THE SERIAL MONOGAMIST

Xander was lead guitarist in a band, I really like music, so we had loads in common.  He was FUN.  Only problem was George was still there, never leaving my side.  When I did manage to get away, it only seemed right to ask Xander, as Xander so desperately wanted to be with me, if he’d murder George and make it look like an accident.  Of course, George shouldn’t suffer, he’d been part of my life for so long, it was right to show him respect and despatch him gently.

Xander was up for it when he heard how much money I’d come into, George was soon out of the picture and Xander and I were blissfully together.  However, something happened on the way to forever, Xander got Repetitive Strain Injury and couldn’t play his guitar, he got a job in a bank instead.  In the evenings he was always there, sitting on the couch, enlarging his beer belly with cans of Stella and farting.  He wasn’t FUN anymore.  Soon I met John, John was a chemist and I really like drugs, so we had loads in common.  John wanted to be with me, so it seemed only fair to ask him to arrange an overdose for Xander.  Didn’t really matter if Xander suffered, afterall he’d killed the lovely dependable George; so I didn’t have much sympathy.

John liked the idea of me inheriting music royalties.  Xander was despatched and given his history of substance abuse, no-one was surprised.  It was great with John for eighteen months, having sex while taking ecstasy is wonderful.  Then I got fed up of it and I didn’t like John’s habit of leaving his hairs in the sink after shaving.  Dan was a cop who was exploring some irregularities surrounding Xander’s death; he fell totally in love with me during his investigation.  He liked upholding the law, I like breaking it, so we had loads in common.  He arrested John for Xander’s murder, John tried to make out that I’d had a part in it, what rubbish!  Such a shame that John died after a beating in prison while on remand.  Lovely of Dan to arrange it.

Dan was a pain.  Wouldn’t let me leave the house, suspicious, can’t think why.  I’d sit on the window ledge staring out at the street.  Dmitri would see me on his way home at night, I’d open my window and we’d have a chat.  He was shocked to learn that Dan wouldn’t let me leave the house.  Dmitri was from Russia and I’ve been more people than one of those Russian dolls – an identity for every new man - so we have loads in common.  So kind of him to run Dan over in his 4x4.

Curiously, once I’d moved in with Dmitri, I realised I didn’t actually feel anything.  I’d look at us in the mirror and see two strangers; he seems older and fatter than the man I saw out of my window.  I’m trying to evoke those first feelings of passionate love I’d had with ... when had I last felt that way?  Xander?  I miss Xander and George.  George was always there for me and Xander was FUN.  Still, can’t go back now, can only continue.  Onwards and upwards.

ROBIN HOOD'S BAY

Based on a true story and dedicated to my Grandfather

Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, has to be you, must get away, house is like prison.  Eight mouths to feed and Constance looking at me like that all the time.  Too much pressure.  Never bargained for it.  Family was wealthy, until Black Thursday 1929.  Wasn’t fair, wasn’t supposed to live like this, to work for a living.

Ruby my salvation, going to get away, make an honest woman of her, can’t be fun for her being twenty one and pregnant ... just need the money.  All favours are called in, borrowed from everyone and somehow it’s all disappeared (again).  Someone always wants feeding or shoes or clothes ... and people are asking for their money back.  THERE IS NO MONEY!  OK, been fluttering on the horses and playing a few games of poker, but Constance should really stop looking at me like that, really should.  Trying to win cash back and next bet is always the one that’s going to come through ...

Looking at register at work, enough in there, enough to go, take Ruby north to Robin Hoods Bay, marry her and escape, really escape.  Get away from Constance’s sad eyes, from the screaming brats I’ve fathered.  Will make a new start – with Ruby and her sleek dark hair and porcelain skin ...  can go tonight, make a run for it.

Well, ran for it and married her, love of my life, my Ruby, my beautiful girl.  Caught me, didn’t they?  Constance’s brothers.  Found us, came with Police, real prison now for theft and bigamy.  Constance said she’d take in Ruby if her parents wouldn’t, but parents did, so won’t see her again.  What a saint Constance is, standing by me no matter what, offering to look after my girl.  Someone will bail them out of my debts if her brothers haven’t already.

After prison, must go home to brats and Constance’s unending, undeserved support and love.  To gambling, to debts and sudden house moves, to affairs and guilt and arguments, that will all creep up in a summer’s day heart attack.

TITSZZZ

The office Christmas party started when Josh opened a bottle of Moet, tools were downed, glasses found, cakes taken from the fridge and party poppers let off.  It was Mad Friday and by 6pm the judgement of Josh, Simon and Derek was completely skewed.  When they went on a perfume sniffing mission, involving them burying their heads into the décolletage of every female, the office manager promptly suggested the three leave for town.

On their way out, they noticed a whisky bottle in the kitchen and decided to take it.  They piled into the room laughing at their audacity.  The cleaner, in an extremely bad mood, was putting glasses into the dishwasher.

“Hello darlin’!” shouted Josh, looking at his mates giggling, “I’m gonna sniff the cleaner’s tits!”
She straightened to protest, but he swept her slight frame up, sat her on the counter and buried his head in her tiny chest; “Peanuts!” he yelled.
“That’s what she smells like?” Simon laughed.
“Soap is what she smells like, peanuts is what she has.  You need a boob job, love!”
Simon thought it was hilarious, but Derek intervened, pulling Josh off; “Town,” he said and mouthed an apology to the cleaner.
“Wait,” she said, without hesitation, “there are women with better tits at eibmoZ Club.  It’s where WAG’s and models end their night.”
Simon handed her his smartphone, “Plug the postcode in, sweetheart.”

Later, they found themselves in a graveyard.  Puzzled, they suspected it was a joke, but were willing to see it through.  Then they saw a crypt with fairy lights round it and a neon sign – eibmoZ CLUB.  The bouncer wore a hooded coat that rendered his face invisible.

“You can’t come in,” he grunted at Derek, “you’re drunk.  You two are welcome.”
It was a fair call, probably was Derek’s home time, he stumbled away, while Simon and Josh entered, walking down steps into a wall of thumping R&B music.  The club was dark, but they could see females in silhouette writhing on the dancefloor, long haired, thin with huge tits and curvy behinds – perfect!

They skipped the bar because they still had the whisky bottle and headed straight to the women; “Wanna sniff your t ...” Josh stopped mid sentence, staring at the redhead in front.  She was wearing a mini skirt and low top, but her flesh was hanging off her thin arms and decaying, her rib bones stuck through her exposed midriff, her face was slack and her tits were huge lumps of silicon yellowing with age.  She grabbed his head and pulled it against her, the overwhelming smell of corruption causing him to puke.  The music stopped; Simon, aware they were surrounded, pulled Josh up; “Ladies, excuse us, it’s the end of the night.”

“The night never ends here,” they chorused.
One of them pulled up her skirt to flash her silicon enhanced bony behind; “We’ve been waiting for lads like you!”
There were too many too push past, Simon and Josh gave up and let the wall of surgically enhanced women in various states of decay close in.  At least these girls were up for it.

Outside the cleaner leaned against the crypt wall, sharing a large cigar with the bouncer.  She gave the starlit sky a contented look and said to nobody in particular; “Merry Christmaszzz.”

THE MIRROR'S SUICIDE

The mirror had been lovingly crafted by Tibetan monks who lived lives of purity, moderation, health and humility.  They liked to think wherever their work went, these values would be reflected.

The mirror found itself in a student bathroom reflecting Manky Franky wanking into the toilet.  After Laurence the Landlord would press his face to the mirror and squeeze his unruly zits until they erupted, then he’d wash his smug face, knowing he was ready to meet his mistress.  Helen his frumpy wife would simultaneously sit on the toilet, pushing out a number two while smoking a fag.  Later, Pervy Peter would slither in for his turn; he’d move aside the picture he’d hung up and check the hole he’d drilled so he could see into Laurence’s bedroom was unblocked, then he’d scrape the dry skin off his feet with a pumice stone.  Last into the bathroom was Lovely Lisa.  The mirror was reassured by the way she sprayed air freshener around and cleaned up.  There was something of the monastery about her – purity and humility.

When Helen was at work, Laurence’s mistress Marlene would arrive and Peter would come straight to the bathroom and stand, eye pressed against the hole in the wall, watching Laurence beating Marlene’s bare backside with a paddle.  “Classic,” he’d whisper, while pleasuring himself.

At the end of one of these vile days was a party.  Laurence smugly checked out his reflection – wife and mistress both present at same event.  Lovely Lisa conscientiously cleaned the bathroom in preparation, dusting the mirror reverently.

Purity, moderation, health and humility didn’t make an appearance.  Instead there was excess, Manky Franky got drunk and vomited round the toilet.  Then drugs, Helen sat on the loo smoking crack.  Her husband knocking on the door roused her, she staggered and slipped, falling heavily, passing out, face in the remnants of Franky’s puke, pants round her ankles.

“Do you think she’ll notice?” Marlene asked as she and Laurence opened the door and saw her prone frame.
“No, let’s go!” cried Laurence, pushing Marlene into the bedroom for debauchery.

Peter slithered into the bathroom, stepping over Helen’s body and pressing his eye to the peephole.

“Peter!  What are you doing!” Purity had arrived, the Lovely Lisa.

“Look!” Peter ushered her to the hole in the wall.

She peered through it gasping; “Oh my!  I didn’t know you could ...”

Peter put his hand up Lisa’s skirt; “I can show you so much more, my dear.”

She turned to him; “Oh, Peter, you mustn’t, my boyfriend’s downstairs ...”, but she let him slide his thick tongue down her throat.  At their feet Helen stirred and moaned.

“She won’t wake up!  Don’t worry!” Peter flung Lisa against the wall, pushing up her skirt and unzipping.  The two began to fuck passionately against the tiles.

Lovely Lisa being defiled by that sleaze was too much for the mirror to bear.  Illusions broken, it longed for the monastery.  They all eventually went to bed, but the mirror knew it faced another morning of Manky Franky and the rest.  It couldn’t do this anymore.  Gradually it wriggled until it was at the edge of its fastenings, then it leapt from the wall and shattered with a deafening crash.  Seven years’ bad luck to them all and a curse upon their house of iniquity!

THE RECORD DEAL

“YOU BITCH, CATHERINE, YOU STOLE MY WORK!” he yelled, all semblance of sanity gone.  He gave chase, cloakless, uncaring of the freezing cold.

She ran ahead on the moor, nearly out of sight.  “Fuck you, Heathcliff!  I was happy before I met you!”

He followed her voice, their footprints fast becoming filled with snow.  He’d find her and when he did there’d be hell to pay.

Lead him a dance through thick falling snow, that’s what to do.  She knew the moors better.  Run north of Heygate Bank, go west and she’d hit New Road.  With snow like this, he’d lose her and his way.  He wouldn’t survive long.  The deal would be hers and there’d be no tricky questions about where the album had come from.  He may have written the music, but she’d provided lyrics and found an agent to whom she had forgotten to mention his name.  Fuck Heathcliff!  His commitment phobic ways had screwed her up, he deserved this.  Hang on, had she become too preoccupied?  Had she missed the turn?  Shit!  She could freeze out here - she was only wearing a rather threadbare white dress ...

His breath tore in his throat; “CATHY!  You crazy bitch!  Where are you?”  He couldn’t see far in front and was sweating through his shirt; the cold invading his body.  Bodies, that’s what they’d been, all those nights of passion in the Holiday Inn and she’d been planning all along to steal his beats and riffs.  Bitch!  He staggered to a hilltop, shielding his eyes from the white-out, but the snow gave and suddenly he was tumbling into a ravine.  He came to an abrupt halt and there she was.

“Trust you to fall down the same fucking hole!” she snapped, trying to rise and screaming; her leg was broken.

“Your leg’s in the same state as my heart!”

“Don’t be fucking dramatic!  You never loved me, narcissist!”

“You’re incapable of love!”  He attempted to get up, but a fit of coughing choked him.  He pulled his smartphone out of his pocket, intending to get help.

She snatched the device away and threw it against a standing stone.  Still coughing, he crawled towards it, when suddenly there was a terrific blow to his head.  The bitch had slid after him and hit him with a rock.  He collapsed, feeling the blood running down his face, swiftly turning cold.  A shiver ran through him; “Gotta share body heat,” he slurred.

“It would degrade me to warm you up,” she responded, but not spiritedly as before.  The ice, snow and pain were taking their toll.

With the last of his strength, he caught her wrists and pulled her against him, so their hate contorted faces were inches apart.  “I’ll get you for this!”

A dog walker found them the next day, frozen solid together at the bottom of the ravine, his dead hands clamped around her neck.  They could not be parted ... without the aid of a saw.

THE LION CONDESCENDS TO ENQUIRE AS TO THE WELFARE OF THE CHAMELEON

“I heard about what happened and I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I.”
“You seem fine though.”
“Yes, I am.  Thank you.”
“You’re nicely camouflaged on that leaf.  Everyone is amazed about how well you’ve adapted.  I do wonder how you chameleons do it.  Change your colours to suit your background.”
“It’s not my background, it’s my social setting.  I have a colour for everyone else’s mood.”
“What colour’s your own mood?”
“Since when did lions become Counsellors?”
“Evasive, aren’t you?  Answering questions with questions.”
“Yes.”
“So, at the party last week you were a nice vibrant cheery red.  Then your ex-partner appears and you exhibit the appropriate blues.  I’m here and you’re a neutral green.  What colour are you when no-one else is around?”
“There’s never no-one else around.  Unlike you, I have lots of predators.”
“Do you have a hormone that allows you to change colour?”
“Pigment in my cells, it responds to signals from my brain.”
“And does this ever deplete?  Because you seem to be going from situation to situation and changing colour an awful lot.  I mean, is that safe?”
“It’s very tiring.”
“What happens when your capacity fails and we see your true colours?”
“Shut up.”
“I want to know.”
“The world and my enemies see me, recognise what I am, attack and I die.  Leave it alone, please.  This is my only defence.”

THE BREAK-UP SONG OF MRS J ALFRED PRUFROCK

 

I don’t understand Italian and I'm not into the Michelangelos of this world, despite the fact others will always talk about them.  This is all so sad and predictable.

                                                                                                                                    

Well, the mermaids will sing for you, my darling, because you’re a worthy man, just not mine anymore.  You were always so afraid to squeeze the universe into a ball, to ask me some overwhelming question, to get to know who I really was.  You took me at face value, accepted my moods and hoped I would stay.  All those restaurants, coffee houses, spoons, Premier Inns, drunken arguments ... Yes, I did fix you with my eyes and see you pinned there, helpless, not knowing what to say to make it all better and I didn't bother to help you.  You never did fight hard enough for me and I dared to eat an apple, to think forbidden thoughts, God help me.  I’m so sorry.

I have swept my coat from the eternal footman and given him such a look that his face froze mid-snicker.  He won’t gossip about you and me anymore.

Then I’ve walked out before the music ended gone back in the house again and left without sitting down first walked under a ladder in the street oh dear it’s going to rain and I’ll get wet because I left the umbrella in our living room open I have disturbed the universe with complete lack of punctuation.

Now I will cross the road purposefully in the thick sleepy fog, I’m confident nothing is coming.  I will walk into the morning of the new day, my face prepared for the puzzled faces I will meet, alone without a safety net.  My love ...

THE NARCISSISTIC NAVEL GAZING OF A MURDERING BITCH

Well, I’d been out with the girls before the party, hadn’t I?  Had a few pinots and got into the car.  Fucking husband’s works party, in the middle of Dorset nowhere.  Sorry about the swearing, really didn’t want to go.  Weaving through all those tiny lanes and suddenly bang!  Didn’t even see him, just went into him.  Stopped of course.  Got torch out of glove compartment, terribly organised.  High heels pattering round the car.  Torchlight.  Man, young, not out of adolescence, lying there, really fucking badly injured.  “Don’t worry love, I’ll call for help,” I reassured him, but then I suddenly had a thought.  Been drinking, hadn’t I?  What I would lose flashed before my eyes: husband, house, cleaner coming in once a week, successful job, cats, champagne in wine rack ready for Christmas, friends who held me in high esteem.  You’ve got to do what’s right for yourself in this life, haven’t you?  I didn’t call for help.  I stepped on his neck in my Cavellas until he stopped breathing.  Then I changed into my wellies, got out a spade we keep in the car in case of snow and buried him in a field.  I work out regularly, so it was quite easy to drag him round behind the hedge.  Harder to dig his grave and cover him over like he didn’t happen though.

Then I drove over the county border to the party.  What happened in Hampshire stays in fucking Hampshire, right?  In Dorset now.  Did best to smile at party, drank shed loads, I think.  No-one suspected what I’d done, told them I’d hit a deer.  They treated me like they normally do, like I’m a saint because I listen to all their problems, don’t I?  I’m a regular Mother Theresa.  I recall crying in the toilets at one point.  Then husband told me I looked ill and took me to our hotel early and everyone was terribly concerned.

I became addicted to the news and newspapers, his family were there, appealing for him to come home, just another lost boy on his way between parties, like I’d been.  I was terrified they’d find him, but the days passed and they didn’t.  I began to realise I GOT AWAY WITH IT!  Yeah!  I danced round my room, got away with murder!  Get me!  I searched for traces of the sin on my face, blue eyes still innocent, smile still warm.  I’ve got it going on.  I’m scot free.

But then, then, then, I wanna tell people about it, don’t I?  I want to be forgiven, but I can’t.  I can’t share the pain in my heart, that accompanies the euphoria of getting away with it.  I killed someone young, who had yet to develop fully, who was on that brink before life gets really good, someone who could have been really really special.  I see the faces of his parents on the TV, they want him home for Christmas.  I didn’t just kill him, I killed his future ... No-one will ever know how he would have turned out.  However, murder is socially unacceptable, isn’t it?  I keep silent and continue to be treated like an angel by everyone, as the days continue their relentless march towards Christmas.  My husband thinks I’m wonderful, our friends think I’m this fantastic, supportive person.  But I’ve killed, I’ve buried and if I’m asked, I’m sure I’ll deny it too.

TETE A TETE

Please be boring over dinner and talk about yourself all night.  It’s what usually happens when I get taken to a restaurant afterall.  Work, pensions, finance, property, all those conversations people find so exciting.  Please, please, please, give it to me hard bore, baby.  Oh baby.

 Shit, you want to talk about me?  You’re asking an unfeasible amount of direct questions.  I’m not liking the fact I’m answering, that I’m coming out of my shell.  This is so not good.  Please be respectful of my privacy and treat me like the fluffy bimbo I’m dressed up to be.  Let’s discuss you, there’s a good chap, or money ... No, you stupid, intelligent man; don’t, really don’t!  My friends and family refrain from making these penetrating enquiries, they don’t look beyond the exterior and who are you exactly to do this?

Your questions are taking moments to tear through the bullshit I carefully constructed over years to hide myself behind.  Stop it.  I don’t like facing up to myself, yet I am talking to you in a way I haven’t spoken to anyone else, and what are we to each other precisely?  My defences are being shredded, your words are incisors and you are seconds from realising my true nature.  May I strongly suggest you change the subject?  You’ve seen me eat with my fingers, so you must know I have the manners of an animal.  I’m gripping the steak knife under the table and it’s pointing at your throat.

THE FUCK BUDDY

He didn’t do relationships, they were messy; people got hurt, he explained to Maria in the bar and she nodded in agreement.  Fuck buddies were better.  Somehow he got side-tracked by his reflection in her eyes and they ended up in bed.  Maria was an excellent fuck buddy, she complimented him on the music he wrote, laughed at his jokes and told him he was intelligent.  So he saw her again and again.  She never nagged about his drinking, she encouraged it and as he worked from home he could get away with a lot.  He and his mates would always wind up in the same bar as her and hers.  Eventually, it became a mixed group so his friends started inviting their girlfriends along.
One afternoon after sex, they went into town and accidentally met her parents, who turned out to know his parents through the Rotary club.  The next Sunday they all went out for a family lunch together, her smug sister and harrassed looking brother-in-law came too.  Maria whispered to him; “At least we won’t end up like my sister and Paul.”
Maria became Omnipresent; as well as the drawer of stuff she had already, more and more of her things started to appear in his flat.  His guitar collection disappeared into storage to make room for potted plants and Disney DVD’s.  He went out without her like old times, but the lads brought their girlfriends and he felt left out, Max even got engaged, he never thought Max would marry.  One night, Maria was waiting for him when he got back, didn’t she have a home to go to?  She’d made him a bacon sandwich; “You need your strength.  It’s Ikea tomorrow for shelves for our second bedroom.”
“Our second bedroom?”
She gave him a confused look; “I did move in two months ago, daftie!  Remember, I sold my flat.  Have another whisky.”
Time passed in a blur – Ikea, work, sex, nights in by the telly, takeaways, routine sex, Max’s wedding in Las Vegas of all places, parents’ wedding anniversary, too tired for routine sex but doing it anyway  ... A cat appeared in the flat, it’s name was Gotye after the musician, but Maria pronounced the name Got Ya.  The endless family social events were easier if he had a whisky in his hand.
It was at the birthday party of Paul, Maria’s brother-in-law that he suddenly had a horrible moment of clarity.  Couples were everywhere, the women talking babies and the men with same harrassed look on their faces that he’d seen in the mirror that morning.  He looked across at Maria, her figure was sagging, she was tucking into a large plate of buffet food.  He knew it was time to leave, saw the exit and headed for it.
Paul stepped into his path, whisky in hand; “Can’t go out that way mate, you’ll set off an alarm.  Your wife’s got an appetite, hasn’t she?  Eating for two eh?”
“Hang on!  Did you say my wife?”
Paul looked puzzled; “You married her weeks ago, doubled up with Max and Suze at Vegas, you were well drunk,” he showed him the pictures on his smartphone, Max and Suze, Maria in a white dress and him in a suit looking harrassed.
“I don’t remember ...”
“There you are love,” Maria put a glass of whisky in his hand, “drink it, all in one go, you’ll feel better.”
He could have sworn that, from the corner of his eye, he’d seen her put something in it.

WHAT HE WISHED FOR

Gerry St John Smyth was fed up of his wife.  He’d told her he needed adventure and passion, but she acted like he was part of the furniture.  It wasn’t as if Elizabeth wouldn’t have sex, but it was always in the missionary position and – well – there were things Gerry wanted to try while he still could.

There was a possibility, Carmen and Louisa were two ladies who volunteered at the same National Trust premises Elizabeth and Gerry did.  They shared Gerry’s love of history and often went with him for drinks, while Elizabeth went home to make dinner.  Gerry hoped his wife didn’t know, but he had such thoughts about Carmen and Louisa.   ‘We do everything together’, they frequently told him – apparently they met up with men on the internet and got up to all sorts ...

“I would love to do the things you do,” Gerry stated one evening, “I’ve asked her again and again, but Elizabeth won’t, you know.”
“What won’t she?” Carmen asked.
“Well, er, she won’t do ...”
“Blow jobs?” Louisa enquired
“Anal?” pressed Carmen.
“We love giving blow jobs and a bit of anal,” Louisa stated, “don’t we Carmen?”
Gerry had problems walking across the bar to get the next round in, he was about to order drinks, when Carmen came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his ample waist and suggested hiring the room upstairs for a few hours - they’d be terribly discreet. 
Gerry thought it was the chance of a life time, sex with two liberated younger women and his wife would never find out.
Upstairs in the unfurnished room he wondered how to start, would one be offended if he kissed the other first?  He needn’t have worried; Carmen pushed him down on the floor and tore off his shoes, while Louisa set about stripping off his shirt.
“Whoa!   Ladies!  Steady on!” he cried, but before he knew it, he was naked on his front and Carmen was walking across his back in her stilletos, while Louisa sounded like she was rumaging in a bag; “Found it!” she called triumphantly.
“Found what?  Carmen, your heels,” moaned Gerry, the metal caps were digging into his flesh.
Then he felt something lashing his buttocks, Louisa was whipping him!
“Gerry, turn over!” Carmen ordered after a while, stepping off.  He obeyed nervously, at least Louisa had stopped beating him.  Carmen put his half flaccid penis in her mouth and sucked very hard.
“Ow!” he yelled, “can’t you be gentle?”
“I’m too overcome with passion!” purred Carmen, her red finger nails digging into his balls.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gerry saw Louisa holding a large black vibrator in her hands; “Are you ready for your anal?” she asked him.  He pushed Carmen off him rather abruptly, leapt to his feet and grabbed his trousers, he almost ran to the door, putting them on as he went, red faced and flustered.  “You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” he cried, putting on his shoes and picking up his shirt and jacket.
Louisa and Carmen regarded him in disappointment; “But Gerry, we thought you wanted adventure and passion,” Louisa said sadly.
At home he sank into bed next to Elizabeth in relief.  He held her for a long time; “I love you, old girl,” he said.
“I love you too, Gerry,” replied Elizabeth happily.  When he’d fallen asleep, she reached over and took her mobile phone from the bedside table, there was a text waiting for her; “Did it work?  Carmen xxx”
“I believe so!  I do hope you did all I told you to.  Looking forward to lunch tomorrow.  Elizabeth xxx”.

PHEASANTTSSZZZ

At the end of Friday, Roger opened the office hole puncher and scattered little paper circles over the floor, lazy ass of a cleaner wouldn’t vacuum otherwise.  Strange gypsy creature, came from Eastern Europe, country was full of foreigners, didn’t feel like England anymore.  Roger replaced the hole puncher and turned, there the cleaner was looking at him.  Had she seen what he’d done?  Embarrassed he made conversation; “Ah, you’re in early.  It’s the weekend, what?  Off to do something interesting tomorrow?”
“I am working.  What are you doing?”
“Shooting, supposedly, weather’s stormy, damn birds may not fly.  They’re very stupid - pheasants,” he looked at her, thinking of pheasants with the h missing and putting her into that category.
The cleaner hesitated a moment, then said; “They’ll fly at sedaH Park.”
“Cedar Park?  Never heard of the place.”
“sedaH Park.  They need birds culled, shooting is free.  You can eat them afterwards.”

It was blowing a gale and raining at Roger’s friend’s estate.  He wasn’t perturbed, in fact the weather challenged his marksmanship, but the birds didn’t fly.  He mentioned sedaH Park to his friends, but they wanted to go to the pub.  So he drove alone as directed, down a tiny country lane that got narrower and narrower, until he reached a large entrance.  On the pillars either side were two statues of large scary looking pheasants.  As a man pulled the gate open, the window of Roger’s Range Rover slid down; “Hello there, come to shoot, told it’s free.”

The man said nothing, he pointed down the lane with a thin gloved hand, his body completely covered by waterproofs and his face concealed by a large hood.
On Roger drove, he saw a sign for a car park and pulled in; his was the only vehicle there.  Normally his chocolate labrador, Buster would come bounding eagerly out when he opened the boot, but Buster cowered whining.  “What’s wrong with you, old boy?  Fed up of the weather, what?  Out you come!” ordered Roger.
Buster emerged reluctantly.  He padded at Roger’s heels, tail still, into a field surrounded by woods, the only sound was the hoarse cries of pheasants calling to one another.
“Where are the bloody beaters?” wondered Roger, but at that moment, a pheasant broke cover and flew into the windy sky.  He raised his gun and fired, first kill of the day.  The bird fell into the trees.
“Go on!” Roger ordered and Buster loped off to retrieve the body.
Pheasant after pheasant followed.  Good old whatshername the cleaner, she’d given him an excellent tip.  “Buster!” he called into the rain, suddenly aware his dog hadn’t returned, “Buster, where are you, old chap?”
Suddenly he noticed something, the sky had blackened and appeared to be moving.  He realised what had caused it, hundreds of pheasants were overhead and flying towards him, wings whirring, to his horror he saw the corpse of a pheasant he’d just shot suddenly, awkwardly take flight and join its comrades.  He rubbed the rain out of his eyes; “Can’t be,” he muttered, raising his gun.  He fired again and again, but the enormous flock of birds kept on coming.  “What the ...?” the first one swooped at him, knocking off his hat and bumping his head hard; “Ow!” shouted Roger outraged, he couldn’t believe it, these stupid pheasants were attacking him.  “Help!” he yelled, but his cry was cut off, a pheasant dived straight into his face and pushed its head and neck into Roger’s open mouth, beak tearing at his throat.  Roger fell backwards, dropping his gun and they were upon him, his body a mess of pheasant feathers, blood pouring into his windpipe, he couldn’t breathe.  The last thing he saw was the beak of a pheasant coming down towards his eye, he tried to close it, but the beak tore on through the lid and the pheasant grasped its prize, Roger’s eyeball.

Once the pheasants had finished their meal, they dispersed, wandering around the field idlely, pecking at seeds, like game birds do when they’re being left alone.  Buster came back from the woods and dropped the corpse of a pheasant his master had shot next to what remained of Roger.

LIGHTS OFF

I stand on the flat roof of the empty tenement and sniff, the bleak November air is rain heavy.  I can squander the water.  The light is dying, I must hurry.  I carry the collection of large saucepans, tupperware tubs and plastic containers downstairs in several journeys.  Then I light a fire in my flat for warmth, I am freezing under layers of clothes, but fire fuel is hard to find and I’m not particularly good at igniting them from scratch.  I boil the potatoes I stole from the nearest Society commune.

I’ve survived here for eleven months since Lights Off day.  The people in the Societies say it was an electromagnetic pulse that fried everything, all the circuits, all the little chips.  Well whatever, there’s no more electricity which means no gas, no digital or analogue systems, nothing.  It’s dangerous for me to stay alone, but I don’t want to go and live in a Society - it’s funny how things revert once technology is lost, all remnants of civilisation slip away.  Men are the physically stronger so they rule and we’re a commodity.  Even though so many have died in childbirth, the urge to keep breeding continues.

I eat, the room is warm, I strip and wash myself with freezing water, the fire is slowly dying; I’ve no fuel to light another one, so I dress quickly.  I sing as I return the water containers to the roof - a popular tune from before, when there was music, office jobs, Friday nights out with the girls ...

Later I hear noise downstairs.  Someone is in my building.  I manage to get up before the door is kicked in.  From the last ember light I make out the silhouette of a man; “You have food?”

“I have nothing,” I answer.
He comes in anyway, closing and barricading the door with my furniture.  It’s completely dark now, I can hear him breathing.  “I heard you singing before,” he said, “I used to like that song.”  His hands find me in the dark, as I try to hide against the wall.  He presses his body against me, “I’ve been lonely; will you help with that?”
I feel his lips on mine and take in the scent of him, his tongue slides into my mouth.  I don’t protest, he asked for consent (I think), that’s unusual, he might be all right.  He’s tall and his body is lean, bones against my bones.  I run my hands through his thick hair and hear him moan softly as he senses my compliance.  The desire grips me then, desperation for some fierce taste of joy in these dark nights of nothing.  I lead him through the blackness to my bed, laughing a little when we stumble over stuff.  “I’ve been alone too,” I say as we lay down, him over me.  I buck my hips against his, feeling his desire for ... well, a woman, he hasn’t seen me nor I, him.

Afterwards we lay together, his arms are round me and I can hear the rain against the window, upstairs the supply of water will be replenished.  We'll drink tomorrow then and perhaps find fuel and food together.  I hope he’ll stay.  I await dawn and the weak light of the winter sun which will show me the face of my new lover.