BOO!

 
Even in the rainy darkness of freezing January, Gavin took his evening walk round the lake. The water was grey and the ducks asleep, but the geese were still lurking. Gavin was wondering how to get out of fulfilling the investment that idiot in media relations had agreed. It would see the lake cleared of the algae that had been polluting it, but where was the profit in that? The bank was already popular, it didn’t need to be jumping on the local green issues band wagon.
As usual half way round, Gavin’s colleague Jeremy jogged past. This time, he didn’t greet him, because pursuing him with wide flapping wings was a big white goose.
‘Leave me alone!’ Jeremy was shouting, ‘I’m on your side! I’m a vegan!’
Gavin chuckled, typical Jeremy; too woke to say boo to a goose. He reached the loneliest part of his walk, where the trees closed in and there was a steep bank between path and road. The darkness was nearly at night level, Gavin noticed with irritation that the street lamps hadn’t come on. He thought in the distance he heard a blood curdling scream, but couldn’t be sure, it was muffled somehow. He turned to look and saw a big white goose standing in the path behind him. Gavin frowned and carried on his walk, picking up the pace. The goose followed, wings at a wide angle, neck stretched out, beak open, a touch of swaggering menace in its gait. Another goose joined it and another, their webbed feet slapping on the concrete path. Gavin turned again and the geese stopped, eyeing him malignantly. Gavin told himself not to be silly. OK, he’d seen one chasing Jeremy, but Jeremy had always been a wimp. He walked on, into the dark, the rain pouring down. There was a noise behind him, growing steadily louder, slap, slap, slap, the sound of webbed feet hitting tarmac. He whirled round, there was a huge flock of geese behind him now, the big white one at the front, its head snaking forward.
‘Shoo!’ he said angrily, ‘go away!’
The geese didn’t move, instead the white one opened its beak and hissed.
‘Boo!’ shouted Gavin, flapping his arms and running at them. He stopped suddenly, aware that he had dashed into their midst. He turned back, but a row of beaked heads blocked him. The first peck hit him in the ribs like a punch, then something flew into his back, knocking him forwards, his feet slipped on the wet ground and he pitched forwards on his hands. Honking with triumph the geese rushed in on him, their hungry beaks tearing at his flesh, their feathers muffling his screams.
Later, when darkness had fallen completely and the gates to the park had been locked, the geese dragged what was left of Gavin’s body along the path. They left him and Jeremy’s bodies together, underneath a sign that said; ‘Park Lake will be closed temporarily due to an algae infection. You are advised not to feed the geese.’

THE RISK

 
I have adhered to the rules until now. I’ve done what others have, made my home beautiful and stayed in it. I was happy in my obedience, but then I saw you. You had the same government sanctioned exercise slot as me and we jogged alongside each other, two metres apart. Even though it is not permitted, our eyes met as we passed under the cherry tree. I put it out of my mind.
You were there again the next day and I ignored you because talking is forbidden. You ran a little ahead of me and I saw you tack paper to the cherry tree, as I passed I tore it off and put it in my pocket. When I got home I read your note. It had your phone number on it. We began texting on the encrypted service. I told you about the colour scheme in my home, you told me about the furniture in yours. We talked about our jobs and the supermarket delivery service. Not much to say, every day is the same here but when you described your cosy sofa you made me feel like I was sitting with you on it, my head on your shoulder. The isolation receded and I was dizzy with happiness.
The next day I didn’t see you on my run, until I reached the cherry tree, you were standing beneath it, pretending to take a breather, but your eyes were on me as I ran. You stretched out your hand and for a second I brushed it with my fingers. I couldn’t stay home that night, the four walls could not hold me, I needed space. When darkness fell, even though it is not permitted, I went out. I ran to the cherry tree and touched the bark that you had touched when you tacked your note on it. I was about to go straight back to the safety of my home and forget this, when suddenly you were under the tree with me. We laughed at each other. Keeping two metres apart, we talked, hearing each other’s voices for the first time. We discussed the crisis, where we had been when it had started and how we coped with the isolation. Then we talked about the times before, when you could go somewhere and get to know someone, when we were free. We knew we had little time before we were discovered and that we should be heading back, but you suddenly said; “Will you take a risk for me? I want to touch you.”
I looked around, there was no-one. I gazed at your face, then glanced up at the tree above us and the stars in the sky. I closed the gap, step by step. Then I was in your arms, my lips grazing your cheek.
We stayed like that even when we heard the shouts and the running feet.

THE PARTICIPANT

Another hotel lobby, my ID badge is heavy on my neck and I have an impending headache.  No-one notices me, just another grey official.  You learn to read body language in this job and the person coming through the rotating door has a mild startled look when confronted by the pristine hotel reception.  I move immediately to welcome.

“Derek?  Hi, I’m Gill.”  As we travel in the lift I explain; “thank you for coming, we’re looking for people like you to help us with our research.  I can’t go too much into what today’s research is about or I’ll bias you, but this is for you,” I hand him his thank you payment, “just ensure what you expect is in there.”

Derek is relaxing, he takes the envelope, counts the cash and nods.

I open the door of the conference room and watch him take it all in, two bottles of water in the middle of the table, one still and one sparkling, the upside down tumblers next to them, the blood on the mahogany, the body slumped on the chair, throat cut.  Messy.

I shut the door behind us and hand him a cloth; “So, to get started, can you clean the table?”

He looks at me, mouth slack in a square shape, like an outraged infant; “Shouldn’t we – c-call the Police?”

I frown; “Why would we do that?”

“Because of the-the body.”

“Is that what you think that is?” I ask expressionlessly.

“It looks like – like …”

“Take your time.”

“Real,” he says.

“Everyone says that,” I counter reassuringly.

His shoulders sag with relief and he gamely takes the cloth and begins mopping up the blood.  I ready the tarpaulin bag that I’d brought down earlier; “As you work,” I request, “just say whatever comes into your mind, think aloud if you will.”

“It’s very sticky, the blood – is it blood?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” he gives me an embarrassed half smile.

“You’ve done a great job there,” I say, “can you grab the legs?  I’ll get the shoulders.  Again, just talk me through your thoughts as we do this.”

“Um, she’s wearing heels, Louboutin’s,” he says, as we placed Carla’s lifeless body onto the tarpaulin, “her skin is warm.  Is she still alive?”

“What do you think?” I ask.

“She feels very real, this is very authentic.”

“What is?”  I place the cleaning cloths in with Carla and zip up the bag neatly and efficiently.

“This experience,” he half laughs again, “you’d think I’d taken part in disposing of a body.”

“What did you expect to take part in?”

“It said a test.”

I smile.

“Oh!” he says sounding even more relieved, “it’s all a research test thingy.”

We place the tarpaulin bag containing Carla onto a trolley.

I smile and shake his hand; “Thank you very much for your time, Derek.  The restroom is on the left if you want to wash your hands.  You’ve got my e-mail address if you have questions.”

“Thank you,” he says, cheerful now that it’s over and he can go into his Friday evening.  

I show him out and return.  I wheel the trolley with the tarpaulin bag on it out into the car park where I tip the bag into the boot of my car for disposal later.  I sigh with relief.  Carla really shouldn’t have kept insisting that we do things differently.  We’ve done things the same way for so long and we’re not going to change now.  All this talk of innovation!  Thank goodness for Derek, originally recruited to test a prototype website.  However, I couldn’t lift Carla’s body up by myself and we always have and always will value the help of members of the public.

GREY ROCK

Bellflower was the most beautiful in the garden with soft pink flowers and delicate leaves.  People who passed her stopped to take close ups of her to post on Instagram.

The Goldthread vine that grew nearby wasn’t admired, so no-one noticed when he crawled ever closer to Bellflower until he was in whispering distance.  “You look beautiful today.  But don’t you get tired of all those people sniffing your flowers and pressing their phone cameras against them?  It’s so intrusive.”

“I don’t know how to stop them,” said Bellflower.

Goldthread touched Bellflower gently with one of his vines, she didn’t protest, so he stayed, telling her how amazing she looked, how stunning her flowers were and how awful it was that she had to endure all this attention.

Bellflower became dependent on the daily compliments of Goldthread, she felt comforted by his cool vines that gently wrapped themselves around her branches, hiding her flowers from sight so the people didn’t come with their cameras.  Soon Goldthread became her world, everywhere she looked there he was, always smiling, protecting her.

Gradually Goldthread opened up to Bellflower, telling her of the problems he was facing.  He was ugly, no-one looked at him, he couldn’t get sufficient nutrients from the soil, it was easier to get his supply from other plants.  Could Bellflower help?  Gladly she gave him a share of the nutrients she sucked from the soil and Goldthread told her how kind she was.

The summer wore on and Bellflower dug deep for water; she’d been all right last summer, but this summer she was constantly thirsty.

“Goldthread, how much water are you taking?” she asked.

“Oh loads,” he responded glibly, “I’m growing another vine.  You don’t mind do you?”

“I’m very thirsty …”

“What?” cried Goldthread, “how can you be so selfish?  I’m here every day for you, shielding you from the people …”

“I didn’t ask you to …”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Goldthread tightened his hold on Bellflower, squeezing her with his vines until she begged for mercy.  Afterwards Bellflower sobbed, but Goldthread behaved as if nothing had happened.  He continued to drink and feast from her until she grew weak and ill.

“Please Goldthread,” she’d mutter, realising her flowers were dull and her leaves were shrivelling, “is this fair?”

But Goldthread always had excuses and worse was the drip of insults he now fed her; “You used to be so generous, you used to be beautiful, but now you’re mean and sad all the time.”

The gardener returned from her holiday and was shocked to find her most prized plant nearly suffocated by Goldthread’s vines.

“I don’t know what happened,” the under-gardener said.

“That pesky Goldthread!” sighed the gardener.  She dug Bellflower up and with great patience and gentleness removed every one of Goldthread’s vines.

The under-gardener took Bellflower to the south patio and put her in a tub, where she could be intensely fed and watered.

The gardener looked thoughtfully at Goldthread and placed beside him a dull grey rock.  

When she had gone, Goldthread said; “I can’t believe they’ve taken away Bellflower, the love of my life!  All I did was care for her!”

“Indeed,” said the rock.

“Will you comfort me?” wept Goldthread and tried to put his vines on the rock, but the rock felt cold and he couldn’t get a grip on it.

“I’m sure you’re very upset,” said the rock.

Goldthread complained endlessly about his injuries, he tried his hardest to entangle the rock, but got no supply from it; not even when it rained, the water just seemed to fall off the rock, like Goldthread’s vines.  On the south patio, Goldthread could see Bellflower flourishing in her tub and he became sick with envy and loss.  The dull grey rock was no help; it just went right on being there, soaking up the sun, shrugging off the rain.

THE KING

The King looked down upon his magnificent court room where everything glittered; all was well.  His servants, the Trusted Ones had come to pay tribute.

Beside him the queen looked sympathetically at the huddle of worried looking royal advisors clustered in the shabby throne room which was in need of repainting.

“What news?” asked the King, without awaiting a response, “admire my new crown.  It came from Arcadious, the finest designer in the land!”

“Your Majesty, Lord Lucious and his armies are breaching our defences,” ventured the chief Trusted One.

“And my new steed is in the stables,” continued the King, “supplied by the Stud of Raahh, it will neither shed fur nor fart methane.”

“I’m afraid the stables are on fire,” pointed out the head Trusted One, “Lord Lucious is nearly upon us.”

“My darling,” said the queen, “pray ye take heed to your trusted man.”

The King waved his hand at the Trusted Ones; “Leave us!”

They gave him simpering smiles and withdrew.

The queen watched the Trusted Ones depart, shaking their heads and muttering.  The King then turned, his face inches from hers, his eyes darkening; “How dare you tell me what to do, woman!   You make me look weak!”

“Your Majesty, the Trusted Ones seek to point out that while you’ve been having crowns made for you by the most expensive designer you can find; and having an environmentally friendly horse found at great cost, your people have been starving.  For you have spent all the coin in the budget and they have called upon Lord Lucious to ...”

“Silence!” roared the King, “do not correct me, it is not your place.  You are here to smile and wave.”

“But your Majesty, Lord Lucious …”

“Enough!” the King took the queen by her arm and dragged her to her feet, he pulled her across the throne room to the door outside which the Trusted Ones waited and pushed her out among them.  They smiled at him approvingly.

The queen saw the looks of horrified sympathy on the faces of the Trusted Ones and was humiliated.  She could hear the roar of battle outside the walls, how could the King not perceive it?  She rushed to the tower to join the royal children.

“Come my darlings, we must go to the crypt where we will find tunnels which will allow us to escape, for Lord Lucious’ forces are imminent.”

“Daddy says Lord Lucious is his best friend,” princess Aurelia stated.

“Yes, Mummy, Lord Lucious would never invade, he’s fearful of father’s might,” prince Peter added.

“Silly Mummy!” giggled little prince John.

A cannonball slammed into the tower, causing it to shake, the children continued to play while the queen wondered what to do.

In the throne room, the King proudly showed the Trusted Ones his plans to expand his Kingdom.

“But your Majesty, you don’t own those lands anymore, you sold them to pay for fine tunics from Arcadious.  How do you think you’re going to be able to annex the lands next to them?” the chief advisor asked.

“Put him to death, he gives me a headache,” the King ordered his guards.

“Your Majesty, I cannot, the courtyard is over-run by enemy forces, look out the window,” the guard urged, face pale with fear.

“No, no, no,” the King responded, “I’m not going to be taken in by one of your jokes.”

The throne room door broke open and there stood Sir Lucious in all his fearful glory, surrounded by his men.

“Mercy!” cried the Kings’ guards and flung down their swords.

“Mercy!” cried the Trusted Ones and fell to their knees.

“Lucious, dear fellow!” the King greeted.

“I’ve come to take your Kingdom,” Lucious said, “here are the heads of your children and your queen who died bravely defending them.”  He emptied a bag and the severed heads rolled to the foot of the throne, “you have no lands, no offspring, your guards have surrendered and your people embrace me as liberator …”

The King waved his hand imperiously; “Well, you have made a bit of a start on negotiations.  I suppose I can offer you 30 per cent of my lands.”

FEED THE BIRDS

Billy and Missy saw the sign – ‘Feed the Birds’ and it sounded like the right thing to do.  They bought seed and hung feeders on their pear tree.  They were delighted when the first cautious birds arrived.

“So relaxing to watch,” said Billy.
“Better than TV,” agreed Missy.
The next morning there were birds of many colours and shapes in their garden, clinging to the feeders or pecking at the seeds spilt on the lawn.  Their joyous song seeped through the walls of the house and filled Billy and Missy with over-whelming happiness.  Missy dragged herself to work, cheering herself up with the thought she’d see the birds later, then remembered it would be dark when she got home.

 

Later she found Billy working with a flashlight in the garden.

“The feeders were empty,” he reported, “we need to give them more.”
Jody, their neighbour peered over the hedge; “Are you putting up a bird table in the dark?”
“Yes,” Missy said, “to surprise the birds in the morning.”
“The birds aren’t the only ones surprised,” muttered Jody and went indoors.
Missy and Billy got up with the sun to a riot of colour and noise in the garden.  There were blue birds swinging on the bird feeders, tipping seed to the doves on the lawn below and yellow canaries on the bird table, spilling seed on the ground where it was consumed by golden pheasants.  Missy was sure to refill the feeders before she went to work, but even with Billy’s help, she was still late.  She left the office before it got dark having been distracted all day.  She stopped at the shop going straight to the section that sold bird seed and arrived back to find an empty, silent garden.
“No!” she cried, “come back!”
She refilled the feeders and spread seed on the table, but the birds didn’t return.
Billy came home to find her crying in the living room.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said and called in sick the next day. 

 

The birds returned in greater numbers, devouring everything within hours, Missy raced to the shop, buying sacks of seeds with the last of her wages.  She spent the day refilling the feeders and replenishing the table, hearing the shrill calls of the birds all around her. “Never leave me again,” she repeated.

Her phone rang; “Missy, I saw you at the shops.  You’re meant to be sick, but you were lugging big sacks into your boot like a healthy person.  What’s going on?”
“I have to feed the birds,” she replied.
“I have to let you go, Missy.  You’ve been coming in late, leaving early and now this …”
Missy hung up the receiver and heard a knock on the door, a Police Officer stood outside.
“Can I come in, Madam?”
“It’s not a good time.”
“We’re not asking, Madam, we’ve arrested your husband for stealing materials from his work.  We’ve got a warrant to search the house.”
They searched, while Missy sat in the living room staring out at the empty bird table, the Police had frightened the birds away.  Officers trooped into the garden and looked with great suspicion at the bird table, but they couldn’t charge Billy because the materials were not as his employer had described them.
“We’ve both lost our jobs,” Missy said, clinging to Billy later, “how are we going to afford to feed the birds?”
They lay awake, restless, waiting for dawn when the birds came and they were filled with a sense of wonder and release.  Then they noticed something, the golden pheasants had not returned.  In their place at the bottom of the bird table were squat Black Birds with sharp beaks and red eyes.  The pretty birds flew away when they arrived.
“Oh what are they?” Missy banged on the window, but the Black Birds stared through the glass at her.  One flapped clumsily onto the table, tipping the contents on the lawn, another tore the bird feeder from the pear tree and it fell open on the lawn.  The Black Birds ate everything in the garden before taking off as one.  Missy and Billy walked onto the grass, all around them birds sang beseechingly from the hedge, they put out more seed and the pretty birds returned.

Seed was running out and there was no money to buy more.  Missy and Billy lay on the couch watching the sun set and the birds fly away.  There was a knock at the door.  Jody stood there with a casserole dish; “You’re not eating.  All you need do is warm this up, I’ll do it if you like,” she looked past them at the dirty floors and the undone washing up.

Billy snatched the dish from her; “It’s OK, thanks.”
“Jody, if you want to help us, can you bring bird seed?” Missy asked.
“You know I can’t do that,” Jody stated firmly.
Later Jody watched from her window as Billy and Missy tipped the contents of the casserole dish onto the bird table.  In the morning the Black Birds came and ate it.   By evening there was nothing left, no seed, no food and no pretty birds in the garden, just silence.  Billy and Missy dozed in the living room, waking with the sun, dry mouthed and shaking, their emaciated bodies weak.  Together they helped each other out into the garden, taking the clothes from each other’s bodies and lying on the frost covered grass beneath the bird table; ready for the arrival of the Black Birds.

A CHRISTMAS PARTY

Emalina scowled at the Christmas do email.  It looked like something more fitting for Hallowe’en; dinner at a theme park hotel after a ride on the ghost train.  Alice who was into all that nonsense had been the organiser. 

 

The sound of giggling trickled round the open plan office as the team read the email.  Emalina looked up sharply and everyone went back to what they were doing, except Natalie who was approaching, a determined smile on her face.

“Excuse me, Emalina, I was wondering if you could spare a moment?”
“If it’s to listen to an idea you have about making the company more money or a sales contract you’ve brought in, I’ve got all the time in the world.  I’ve noticed you haven’t been as productive as when we first employed you.  Don’t get too comfortable will you?”
“Actually, it’s about a sponsored sky dive I’m doing in January – I know brrr! - for the children’s charity I raise money for.  I was wondering how much I could put you down for.”
“Nothing.”
“It’s a centre for child victims of domestic violence.  It gives them and their Mums a safe place to stay and …”
“The men are aggressors and the women are fools,” Emalina interrupted, “their children will grow up to be one or the other, why should I help?   Alex, you’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring your strong stance, Emalina,” Alex replied smoothly as Natalie hurried back to her desk, “are you going to the Christmas do?”
“Yes.  I need to keep an eye on you all,” Emalina got to her feet and walked slowly into the centre of the office.  Once she was satisfied she had everyone’s attention, she added; “At the Christmas do there will be no wine on the tables, no free bar, it will be a teetotal affair and it will finish before 2230 hours.  Gloria, you’re an intern, you don’t get to come.”

 

On the day of the Christmas do, Alice, Alex, Natalie, James and Lucy walked to the theme park from work.
“If we’re not there directly she’ll suspect we’ve had a drink,” Lucy said.
“I’m walking as fast as I can,” replied Natalie tottering on her high heels.
“So awful about Ashley, fired before Christmas,” Lucy continued.
“And she’s told Gloria she’s got to work tomorrow, so she can’t fly out to her family for Christmas Day.  The poor girl doesn’t even get paid!” James added.
“Our intervention will save them,” Alice stated, dressed in white as always and looking ethereal.
“Your intervention,” Alex said, “sounds like weird shit to me.  James, she said she didn’t like that Christmas tie, take it off.”
“I’ll put it on after she’s been on the ghost train,” James said because he had faith in Alice.
Emalina was waiting at the theme park entrance, looking round anxiously.  When she saw them, her face hardened; “What time do you call this?”
“I was slow in my heels,” Natalie replied.  Looking around she could see why Emalina had been rattled, a dark, deserted theme park, with the ghost train and restaurant open for one winter evening just for them.  Alice’s friends ran the place, but there was no comfort from knowing that.

A man approached the theme park gate and opened it; his face was hidden in the hood of his raincoat.  Despite this, Alice recognised him; “Hi Kevin.”
They followed Kevin past the deserted rides, to the ghost train.
“This looks rather neglected,” commented Emalina, “are you sure it’s safe?”
“Yes,” Kevin replied.
“I don’t want to get on it,” Lucy shivered.
“Anyone who doesn’t get on it doesn’t go to the meal,” Emalina stated, “I assume you all decided among yourselves this was what we’re going to do, so you can all suffer the consequences.”
Her staff got into their separate cars, each with a different kind of creature of the night on it.  The last carriage had a vampire, Emalina chose that one.

 

One by one the cars were spat into a dark tunnel, Emalina heard the screams of her staff, Lucy’s and Natalie’s sounded particularly frightened.  Good.  Emalina’s carriage jolted, interrupting her thoughts and she hurtled into the dark.  She couldn’t see anything at first only feel spiders’ webs caressing her face.  Then she saw her mother just as she remembered her with her limp blonde hair and watery eyes, a weak and cowed woman.  Towering over her was her father, barrel chested and brawny, dirty from working on the farm.  He was shouting that his dinner had been burned, he smashed a fist into her mother’s face and her mother fell knocking over the Christmas tree, banging her head on the hearth.  She saw the tiny form watching from behind the bannisters, calling; “Mummy?  Mummy?”

“Shut up, Emalina!” roared her father, aiming a kick at her mother’s prone form, then he thought better of it and knelt down; “Marion?  You OK?”  But her mother was not OK.
The carriage rattled past, showing her all the places she’d lived in as she’d grown up in care; the Henleys who had made her do all the housework, the Bensons who had told her she’d never make anything of herself and the Crockets who were lovely alcoholics.

The carriage roared round a corner into blazing light and Emalina saw her own front room.  Her husband was sitting on a sofa with Patricia the woman who lived next door, they were kissing passionately.

“She’ll be late home, she’s got this Christmas do,” her husband was saying, “she’s working tomorrow too but I’ve got the day off.  We can see each other…”
“But not Christmas day,” Patricia had the cheek to look disappointed.
“That’s the only day of the year the bitch doesn’t work.  We can text though and I’ll see you again Boxing Day, she always checks the accounts then.”
The carriage continued, Emalina saw her children tucked up in bed, oblivious to what was happening downstairs.  Her youngest son was awake; “Mummy, want Mummy,” he was whispering in the dark.  Emalina reached out her hand to touch his, but her fingers went right through him.
The carriage careered on and Emalina saw the living room of a cheap flat and the body of Ashley hanging from the light fitting.  A note was next to his body and she caught the words ‘Losing my job was the last straw …”, before the ride whirled on.
Then she saw Gloria’s kitchen, the intern was unloading her shopping; turkey for one, Christmas pudding for one, a mini bottle of bubbly …

Gradually the present faded into the future.  Emalina was at her own funeral – Alex and James were there, nobody else, but the mahogany coffin was beautiful and the flowers, oh the flowers!

“Well, at least the bitch is getting the send-off she wanted,” Alex said, his rich voice still the same, even though his hair was white.
“Yeah, all these flowers.  She left it in her will, don’t give any money to charity, buy me flowers,” James shook his head, “she never changed.”
“Did she leave you anything?”
“Not a penny.  You?”
“Nothing.”
“But you were her PA all these years!”
Alex shrugged; “I got paid for it.”
The carriage moved on, Emalina saw her sons, successful and sharp suited, in her empty house, sorting through her possessions, counting what they would inherit, satisfaction honeying their voices.
“I hate funerals,” Edmond was saying, “Mummy won’t mind us not going.”
“No,” agreed Eustace, “and she was never there for us, so why should we be there for her?”

 

The carriage hurtled its way back into the theme park and Emalina could breathe again.  She alighted from the ride, face flushed.  She could see the eyes of her co-workers upon her and she smiled genuinely for the first time in years.

“How was it?” Alex asked.
“Very good,” she replied, “a very personal experience, I wonder how that was done.”
“I didn’t get a personal experience,” James stated.
“Well, you’re not very important, are you?” Emalina said, “right, what time is it?  Eight o’clock, let’s get this dinner over with.  Remember what I said, I want you fresh as daisies in work tomorrow, I know it’s Christmas Eve and in past years you’ve expected to leave early, but let me re-iterate it’s a day the same as any other, you come in at eight, twelve hours from now and you leave at six with half an hour for lunch, so no going to the pub.”
Her staff looked so disappointed; Alice especially looked as if she might cry.
“Well, you’re getting Christmas day off!” Emalina said.
At the table in the hotel, Emalina made sure she sat next to Alice; “Alice, tell me how you managed to make the ride so relevant? “ She raised her voice, “Do you know what everyone?  I’m proud of myself.  I didn’t have the best start, but I’m a self-made woman.  Sure, I’ve made some ruthless decisions and perhaps there have been casualties, but you can’t be successful and not cause some collateral.  My sons are going to grow up to be fine, independent men - especially after I’ve made a few adjustments at home.  Great heads up about my husband, Alice, I’m impressed.  James, take off that dreadful tie!”

THE TWO PRESIDENTS

The announcement came at 3.30am; Magdread the Mighty was the new President of the Democratic Kingdom of Peasants with Torches.  His was an unprecedented victory over the Aristocrats, nobody could remember the last time a Peasant was elected, let alone one from the feared Warrior class.  Protesters took to the streets chanting “Not my President!”

 

In the morning, the grey faced Aristocrats gathered to watch Magdread’s speech, their eyes darting from side to side.

Magdread spoke honestly to the fearful people, saying he’d unite them all - the Warriors, Farmers, Office Peasants and Aristocrats.  He recognised the need for change that led to his election, but admitted that he hadn’t expected victory and would be asking for help.  This attempt at humility was his first mistake.

 

When he returned to his cave, gilded with the spoils of a thousand battles and decorated with the skulls of his enemies, Magdread was informed that the Aristocrats had come.  Magdread was tired, he wanted to eat, drink and sleep in the arms of his favourite concubine, Woman the Silent, but he also knew he must not turn the Aristocrats away.  He sat in his great chair and welcomed the grey men, allowing them to sit in his presence, offering them the services of his women, which they declined.

 “Magdread the Mighty,” the elder stated, “we fear you’d find running a country boring.  There are lots of meetings and journeys to foreign lands where you could not take your concubines or drink wine.  You would have to make decisions over trivial matters.  We suggest you have another President behind the scenes to deal with these things.  Then you could focus on the war with the Kingdom of Isis.”
Magdread stroked his beard, this sounded reasonable, he could focus on chopping off the heads of his enemies and raping their women; “Who will this be?” he asked.
A man stepped forward out of the shadows, immaculately dressed in a tailored suit; “I’m Derek.”
Magdread’s eyes narrowed, he distrusted Office Peasants, but at least it was not an Aristocrat.
“Don’t Magdread,” his least favourite concubine, Woman the Opinionated whispered, “this man is controlled by Aristocrats.”
“Silence woman!”  Magdread roared, “you are decoration not counsel!  Bring wine for Derek, he will be second President!”

 

At first Magdread was pleased, he rode to battle against the Kingdom of Isis and when he got home he bullied his slaves and exploited his concubines.  However, one day he returned to find Derek with some documents for him to sign.  “You don’t need to read them, I’ve already done so.”

Magdread snatched the papers, read them and threw them into the fire.  “You were cancelling the things the people want me to do.”
“The people don’t really want to eat raw meat, Mr President,” said Derek, “they just say they do.  Making it law that every woman has a son is ludicrous; as is the burning of places that provide an end to unwanted pregnancies.  Further, the wall you want to build between here and the Unhappy Kingdom of Poverty is lunacy, how will the migrants get through?  The migrants are useful, they will work for next to nothing.”
“If we leave employment laws as they are and shout at them loud enough our people will work for nearly nothing,” argued Magdread.
“Magdread,” Derek said softly, “listen.”
The cave went silent, Magdread could hear the chants outside it; “Not my President!  Not my President!”
“If you put an end to these proposals, these people will love you as your Warriors do …”
“But the people voted …”
“They don’t know what they want.  Trust me, I know these things.  I am the second President and you swore you would listen to me.  I’ve written a speech for you to give tomorrow.  I’ll be with you; I will stand beside the podium.”

 

The next day Magdread reluctantly delivered his speech, telling the people they must cook their meat, that women could still get rid of unwanted pregnancies and that the wall would not be built.  Afterwards there was silence, even his faithful Warrior Peasants were glaring at him.

“Coward!” someone shouted.
“Liar!”
“You said those things so we would vote for you!”
Something caught in Magdread’s peripheral vision, he saw an Aristocrat shaking Derek’s hand.
“I’ve been tricked!” he cried, tearing up the speech, “I was told you didn’t really want these things, but you do!”
“Is it true there is a second President?”  It was the cunning voice of Woman the Opinionated.
“Yes!” cried Magdread, “they told me he would act for me so I could fight Isis!”
Derek began backing away from the edge of the podium, but in three great strides, Magdread had caught him; “Here he is, the Office Peasant!  The most elite of all Peasants!  He eats avocado for breakfast, he lets his woman advise him, he goes to the theatre in the evenings and insists that we treat migrants fairly!  He saves his gold and aspires to be an Aristocrat!”
A chant arose from the Warriors and Farmers; “Kill him!  Kill him!”
The Office Peasants and Aristocrats tried to flee from the room, but the Warriors barred their way.

“This is the beginning of a new era,” Magdread the Mighty proclaimed as he slit Derek’s throat; “an end to elitism, tolerance and diversity.  Death to the intellectuals, death to those who would say they are above us!  Kill them my people!  Kill them all!”

THOSE PEOPLE

Amy turned the air conditioning up in her brand new SUV, she checked the children were belted in and drove home through the summer heat.  On the motorway the traffic was crawling and warning signs showed that there were people on the carriage way.
“What’s happening Mummy?” demanded Aurora.
“Just a traffic jam,” Amy could see ahead.  People were walking along the hard shoulder with the traffic crawling past them.  They were painfully thin and unwashed, their clothes ragged, they carried what looked like the last of their possessions on their shoulders.
“Aurora, Elliot, don’t look out of the window darlings,” Amy ordered, “just play on your Ipads, we’ll soon be home.”
Aurora obeyed, but Elliot took a tentative peek.  His eyes met with those of a child his age, she looked frightened and hungry, her hair was matted, her dress torn.
“Mummy, who are those people?” he demanded in a tone he’d heard Daddy use.
“They’re nothing to do with us,” she replied, “we’re nearly passed them.”

At home, Amy left the children playing in the conservatory and turned on the news.

“Those people need our help.  They’re not here because they want to be, they’ve been forced to leave their homes and they’ve paid all of their money to come where it’s safe.”
Amy tutted and turned the channel over.  The front door slammed, James was home.  “Did you see those people?” Amy asked.
“Yeah, it’s getting bad isn’t it?” he replied putting down his laptop bag, “they said it wouldn’t be long before they came here.  Did the children see them?”
“I told them not to look, but Elliot didn’t do what he was told.”
James sighed; “We’ll put curtains on the back windows of the SUV, just for now, while the crisis is going on.”

 

Amy was glad about the curtains on the SUV the next day, the people were no longer on the motorway, but camped in the field opposite her house.  They could be seen from the garden.  After she took the children to school she called the Police.

“We’re doing what we can,” came the response, “give us time to process them.”
She went out into the garden and saw her neighbour coming up the path.
“Dreadful isn’t it?” Julie said, “our house prices are going to drop.  I wish the Police would do something about those people.”
The two women watched as two of the children in the field shared a tiny piece of bread between them, splitting it exactly in two.
“Is that gluten free?” wondered Amy.
“Irresponsible to give children bread and nothing else,” tutted Julie.
They felt unable to stay in the garden and despite the lovely weather went inside to drink tea.  When the children came back, Amy pulled all the curtains closed and told them they could not play outside.
“But Mum, the summer holidays have just started!” complained Elliot.
“It won’t be forever,” said Amy, “go and play in the conservatory.”  She had drawn all the electric blinds in the conservatory so the children couldn’t see out and neither could she or James.
James arrived home, his face was dark with anger; “One of those people jumped in front of my Audi and begged for food!” he exclaimed.
“That’s horrifying!  What did you do?” Amy cried.
“What could I do?  I swerved round her, nearly hit her, she could have been killed.”
“Those people  are crazy,” Amy said, “and they’re saying on the news that we should welcome them, it’s ludicrous!  Julie says house prices are going to be affected …”
“She’s right,” James said grimly, “I guess we’ll be stuck indoors all summer.”
“Mummy!” cried Elliot.
James and Amy ran into the conservatory.
“Someone tapped on the window!” cried Aurora, tears in her eyes.
James raised the electric blind a little; “They’re in the garden,” he said.
 Elliot gasped.  Outside they heard a chant growing in volume; “Help us, please help us!”
Amy went into the house and returned with three sets of headphones, she connected two pairs to the children’s Ipads and put them over their heads, she kept the third set for herself. “They can’t get in,” she said, “we’re safe in here.  Children, listen to music, Daddy’s going to call the Police again.”

MISS HOPKINS GARDEN

Angela despaired of her mother, she was always over-reacting.  When they were driving to Miss Hopkins’ house she shrieked at Dad for breaking the speed limit.  He only went one mile an hour over, but she shouted at him about losing his licence and worse what if he ran someone over and even worse what if that someone was a child?  They arrived at an old Victorian house to help a crazy old lady with her gardening.  Mother led the way round the side, through a yard and a gate into an untidy garden which they were going to weed.

 

Despite the fact they’d only be gardening, Mother had insisted that Angela wear a dress and she herself wore some fussy tweed trousers and blazer.  “Miss Hopkins likes people to look smart,” she’d explained.  Dad wasn’t having any of it; he was gardening and so wore jeans and an old shirt.

While Mother and Dad got their gardening tools ready, Angela looked towards the house, it was huge on three storeys with big windows.  The old lady was watching them from upstairs, her white hair straight and short, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose.  She was in a black dress buttoned to the neck.  She did not wave and she did not smile.  Angela looked away uneasily; “Can I go and play?”

Mother looked up from the border she was getting started on; “Won’t you help?”
“I’m wearing a dress!”
“Go and play then, but don’t go into the greenhouse.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Mother lowered her voice, “Miss Hopkins is a bit doolally in her old age.  She saw mice in there and started to leave cheese for them.  Unfortunately this attracted rats and they got really big from eating the cheese, giant even.  You don’t want to be eaten by a giant rat, do you?”
Angela laughed scornfully and glanced at her Dad who rolled his eyes. 

 

Angela skipped up the shrub bounded path, her parents’ voices becoming fainter with distance.  The greenhouse was at the very end of the garden, old, shabby and neglected full of pots with dead plants in them.  There was no way there were giant rats though, Mother was exaggerating like she always did.  However, something slowed Angela’s approach and made her creep to the door; she told herself it was because she was doing something she shouldn’t.  She peered through the glass door.  The cutest brown mouse ever was nibbling cheese from a saucer.  Angela wanted to hold the mouse like she held her hamster.  She pushed open the door and crept into the still heat that smelt of decay.  The mouse didn’t run, Angela moved closer to it and heard the door bang shut in the wind behind her.  She reached out her hand and the mouse suddenly quailed and uttering a high pitched squeak it scurried away.  Angela straightened, a prickling sense of dread overcoming her.  Very slowly she turned, behind her was a rat as tall as her father, standing on its hind legs, teeth bared.  She screamed for Mother, but the sound was muffled by the heat and the glass.

 

Mother and Dad came up the garden to look for her; “I told her not to go into that greenhouse,” Mother said, “I bet she went straight to it.”

They peered through the glass door.  All that remained were Angela’s red shoes.
Mother sighed; “I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to the Police.  They’re going to think it was us, aren’t they?  They’re going to arrest us and the Court will find us guilty and we’ll end our days in prison.  I told her, didn’t I?  No-one ever listens to me.”

THE HOUSES

Bella and Martin Shaw were so excited to move into the new estate.  It was paradise, on the edge of a village, surrounded by green hills with a river nearby.  They were one of the first families and Freddie and Grace loved playing in the quiet streets.  They were almost reluctant to go on the three week holiday.  Bella spent the time relaxing on the beach dreaming of colour schemes and Martin talked about getting a garden shed.

The taxi picked them up at the airport and dropped them two miles from home at the start of a traffic queue.

“I can’t take you no further,” said the driver.

“What do you mean?” Martin demanded, “We’ve got money.”

“Not enough to get me to drive into there,” he laughed, “one road in, one road out, ridiculous planning!”

The Shaws got out of the cab, paid the driver and began walking, carrying their luggage, Grace complaining bitterly.  The line of traffic continued, angry faces staring ahead, music blaring, a mambo of stop start, Martin noticed they kept pace with the same black BMW all the way home.

“This is worrying,” Bella said.

“I’m sure they’ll build another road,” Martin responded.

Bella wasn’t sure, she hadn’t seen a place where a road could go, unless they cut through the hills.

At home, the once quiet streets were full of parked cars, their driveway was blocked.  They tried to order takeaway, only to be told the restaurant didn’t deliver to that estate, nobody did.  They would have to collect it.  A miserable evening followed, Martin knocking on doors, finding the owner of the car, getting him to move it, driving into town and collecting the food.  The queue was still there 8pm and by the time he got the takeaway back it had to be warmed in the microwave.

On Monday Martin left for work on his bicycle, weaving through a huge queue of traffic that Bella joined.  She sat with Grace and Fred watching the time pass.  She cheered herself up with memories of the brochure from the Building Company that had promised a new school, a park and space for a new supermarket.  No more sitting in traffic to take the children to school, they could walk to the new one; no more worries about supermarkets and takeaways refusing to deliver, the supermarket would sell everything and maybe a chip shop would be built.  Over the weeks she endured complaints from her boss and the inevitable letter from the current school telling her they wouldn’t put up with her lateness.  Martin was cross though; “Can’t you get up earlier?”

Bella turned on him; “You try getting Grace and Freddie up for 6am!”

He held up his hands; “I’ll go to my shed.”

Bella followed him into the garden and stopped in horror, the garden shed had been knocked down, the children’s trampoline slashed and the walls of the house daubed with graffiti; GET OUT.

“I’m sorry, we can’t come round,” the Police operator told them, “we’ll only come into the Estate for 999 calls.  We will investigate.  It’s likely to be the people who live in the Old Village, since the new houses have been built there’s been a lot of anger.  They blame you for the increase in traffic, it’s affecting them too.  Ridiculous planning.  One road in and one out.”

After she had cleaned the graffiti off the wall, Bella walked into the centre of the housing estate where the new school was going to be.  Something was being built there.

“Is this the new school?” she asked a builder.

“More houses,” he replied, “nearly finished now.”

“But I thought there was going to be a new school, a park and space for a supermarket.”

“More houses,” he said.

“But the brochure …”

“We’ve changed our minds.  We had to tell the Council we’d build a school to get planning permission, but they’re not going to knock down all these houses, are they?  Not now they’re sold.”

“I hope they fine you!” cried Bella.

“It won’t dent our profit,” he replied, “they’re giving away flood plain land and the materials we used to build the houses were ever so cheap.”

“Flood plain …”

“Should’ve done your research,” the builder walked away.

Bella turned for home as the first fat drops of rain fell from a leaden sky.

SAMHAIN

Every year I'm the zombie.  I get tired of it, but as they point out, I'm tall and have a slight twist in my back that makes me loom in a sinister way.  Lily is the vampire, type cast also, but she seems to relish it. She looks beautiful in her red dress, her black hair flowing down.  James is our axe wielding ghoul and Alice with her crooked nose and piercing eyes is the witch.
"Are we ready?" she asks us and we nod.

At precisely midnight we hit the street to blend with the raucous students and the shop girls who've been wearing their fancy dress and drinking cider all day.  We don't stay among them, we are looking for a fancier place.
"It's this way," says James.
"I've looked forward to this," Lily adds.
We enter and walk by the concierge who doesn't even look at us.  The carpeted corridor leads to the lift and the lift takes us to the penthouse.  We knock on the door and hand the youth that answers a bottle of wine, he invites us in immediately.
"See anyone you know here?" Alice asks with a low chuckle.
I nod smiling, thinking how funny it is that they're having the same conversations.  Jason Derrin is discussing property with Phillip Timpson in the usual Derrin versus Timpson portfolio competition.  There is Caroline Bundy on and on about the yacht her Daddy has bought her.  The Bundys always spoiled their children.
"Hey!" she cries coming over to me, "that severed head you're carrying looks real!"
I put it carefully on the table, reach forward with both my hands and snap her neck before she can protest.  Then I turn on her friend.  Screams and cries fill the room, but no-one comes.  Lily is flying about, tearing throats with her teeth and James is cutting heads with his axe.  Alice has done her part, her magic has sealed the doors, no-one can get in and no-one can get out.

I remember being a lad and asking Cora Bundy to play with me and she refused because I wore rags, was poor, was not good enough.  I recall Josh Derrin running poor Lily down with his horse when she stepped in the road to beg for money to feed her children and how Paul Timpson accused Alice of being a witch when she'd refused his advances.  Off to the gallows she had gone, her family having to pull at her legs to end her suffering.

It's funny how so little changes, money stays in the same families and guising still gets done, although they call it trick or treating now.  What they call Hallowe'en is Samhain to us, the night when the partition falls away and the dead come from the dark.  Tonight we came looking for the blood of those that hurt us and we found them the same as they've ever been.