to end and why they had all been mailed to him separately rather than as a compendium.

Dear SV,

I stood outside that Astris military installation for some twenty minutes. Like you, I deliberated. Like you, having reached that point, and having the capability, with the guns I possessed, to take it out within seconds, I suddenly realised that thinking I could do it was one thing, but actually doing it was another. I reached to my side, to my bolt-gun which could take out the lights, and to the missile launcher which would destroy the majority of the installations and kill their inhabitants even before the half light did.

But – alas – I paused too long. I felt the dullness of five Astris guns dig into my back. A warm glow emanated through the air above and behind me.

“Don’t even think about turning around and breaking our lamps.”, a voice came, “We’ll kill you before you even try.”

They said nothing more. I was frogmarched immediately through the installation and taken to a cell in Room forty five, section twenty six. They asked if I had any friends or relatives still alive. I told them your name and they said you had been captured, and that it was possible to write to you.

I hope you have some way to get out of this grim, overlit, seedy steel prison. They can’t read our letters. They consider us primitive and backward, to them our scrawls are like an animal scraping in the dirt.

I await your next instruction eagerly.

Love,

MB

Frank laughed and folded up letter three, sticking it in his jeans back pocket. He reached for the spliff, which was still smouldering on the bench, and sparked it up again, inhaling deeply and thinking about his plans for the rest of the day. Those would largely revolve around the outcome of The Letter.

Before that, though, was Letter Four.

Dear MB

It appears that your indecision, so common to our species, got you captured, as it did me. I cannot kill in cold blood, not even those who have slaughtered our own people. I lingered by that campsite for far too long, and, like you, I felt the warm glow of the Astris torches as a preface to feeling their guns buried in my back.
They laid out the terms for living here in this grey empty prison very simply. They have no more people to catch, so I can wander relatively freely. They know about you, and I can write to you, but other than that, there is no one.

Which leads me, now, to the final part of my plan.

We shall lead them into the ultimate blind alley, into a society so different from their own they won’t know what hit them.

When you get this letter, key in co-ordinates E125 S5 E5 1TF into your watch, and, all being well, you will break out of their prison, and at the same time opening a door into a new world, a new society.

I’m signing off now.

Love you.

SV

Frank laughed. What a load of tosh. He chucked the roach in the bin, folded up the rest of the letters and put them in his inside jacket pocket, then reached for It. The big brown envelope which would possibly change his life forever.

He paused and took a deep breath. Would he open it sitting at this bench? No, this was the Unlucky Bench where he’d incorrectly predicted West Ham would win the 2013 FA Cup. Ouch. He still winced about that one. Holding the envelope, he took thirty paces towards the River Lea, stopping at the bench where, previously, he’d cleverly predicted that England would win the 2014 World Cup in Brazil. That had earned him a fair few bob and quite some kudos.

He ran his finger under the envelope flap a millimetre at a time until he had got the thing open. He was just about to extract the letter itself when a voice to his right said “Hi, can I sit here?”

He looked around and saw a tall, blonde haired woman wearing tight, dark combatty trousers and a dark blue jacket.

“Sure,” Frank replied, “Be my guest.”

“What’s that you’re drinking?” she asked, pointing at his can of Special Brew.

“Spesh,” he replied, “You can’t beat a good bit of Spesh.”

“May I?” she asked, reaching for the can.

Frank gladly obliged. The woman raised the can to her lips, drank the remainder without even flinching, and threw it in the rubbish.

“Thanks,” she said, standing up again, “I needed that. Just had a rather trying transdimensional warping to deal with.”

She began to walk towards the river.

“Wait!” Frank said, “What’s your name?”

“Silastra,” she replied, “Silastra Veldana. I’m looking for my friend and lover. Have you seen him? Taller than me, dark haired, probably wearing a light silver badge on the right shoulder of his blue jacket.”

“No,” Frank said, “I haven’t. Well, good luck finding him.”

As she neared the Lea, Frank had almost forgotten about The Letter, as a rather eerie truth was beginning to dawn on him. Silastra Veldana… SV? Could the letters
he had received today be real?

He reached into his pocket for them. They weren’t there. Standing up now, he began to panic, patting down each part of his coat and trousers carefully. Nope, they’d gone. He turned and walked away from the Lea towards the other bench, scanning the ground as he went. He still had The Letter, though. It was time to read it. He pulled it out of the envelope quickly this time and read it. As he did so, his heart leaped for joy. He’d got the job! He was starting next Monday. Nice one!
He stood on the junction of the two paths in the centre of Millfields, buzzing with excitement, to the extent that he had almost forgotten the peculiar encounter of just now. It was probably a set up, a couple of his mates messing around.

“Frank!” a voice boomed out. It was Fred, back from his stroll up the Lea, coming down the right hand path towards him.

“So?” Fred said excitedly, pointing at the letter.”

“I got it!” Frank replied, “Starting on Monday.”

“That’s fantastic!” Fred said, “Well done, my boy. What will you do to celebrate?”

“Maybe go home, get scrubbed up, go out on the town, a few beers. Care to join me?”

“At my age? You go and enjoy yourself.”

“Fair enough,” Frank replied.

Fred wasn’t listening now, though, he was looking at something behind Frank now with a mixture of near total terror and absolute fascination.

“What’s up?” Frank asked, “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Fred pointed. “Look at that!”

And that was that.

Ketchup.

Ketchup. Will there be enough ketchup? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, 10, 11, 12. Including himself there would be 13 sitting for dinner this evening. But, would there be enough ketchup?

He knew he enjoyed a generous dollop, but a generous dollop was considered a bit crude in these new circles. Nevertheless, he squoze a generous dollop from the bottle onto a slice of Mothers Pride. A test measure. Five servings at best. He needed more.

He watched the fading light of autumn from the kitchen window. A handful of windfall plums lew below the plum tree.

With a little water in a large aluminium pan the plums boiled vigorously for 10 minutes. A tray of 12 ice cubes helped the plums cool more fastly. He removed the stones. He was a sculpturist. With his stone mason sized hands he finely chopped an onion and a few cloves of garlic into a diced pulp. When they had caramelised he poured them from the frying pan into the large 16” aluminium stewing pot and brought the mixture to a boil once again. 100 degrees Celsius. Three times 5 Fluid Ounce spoonfuls of vinegar. A stone mason’s handful of soft brown sugar. Cinamon and almost half a 30CL bottle of Worcestshire sauce. Reduced to a thick syrup and allowed to cool once again.

Opening the front door he looked at all the synchronised TV flickering windows. It was dark now, but never half light. Days turned into Orange lit monochrome evenings here. He had a mad auntie who used to live on a similar static home site. She claimed to live in Stratford upon Avon. Truth was she lived on the outskirts of Bromsgrove in a crap caravan. He hadn’t invited Bill and Sue Roman from number 27.

On a Post-it note he wrote ‘1’. One variety as opposed to the 57 tomato. Plum ketchup was his only variety. The ketchup was poured into a wine bottle and the Post-it note stuck on front. Yellow on black looked cool.

Bill and Sue Roman lived at number XXVII. They hadn't been invited.

The deep fat fryer was being held steady at the perfect temperature. He wasn't sure what that equated to in numbers. All he knew was that if the raw chip floated and fizzled it was the perfect temperature. The circular table was set.

He took head of the table at XII o'clock. Opposite at XI was 'Portrait of a Young Woman IV' – polished granite with inlaid gold. Bob would sit at IX o'clock and Sue opposite him at III. At V and IV o'clock sat 'Gemini' – Two small busts carved from limestone. At X o'clock was 'The Angel' – an angel carved in milky marble. XI, 'Study of a Bull' – a study carved in plaster. I and II o'clock featured 'Saturn and Venus' – abstracts in marble. VII, 'Portrait of a Young Woman X' – a cast in bronze. VIII, 'Portrait of My Family' – carving in limestone.

The doorbell chimed.

Everyone agreed that plum ketchup was the perfect accompaniment to deep fried haddock, chips and mushy peas.

Bob Roman led an entire legion of coffee machine sales people. For every machine sold he received €360. He then received a commission of 33% on every replacement cartridge sold there after. He was stinking rich.

"How many statues have you sold" asked Bob.

He said "he wasn't sure, but not many".

"I'm surprised you don't sell lots, they're beautiful" said Sue.

"It's all about numbers" said Bob. "Simple as that. Numbers".


The following morning he placed 'Portrait of a Young Woman IV' on the plinth on the small lawn in front of Bob and Sue's static home. He packed all other work into a trailer and dropped the keys to door through the letter box as instructed by his mad auntie.

Dave and Sally lived at number 25. Their garden was immaculate. It featured many gnomes and water features. Dave came outdoors to say goodbye. "Sorry we didn't make it last night" he said, "the wife brought home fsh & chips. We don't really go in for that fancy arty food to be honest".

"No problem, another time maybe. Do you take ketchup with your fish & chips?" he asked.

"Nah. Sacrilege" replied Dave. "You off then?".

"Yep. Any munite now. It's all in the numbers according to Bob".

"Bollocks" said Dave. "Numbers are nothing without context. They're simply symbols. It's words what count. Words count for more than numbers ever could".

That's not a bad point really. He pondered all the way down the M6 and M1 home.

Half light Two

Half Light

“...And then I came back to the house, and realised that all my stuff was gone,” Jim Walker said.

“Are you sure?” the lawyer said, looking unsympathetically at him. “Are you sure you’re not making this up?”

“Well, yeah,” Jim said. “Why would I make it up? To get money? I’ve had to replace all my furniture because it was all stolen. They even stole the fridge.” He looked nervous inside the courtroom.

“Why would I make this up? For a start, which of my friends would take my stuff? Where would I hide it? My loft’s not big enough...” Suddenly, he looked as though he was about to cry.

“You are aware, no doubt,” the lawyer said. “About the epidemic of false burglary allegations that are sweeping our nation.”

“But I’m not like that. Why would I lie about being burgled? You don’t know how hard it’s been for me – having missed all my favourite TV programmes. Every time we’ve got friends round – a few weeks ago – I had to sit on the floor...we had no food...why would I? Why would I lie about something like that?”

“You were drunk when you came home that night, isn’t that right?”

“Well, no,” Jim said. “I’d had a bit to drink. But I think – I could tell when I got back and I wanted to turn on the television...and it was gone – you know – and then I went to my computer and I – I found out ... I found out that was gone as well – and that was...that was 500 quid and I’ve got to replace it all...I think I could tell! I think I could tell if I’d been burgled or not!”

“You were drunk, weren’t you?” the lawyer said. Across the room, a man dressed in a hoodie and cheap trainers smirked at him. His crack pipe was hidden under his clothes.

“Well, maybe a little bit,” Jim said. “I mean – you know how it is – had a bit of a night on the tiles. But I came back to find everything missing – my laptop, my PC, my sofa – everything...and I was always so careful – I closed the curtains, I double locked the front door – I didn’t...”

“Of course,” the lawyer said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been “burgled,” is it?” She opened a large file. “In February of 2004. You reported another so-called “burglary” to the police.”

“Well, yeah,” Jim said. “But I – I was burgled then as well. You know. He – they – you can go back – you can see – they completely ... they completely ransacked the place! And my housemate was burgled as well – you can ask her, if you don’t believe me...”

“The trouble is, Jim,” the lawyer said. “You and your housemate both have a history of lending valuable items to friends. In March of this year, you lent five quid to another flatmate. And, shortly before this so-called “burglary”, you simply gave away a few unwanted CDs; you sold them on a car boot sale.”

“Look – they were CDs – and I didn’t want them any more! I didn’t want to be burgled! You’ve got to believe – I didn’t want it...I didn’t want it...”

Across the room, the crack-smoking teenager started laughing, but was glared into silence by the policewoman standing by him.

“On another occasion,” the lawyer continued. “You were in a pub. You stumbled out, so drunk you could barely stand up. Upon going to the taxi, you realised you had left your wallet in the pub. When you couldn’t find it – you immediately assumed it had been stolen. Would it be fair to say this is what happened in this so-called burglary, Jim? You came home, pissed out of your mind, realised the furniture was in a slightly different place, and seizing the chance to make some money out of a fraudulent insurance claim, you immediately rang the police...”

Jim stood there, looking progressively more shocked and upset.

“This young man,” the lawyer said, indicating the teenager who was now staring into space, nonchalantly holding a teaspoon. “This young man has his whole life ahead of him. He is a promising student. He has just accepted a place at Croydon University, studying Fine Art Appreciation. Your accusations of burglary are going to ruin his life.”

“But I’m telling the truth,” Jim said. “The week after – after it happened. I was walking in my local high street. And I saw a shop – a dodgy cash converter type shop ... and it had – it had my television in it...”

“How do you know it was your television? I am sure there are lots of televisions just like yours. What made you so sure this one was yours – unless you took it to the shop and sold it yourself?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! OK? I just know when I got back my television was gone and then I went to the shop and saw it there! Don’t ask me why or how I know, I know it was mine! I – I went in there and my fridge was there too! And I went in there and said, oi, mate, that’s my TV! I was burgled last week! And they didn’t believe me...they didn’t...”

“Perhaps they didn’t believe you, because you were making it up,” the lawyer said. “I mean, these days, a man can’t get very far without being accused of burglary.” She looked sympathetically at the teenager, who was now getting some foil out of his pocket.

“It had – it had a crack in the casin’,” Jim said. “That’s how I recognised it. That’s how I knew – I knew it was mine...”

“The problem we have,” the lawyer said. “First you said you didn’t know how you recognised it. You don’t pay much attention to the state of your television, obviously. On the night in question, it was left on. Whereas more responsible citizens would close their curtains before they went out, you left them open, which may have acted as a great source of temptation. This is assuming you’re not lying.”

“This young man has a medical condition,” she said. “He is addicted to crack cocaine. It impairs his judgement, and he was an easy target because has a tendency to act before thinking. To look at him, would you think he is capable of committing such a crime?”

The answer, of course, was “no”.

A few weeks later

“It’s a disgrace,” said a man reading the paper, sitting on the steps of the local church, a bag of white powder on his lap. In his other hand was a syringe. The title of the paper was “Man acquitted of burgling house”.

“It’s a conspiracy against crackheads, this “burglary” nonsense.”

His friend Bradley nodded sagely. “I know, Bo,” he said. “I mean, if they leave windows open, what do they expect? And do you know what?”

“Yeah?”

“You know, when one of your mates is in a tight spot; they haven’t got any more money for heroin or anything. You lend them money, don’t you? And that’s a good thing. It makes a bond.” Boletus nodded, as he pulled down his sock and prepared to inject himself.

“So, I don’t see how burglary’s any different.”

“Nor do I. Something like rape,” Boletus said. “Now, that’s a real crime. Or murder. But the police waste their time with all this burglary nonsense and meanwhile...”

“I agree,” Bradley said. “I’d far rather be burgled than raped, or attacked in the street or something so I went into a coma.” He laughed. “It’s ridiculous.”

“First it’s burglary, now it’s credit card fraud,” Boletus said. “What’s the problem with that, then? It’s not like they notice anything until it’s gone. I know someone who was done for lifting three grand out of his wife’s account. That’s bloody ridiculous, that is. She must have wanted him to have it, otherwise she’d have stopped him.”

“Bloody hell. Poor bloke. The last time I pulled a knife on someone at a cashpoint – they were at a cashpoint? What did they expect? They agreed straight away to give me the money. And, you know, it’s not like they tried to stop me or anything. It’s not like I was actually violent.”

Boletus Jefferson, folded his paper up and opened the bag of powder. He emptied some of it onto the pavement and then rolled up the paper and took a big sniff. It would keep him going until he found more crack, and from here he could watch the crowds. One middle-aged man had his mobile phone peeking out of his pocket. Boletus felt a surge of anger. The man was asking for it. Did he not realise what it was like to spend a week without a mobile phone? The last phone Boletus had had, he had sold. He was beginning to have a craving for heroin as well; it had been a while since he had last “chased the dragon”. I had only managed to get around £15 for that thing, he thought miserably.

“Oh, God. Look at him.”

“In the good old days, they’d have left their phones at home if they knew what was good for them.”

Boletus watched as his friend, Bradley, put his pipe away. He spread out the newspaper again and threw it on the ground, wondering momentarily whether to throw up all over it.

The two men walked down the street, in search for open windows. It had been a rather good day yesterday. They had made off with a box set of DVDs, an expensive folding armchair, and a plasma-screen television, and flogged them in a pub. Of course, no court would convict them, because everyone knew how common false allegations of burglary were.

Sometimes, Boletus felt slightly guilty about what he was doing. But, nah. It was OK. Why should I feel guilty, he thought. It wasn’t his problem people were stupid enough to leave their windows and doors open, and tempt him with valuable electrical goods. The latest thing had been ridiculous. What a fucking lunatic. He had been watching television with his next door neighbour. It wasn’t as though his neighbour didn’t regularly invite him round to watch television. So what made this time any different?

And all those adverts you saw on the television about how to keep your valuables safe. Just keep your windows and door shut, for fuck’s sake.

He’d gone off into the kitchen to make himself and his neighbour a cup of tea. What a lazy bastard his neighbour was, Boletus thought disgustedly. Just waiting for someone like him. How easy that had been. He poured his “special sweetener” into the tea and the neighbour fell asleep. Like a dream. He’d left the neighbour’s house with an MP3 player, an IPod, and about twenty DVDs. I didn’t hurt him, Boletus had thought. So, he can’t really complain.

He had got a call on his landline a few hours later. “You fucking crackhead bastard,” his neighbour had yelled. “You stole my mp3 player and my DVD collection. Do you know how much money that cost me? You’re fucking scum – I’m going to tell the police!”

Fortunately he’d sorted it out; one of the local police officers owned the local crack den. They saw eye to eye on these matters. “Just be a good lad,” the policeman had said, winking at him. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Still, not all of them were like that. These days, you had to be careful. The last thing Boletus wanted was to appear in court charged with burglary. You could destroy a man that way. He might never be able to smoke crack again.

But he was clever. He knew never to leave fingerprints on any of the goods; that was how they got you.

“This one?” Bradley said, stopping outside a small bungalow.

“Yeah,” Boletus said, trying to stop himself drooling at the thought of the goods inside. The curtains were tightly drawn. Whover owned this house wanted to give off the impression that the appliances inside were not for sale. It was just a big con, really. They loved it. As soon as they were gone, they’d be on the phone to the insurance company with details of what they’d lost, and all their friends, and have a cup of tea and loads of attention. People like that, they always said no and accused you of robbing them and invading their privacy, when in reality they were gagging for it. They were desperate to get rid of whatever crap was cluttering up their home.

“Wow, nice one, mate,” Boletus said as they left later, admiring Bradley’s crowbar. “Got to go back later and do the shed. It’ll be fine. If they try to make a fuss the police will never believe them. “

“What I don’t understand,” Bradley said. “You know how homeowners always complain about how they’ve got nowhere to put everything? Like everything’s too cluttered and they can’t tidy it all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’re actually doing them a favour,” Bradley said. “Think of all their nice spacious rooms. And all the nice new phones they get given. That last one we just did – I wonder when the last time was that they had a good clean out? Place was filthy.” They both laughed. “They love it really.”

“Let’s go to a nightclub or something and then hang around until someone will let us in,” Boletus said. “We’re bound to be able to flog the stuff there.” As they carted the spoils of their visit down the street, no passers-by said anything. One man gave them a dirty look. He doesn’t know what he is missing out on, Boletus thought. What a killjoy.

“Nightclubs are great for going a’thieving,” Bradley said. “All those pissed up people – nobody takes any care...in and out of the pocket, they never remember it the next day...”

Boletus Jefferson stood on the opposite side of the street to the nightclub, watching as people walked past. He almost had to physically restrain himself as he saw a rather ugly-looking fellow carrying a briefcase. He couldn’t do it here, not while the bouncer was around, but his withdrawal symptoms were starting to kick in. He felt nauseous and agitated. Someone looked at him nervously as he began to twitch. That bastard, he thought. They’re out to get me. They’re all out to get me.

“Excuse me,” he said to a young woman walking by. “Do you want to buy a new mobile phone?”

“I’m OK thanks,” said the woman, grabbing her bag and holding it close to her. It infuriated him how people would do that. It was because of all the hysteria about burglary.

“How about a DVD player?” he yelled.

“No,” the young woman gasped, and started running.

“Come on,” he yelled, running after her, while Bradley sat at the bus stop with a rolled-up five pound note. “Come on. You know you want it! You know you want to buy something!”

“No! I don’t want to buy anything!” the woman screamed, as he caught up with her and dug his hand into her purse. “I’ve got a phone! I’ve got a DVD player! I don’t need anything more! Get out of my purse – that’s my money!”

“Oh, you love it really,” Boletus said, handing her the mp3 player, as he inspected the woman’s purse; a hundred quid, and her credit cards. “There you go. A brand new mp3 player. You’ll enjoy that. All those songs you can listen to on there.” He looked at her, as she stared at him, furious and upset. She couldn’t speak.

“You know, if you ask me, darling,” he said, pocketing the hundred quid. “You should put your money into a safe. Then crackheads like me can’t find it. I could help you find a safe right now if you wanted.”

“No,” the woman yelled. “Go away!” She dropped the mp3 player on the ground and sprinted down the street. As he was watching her, a police van drove past. He looked away; it was just as well they hadn’t seen him. The pain inside his stomach was getting unbearable now. If any bastard looked at him funny again he’d have to sort them out. He would have to go and find a dealer.

“Thank you, mate,” he said to the dealer as he was handed a large plastic packet. These prices were a rip off. He’d have to go and get some more; it would take a few days to run out, if that.

“Look,” the dealer said. “You still owe me a hundred quid. You’ve given me a hundred, but I need another hundred by Sunday. I’ve got a crack habit of my own to feed, you know.” Boletus nodded. Where was he going to get the money from? He already owed the other dealers £50. It was all right for those fucking homeowners, he thought. They don’t know what it’s like for a man to be starved of crack, not even having the money to pay his dealers. I’d make one of those false accusations of burglary, he thought. I’d be rolling in it then. Maybe he could do it anyway, for a laugh, he thought, as he walked towards a public toilet. He was desperate.

Funny how you started small, Boletus thought, as he took out some aluminium foil and the teaspoon he always kept with him. That teaspoon was a man’s best friend.

Boletus had started small. It had started, in the days when he still had a job in an office, stealing pencils from work. Borrowing them, rather. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. Everyone did it. It was like teasing, really. He had lost his job when one day an entire collection of pens disappeared from the boss’s desk. If the boss hadn’t wanted him to have them, surely he would have put them in the drawer and not tempted him with them constantly by taking them out all the time?

From then on, his whole life was governed by one uncontrollable, irresistible urge. The urge to buy crack cocaine. A man had needs. Needs that had to be fulfilled, one way or another. He had tried to hold the urge off for a while, but it kept coming back. He had graduated from borrowing pens to entering people’s sheds, garages and homes. He had become steadily more skilled at covering his tracks, but there was always room for a bit of complacency. You didn’t have to let the bastards win, with their politically correct garbage ruling everyone’s lives.

By the end of the night, they had sold everything. It was still not enough to make up the two hundred quid he owed to his dealers. It was more like a hundred and seventeen quid. Life was good when you had plenty of money for crack. If not, it was terrible. A living hell. People were less willing to pay good money for a TV they brought from the “crack converter”, no matter how new it was, than one they bought from a shop. Why did they have to be so snobbish? Were they too good for him or something?

Boletus’s eyes dilated as he inhaled deeply. Of course, that would make another 15 quid to add to the 83 quid, but the dealer would never tell him that. It was all a conspiracy. A conspiracy to keep crackheads down. As he stumbled towards the stairwell of the hostel where he was currently staying with Bradley, someone stepped out from the shadows into the half light.

“Oi,” a guy, far younger than him, said. “Give me what you got. Or I’ll shank you.” You look familiar, Boletus thought.

“I think you ought to give him the money,” Bradley said. “Hey, mate. I know you – Aren’t you that guy who got off on a burglary charge recently? I saw you. You were in the paper.”

“Yeah, man,” the teenager said. “That guy didn’t have a chance. No court woulda convicted me. He was proper asking for it. With being drunk and all. Weren’t the first time that happened, either. He’s bein’ charged for wasting police time. Trying to get out of it by sayin’ he got False Burglary Syndrome.”

“Good on you,” Boletus said. “These homeowners – they’ve got to be put in their place.” He began to tell the story of his next-door neighbour.

“You know man. You fucking pussy, man. I wouldn’t take that shit, he wouldn’t let me watch his television. It’s my right. I sold my television for crack, gotta see Coronation Street, somehow, man. I’d fucking deck him one.” He laughed. “So, yeah. Where’s my money, man?”

“Look – all my money – that’s all for crack,” Boletus said. “You can’t have that. I’ve gotta pay my dealers. I owe them two hundred quid.”

“Two hundred quid,” the teenager laughed. “That’s nothing, man. Get a plasma TV or two or you’re sorted.” He waved the knife in Boletus’s face. “Come on, man. Fuck’s sake. Cough up. Come on, you’re gaggin’ for it really. Might even buy you some crack. As a present.”

The Way Out of the Woods

I can feel their heartbeats surging through the ground as they run. It seems as though their hearts propel them onward while the muscles in their legs pump their blood. There is something unusual about these two fragile figures, that much is certain. I can hear four separate rhythms; two rushing hearts and two pairs of pounding feet on the forest floor. The trembling pulse of the soil and the air rings through me and tells me all I need to know about the two children. Humans can hear music and know what thoughts were in the composer’s head when it was written hundreds of years before, I hear the sounds of living things and I know more about what they are now than a human ever could. More than that, I become what they are now. At this moment I am awoken by the two children, drawn up above the level of consciousness that comes from the quiet, whispered thoughts of the insects and the birds and the crackling of the trees as they draw in the time that flows around them, store and compress it and ripple the earth that surrounds them with the strength of it.

Whether I exist or not is a question best saved for some other being. If you asked me I’d be certain to lie. All I know for sure is that for now at least I have a voice, although the only proof I have of that is the fact I can hear it. Whose voice this is would be another question entirely. I know that I am apart from the two beings fleeing through my woods. I know I am apart from these woods themselves, just as I know that without them I would be nothing. It is possible I was once like the children, or like the adults who pursue them; the monsters who have yet to reach the woods but that I can already see, at least in the form that the fear of them takes in the children’s minds. I have no eyes and yet I know more than mere eyes could ever tell me. I can tell from the ripples in the wind the shape of the sea many miles from here; I can tell from the sound of the earth when the rain will fall; and I can tell from the heat on the children’s brows that they are in love, and that they are afraid. Love or fear, it is the same heat either way. If I were to make a blade of the air and slice the children in two I would find fifteen rings running through each of them, one for each time they have seen the world shrink and dilate with the seasons.

A new fear is growing in the children’s minds now that darkness is falling. They are lost. The woods contain more space than they ought to; a full circle here contains perhaps two dozen degrees more than it would out on the open fields beyond. There are the same three dimensions here as elsewhere of course, but they are of little use when there are neither even planes nor straight lines against which to measure their extent. One may safely blame the trees for the confusion; in their slow lives they accumulate too much time without the necessary space to keep it in. It is only natural that the air and the soil around them should be forced to twist themselves oddly to make room. This is the sort of problem that the creator of things, if ever there was one, clearly never took the time to think through. A place designed for the trees is not always ideal for quicker beings and humans are in many ways quicker than most, with none quicker than these two.

They are running, as far as I can tell, from a contradiction. What they are and what they are required to be are not merely different, but utterly irreconcilable things. The boy, he is to be a carthorse. He will grow strong legs and thick skin and he will work. He will not ask why he works, in fact he will say as little as possible. If the king requires it he will go to France or elsewhere and die for a country of which he has yet to see more than ten square miles. The girl, her fate is to be a prize sow. First pampered and fattened, then given to some family or other of noble breeding for the favours to be gained from the transaction. She will be provided with a well-appointed stall in which to produce a steady supply of thoroughbred piglets. But everyone knows that livestock are seldom as thankful as they ought to be for what is done on their behalf. Sow and stallion alike, they are to be spared the agony of choice. Neither need make another decision again, save in the matter of whether or not to have an egg with breakfast. But no, they are not thankful for this. They run instead.

Manifest destiny should not need enforcers and yet they are here now, or on the borders at least. There are more of them than there are of the children they pursue, but I could not guess at a number. They are all too alike in their minds, full of purpose where thought might otherwise be found. They all move in much the same way; legs like baulks of timber, backs unyielding to the roll of the terrain. To slow their advance is hardly a challenge. They do most of the work themselves as they seek to impose themselves on this place, on my place. I am not impressed by the exhibition of strength or of solidity, not by humans at least. What is stronger or more solid than a tree? Branches and roots that the children swept past without thinking minutes earlier, these now grasp at ankles and tear at bootlaces. Firm ground becomes mud, a liquid gravity concealed by the scatter of leaf litter. Ancient paths choose this very moment to yield and slide away down the hillside towards to river, and the river itself grows so loud as to stifle all other sounds. One way or another I have enough human nature about me to enjoy the results immensely. Anger swells within the stumbling men's hearts. I am not impressed by anger either, nor its ally determination. The children are not determined. They are too busy running for that.

Woodland steals the light from the sky faster than the sinking sun. The children have already run for longer than they can see to do so, but even I can guide their passage no further. I can hide them though. They find a steep-sided gully bridged by various fallen trees. Most of these are too rotten to take the weight of a squirrel let alone a human, so I show the children to a place where exposed corners of rock form a sort of ladder. The boy climbs down into the gully first and then wordlessly encourages the girl to follow him, extending his arms towards her as if he could somehow carry her down. I feel a single fearsome punch of the girl's heart as her foot slips on one of the stones, but either I somehow hold her in place or she finds the strength to do so herself. At the bottom of the gully the darkness flows and gathers like the stream now soaking the children's shoes. With their outstretched hands they find shelter below a shallow overhang of mud and stone held together by time and force of habit. They are afraid, and yet somehow they are not. The wet, iron-stained mud soaks the warmth from their clothes and the strength from their bones, but still they are strong. Stronger than the men crashing towards them, stronger perhaps in this moment that the trees or the rocks or the wind. Their strength is my strength, and some distance away an old tree happens to fall across a path and block the progress of a group of men. It is not my place to fell trees of course, but who can say that I was even responsible? The tree must have been all but ready to fall anyhow, or no whim of mine could have convinced it to do so. It is clearly just a part of the nature of things that these two children should find a little good fortune in their flight, and such matters are as much a mystery to me as to the humans. Of course the children affect my thoughts, but even the part of me that was here before they came to these woods knows that I must help them as far as I can. Why I should help them? I'll settle for it being a way to pass the time, but there is undoubtedly more to it than that.

The children are unmoving, each imprisoned by the encircling arms of the other. They can barely see now to tell the ground from the sky, both of which lie some distance above their heads as they cower in the ragged little gorge. They can still hear of course, and what they hear above the crackle of the stream and the hiss of the wet earth is the sound of footsteps, curses and cries. They cannot know how easily they might be seen from the forest floor above them, they cannot know whether the men carry torches. They do not know, and dare not think, what will happen if they are found. They do not know that the girl is carrying a child of her own, indeed at present only I can know that. All they know is that they must not be found. Only as the footsteps draw closer to them do they know what they must do. It is a rare thing indeed to see magic even when you are arguably a being of magic yourself, although let us not forget that the one thing in this woodland that I cannot see is myself. The children have not seen magic of course; there is none to be found in the tame and tended lands they inhabit or in the sturdy, warm homes where they shelter from the real nature of things. Perhaps they think that magic depends upon words, upon fussy mixtures of herbs and roots; perhaps they think that it must be learned, or that it is evil. The world, of course, has neither a use for words nor any understanding of their purpose. It has no taste buds with which to check the quantity of nightshade in a broth, no eyes to read symbols scratched in the dirt nor the inclination to note what implement is used for the scratching. An owl learns to fly without recourse to words, and is happy to do so without first asking for permission. Without words then, to each other or to the world at large, the children do what they know they must, abandoning all concern for what is merely possible. Without releasing their hold on each other they move from the shadows and the gloom to another place, and somehow I am taken with them.

There is light here, not the light of day or of the moon but rather a vague and gentle glow with no identifiable source. The gully is the same, only every rock and clump of moss glistens with colour in this light that has no colour of its own. The water in the stream moves like heavy smoke. The children draw themselves to their feet and gaze around them with a strangely fearless fascination. The sounds of the advancing men have gone. The men are now a hopelessly long way from us. They can no more find us now than they can leap from the treetops to the moon. There is something else about this gully now; something else has changed besides the light and the gently writhing colours. It takes the children to show me what has happened, for they are both looking at me now. This gully and the children and the sky above are all that I can see. I am a fixed point looking out at the world. The lurch of nausea this revelation brings to me tells me that I also have a stomach. Not only can the children see me, but I am something that is there to be seen. I turn my eyes, for it is eyes I now see with, downwards. I find legs and arms and the sundry other components of a human body, and I see that they are encased in clothing of a kind. There is too much complexity of colour, too much density of texture and of detail, to determine whether I am wearing the most pitiful rags or the most glorious finery. It hardly seems to matter, for although there is a wind here it is a wind that brings no chill. The girl speaks to me, and it is the first time I have heard her voice;
'Did you bring us here?' she asks, her voice a melody.
'You brought me here,' I answer, surprised to discover that I have a voice and that it can speak in the human tongue.
'What is this place?' she asks.
'I do not know, or perhaps I cannot remember, but they cannot follow you here.'
'No, they cannot,' the girl says, and looks to her companion with a smile that ripples through the air. The boy smiles back at her, his face quite pathetic with happiness.
'You helped us,' the girl says. This is not a question.
'I think that I did.'
'What is your name?'
'I do not know. I would not know my own face if I saw its reflection.'
'Can we stay here?'
'I doubt that there is anyone to stop you. Your homes will not be in this place, your family will not be here, I do not know what lies beyond the woods in this world.'
'We do not need to leave these woods,' the boy says evenly, his gaze still fixed upon the girl beside him.
'And I have never been able to. Perhaps I can now that I have legs to carry me,' I say, somewhat taken aback by the thought as I hear it spoken aloud.
'You cannot leave here without a name,' the girl says, and she is right. There is something about this place that makes things clear, both to see and to know. The children should be frightened of a strange world, but they are not. They know that there is nothing in this place for them to fear. The girl stares into my eyes for many long moments.
'Your name,' she announces at last, 'is Faran.'

I do not ask their names. With my new legs and my new name, or perhaps my old name restored to me, I leave the two children in peace. I walk for miles through the woods, passing familiar sights that I have never seen before, until I reach the sea. As I step from spongy earth onto rocky beach the light of the woods is replaced by the glow of the morning sun resting on the horizon. There is an island adrift in that sea, the green of its grass made gold by the young sunlight. I keep walking until the cool water is lapping at my waist and draining the dull ache from my tired legs and then I dive in and swim towards the island without stopping to look back at my little forest. It belongs to them now.

The Shining Path

Coffee; yeah, coffee. That’s the thing I miss the most. I used to drink gallons of the stuff back home. Right through the day, from the moment I woke, till just before bed. I used to have it real strong too. And black with lots of sugar. It wasn’t a macho thing or anything. I’m sorta lactose intolerant. The boys out here don’t really understand. But mostly it’s yoghurt now so mostly it’s okay.

Yeah, so it’s the coffee I miss most.

Which probably surprises you. It surprises me sometimes too. But then I never really got on that well with my folks. I’m an only child so it was just me and Mom and Dad. I don’t know, they’re just, they’re just…

Let me put it this way. When I was younger, before they saw the “light”, they were the kind of people who looked at the ground when they were walking. And then afterwards, after all that dunking crap, they’d stride around and they’d be beaming, just like this you know, and they’d look you in the eye and all.

But it was baloney really. If you looked hard enough you could see right through them. There wasn’t anything really going on behind there. You know, I don’t think they even really believed that shit. It was like they’re some sorta computer and they just brought this really, you know, confident program or something and then they just booted themselves up again.

They didn’t change too much with me you know. Like, they didn’t beat me or anything. But, everything else; everything else…

They just changed a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot. Like Mom, before, she used to drink. Not just beer too. She really used to drink. But now, she don’t anymore. Dad too.

And they changed their clothes. I think they must have liked that. They were the kind of people, before, who had real trouble with clothes. They weren’t like some of them. I mean they knew that, I don’t know, style existed and all that, and I reckon they really wanted to look good and all but they always got it wrong, real wrong. Man, they looked stupid. Like, everyday.

I remember this one time Dad came downstairs with Mom and they were excited. They’d obviously made a real effort. It was for some dinner party somewhere or something. But yeah, they’d made this real effort. And Dad, man, Dad was there wearing these jeans. And get this, on the front there was bright green, I mean fucking fluorescent here, bright green suede and on the back he had that real old school, real light stonewashed denim. Man, it looked stupid.

He reckoned he looked good too.

But yeah, after they saw the “light” they switched up, like right away; started wearing the same clothes every single damn day. Khaki slacks, white T, and sneakers for Dad. Khaki shirt, white polo, and pumps for Mom. Must have been a real relief for them.

Yeah, so, like I said, I was never really close to them. And after that, you know, I suppose I didn’t choose their journey, spiritually or religiously or whatever, so I just suppose it was inevitable that we’d drift apart.

The thing that surprised me, wait hold on a minute, do you want a cup of tea?

Yeah?

I’ll put the stove on.

Yeah, so the thing that surprised me was how easy it was to get out here, you know. I never really thought too much about the long run. There was no big plan. I can tell you that for sure.

Shit, I remember touching down on the tarmac and looking out that window and there was just like this sandy sort of, back home they’d call it badlands, sort of scrub and dust stretching away. And then in the distance there were these huts with these mud walls and I thought to myself, I thought to myself, Adam what the fuck have you got yourself into here?

And then I walked out the airplane door and, boom, the heat just hit me hard. I mean back home it gets hot in the summer too. That nasty sticky hot, you know? But this was something else. A kind of dry hot that just…

But it’s not like so unpleasant. It’s not just straight uncomfortable. It’s kind of exciting too. Like you’re thinking - I’ve got to get out of this sun. You know. This sun gonna kill me I stay here too long.

Hey, wait a minute.

Sugar?

No?

It’s pretty good. Not like the coffee back home. But it’s pretty good. It’s hot though. Be careful.

So, yeah, in the airport there were some people waiting for me. They were nice and stuff. One of them spoke a bit of English. I felt real bad at first because he had, like, this really, really thick accent and I couldn’t understand much of what he said. And, also, I didn’t want to have to keep on asking what he said, you know, because that’s kind of rude. Like saying he don’t speak good English to his face.

He was a nice guy and all but, like, he had a gun and I wanted to make a good first impression, you know. And one of his friends never took the finger off of his trigger. And he looked at me the whole time. Kind of blank. Maybe a little curious. No animosity, but I didn’t want to, you know. It was a bit tense really.

Yeah, I spent a long time there. Just learning stuff. It was alright, I suppose. I mean the learning was kinda crap. Like nothing interesting or nothing. Just that kind of rote learning you do at elementary.

But we had a lot of free time. And the guys were cool. We used to tool about town in our pick-ups. The strange thing is that, during downtime, mostly we spoke Russian. Now, I didn’t expect that. It took a while to get up to speed, but the boys helped and I’m more or less there now.

Yeah, and what’s that crazy game called? You know the one that you people are always playing. We played a lot of that too. It’s kind of fun too. What’s it called? Like baseball, you know? Except way more difficult. And longer too. What’s that shit called?

Yeah, that’s right. Cricket, that’s right. I got pretty good towards the end too. I got pretty good at pitching that thing and this one time, towards the end, right before we went to the mountains, I was first pick. I don’t know, I guess I felt proud or something.

Up here though, it got real serious, real quick. But that suited me just fine. It was what I was looking for. And it was most time outdoors kind of stuff. A lot of running around and shit. Sort of boy scout kind of stuff.

I was pretty good because I’d done a lot of that kind of shit before, at home. Hunting with my Uncle. He’s a real gun-nut you know. He actually gave me a key to his case when I turned 13. Can you believe that?

And that was only just after Columbine. But I was a sensible kid. I suppose he just trusted me.

Yeah, so I was good at all that stuff early on. The Boss tipped me for the next course. You know, that next level up, specialist stuff. I reckon they wanted me to go back. Help out there, on one of the big jobs. But that wasn’t going to happen. I told him I didn’t want to know.

I just wanted to stay up here. You see, I like the mountains. The air’s pretty thin and sometimes it gets real cold, hell sometimes it gets real hot too, but you get used to all of that.

And man, is it beautiful.

You just take a look through that door.

Yeah, that’s right, just through there.

Look at that man. Look at that. They say they got big sky country up in Nebraska but I don’t reckon they got anything like that shit there. When I look at that…when I look at that, it all looks so big and it fit just right, you know? Like it all just fit, just like that.

But yeah, you gotta get acclimatized. Like, after the camp, but early on you know, I used to have so much trouble. It’s alright if you walking on a level path. I suppose it’s not too bad downhill either.

But when you gotta go uphill? That’s when you’ll be gasping and gasping and gasping, like this you know, but you never get enough air, not early on.

I remember the day I first realized I was good, you know, like I was set, physically or whatever? I guess it was four, five weeks after camp and we hadn’t seen too much going on. It had been kinda quiet and the boys were sort of low, sort of bored.

We were just walking on this path and it was sort of winding round this corner up to this ridge and then, up front, Ram…you met Ram?

No?

Oh, you gotta meet this guy. Best in the business. I mean he’s been doing this shit since ’95.

Anyway, yeah, so Ram put his hand up and we all stopped dead. I crept up, curious like, to where Ram was with a couple other guys and we saw up ahead, maybe 50, 60 meters away was this vehicle and there were maybe four or five guys sort of just standing around it with this one guy bent over the engine. Just working on it I guess.

One of them, this scrawny little kid with glasses, he looked real jumpy like and he kept on going over to the engine, it had its hood up you know, and he’d go over and he’d say something to the guy working on it and then you’d just see this arm kind of flick up from the guy bent over the engine, you know, pushing the kid away. And then he’d walk a few meters away and look up the valley sides, like really scrutinizing, and then he’d go back to the engine again and get pushed away again.

He must have been pissing those guys off. He looked like a real dick. I guess he was just scared.

I can’t remember who fired the rocket. It wasn’t me though. I’m not trying to get off the hook or anything. I’m proud of what I’ve done. But that one day I was too nervous. Maybe I was kind of scared too. Either way I couldn’t hold that damn thing straight.

Ram thought I might hit that dirt just in front and then we’d all have said goodbye just as we said hello. Anyway, someone else took it off me.

And when that thing hit home it went, you know, kaboom!

Just like that. A bit like the movies except real loud and the flash…well, shit, just look out there right now.

You see all that pink and white and red and purple in that sky?

You see all that?

Yeah, and look over there.

Yeah over there, at that ridge.

Yeah, that’s right, the one in that shadow. Just there.

You see that grey and black dirt, just there?

Yeah, that’s right, just there.

Well you just put that all together. You know and bind it up real tight. You know that pink and white and red and purple and grey and black, all together. You know, just bind it all up. Real, real tight until it’s real scrunched up. And then you let that all go and flash out. You know, all at once, real fast like. And then in that moment, that’s what that flash looked like.

Beautiful.

And then everything was quiet for a bit. That vehicle had just slid off that ridge and a few of those guys who’d just been standing around, well, they’d just clean disappeared. There were bits and pieces scattered about. I suppose that must have been them.

I’ll always remember this one guy. He’d been looking through his sight, and when that thing hit home that sight went right in the back of his eye. And he was just lying there, stomach down, that sight like half in his head, aimed at the dirt.

And who did we see lying across this boulder, round the corner?

Yeah, that’s right, that scrawny little kid with the glasses. Except they were broke now. Actually looked like some had got in his eye. Real nasty. He was cut up pretty bad. It was difficult to work out but I reckon his legs had gone.

He was making this gasping sort of noise, real loud, you know. Like this. Like me in the mountains, in the beginning. But he was just trying to breathe anyway he could. His throat had got kind of messed up. I reckon he was trying to say something too. But he couldn’t, you know, get it up to his mouth. It just went out through that hole.

And you know it was just then, I realized I was, you know…when I realized I was breathing just fine, straight acclimatized, you know, when I was looking at him lying there, struggling.

I gotta say, when he saw us, he looked pretty damn hard at me. Like he was pleading, you know. But I didn’t have the guts.

Twenty meters down I heard a shot. I didn’t look back.

I still think about that. Especially at this sort of time, round prayers you know. I’ve done my fair share now but I still get worried.

I worry that I couldn’t kill that scrawny little kid because he was laid out right there, right in front of me. I didn’t feel sorry for him, really. It was just too close.

They say some Canadian guy shot a man up here from two miles. It must have been difficult, you know, what with the wind and all but I reckon that’s the best way to do it. From a long way away. When they look like little moving specks you can forget about all the rest. Like when I used to play video games or something.

Hey, come on, let’s go outside.

Yeah, just out there, come on.

Yeah, now stand just here, and you see that?

Yeah, look at that. Man, isn’t that something? All that light and all that color.

You ever seen anything so beautiful?

But then you look back that side and it’s dark.

You know what I like doing?

I like looking straight up like this. Just to that patch of sky where they both meet.

Just there, can you see it?

No, no, just there.

Yeah, now you’ve got it.

I look up there where all that light and all that dark meet. I look at it and I look at it, straining real hard. And I try to concentrate on one little piece and I forget about everything else.

And when I look up like that, at that piece where they meet, really hard, looking really hard, just right up at it, when I look up at that piece, everything else falls away. And it all mixes up, and I never can work out if it’s lightening or darkening.