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.

THE PLAYROOM OF THE ONE PER CENT

“Right,” said Sean they pulled up, “here goes!”

Sally gazed at the primary school; “It looks wonderful, oh I hope you get in, Olivia, remember best behaviour!”
Inside they were greeted by the deputy head; “Mr and Mrs Chantry, welcome.  You must be Olivia.”
Olivia hid behind Sally’s legs.
Sally smiled; “So pleased to meet you, Mrs Evans, call me Sally.”

 

Mrs Evans didn’t volunteer her first name, she led the way round the school, showing them classrooms full of busy looking children who were learning to read and write.

 “What’s in there?” Sean asked pointing to a red door.
Mrs Evans smiled and opened the door obligingly.  Olivia gasped.  Inside were all her favourite toys, My Little Ponies, Shopkins, Moshi Monsters, the Baby Annabel range, all that a she could want.  The girls in there were wearing Disney Princess dresses and dipping Marshmallows into a chocolate fountain.  The boys played with Lego or ran around the place, there didn’t seem to be anyone telling them to pay attention and they weren’t doing any of the boring school work the other children had been doing.  Mrs Evans shut the door again.
“What was that?” Sally asked.
“Oh, that’s the playroom for the one per cent,” Mrs Evans replied, “when are you five, Olivia?”
“In December,” Sean answered.
“You’ll be starting with us in September,” she said smiling.
Sally’s face broke into an enormous grin; “So, she’s in?”
“Of course,” Mrs Evans said.
 

Olivia talked a lot about the playroom she’d seen, Sally had to constantly remind her she was going to school to learn.  After the first week Olivia complained of having to read and write all day and not getting to play in that playroom.

“I’m sure you’ll turn will come,” Sally reassured her.
“They say it’s just for the one per cent,” Oliva replied.
“That can’t be right.  Now remember we’re going to the beach on Saturday.”
“After your home-work,” Sean smiled, remembering that Mrs Evans had told them the children were given spelling tests and writing to do at weekends.

Olivia began her home work at 9am on Saturday morning, Sean tested her spelling, there seemed to be word after word after word and poor Olivia was getting tired.  At 11am they still weren’t finished, Olivia was writing a paragraph about her home, then another about her favourite things and another about her favourite colour.
“This isn’t right,” Sally said to Sean, “so many words to spell, how many were there?  Thirty?”
“Ten for me, ten for Emma and ten for Charlotte,” reported Olivia, rubbing her aching hand.
“What?  Are you doing homework for other children?” asked Sean.
“Yes, the story about colours is for Charlotte and the story about favourite things is for Emma.”
“I’m putting a stop to that!” exclaimed Sally.
 

Monday morning Sally marched into Mrs Evans’ office.  “Why is my daughter doing homework for Charlotte and Emma?”

“Charlotte and Emma are members of the one percent.  The one percent don’t get homework, they do just what they feel like doing.  We share their work out among the others.”
“But – I don’t get it, when is it Olivia’s turn to be in the one per cent?”
Mrs Evans laughed; “Your child?  In the one per cent?  I’m sorry Mrs Chantry, you’re dreaming …”
“So, it’s the same children all the time in the one per cent?  And Olivia will never go into the playroom?”
“That’s right.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Mrs Chantry and we teach the children that from an early age.”

 

THE JONES' BABY

Ollie wanted to keep kicking his ball at the line of empty cans he’d set up in the garden, but Mummy put them back into the recycling and asked him what was wrong with the new Lego set.  Five minutes later she reminded him they had to go to the Jones' baby party.“There’ll be other children to play with,” she reassured him.

Only adults milled about in the pristine house, eyebrows were arched at the sight of Ollie and he held on tight to Mummy’s hand.

“Heather, so glad you could come,” Mandy Jones said.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise …” began Mummy.
“It’s OK,” Mandy smiled down at Ollie who hid behind Mummy’s legs, “there’s a buffet over there if you’re hungry.”
The food was unrecognisable to Ollie, there were no sausages on sticks or crisps.  He asked Mummy what it was.
“Canapes, houmous, salad, olives and bread,” she said, “it’s all very nice, why don’t you try …?”
“No,” Ollie snapped.
“I’ll get him a bag of crisps,” Mandy’s husband, Derek said kindly, “what flavour would you like, Ollie?”
“Where’s the baby?” Ollie asked.
"Ssh,” Mummy said.
After a bag of sea salted potato chips, Ollie left Mummy talking to her friends and explored the house.  He thought it was strange that there were no toys for the baby to play with and everything was so clean and tidy.  In other places he’d been to where there were children, there was always mess.  Here everything smelt like his house did when Mummy went mad with the Hoover.   He found his way into the nursery.  It was beautiful, a lovely white wooden cot, a mobile of vintage cars, a soft blue carpet, a small wardrobe, a mobile library with shiny new baby books in and finally a toy chest.  He ran towards it desperate for entertainment, but when he opened it all the toys in there were still in their boxes.
“Ollie!” It was Mummy’s voice.  He hurried down the stairs to see her waiting at the bottom for him.
“It’s rude to go wandering around other people’s houses!” she hissed.
“Mummy, all the toys were …”
“Ssh!”
Finally, Mandy bought a Moses basket down to the living room and put it on the table.  One by one the adults looked in it.
“Mandy, your baby is perfect and will be forever,” sighed Jenny.
“He’ll never let you down,” stated Simon.
“You’ll never have to worry about him,” Tina said, touching Mandy’s hand, face full of compassion.
“So beautiful,” whispered Mummy.
Ollie tried to get past Mummy to see into the basket, but the table was too tall for him.  Determined to have a look, he stood on a chair and looked in.
“Mummy, there’s a dead baby in there!” Ollie cried.
The room went silent, then hands grabbed him, pulled him off the chair and propelled him towards the door.
“Get him out of here!” Derek hissed tightly.  Ollie caught a glimpse of Mandy collapsing in tears onto Tina’s shoulder.
“So insensitive to bring a child,” Jenny remonstrated with Mummy.
“I’m sorry, no-one told me!” she cried.

Outside the Jones’ house, Mummy marched to the car with Ollie following miserably behind.

“Well, there was something to be said for the Jones’ baby,” she snapped, “at least he’ll never ever embarrass them!”

OUR JOURNEY

The sun shone from a blue sky, the birds sang and the ground was firm beneath our feet.  Confidently, our arms around each other we began our journey.  I told you that it would be easy because it’s us and there’s nothing we can’t cope with.  You believed me and stepped forward full of hope.

You complained when it started to rain, but I reassured you it was just a shower.  It kept coming though.  You set your mouth in a firm line and carried on quietly.  I told you how much I admired your stoicism and my praise helped you continue.  We decided it would be easier just to hold hands and carry our luggage which was starting to feel a bit heavy.

After the rain cleared, we found ourselves in a different place.  The way ahead was flat, the ground boggy and the sky grey.  No birds sang and there was nothing to look at.  Every day was the same.  I became tired of it and complained.  You sympathised and would listen to me saying the same things over and over each day with great patience.  I recall now that you never told me how you were feeling; I guess I didn’t give you the chance.  Sometimes we’d go for days without holding hands.  It was on one of these days that the fog came down and I lost sight of you.

I was furious, how could you leave me to carry everything?  Somehow our baggage had increased.  I think it was something to do with the heavy days of dragging through the mud, we seemed to have more equipment, but it was a burden rather than a help.  I shouted your name, but couldn’t see you anywhere.  I became scared, especially when a sudden gust of wind blew the fog apart and for one second I thought I saw you.  You were not alone out there.  You were walking with someone else, arms round each other like we used to.

The mist closed in again before I could make a positive identification and I carried on down the road until I found you, waiting for me at a junction, your eyes red from crying.  We walked on in silence, sharing the load again, but you weren’t as talkative as you used to be.  I got the impression you resented something.

We’ve reached the bottom of the hill now and we can’t see the top of it.  For the first time we have stopped, uncertain of our way.  I’ve consulted the map, we have to climb.  I remember the time I told you what a lovely journey we’d have together.  What a lie.  You glare at me and turn your back, leading the way up, I can’t see your face, but I can guess it has that grim little expression you’ve been wearing for days.  God I’m sick of it.  I carry on after you sullenly, wondering what the point of this is - a silent journey, up an endless hill with no end in sight.