CITY RESTAURANT

 “This is Emma,” Jeffrey introduced me to his colleagues – Cosmo, Quentin, Elliott, Amelia, Susannah and Victoria.  The men wore Savile Row suits and the girls had hair extensions and manicures.  I put my hands behind my back self consciously.  These City restaurants made me nervous.  I never knew what to order.  I mustn’t embarrass Jeffrey though.

 

Polite small talk was made and faces pulled when I told them I worked in the public sector.  I was glad when menus were passed round, but before I could begin reading, a drink was placed in front of me.

“Bright red wine!” I exclaimed and felt Jeffrey look at me.
Cosmo laughed, we picked up their glasses and toasted the weekend.  There was the strong taste of alcohol and something else ...
“I love black pudding wine,” sighed Susannah.
I frowned at the starter menu - ‘Morel stuffed with blue collar cheese’.  “What’s blue collar cheese?”  I asked.
Jeffrey frowned.
“It’s from breast milk,” Amelia said, “women express it for cash.  Like they sell their hair,” she twiddled her hair extensions and smiled, “it’s ethical to buy because you’re providing money to a woman bringing up her baby.”
“We’ll share a bit of everything for the main,” Quentin decided and no-one disagreed.  We snapped our menus shut.
I muttered quietly to Jeffrey that I’d skip the starter and he leaned across the table; “I’m not ‘avin’ it!  You sittin’ there refusin’ to eat again!”
“So what is black pudding wine?” I asked brightly.
“Blood mixed with alcohol,” replied Victoria, “don’t worry it’s corporatocracy-sourced and totally safe.  They clean it after it’s been bought.”
“Bought?” I asked faintly.
“Emma,” Jeffrey warned.
 

The starters arrived.  The ladies had opted for the morel, but the men had some sort of bread.

“Pumpernickel soaked in blow torched back fat,” smiled Elliott, “would you like to try some?”
I shook my head.  A waiter filled my glass with black pudding wine.  I could feel Jeffrey glaring, so I sipped some.  The men talked about who they thought would go in the latest round of redundancies and the women waxed lyrical about the food.  “Won’t you try some blue collar cheese?” asked Susannah, picking up my fork and putting some on it.
I put it in my mouth cautiously, it was rich and creamy.
Jeffrey smiled at me approvingly and I took more wine.  How could this be wrong?  The breast milk and blood were bought from people willing to sell.  The restaurant was giving money to disadvantaged communities.
 

By the time the starter plates were cleared I had relaxed.  Jeffrey was smiling and my glass kept getting refilled.

“Here’s the main course!” Quentin announced.
“This is so cool, families making real sacrifices to stop over population in their countries,” cooed Amelia.
The head waiter put a large covered platter on our table; “Organic free range toddler,” he said, “with ramons, gremolata, honey shallots and violet artichoke.”  With a flourish he took the lid from the dish, “enjoy!”

DEW POINT

At its beginning the day cries. Tears form beads on grass blades, hang from the webs of spiders and drench windscreens.

Hope crawls reluctantly to its feet, stumbling over aching hills to dry the pre dawn tears in a much loathed routine. There must be a purpose to this, things have to change.

Exhausted from the outset, hope cannot withstand evening. The day cries again at the coming of the dark.

THE WOODS

Outside mustn’t distract him, his curtains were closed. His safe room contained all he needed. There was a screen streaming a constant flow of entertainment, a laptop for his job, a smartphone for ordering shopping and through headphones came the News. Access to the Network cost money which he gladly paid; it saved him from going outside and witnessing first hand the terrible things reported. Broadcasters constantly re-iterated, don’t go into the woods, especially not when spring comes with a heady tide of life. People who ventured into the woods were never to be seen again.   In winter it was easy, howling wind and rain against glass discouraged him. Now the light outside was growing stronger and there was birdsong. He knew from advice given that it was best to drown these sounds by turning up the News channel.

One day, the Network went down and there was silence. He took the headphones off. He’d long dispensed with books and CD’s. He must wait it out. First he did his exercise routine from memory, then he checked the Network was still down, it was. He made lunch. He checked the Network was still down, it was. He had a shower. He checked the Network was still down, it was. He drew back the curtain, natural light filled the room; there was a lawn outside, boys played football. He checked the Network was still down, it was. Starved of entertainment and lonely, he left his room and walked downstairs into the empty lobby, opening the front door. The warm air was filled with boyish shouts.

“What are you doing?” the concierge had returned to his desk.
“The Network’s down,” he mumbled without looking up, “I thought I’d go outside.”
“All right mate, be careful. Don’t go into the woods.”
He stepped out and looked left; at the bottom of the road was a fence. He stood opposite the lawn. The football boys intimidated him.
“Over ‘ere, mate!” one shouted.
Their ball had stopped at his feet; he kicked it to them hesitantly. Then he walked, gradually gaining in purpose. The sunlight made him squint. He used his smart phone to check the Network was still down, it was. He reached the fence and looked across a field at the woods. He saw young grass beneath strewn rubbish. He heard the laugh of a yaffle and saw the flash of bright wings as the woodpecker took off. Finches played in budding trees and daffodils broke through mud. He breathed gentle air. The woods looked so inviting. He didn’t know what form their danger took, he’d never been told.

He closed his eyes, opened them, took a step forward from tarmac to soil, then he checked his smartphone to see if the Network was still down, it was back! He turned quickly, away from the woods and the birds, running passed the football game on the lawn. Such a close thing, he couldn’t believe how stupidly he’d behaved. He rushed back indoors and up to his room, never to be seen again.

GADGET GAZERS

I thought he was shy on our first date as he gazed into his smart-phone in the bar.  When I saw him more, I considered it clever how he could read internet articles and talk to me simultaneously.  I’d fall asleep with him staring at his tablet and wake with him in the same position.  I felt sad, believing him a slave to his City job.  It would do him good to take a break.

He was shocked when I suggested a country walk.  He asked how long it would take and the exact route.  Before we left, I asked him to get my scarf.  While he did that I took his tablet and smart-phone from his pocket.  I wanted attention.

The walk was beautiful, I could see his features in sunlight, a different expression than the look of concentration he gave his digital devices.  Halfway round, his eyes widened in panic as he searched his coat - tablet and mobile missing.  He asked where they were and I came clean.  I’d never seen him angry, but he grabbed hold of me, fingers digging into my arms; “We must go!” he yelled, “immediately!”

He stormed towards the car park, face like thunder.  Then something odd happened, his movements slowed, then became uncoordinated and jerky.  At the car his voice slurred when he asked me to drive, adding he had a headache.  I parked outside his house and he got out, legs heavy, feet dragging.  There was a whining noise, like machinery straining.  The relieved expression when he picked up his smart-phone was evident.  He grabbed his tablet too, holding them in each hand.  When I looked, I saw the batteries on both were running out fast.  Moments later he plugged them into the mains and stared into them, e-mails on one, an article on the other, nothing unusual, except that power-drain.

I formed an awful suspicion he wasn’t one of us.  I’d never seen him sleep or eat; he spent his entire time reading about how we lived our lives on the internet.  There was only one way to find out.  I invited him to my flat.  He arrived, apologetic about our last date, he’d bought flowers.  I asked him to put them in my vase and when his back turned, I locked the door from inside and switched off the electricity.  He didn’t notice, it was summer and the light streaming through the windows made it unnecessary to switch lights on.  I went to bed before dark and he sat next to me, gazing at his tablet.

He shook me awake; “My devices won’t charge!”

“It’s a power cut,” I explained as I flicked the light switch.
“I must go!”  He went for the door and I padded after him, even in the dark I could tell his movements were uncoordinated.
“Where’s the key?” he cried.
“I’ve hidden it,” I said, “what are you?”
He lunged for me clumsily and I dodged easily.  He was weak, he’d been so absorbed with reading, he hadn’t seen how low the batteries had become until his screen flickered off.
“Please,” he slurred, “I’ll die.”  He pitched forward on his hands and knees.  There was the sound of whining machinery as he looked up; “... save ... me ... need ... power.”
“You’re powered by gadgets?”
“Yes.  All humans ... have gadgets.  Not ... strange ... to ... need ... them.”
“Where are you from?” I demanded.

He froze and his eyes fixed.  He didn’t move when I touched him.  It was like the power inside him had gone.  I’m worried Constable, how many are there?  I see people staring into screens all around.  How can we tell if they’re us or them?  Maybe a sign is they get distressed if they’re separated from their gadgets.  Are they dangerous?   Constable, are you listening to me?  Can you ... can you put your smart-phone down?

THE PRIZE

The tests had been numerous and gruelling – a fifty mile cycle race which had weeded out the unfit followed by a pure maths exam.  Then the women were dropped in the middle of Snowdonia National Park and told to survive for three days catching their own food and finding water.  After that they were rounded up, each imprisoned in a dark room, unable to hear or see for forty eight hours or until they cracked.  Now only two women remained in the contest – Carly and Dawn, tired from days of stress, pain and sleep deprivation; they faced each other in the arena, clutching baseball bats.

 

Surrounding the arena were their supporters who screamed encouragement as Carly and Dawn charged clumsily at each other.  There was a crack as the baseball bats clashed.  The two women struggled in grim silence, their pale faces furious.

“They used to be such good friends,” Jodie sighed.
“Yes,” Claire responded, “until the competition.  They hate each other now.”
“It’s always that way, if you like someone first and something like this comes between you, friendship turns to hatred and well ...” Jodie broke off as Carly dropped her baseball bat.

With a yell of triumph Dawn swung her baseball bat into her rival’s stomach, Carly sank to the ground with a groan.  Dawn pushed her advantage, but Carly had had enough, she raised her hands in the surrender gesture.  Dawn had won.  Claire and Jodie groaned in unison, they had been supporting Carly.

“She’s going to be devastated.  All that effort, all that fight, she really wanted that prize,” Claire murmured, “I don’t know what to say to her.”
Jodie said nothing.  She watched Dawn’s supporters surround their friend and lift her on their shoulders, carrying her to the winner’s podium.  Carly’s friends melted away, disappearing from the side of the arena, distancing themselves from the loser.  Jodie went to where Carly knelt in the arena sobbing uncontrollably.  “I really wanted it, I really wanted to win it, the prize,” she moaned.
“I know, I know,” Jodie whispered soothingly, stroking her friend’s matted hair and kissing her.
“And if I couldn’t have it, I really didn’t want her to, but she’s got it hasn’t she?  She’s won.  I hope she’s happy,” Carly’s face was twisted with bitterness.  She and Jodie looked up to the winner’s podium where Dawn held her prize aloft.
 

The ugly tupperware cup filled with plastic beads was in Dawn’s hands now, out of Carly’s reach forever.  The coloured glass beads stuck on its sides with glue shone in the weak sunshine.

BLACKOUT

I wake up on someone’s floor, dawn light is creeping through the curtains and there’s some random next to me asleep and naked.  I reach for my mobile.  The messages on it start at ‘Hey darling, hope you’re having a good time.  Do you want me to pick you up from anywhere?’ and finish at ‘Where are you?  I’m worried sick!  It’s 5am for fuck’s sake.  CALL ME!’  It’s 7am now and I won’t attempt a phone conversation with a bird cage bottom mouth.  I’ll just go home.
 
I put my clothes on as I find them.  I’m trying to work out where and how all this began and where and how it will end.   I shouldn’t have picked up my guitar and started to write music again, that was what caused the questions.  Am I happy?  Is this it?  Is this all?  A relationship, a mortgage and a dead end job, yeah, that’s it.  What did I do to deserve three life sentences?  Maybe we should’ve had kids.  Thank God we didn’t.

What’s the alternative now?  The presence of the random says I’ve still got it, but can I use it?  If I went home and fessed up, my cage door would fly open and I’d be propelled out of it faster than a cork from last night’s Prosecco.  I’d be flung into shitty rented rooms and would sit on lumpy beds eating nutrition-free garbage from the Kebab shop.  The random would be first in a long line of shallower, younger imitations.  I’d go to the pub to live it up like the old days and find it full of strangers.  My settled down friends would think me a joke.  They went home before midnight last night.  God knows how I ended up here.

Huh, I’ll return home with a sorry smile and some elaborate story that you couldn’t make up.  I will accept the frosty silence that will stretch on to the evening and welcome the gradual thawing of relations sometime next week.  I’ll even put in an effort and invest in a romantic weekend away ...

Of course, I’ve learned my lesson.  If a night like last night ever happens again, I won’t get so drunk that I can’t remember the brief, heavenly taste of freedom.

THE WAITING ROOM

For the first time Jenna was doing something important.  She looked around the waiting room, taking note of names on badges and made eye contact with an older woman, Sarah, sitting opposite; “It’s so cool here,” she said.  There were cosy couches, a buffet and a bar they could help themselves from, while they waited.  Jenna was already clutching a glass of wine.
“A taste of things to come,” Sarah answered, biting into her chocolate cake.
“I guess we’ll get to know each other well,” Jenna scanned the room again to be met by smiles, “being chosen for the Over Populated Earth programme has been the best thing,” she gushed, “I haven’t had a job since leaving school, but they say there’s no shortage of employment on Mars.”
“The working conditions are fantastic,” Sarah stated, “I want to work, but employers have never understood my illness, that I have good and bad days.  The OPE Programme says I can choose my hours.”
“It’s great,” Colin spoke up, “I had a shaky start, I was a bad lad, but it’s behind me now.  People here don’t wanna know when you’ve got a record.  OPE didn’t even ask about my past.”
“We’ve been given a chance,” added Robert, “being older, I thought I was past it, but they’re still sending me.  I’ve heard there are greenhouses, I can still do my gardening.”
“My interest is art.  I’m finally going to be working in an industry I wanted to get a job in,” Carol asserted, “you don’t see job opportunities for artists and poets here, but no books or literature are going to Mars, so they want people to write, paint and sculpt.  We can build a whole new culture.”
“Are any of us scientists?” Alice enquired, sipping on a double whisky.
Everyone shook their heads.
“I thought it would be useful to have a scientist among us.”
“The scientists went before, to set everything up,” Jenna said helpfully, “I’m going to be working in the zoo.”
“Are there animals?” asked Sarah.
“I’ve been allowed to take my pet cat,” Carol confirmed.
Alice frowned; “We’re the second group.  Has anyone heard from the first group?”
“Only that they arrived safely.  They’re still sorting out a satellite link for everyone to use to call their families.” Sarah said.
“Does anyone know anyone from the first group?” Alice pressed, “I understand they were very much like us, people who struggled to find employment.”
“People being given a chance to help Over Populated Earth,” said Jenna.
“Art, gardens, zoos ... I remember theatres and libraries when I was younger, but they got shut down.”
“What are you trying to say?” Colin asked Alice.
“I’m amazed they can afford the billions it’s costing to send us and maintain a facility on a far away planet.”
“Mars isn’t that far,” Jenna protested.
"The Government has been putting money into this programme for years.  It had to close down everything unnecessary to support it,” Carol said firmly.
Robert fidgeted uneasily, like Colin, he was wondering what point Alice was trying to make. 

“Attention, would the Pioneers make their way to departure gate,” came the announcement.

“This is it!” Jenna cried.
“I thought you needed training before you went up into space and they’ve given us alcohol, is that wise?” Alice downed her whisky.  She followed the rest to where a uniformed member of staff waited to direct them.  One by one they passed through the gate, Jenna, Sarah and Carol wreathed in smiles, the men exchanging doubtful glances.  Alice was the last to go.