SANTA'S CHRISTMAS

Ruby and Billy rushed to the living room to find a modest pile of Christmas presents under an artificial Christmas tree.  Mummy and Daddy followed, smiling wearily.  It had been a tough year.

The children started with their stockings, each contained a novelty pencil, a tangerine and a tennis ball.  They looked at each other and continued; surely the bigger presents would be more exciting.  But Grandma had given knitted jumpers and hats and Nanna had provided painting sets.  The last hope was the present from Mummy and Daddy.  Ruby thought she remembered there had been more than one each last Christmas.  Billy opened a cheap looking trainset and could barely hide his disappointment.  For Ruby there was a baby doll with no house, accessories or cot to go with it.

They turned to glare at Mummy and Daddy.  At that moment the front door was knocked down.  Mummy and Daddy turned, mouths falling open and the children whooped with delight.  In he came, red coat and black boots, white fur trim and long flowing beard.  He carried no sack though and gave no cheery hohoho.  “Mummy and Daddy!” he cried, “Billy and Ruby wrote to me at the beginning of December.  Billy wanted a bicycle.  Ruby wanted a princess palace.  They both wanted an X-box.  This pile of crap here, what is it?  Jumpers, tangerines?  They’re not presents!”

“We’re hard up,” Mummy whispered.
“And where’s your presents to each other, Mummy and Daddy?  Has the romance gone?  And what is there for dinner?”  Santa marched through to the kitchen and opened the fridge; the children ran after him and clutched at his red coat.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Santa, “turkey, potatoes and carrots?  Is that ALL?  Where’s the stuffing?  The sausage meat wrapped in bacon?  The WINE?”
Mummy burst into tears and Daddy put his arm round her; “Look ...” he began.
“I can fix this,” Santa interrupted, “the children needn’t remember anything.  I’ll put the clock back to early December.  You can get this right.”
“Do you want us to skip a mortgage payment or something?” demanded Daddy, “Jesus!”
Santa became very still, his face went as red as his coat and his eyes flashed a demonic shade of green; “Don’t say that name to me!  He isn’t what Christmas is about!  It’s all about me!  I say that how much you love your children shows in how much you spend on them - the amount of presents and the quality of those presents.  It’s about gorging your faces with luxury food and drinking your fill of wine!  Now, do you want me to turn back the clock or not?”
“Yes please!” cried Billy and Ruby.
Mummy and Daddy nodded.

Ruby and Billy rushed downstairs to the living room to find an enormous pile of Christmas presents under a beautiful pine Christmas tree.  Mummy and Daddy followed, smiling wearily.  The stockings were crammed with toys and sweets; there was Billy’s bicycle, Ruby’s princess palace and an X-Box.  There were DVDs, dolls, books, puzzles and Lego.  Mummy got her favourite perfume and Daddy a Breitling watch.  Waiting in the kitchen was a sumptuous turkey feast to be served with champagne or red wine when the rest of the family arrived.  The day was one long party, although Mummy and Daddy were at times quiet.  On Boxing Day; the children played with their bonanza of toys, while Mummy and Daddy whispered furiously at each other in another room.

The day after Boxing Day, Mummy went out, taking Daddy’s watch with her.  The children played with Billy’s bike in the garden and the postman called.  Billy was doing wheelies and wanted his father to watch.  “Daddy!” he called.  There was no reply.  Then, from inside the house there was a crash and an audible crack.  The children ran in to find Daddy hanging by the Christmas tree, a letter from the bank under his feet.

ICON

When I first got the script I was super excited.  It was for the role of a lifetime – complex, intense, requiring great sensitivity and involving huge responsibility.  It was a part that could catapult me from a moderately famous actress into an icon!

“You’re made for this part.”

“It was written for you.”
“You’ll be incredible.”
“You’ll be amazing.”
Simpered my agent, his PA, my boyfriend and his publicist.

I got online and researched the part.  I went out into the world and lived it part time.  I did all I could to learn what it felt like to be this role.  At first I was super confident, but the more I read the script, the more I doubted.  I kept imagining the consequences of failure.  What the reviews would say if I bombed.  This could cost me my career, cause me to be dropped by everyone, including my boyfriend.  The more research I did, the less I believed in myself.  All my life I had existed only for me, so how would I ever be able to play a part involving so much self sacrifice?  I’d come across like a phoney on camera.  I’d look like I was acting.  But if I turned it down?  No-one would understand why and if I wasn’t good enough to play such a role what did it say about me as a person?  It would mean I lack depth, that I am a coward.

There was only one solution, I wrote down my research experiences and shared my thoughts on how the role could be tackled.  I stuffed the script and the letter into a large envelope.  I addressed it to my oldest friend who was able and sentimental enough to take on the role in my memory.  I then booked that hotel room, organised the barbiturates and bought the fancy negligee they’d find me wearing.  They’d make much of my tempestuous relationships, my history of substance abuse and my troubled childhood.  They’d remember the last characters I’d played – emotional, intense types.

No-one would guess the real cause.  The script I’d accepted without thinking, the demands of a role that I couldn’t live.  If I attempted to play it, I’d be revealed to the world as second rate.  No, let them talk instead about how great I would have been if only I’d lived to play it.  Let them say I would have been incredible.

JACOB AND ANNABELLE

Jacob and Annabelle are coming, both of them, and we are not ready.  We sit in the silence of our living room, staring out at the moon, racking our brains for a way ahead.
“The house isn’t big enough.  We’ll have to sell it,” you say.
I close my eyes, thinking of the peace of this living room, the sea views, the scrape your key makes when you turn it in the latch in the evening and the way the sea breeze gently blows the bedroom curtain on a Saturday morning.  The house is not the only thing that must be sold.  The sports car has to be traded in too.  It is not practical enough for Annabelle and Jacob.

On moving day I start in the kitchen, I take the bottles of wine from the rack and empty them two at a time into the sink, watching the fizz of champagne mix with Rioja red which used to smell so appealing.  We must be pure now.  You come through and without a word pick up the empty bottles and take them out to the recycling.  When you return you find me rooting through the fridge, removing pizzas, half mouldy cheese, an opened tin of frankfurters and an apologetic single item of rotten fruit.

“That was lunch,” you say.
“Not anymore,” I reply, “Annabelle and Jacob won’t tolerate junk food.”
“Shall we do the bedroom?”
We find the old love letters, the journal I made of how we got together, pictures of our exes and photos of us in our pie eyed drunkenness at party after party.  We don’t want to remember those times, they can never come again.  We burn everything.  Jacob and Annabelle won’t want us to have a past.

We stand on the porch waiting for the removal men, watching the bonfire ash being blown inland by the strengthening winds.  We are thinking of what we are leaving behind and of what is coming.  We have made such sacrifices and yet it has been easy.  Will we be good enough though?  Can anyone get this right?

“Oh God,” you whisper, your hand clutching mine, “I hope they know they’re wanted.”
I hope they know they’re already loved.

THE END OF THE LINE

The conductor loved working this line, as the train got nearer to London, the class of passenger improved.  The noisy youths and unwashed got off at Scavant and workers in hi-vis vests joined the already busy coaches.  The press of a button, the sound of an alarm, the shutting of doors and the train continued its journey.  Pensive types stared out of the window, harrassed looking women tended their restless children, rowdy jokes were exchanged between the workers.

 At Fossingstoke, the workers trooped off the train and bookish civil servant types got on.  The conductor pressed the button, but the doors did not shut.  This could only mean one thing.  He hurried from carriage to carriage, scanning the passengers, until he found the old man, clinging to his hard hat with hands blackened by manual labour.

“This is your stop.”
“I thought I’d buy a ticket to go on,” the old man replied.
The conductor shook his head and referred to the passenger inventory; “Samuel Jones, 61 years old, past retirement, with no formal education ...”
“But I’ve experience.”
“Do you really think that pathetic northern accent of yours would be tolerated?  Get off!”
The old man left the train with the air of one who had tried.  As the journey resumed, the conductor spoke into the public address system; “Sorry about the slight delay, ladies and gentlemen.  Someone wanted to stay beyond their stop.”

 

At Meading, the mothers and their pushchairs and the pensive types and their thoughts got off.

“You know,” a woman said to the conductor, “I could stay on.  I’m educated, I’m a qualified carer and I have empathy.”
The conductor didn’t even bother to look at his inventory; “With your history!” he scoffed, “off you get!”
The woman glared at him and left the train, as she walked across the platform, she heard him speak into the public address system again; “Sorry ladies and gentlemen.  A lady with a history of mental health problems tried to stay on this train all the way down the line!”
There was the sound of raucus laughter as men in business suits and horse faced women got onto the train.   The sound was cut as the doors slammed to and the train continued on its way.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the next station is Hapham.  Please change here for Victoria, Paddington and Waterloo.”

The civil servants and the City types got to their feet.  They jostled their way off the train to get their connections to the financial district or to Whitehall.  Onto the train got other suits, but these were from Savile Row and this clientele smelt of fine cologne.  Each had a faintly protruding stomach - fine meals consumed in top restaurants.
The conductor pressed the button, again nothing happened.  He rolled his eyes.  A man had remained in his seat; “I’m not moving,” he warned, “I’m going to the last stop.”
“I’ll call the revenues,” threatened the conductor.
“I’m a postgraduate and I have 20 years financial experience.  I do charity work in my spare time.  Look at your inventory!”
The conductor obliged and snorted.
“Oh do get off the train,” brayed one of the passengers.
The man stood; “Is it because I’m black?”
“No, it’s because you didn’t go to Eton.  The revenue are here!”
The man saw the approaching uniformed figures and hurried from the train, thumping the side of it as he left.
The conductor shut the doors and made another apology to his customers as the train began moving again.  He’d barely finished the apology before he had to make another announcement; “Ladies and gentlemen, the train is now arriving at Westminster where this service terminates.  Please remember to take all your personal belongings with you and may I wish you a pleasant evening.”

The driver sitting in the cab watched them walk by; clones carrying leather cases, smug white faces and dead, disinterested eyes.

VICTORY

The castle dominated the horizon, grey granite walls rearing from a high hill.  The Queen thought of her home with its crumbling walls and fields of blighted crops and of the long journey she’d made with her army.  She would take this perfect fortress and bring her people here.  She’d heard talk of a King who was rarely seen.  She would take him too.

Her General reined his horse in next to hers; “Victory will come at great cost.”
“So be it.”

The men within the castle fought fearlessly, their arrows finding their mark.  The numbers of the Queen’s army diminished, but she held on.  Once inside she would replenish her losses with the King’s survivors.  Once she saw him, atop the walls of his castle, gazing down through a telescope.  She had drawn back her bow and sent a missile whizzing past his head.  He had not been back since.

After a year the defences were breached, the Queen’s army tore down the drawbridge and swarmed inside.  There was no-one in the courtyard and nobody up on the walls.  When the Queen and her General entered the throne room, it was empty.  The Queen sat on the King’s throne; “Find him,” she ordered angrily.  A King who hid from confrontation was not a worthy prize.

Footsteps clattered as the Queens’ army went from room to room, they found no-one.

“They couldn’t have got out, there are no tunnels and we had the place surrounded ... They’ve disappeared like ...” the General voiced the fears of his men, “ghosts.  A ghost King, a ghost army.”
“There must be a sealed room within, something you missed.  Find it.”

The search went on.  The Queen became angrier; the King was cheating her out of victory.  The castle that had seemed so impressive was claustrophobic and contained no treasure.  The fireplaces looked like they hadn’t been lit in months, the upholstery of the throne was fading, the banqueting table was dusty and there was no food in the great kitchens.  The Queen had no choice but to give the order to leave.  “When we clear the walls, burn this place to the ground,” she said flatly, mounting her horse.

The drawbridge was closed, the General ordered that it be opened, but nothing happened.
“It’s blocked from the outside!” the voices of the men sounded panicked.
“Ram it!” ordered the General.
The Queen watched as the battering ram hit the drawbridge hard.  It remained in place.
“It’s as if it is untouched,” murmured the General.
The Queen dismounted and went back into the castle, she climbed the tower to the very top and looked out across the hill, there was no-one for miles.  She watched as her army tried canon fire.  From her vantage point she saw something strange, the canon ball was stopped by some invisible force before hitting the drawbridge.  It fell uselessly to the ground.
Night fell; the frightened men camped in the cold of the courtyard.
“There are no rations left.” the General said before taking his place with them.  The Queen spent the night alone in a silent tower bedchamber, tormented by mystery and hunger.

Days passed, the attempts to escape became desperate.  Men were ordered to climb out.  The starving Queen watched their efforts from the tower top.  When they reached the highest point of the battlements it was as if they were pushed.  They fell onto the rocks below and lay motionless. 

This fruitless victory had taken over two thirds of the Queen’s men.  She had been away from home for so long and had thought the worst thing would be to go back with nothing.  Now it seemed she would not being going back at all.  She was trapped in a castle without treasure or food.  The King had won.  She watched what was left of her army turn in on itself.  Soon they would come for her.

THE REALITY FAIRY

Amelia was having a wonderful time at Fairy Land.  The music played a perpetual song about magic and friendly dragons.  She’d had her photograph taken with Princess Jasmine and was wearing her Rapunzel dress.  One moment, she was following Mummy and Daddy, the next she’d lost sight of them.

Amelia found herself alone in the park.  Her first instinct was to cry, but she remembered that she needed to approach a Fairy Land Friend, recognisable by their red jumpers and show them her armband.  There were no red jumpers, just a sea of pink as girls her age queued for rides.  Amelia wandered until she saw cheerful looking yellow booth, she was sure there would be a Fairy Land Friend in there. 

The smell inside was malty and stale.  A tired looking man in a red jumper sat behind the desk with a small brown drink and a crystal ball.

“I’ve lost Mummy and Daddy,” Amelia told him.
“Not yet,” he replied, “not until you’re in your forties.  Give me your armband and sit down.”
Amelia obeyed.  He snipped the armband off and dialled the number on it, putting the receiver down after a brief conversation.   “They went down to the security gate, they’ll be some time.  What’s your name?”
“Amelia.”
“What would you like to be when you grow up?”
“A princess.”
The man sighed deeply and consulted the crystal ball; “You’re going to get an office job and make money for people richer than you while being paid very little yourself, despite having a university education.”
“I’m going to marry a prince,” argued Amelia.
“You move in with Darryl from Mansfield who already has two children by two mothers.  All the money you earn goes towards his kids and alcohol habit because he can’t be arsed to get a job.  You’re pregnant and feel you have to stay.  Then he leaves you with his screaming brat of a child and no support.  You struggle for years bringing this kid up and then you find love.”
Amelia’s look of confusion became one of relief; “A prince?”
“Sean from Milton Keynes.  The rush of passion you both feel is unrivalled in those first days.  Then you buy a big house to live in happily ever after.  Interest rates go up and you struggle to afford it.  The good times disappear.  You work all hours and hardly see each other or your child.  Do you have an idea what a passion killer a mortgage is?”
“What’s a mortgage?  What about magic?”
“Have your parents been filling your head with fairy stories?  It’s all a lie.  They should be reading you stories about negative equity, interest rates, untrustworthy men and dead end office jobs.  That’ll prepare you much better for your future,” he lowered his voice, “Sean can’t take the daily grind.  He has an affair ...”
Amelia started to cry.
At that point Mummy and Daddy arrived and she ran to them.
“Hi,” the man said, “I’m John, the Reality Fairy.”
“Everything’s all right now,” Mummy cuddled Amelia and looked at John; “thank you.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Reality fairy?” Daddy enquired.
“It’s law now that all these parks have them.  Setting proper expectations for a life in a modern world,” John answered.

“I want to go home!” cried Amelia, once outside.

Mummy and Daddy looked at each other, they’d paid a lot of money - the admission fee, the parking, the over-priced food ...
Amelia put her hands on her ears; “Don’t like the music.”
It was the same loop - friendly dragons, magic, handsome princes ...

Mummy and Daddy took Amelia home.  There was garden waste to burn, Daddy made a bonfire, then went indoors to help Mummy.   A short time later the smell of burning plastic wafted through the kitchen window.  Mummy and Daddy hurried outside, just in time to see Amelia throwing the last of her Disney dresses onto the fire.

DISCONNECT

I’m where I should be, at the family party, pouring champagne for everyone when it happens.  I start to lose interest.  In panic I try desperately to involve myself in a conversation about the premier league with my brother, but he smiles indulgently, like his younger sister couldn’t possibly know a thing about football.  I then try and talk finance with my father, but he reminds me I have no savings to invest.  Careless of me.

My mother directs me to fill more glasses.  I look at all the faces and hear the same conversations spilling out of mouths.  The warmth is sucked from the room and the music dies in my ears.  I can feel the weight of the bottle in my hand, but that is all.  I put it down on the table because I’m afraid I’m going to drop it.  Desperately I try to make eye contact but everyone is in deep conversation – my parents, my brother, their friends and the man who got through to me for a season.  I feel nothing, no love, no sense of belonging and I want to scream for help.  I am receding.  I try to cling to the sound of the little girl playing in the garden, but it won’t save me.  If I feel no love for a child, then there is no hope for me.

The scene begins to roll back, the cream wall paper is replaced by a deep black night.  The people, table and chairs disappear and the carpet is replaced by a sea of litter.  I am alone in a midnight junk yard, standing amongst the grey rubble of my life, illuminated by floodlights.  Broken dolls, thrown away clothes, bottles, ancient furniture.  The scene is all too familiar to me.  A hand touches my shoulder, I spin round and he is there, face all confusion; “What is this place?”

I’m galvanised into action, no-one has come with me before and it’s dangerous here; “Quick!  We must find it before it’s too late!”
“What?” he asks.
“You’ll know it when you see it!”
I begin my search desperately through the crap built up over years.  It has to be buried here somewhere.  He asks me no more questions, but begins to hunt too, wrenching aside a rocking horse and feeling underneath.  We hear the sound in the background, the growing sound of engines, of junk being ground down under wheels.
“They’re coming!  Oh God!” I cry because they normally give me more time.  I can see them in the distance, great engines, ploughing everything inwards in front of them, crushing everything else.
He doesn’t panic like I do, he simply reassures me that we’re going to find it, that it’s definitely here.  I wonder how he can know.  I tear up a girls world doll head, nothing under it, I look inside an old cupboard, it’s empty.  The juggernauts are getting closer.  We can hear nothing now but the sound of bending metal, crunching glass and machinery as loud as freight trains in the night.
“Got it!” he yells and hands it to me, just as they close in.

I pick up the champagne bottle from the table and continue my rounds, I can feel my heart beating in my chest, feel its warmth at the sound of the child’s play and the voice of my mother.  I reach him and hold his shaking hand steady as I refill his glass, my eyes meet his; “That was close,” I murmur.

THE SHOP BY THE SEA

Torrential rain drove James and Amy into the little seaside shop.  It looked harmless enough from outside with plastic buckets gathering rainwater and inflatable rings and dinghies hanging from the awning.  Inside, the place was crammed with wares.

“Buy this for me!” cried Amy picking up an ‘I Luv You’ teddy bear.
James laughed; “Certainly not, it’s dirty!”
“Ugh!” Amy put it back.
An old man wearing stripy flares, a pink shirt and sleeveless patterned jumper looked up; “Be careful.  You’re disrespecting the stock.”
James and Amy looked at each other with mock straight faces; “Oooh!”
“There’s more up there,” whispered Amy.

 

Upstairs, out of earshot they found themselves alone.  On one side they were surrounded by clothes, on the other there were shelves filled with dining room accessories.

“Who’d wear these?” Amy squealed, holding up a pair of white knee high boots.
Chris picked up a yellow sleeveless jumper; “The owner was wearing one like this with flares!”
“Like these!” Amy showed him a pair of man’s white flares and they dissolved into giggles.
They left the clothes and explored the shelves of tupperware, plastic tartan table cloths, brown cloth napkins and plastic cutlery.  Behind the shelves was a table set for six.  On it was a recipe book, above it a glitter ball.  At the end of the table, a female mannequin stared at them creepily, her hair a huge nest of curls.  “Nice!” sneered James.
“A prawn cocktail!” Amy gestured to the recipe on the front of the book, “height of sophistication!”
“Green ice cream sundae glasses!” sniggered James; “can’t believe they’re two quid each.  Who would buy them?”
That moment a rumble tore through the shop causing the table to shake and the glasses on the shelves to clink together.
“Army manoeuvres,” James explained.  “You could throw a dinner party in those white boots.  Prawn cocktail to start, for dessert the keys go into the bowl!”
“Seriously,” Amy said, “I can’t believe anyone would pay money for this junk!”
As she spoke, the mannequin slipped from its position and slumped on the table, head down, arms outstretched.
Amy and James stared for a moment, then turned to go.
“Funny.  I thought this was the way,” he said, as a shelf of items blocked his path.
“James!  That mannequin, she was face down a minute ago!” Amy pointed, the mannequin was facing them now, head on its side.
“It fell like that,” James replied without conviction.
They walked to the end of the shelves, but there was no gap around it to the next aisle.
“James, this place is freaking me out!”
They turned and blocking their way were the pair of white boots.
James and Amy, clutched at each other, frozen with fear.  They watched the boots walk towards them, step by step as the mannequin at the table wept tears.
A bright yellow cardigan fell onto James’ shoulders and the pair of white flares hit the floor at his feet.  The boots were next to Amy now; she thought perhaps they weren’t so bad.  They might look nice with her black mini skirt.  She kicked off her sandals and put them on.

Half an hour later, Mr Jones the owner of the shop came upstairs.  Three mannequins sat around the table, the woman with the big hair, the man in the white flares and yellow cardigan and the girl in a black mini skirt and high white boots.

“Oh,” he said, “how lovely.  Still three empty chairs though.”

THE OUTCAST

When Carrie’s boat ran aground on the remote island she was afraid, but the Paradisians welcomed her to their village.  At night were parties, by day she told stories of adventures at sea to an admiring crowd.  Almost immediately she had a best friend called Jenna and a lover, Zak.  Zak was good looking, intelligent and tall.  He and Carrie went for long moonlight walks together and made love under the stars.

One night there was a party to celebrate Jenna’s birthday.  Carrie woke the next morning to find herself lying on a beach at the other side of the island freezing cold and without possessions.  When she got to the village, she found the walls were up and the gate was closed.

“Hello!” she shouted when she saw people she knew go by; “it’s Carrie, let me in!”

They turned their backs on her.

Carrie waited all day.  She saw Jenna pass and called, only to be ignored.  She could hear music and laughter coming from the restaurants and bars she used to frequent.  After a cold night sleeping outside, the smell of bread woke her.  Through the bars of the gate, she could see the bakery and its customers with their morning pastries.  Hunger drove her into the woods where she found fruit to keep her going, but it was nothing like the meals she’d had in the village.

Carrie was a survivor, but to experience sudden hardship after luxury was a shock and she didn’t know why.  On the third day she saw Zak again, standing outside the bar nearest the gate with his friends.

“Zak!” she cried, “please let me back in!  What have I done?”

“God’s sake!” snapped one of Zak’s friends, “such a drama queen!”

“Completely crazy,” Zak shrugged, “if we ignore her, she might go away.”

Their faces were so hostile, Carrie felt her control slip.  She rocked back and forth, hugging herself, crying in full view.  A small crowd gathered, but no-one came forward.

“Such a cry baby,” Jenna said.

Despair and emptiness gripped Carrie, she ran through the woods and down to the beach.  She was not a Paradisian, this was not home, but she’d thought the people here had accepted her.  Suddenly she longed for the dull, but safe town she’d grown up in and rejected.  She stared at the sea, her unseaworthy boat wreck was still clinging to the rocks.  There was no escape.

She thought of living off the land, making a shelter and catching fish, but how could she when just round the corner was a wonderful village filled with beautiful people?  She’d hear their music everywhere and the knowledge of their sudden unexplained hatred for her would never go away.  Carrie made a decision.  She walked towards the sea, picking up pebbles and putting them into her pockets.  She would swim until exhausted, then hopefully it would be over …

The next thing Carrie knew she was coughing up sea water on the sand, rough hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her.

“You stupid bitch!” it was Zak’s voice, “how could you be so selfish!”

“So attention seeking,” the derogative tone of Jenna.

“Don’t you ever do that again!”

They walked away and left her, wet to the skin, alone on the beach.

“Please!” she shouted after them, “tell me what I did!  Please!”

They kept on walking.

A few weeks later, in the early hours of the morning, Carrie scaled the village wall.  She had done so for the last three nights.  On the first she had picked the lock of the hardware store and taken fuel and matches from the storeroom.  On the second and third she had hidden the fuel in strategic locations throughout the village.   Now she barricaded the doors of the buildings they slept in, started the fire and watched from the woods as it tore through the village.  The Paradisians didn’t stand a chance.  Most died in their beds or trying to get out of their homes.  The few who made it out were unaccustomed to living rough and succumbed to exposure and starvation. 

Carrie often went down to the burned out shell of the village.  She watched the carrion birds pecking at the bones of the dead and felt at peace.  After all, she had not been one of them.

THE ACCEPTERS

“My poor Lucy.  I’d be in bits if I were her,” Caroline said, “but she’s so stoical.  Every day she goes to the job centre and looks, but there’s nothing for her.”

Paula looked across at her friend sympathetically, “It’s the same with my son.  He spent years studying and now he can’t get work.  He doesn’t complain, he just does everything he’s told, like a robot.  He’s done extra courses, an internship ...”
“Lucy did unpaid work – a contract for a supermarket that only paid her expenses ...”
“Jack did 40 hours a week for that internship and at the end of it, it was ‘see ya’ ...”
“It was the same with Lucy and the supermarket.”
“It’s scandalous!”
“They just accept it though.  When we were young we went on protest marches.”
“Remember the poll tax riots?  We were there, we didn’t break any shop windows mind, but we marched.”
“It felt so good when they changed the law; because of direct action by the people.”
“We’d have been up in arms about zero hours contracts and wages being so low.”
“Absolutely.  Lucy and Jack just accept it though.”
“And if they accept it, we should too.”
Caroline looked at her watch; “It’s time.”
The women left the cafe and crossed the street heading towards a white building, the sign outside it read; “THE ANTI NOSTALGIA PROGRAMME”.
“Good of the Government to do this for free,” Paula said as they walked through the door.
“It’s best if we don’t remember how things used to be.”
The two women hugged and wished each other luck.

Two years later, Jack returned from his zero hours contract cleaning job.  His mother was in the kitchen muttering furiously to herself.  She was trying to get the oven to light, it had been faulty for weeks.  She clicked the ignition then suddenly swore and slammed the door shut, kicking it repeatedly; “Stupid fucking thing!  Stupid fucking thing!” she yelled.

“Mum!” exclaimed Jack, “why are you so angry?”
She turned to him, her face collapsing into tears; “I don’t know Jack, I really don’t know.”

FARAWAY

Musgrave is a slimy bastard and I hate him.  I watched as he minced towards the table I’d reserved for us, my body language open, a smile on my face.  I stood and grasped his limp, damp hand in my strong handshake; “Musgrave, old chap, good to see you!”

“Jarvis, my dear fellow!” he simpered, taking the seat opposite mine, “how are you?”
I didn’t answer his question, because the honest answer would be that the sight of his pale face and dead eyes made me sick.  We were social enough to order wine and sensible enough to make one glass last through the meal.  We discussed the company my bank was representing and the offer it was making to the organisation Musgrove stood for.  He made what should be a simple transaction difficult.

At the office I wrote a report and e-mailed it to Smeaton outlining the conditions that were likely to be accepted.  Smeaton marched into my office without knocking; “You’ve screwed up, Jarvis, there’s no way the client will accept this.  Go back to Musgrave and tell him he’s dreaming.  In fact, fuck it, Jarvis, as you’re so obviously incapable, I’ll do it.”

I stared at Smeaton’s florid complexion and pig ignorant stare, feeling bile rising inside me.  I wished he would drop dead of that heart attack everyone said was waiting to happen.

Thursday night in the City had lost its thrall for me.  I didn’t go to the pub with Smeaton and the rest of them afterwards.  Why should I when all they did was posture and belittle each other.  I went to the airport and took a flight to my most recent personal acquisition - a terraced fisherman’s cottage far from all of them, on a rugged, remote island a thousand miles from London.  Nothing would touch me there all weekend.  I’d have perfect solitude.  No limp handshakes, no arrogant stares, no aggression, just silence.  I felt myself relax as the plane took off.  I was leaving it all behind.

Friday I woke to silence, I breathed in the clean air coming in from the open window.  I stretched my tired limbs and hauled myself out of bed.  The quiet was eternal.  The landscape stretched away from my window as I pulled my curtains; rough grassland leading down to a turquoise sea.  The sun managed to break from the grey clouds.  Before I worked, I would go for a walk.  I dressed quickly and rushed out to my front door.  I opened it and stepped into the garden.  At the same time, I heard the door of the house next door and turned to greet my neighbour.  I stared at him for a full twenty seconds, then I smiled brightly; “Musgrave old chap, good to see you!”  In the garden opposite the large red faced man turned round and the look of horror on his face was quickly replaced by a grimace.  “Smeaton, dear fellow!” Musgrave and I chorused.

PEDESTAL

“Wow!  Look at ‘er, up there!”

“She’s so beautiful!”
“I love her dress.”
“She’s perfect.”

Yes, smile and wave at them, try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off.  It’s so hard to keep my balance on this wretched thing and if I do ... well, it wobbled the other day; I slipped and only just managed to stay on my feet.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.

The pedestal is shaking, people are gasping and pointing, but I can’t see what they’re looking at, it’s directly under me, I’m slipping this way and that.  Oh my God!  My heart is in my throat, finally I’m falling.  Oh it feels so free to fall, I love this part ...  Someone catches me and it’s almost disappointing.  However, here he is handsome, smiling and full of self confidence.

“You looked kind of sad all the way up there,” he said, “I wanted to see you close up.”
We walk together arm in arm, through the dispersing crowd.

The six months of bliss begin, when I can be truly myself.  I laugh at rude jokes, sometimes I even tell them.  I drink alcohol and smoke a cigarette or two.  My rescuer and I make love at night in satin sheets, the taste of champagne in our mouths.  I have never been happier.  Then one day a frown appears on his face; “You’re so perfect, I don’t deserve you.”

“Of course you do.”
We walk through the town that evening and my rescuer becomes all the more gloomy as I strut along the pavement, smiling at everyone, small children, women, other men.  They all smile back.
“Everyone looks at you!” he suddenly exclaimed, “and then they see me and think what the hell is she doing with that idiot!  I can’t bear it.  Come on!”  He is guiding me towards the park.
A horrible feeling of dread descends on me.  I stop smiling; “Please!” I beg him, “I can’t help being this way, but please don’t ...!”
The pedestal is rearing up before us in the dying light.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I love you, but you’re safer up there where no-one can touch you!”

 

Smile and wave at them – when I’ve jumped one of them has always caught me.  Try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off - a fall from the pedestal always ends with my return to it.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.

 

SHELLS

They started appearing all over the place, the eggshells.  Growing up the walls of my house like indoor ivy and covering the window ledges.  They weren’t like boring brown supermarket eggs; they were all different colours, bright white, greenish blue, pink, cream and speckled beige, deceptively pretty.

Any attempt at moving the eggshells resulted in breakage, so I crept carefully around the house without touching them.  I avoided the walls where they grew and didn’t open windows in case the breeze blew them off the ledges.  My friends, when they visited did the same, sitting in the furthest points of the room from the egg shells, glancing at them furtively, but never mentioning them.

I had to adapt to further restrictions when they started growing on the furniture.  I could no longer sit in my favourite armchair and the presence of shells in the kitchen cupboards made the removal of pans for cooking impossible.  I ate microwave meals.  When the first shells appeared in the tub, those long relaxing baths I loved became out of the question, I had to take showers instead.

My sister arrived one day, squeezing through the front door which I could only partially open due to the presence of shells on the hinges.  She walked carefully along the hall and sat gingerly on the arm of the sofa.  She stared at the egg shells on top of the television, on the closed curtains that I could no longer draw to let light in, on the music system.  We chatted about her neighbour’s new baby, our father’s illness, her husband’s job and of our mother.  Then suddenly, she whispered; “You can’t live like this.”

I shook my head at her, but it was too late, the shells on the wall in front of us juddered and one fell onto the carpet, breaking in two.  We stared transfixed at the gap in the wall it left.  Eyes glared through and there was a low menacing snarl.
“You can’t come around here again,” I told her sadly.

We kissed goodbye in the hall.  The door opened enough to let her out, but when I closed it, shells spread across the aperture and I knew I would never open it again.  I sat on the floor of the living room, holding the broken eggshell in my hand, weeping.

SPARROWS

“What do you mean the system’s down?” yelled Roger Stamp, “the Market is about to go live and we’re for it if our client’s can’t trade!  I don’t care how you do it, Williams, I want it up and running in five minutes!” He slammed the phone down.

His PA put his head round the door; “Tea?”
“Not now, Stefan!”
Stefan retreated.
Roger scowled at the window, looking in as it pecked the lattice was a sparrow.  He smacked the glass and the bird flew away.
“Stefan,” he called.
“Yes, Mr Stamp.”
“Wretched sparrow looking in.  Call pest control, see to it they’re not nesting in the roof.”
“We’re in the country, Mr Stamp.”
“Yes, so I don’t have to pay you London allowance.  Do it now, will you?”
“Yes, Mr Stamp.”

Stefan returned to his desk to hear Mr Stamp yelling at Williams, toadying to City clients and harassing the sales team.  It seemed like a perpetual phone call because Mr Stamp didn’t do pleasantries like hellos and goodbyes.  Every now and then there was the sound of the window being thumped.  After the sixth time, Stefan was summoned through.

“Stefan, there were seven sparrows at the window.  Why haven’t pest control dealt with them?”
“Sparrows are protected, Mr Stamp.  Their numbers are falling.”  Stefan looked curiously at the diamond patterned window lattice, but he couldn’t see any birds.
“Don’t you doubt me, Stefan.  Those birds have been pecking the window, staring in and I don’t like the way they look at me.  What are you going to do about it?”
“Me, Mr Stamp?”
“Pest control won’t act and you’re my PA.  Are you too stupid to act on your own initiative?  Get through there and start researching poisons!”

At lunchtime, Roger Stamp left for the pub.  Stefan tried to work, but was distracted by a tapping noise coming from Mr Stamp’s office.  He put his headphones on.  Later, Mr Stamp returned, face flushed from drink.

“The system’s down again,” reported Stefan quietly.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Mr Stamp replied and entered his office.
Stefan heard the phone call, Mr Stamp told Williams he’d been a fool to hire her, women and computers didn’t mix.  He’d see to it she never worked in the industry again.  In the middle of the call was another thump on glass; “Stop staring!”  Then the icing on the cake for Williams - she would be sued for incompetence.
The phone call ended abruptly, then another thumping sound and Mr Stamp shouting; “Right!  If my incompetent PA can’t deal with it, I will!”
Stefan would have assisted, but his phone rang, it was a client.  “I’m sorry, but Mr Stamp is busy ... technical support are working on the system ... I understand your frustration ... OK, I’ll try and put you through.”
Mr Stamp didn’t answer.  Alarmed, Stefan placated the client and went into his office.  It was empty, he rushed to the open window.  The body of Roger Stamp lay surrounded by staff, on the patio two floors below, blood seeping from his head.
“Did you see what happened?” the security officer asked, looking up at Stefan.
“I think Mr Stamp has been under a lot of pressure,” Stefan replied.
“I’ll call the emergency services, but he’s a goner I’m afraid.  ‘Ere, he’s got something in his hand; a bird feather.”

Stefan closed the window and turned to call the client with the news.  The soft sound of fluttering caused him to turn; a sparrow clung to the window lattice and peered in at him with hard, bright eyes.