Author: AJ.Dixon

I am a scrawny, bespectacled nerd with a passion for history, literature and all things fantastical. It is my ambition to one day become a novelist, and I would dearly love to write a fantasy epic. Perhaps I will pen something that would stand proudly shoulder-to-shoulder with the masterpieces of Robert Jordan, Tad Williams, Raymond E. Feist, and George R.R. Martin to name but a few. What thrills me most when I read story is the excitement of the narrative, and I seek to emulate that excitement in my short stories. I strive either to grab the reader roughly by the throat or gently beckon them on as my narratives unfold. Whichever tactic I employ, I sincerely hope that whomever stumbles across my humble efforts will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

Ginger Nuts and Carrot Tops

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Ginger Nuts and Carrot Tops

By Adam Dixon

“Do you know much about the world before they took over?” Mandy asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette. Her colleague, Jack, leaned casually against the back door of the hair salon, staring at the brick wall of the alley in front of him.

“Not really, darling,” he replied, his voice musical and feminine. He inhaled vapour from his e-cig, the base of it lighting up in a flash of pink. “That’s why I’m curious about it. You lived through the change, though, didn’t you?” He cocked his head inquisitively as he asked, his silver earrings dancing merrily at the movement. Standing there in his stylish faded-blue jeans and trendy white shirt, Jack was in stark contrast to the plump older lady next to him dressed in a simple, muted dress and sensible shoes.  He was the very picture of youth and optimism to Mandy, and she felt a longing for her simpler past. She nodded, absent-mindedly smoothing her fringe. Her hair, like Jack’s, was dyed bright orange.

Mandy and Jack both worked in the salon, and their main task each day was to treat customers’ hair with dye. Orange dye, exclusively; there were traces of the dye in their fingers from continual use of the stuff. That was the way of the world now, for during the 2020’s, ginger-haired people had unexpectedly, inexorably and irrevocably taken over the world. It was now 2053, and barely anyone could remember exactly how it had happened, but somehow it had. One of the first obligatory decrees that had been passed by the new world leaders had been that who had not been born with ginger hair must dye theirs bright orange. Initially, it had been a way of gaining a measure of revenge against decades of international ginger-jokes and ridiculing. It had since become part of the everyday structure of society once the initial grumbling and protestations had died down, and so bright orange hair could be seen from London to Beijing and everywhere in between.

“The bloody hair dye was the biggest change, obviously,” Mandy said, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Caused quite a bit of trouble once people realised that it was a serious demand. That’s why they had to get the Nuts involved.” Jack nodded, he knew that much. The Ginger Nuts, or just “Nuts”, were enforcers of the societal rules, essentially a secondary police force walking the streets. Many believe that the job title was again a means to subvert the previous stigmas towards red-haired people. It certainly appeared to have worked, as the Nuts were regarded with a grudging respect by the people of the world and were generally obeyed without question.

“Ginger Nuts…” Mandy continued, chuckling softly. “Why, I remember a time when that term was used to take the mickey out of the poor ginger lads and lasses! That and Carrot Top, but now they’re both respected titles! Unbelievable… Anyway, the dye created the new class system as well, labelling everyone ‘Pures’ or ‘Dyers’, as you know.”

“I read that Danny Dyer’s career took a bit of a nosedive thanks to those terms.” Jack said thoughtfully. Mandy threw her head back and cackled loudly.

“Yeah, and that was a good thing for us all!” She exclaimed with good humour. “One of the benefits we could all agree on!” She chuckled for a few moments, with Jack smiling and shaking his head.

“But, yeah, it all changed quickly,” Mandy said, becoming serious again. “Overnight, really, or at least it did to my mind. Quite a lot changed, but not all of it was noticed at first.”

“One of the major changes was the reshuffling of the monarchy, right?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, that was a bit of a to-do!” Mandy took another contemplative drag on her cigarette. “Prince Harry being declared the next in line to the throne ahead of William and his children. That caused quite a stir, make no mistake! Nearly caused some kind of civil war once Charles died! But it all settled down eventually and King Henry the Ninth was crowned without too much hassle. Not quite sure how they pulled that one, either, but they did.”

“Shocking,” Jack shook his head in disbelief. “It’s amazing how much stock people put in the royal family these days.”

“Well, you just watch this space, my lad.” Mandy said gravely. “Supreme Carrot Top Bollins has never been one for royals, even before all that power went to his head. He’ll likely abolish the monarchy in the UK if he has his way. He’d at least like to pretend to be a republican, I’ve heard. A republican emperor, imagine that!”

“We’ll see.” Jack appeared troubled. He shivered as a cold wind blew down the alley, brushing an unruly lock of hair across his high forehead.

“Why have you never asked me about this before, Jack?” Mandy asked, twirling her disappearing cigarette between her fingers. “We’ve worked together nearly two years now, you and I, and you’ve not asked anything about it all. So, why now?”

“I dunno, darling,” Jack shrugged, and gave Mandy an apologetic smile. “I suppose it’s just been on my mind recently. It all seems so ordinary to me, but at the same time it seems so silly, it’s hard to explain. Maybe my generation is brainwashed against that sort of thing, or maybe it’s just the job getting to me. It’s not exactly stimulating work, is it?” Mandy shook her head.

“You’ve got that right, love,” she sighed. “You’re a clever lad, and this ain’t exactly rocket science. But, it’s an important one in the grand scheme of things. Keeps people from getting arrested, which is fine by me even if it is a bit on the silly side. Don’t let anyone else hear you talking like that, though. It’s alright with me, cos I’ll never breathe a word, but others might take simple questions as rebellion and turn you in to the Nuts.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Jack winked at her cheekily. “I know better than that. At least I can have a chat with a wise old mare like you if I’m feeling curious. That’ll do me just fine!”

“Old mare!” Mandy cried in mock outrage, swatting at Jack’s arm. “You little scamp! I’m not too old to give you a clip ‘round the earhole, sonny Jim!” Jack laughed and held up his hands in surrender.

“I know, I know! Sorry, darling, couldn’t help myself.” He smiled at her and slipped his e-cig back into his pocket. “We’d best get back to it, though. Don’t want Dave to think we’re skiving.” Now it was Mandy’s turn to grin.

“Oh no, we don’t want that,” she said sweetly as she nonchalantly ground her cigarette butt under her shoe. “He’ll have you over his knee in a heartbeat!” Jack grimaced as he opened the door for her.

“Oh, don’t!” He pleaded. “He would as well! Have you seen the way he looks at me? Dirty old perv!” Mandy cackled as she stepped back into the salon, her mirth filling the alley for a few brief moments. Beyond that, the world moved on in much the same way as it always had. People hurried to and fro along the street, each one about their own business, as usual. People lived, loved and laughed under the same sun, and very little was new…except that that same sun was now peering down on a sea of uniformly bright, orange hair.

Carol & Greg

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Carol & Greg

By Adam Dixon

Carol and Greg Cotton were arguing again. It was the day before their thirtieth wedding anniversary and they could not decide on a plan. It had become tradition that they would go out on the evening before and stay out until past midnight, so as to be aware of the very moment that their anniversary occurred. They had done this every year without fail since their first and, as always, they fell to arguing about where to go. This had also become tradition, although neither of them would admit to it.

“I’ve told you, I don’t mind, love!” Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation as he listened to Carol reeling off the names of restaurants and bars. “I’ll be happy just to be out with you.”

“You always say that!” Carol was equally frustrated, practically slamming a fresh mug of tea down next to Greg’s armchair. “Every year it’s the same, and every year it’s no help! Why can’t you just help me for once and pick a place to go?”

“Fine.” Greg sat quietly for a few moments, deep in thought. At sixty-two, Greg was still much the same as he had always been; overweight, laid-back and quick to smile. What was left of his thin hair was now completely silver, and his pudgy face was decorated with wrinkles. He reached out absent-mindedly and picked up his mug as he pondered.

“What about that hotel in town?” He said finally, glancing up at Carol. “The one your brother had his wedding reception in? The food is nice there, and the bar is open all night.”

“The Veranda? No, thank you!” Carol sniffed. “It’s nice enough, but hardly the kind of place I want to celebrate my thirty years of marriage.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise it was just you.” Greg grinned mischievously and raised a mock toast with his tea. “Congratulations and all that.”

“Yes, yes, very funny.” Carol dismissed the joke with a wave of her hand, although a ghost of smile played on her lips. Greg’s humour was infectious to her, as always. “But not the Veranda.”

“Okay, how about the Winchester? It’s open late these days.”

“The Winchester!?” Carol looked at Greg, stupefied. “I’m not spending the first hours of our anniversary surrounded by those sad old drunks in that pub!”

“Those sad old drunks are our friends, love.” Greg laughed.

“Yes, yes, I know.” Again, Carol waved her hand dismissively. “But it’s hardly the most romantic of locations, is it?”

“Alright, alright, just a thought.” Greg shook his head. “Right, romantic…Well, how about a meal in Pinocchio’s and a couple of drinks in the Grape Vine next door? You’ve been saying how nice it looks in there.”

“Yes, but it will be full of kids!” Carol sighed. “It’s one of those trendy new bars that have been popping up lately. We two oldies will stick out like a sore thumb in there, and I don’t much care for that!” Carol sank heavily into the sofa next to Greg. “Why can’t you suggest somewhere sensible?”

“Bloody hell, Carol,” Greg groaned, placing a meaty hand in front of his eyes in mock despair. “You wanted me to make some suggestions, and I have done. Not my fault that they don’t meet your high standards!”

“I don’t have high standards!” Carol protested. “I just don’t want to go anywhere that you’ve suggested so far!”

“Then just pick somewhere!” Greg insisted, raising his voice in irritation. “Christ, you always make this difficult.”

“I’m not difficult,” Carol folded her arms primly in front of her and gave Greg a haughty stare. “You’re just not very helpful.”

“Give me strength…” Greg muttered to himself, imploring the ceiling above him. He took a long swallow from his tea, before slowly placing the remainder of it on the table.

“My arm is still aching,” He mumbled, half to himself. He rubbed his left arm, his face creased slightly in a grimace. “It’s hurting, actually. Seems to be getting worse.” Carol looked at him. A faint sheen of perspiration was becoming noticeable along his forehead, and he was looking slightly pale.

“Are you alright, darling?” Carol’s frustration was forgotten and she became worried. Greg normally wasn’t one to complain about aches and pains. He was of the ‘shut-up-and-get-on-with-it’ breed.

“I don’t know, love,” Greg’s face creased slightly as she watched him. His breathing had gotten shallower as he had been talking, but Carol hadn’t registered the fact at the time. She reached out and touched his forehead.

“You’re burning up, Greg,” She said, genuinely concerned now. “How long has this been going on for?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Greg considered the question. “My arm’s been hurting for about half an hour or so, and I’ve not been feeling right since then. Maybe…I’m just a bit peaky. Shouldn’t…worry too much…” Greg began panting slightly, his hand unconsciously clutching his chest as he leaned forwards. He grunted in pain, and panic flared in Carol’s brain.

“Greg, we need to call an ambulance!” She exclaimed, “I think you’re having a heart attack!”

“Don’t be…ridiculous!” Greg wheezed, feebly trying to wave Carol away. “It’ll pass in a…minute. I’ll be…fine.”

“No, Greg, I don’t think you will.” Carol seemed close to tears. Her voice wavered slightly, which caused Greg to look up at her. It usually took something quite serious to get her worked up like this. He reached out and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Alright then, love,” he smiled at her weakly. “Call the…ambulance…I don’t want you to worry…But I reckon I’ll be…alright soon.”

“Stay there,” Carol stood up quickly and rushed off into the kitchen where their house phone rested on the wall. Her wispy brown hair flailed about as she hurried across the room. She struck her bony hip on the door frame in her haste, causing a vulgar expletive to issue from her lips. She glanced behind her, ready to glare at Greg when he made the expected sarcastic remark. Greg was leaning forwards in his chair, his face ashen and his jaw slack as his breathing became laboured. He hadn’t even heard Carol swearing. That was bad. Carol nearly tore the phone from the wall as she reached it and dialled 999. The crisp, clear voice on the other end of the phone asked her which service she required, and she barked her answer with nervous impatience.

“You have reached the ambulance service, what is the nature of your emergency?” A calm voice asked her. A woman’s voice.

“I think my husband is having a heart attack!” Carol’s voice cracked slightly as she answered, her hand gripping the phone tightly.

“Alright, madam, could you please tell me your address?” The voice continued.

“We’re at 95 Park Road, Croydon. Please come quickly!”

“Ok, madam, an ambulance has been dispatched and will be with you shortly. Please try to remain calm and stay with your husband. Ensure that he is sat down and is resting whilst you wait and do not allow him to move around if you can help it.”

“Okay, thank you. Please, come quickly!” Carol put the phone down with a shaking hand and ran to the drawer containing their medicine box. Whilst on the phone she had remembered seeing a medical advice poster about heart attacks. It suggested chewing aspirin as a way to slow blood clots. She reflected briefly at how unusual circumstances brought up useful information before she flipped open the green plastic lid and fished around in it. Finding the aspirin, she ran back into the living room. Greg did not look good: his eyes were closed and his face was dripping with sweat as he struggled to breathe. Carol fell to her knees in front of him and began frantically tearing at the box of tablets in her hand.

“I’ve called the ambulance, Greg,” She said lamely, not knowing what else to say. “There’ll be one along any minute now. Here, take this aspirin, it should help. Chew it, don’t swallow.” Greg merely nodded his acquiescence and opened his mouth. As he crunched the tablet, Carol put an arm around his shoulder and began rubbing his back.

“There, that’s the way,” She said, unconsciously crooning as if to a child. “You stay right there, darling. Everything will be alright soon.” Carol threw a furtive glance out of the window facing the street, silently praying that the ambulance hurried up.

The longest ten minutes of Carol’s life was spent anxiously waiting for that ambulance to arrive. She was trying to remain calm for Greg’s sake, who appeared to be spending all of his concentration on breathing. He occasionally gave Carol a pained smile and patted her hand, reminding her in a strained voice that he was okay. Carol was not convinced, but appreciated his concern for her, nonetheless. It also made her angry with herself; Greg was the one having the heart attack, not her! The paramedics arrived after what seemed like an eternity and Greg was given oxygen and stretchered into the back of the ambulance. Carol was permitted to ride in the back with him, and sat holding his hand tightly as they sped towards the hospital.

Hours later, Carol sat by her unconscious husband’s side, listening to his ragged, laboured breathing. She was alone with her misery and fear, her mind wandering. Her thoughts continually drifted into nightmare territory, where the worst always happened and she was nearly sick with terror. She had to shake her head vigorously each time her mind stumbled into that mental danger zone, and she often followed it up with a sharp clout to her temples for good measure. This eventually led to Carol’s tired brain being rattled around mercilessly in her skull and her head throbbing from repeated self-abuse. Unfortunately, it only succeeding in making her feel even more wretched and helpless as she gazed upon Greg’s still frame.

As the day dragged on, Carol found herself reflecting on the life she and Greg had shared together. She thought about when they had met during their late twenties, now nearly thirty-three years ago. Carol had been working in her father’s greasy-spoon café, a job which she had enjoyed but felt confined by. Greg had recently begun his employment as an early morning bus driver, a task which continued to be his job until his retirement at sixty. Neither of them could remember exactly how they had met, but both remember how drab their lives had seemed beforehand. Something had passed between them, and they began meeting regularly. Greg would come to her café early in the morning before his route began, and Carol would let him in before they opened and make him breakfast. They would chat whilst Carol set up, laughing and joking and enjoying one another’s company. Carol’s father had been surprised at her willingness to start work early every day, but had quickly gotten wise to the proceedings. He found it amusing and quite touching, and allowed it to continue uninterrupted. Besides, he secretly thought quite highly of Greg due to knowing his father.

With her nondescript brown hair, crooked nose and thin, sneering lips, Carol had never been pretty. The unattractive mole on her chin had never aided matters, and her aging had only rubbed salt in the wounds. Despite this, Greg somehow managed to make Carol feel both attractive and desirable. He had always found a way to compliment her, and had admonished her for her attempts to stop him. He had been able to make her smile and feel beautiful, regardless of how she felt when she looked into a mirror. Carol looked up from her bedside vigil and glanced at her reflection in the hospital window. She saw only an exhausted, frightened old woman gazing helplessly back at her. Could she ever bear to look at herself again, should the worst happen? She didn’t know.

Shortly after their morning meetings became a fixed part of their daily routine, Carol and Greg began spending most of their evenings together too. They delighted one another, and Greg was very kind to Carol without being overbearingly chivalrous. They quickly but very naturally became lovers, and for a time they were blissfully happy. Then, three years after they had met, Carol fell pregnant with Greg’s child. Greg was overjoyed with the news, and immediately got down on one knee and proposed. He had been toying with the idea of asking Carol to marry him for months, and this development had seemed like fate. Carol had accepted without a flicker of hesitation. She smiled at the memory despite her current low spirits. Greg had been so happy that he had picked her up and spun her round and round in a circle, tears streaming down his face as he laughed deliriously. He had been overweight then, too, but that evening he had moved like an energetic teenager.

They had gotten married mere weeks before their daughter was born. She had felt as big as a whale despite her beautiful wedding dress, and she had been extremely self-conscious as she had waddled slowly up the aisle, supported by her beaming father. But one look at Greg’s face and the adoration in his eyes had banished all thoughts of her appearance. He had winked at her, slowly blinking his left eye in the same flirtatious way he had used to when they had been courting, and she had readily taken her place next to him at the altar. They had taken their solemn vows, celebrated with their ecstatic family and friends, and shared a romantic honeymoon in Paris. Their daughter had come into their world soon after, and they named her Elizabeth after Carol’s grandmother. Those two events shone brightly in Carol’s memories as the happiest in her life.

Life had moved quickly after that. The years had passed by in a blur, but with plenty of moments standing out in their significance. Lizzie’s first words, Carol’s new job as a teacher, Greg’s fortieth birthday, her father’s death, Lizzie starting university… Moments in time which were filled with emotion, both good and bad, and were therefore unforgettable. But now Lizzie was a grown woman and had immigrated to Australia to start her own family. Her departure had been difficult for Carol and Greg, but they had wished her luck and given her as much support as they could. Their little house had been quiet since then, but they remained as happy in one another’s company as they had always been. News of the birth of their first grandchild had brought much joy to them, as had the photographs which had followed in the post. The baby boy in Lizzie’s arms reminded them both so much of Lizzie’s birth that they had shared a moment of tearful reflection together. They had made plans to fly out and visit her in the spring. The tickets had already been booked, and they were both eager to meet their grandson.

Carol blinked tears from her eyes and buried her nose in a tissue. The last thirty-odd years with Greg had been supremely happy ones, fulfilling ones, and she just couldn’t fathom having them end so abruptly. She took several deep breaths to calm her nerves before sitting up straight.

Greg’s eyes were open. He was staring intently at Carol, and she could only guess as to how long he had been watching her. She frantically scrabbled for his hands, seizing them in her own.

“Greg?” She choked out, half-sobbing with relief and hysteria. “Greg, you’re awake! Are…are you alright?” She felt monumentally idiotic at having asked that question. Greg merely continued staring at Carol’s face in silence. Then, he slowly closed his left eye and opened it again with obvious effort. Carol barked out a stiff laugh, the sound raw with emotion. Greg had winked at her! He was still himself despite everything he was going through. Her poor, poor darling! As if in response, Greg weakly patted her hand, the movement scarcely more than a stroking of their skin. He looked into her eyes, and Carol felt an icy hand grasp her heart. The merry light in Greg’s eyes was dim, and it was fading slowly.

“No!” Carol launched herself forwards, for once ignoring her hip as pain flared along her side, landing awkwardly on the bed next to Greg.

“Greg, no!” She sobbed freely, her voice rasping through her tears. “Please, darling, don’t go!”

Greg peered up at his wife, the pain of his ailment and seeing Carol’s distress was clearly marked with his own tears. As Carol held his hands tightly, he slowly closed his left eye again, barely managing to open it again before it snapped shut. After a moment of rebellion, his right eyelid slid closed as well. His fingers twitched once in Carol’s hands, and he was still.

Carol wept as Greg’s life signals disappeared. The room was filled with the sound of her anguish coupled with the cold, incessant beep of the heart monitor. The world suddenly turned grey, as if the colours had been removed from Carol’s perspective in an instant. She sat there gripping Greg’s hands for what seemed like aeons before she heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor outside. Carol sat up abruptly and quickly wiped the tears from her eyes as the door to the room opened. A tall, handsome doctor came striding in followed closely by a petite nurse. The nurse was clearly new to the realities of her profession, as she looked somewhat bewildered and mortified. She scurried over to Carol and placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder whilst the doctor felt for Greg’s pulse. After a moment he shook his head and turned to face Carol, his dark face full of sympathy.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cotton,” he said gently. “Your husband went into sudden cardiac arrest. He’s gone.” Carol sighed deeply and gave Greg’s hand a final squeeze.

“Yes, doctor,” She replied calmly. “I know.”

Carol arrived home at eleven o’clock that evening. She was still maintaining her stoic demeanour, and was courteous when she spoke briefly to her taxi driver. She got out and walked briskly up the garden path to her front door, the motions automatic and efficient. As soon as she had closed the door behind her she became aware of the silence of the house. It was a strange, unfamiliar silence from a house which had frequently been full of the noises of everyday life. It would have been hearing Carol pottering about in the kitchen on any given day, listening to her sing along to the hits of the 60’s on the radio. It would have been hearing Greg laughing at something on the television, or his cries of exasperation as some dimwit didn’t answer a question correctly on a quiz show. But today, the house was still. It was a pregnant silence, as if the building was anxiously holding its breath.

Carol sat down heavily on the sofa, exhausted. So much had happened that day, and yet it seemed incredible that her ordeal had taken less than fifteen hours. It was then that Carol noticed the mug of tea. The very same unfinished mug that Greg had been drinking before their ordeal had begun.

“It’s half-empty”, Carol murmured to herself, her own voice sounding distant in her dazed, drained state. “But Greg would probably say its half-full.” She shook her head sadly. It no longer mattered what Greg thought. Greg was dead. Completely alone for the first time in more than thirty years, Carol gave in to her grief. As the time dragged onwards, Carol was unaware of the passing of midnight.

Golden Hair

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Golden Hair

By Adam Dixon

 

I’ve been sitting here for hours now. The wall has made my back ache and my backside has gone numb from sitting on the floorboards, but I don’t mind. Not while I can sit here with her head in my lap, stroking her beautiful hair. I would happily sit here all day doing this and I’d barely feel the passage of time. I live for these moments, when I can relax, hold her in my arms and run my hands gently through her gorgeous golden locks. It seems that these moments don’t come frequently enough, but when they do…bliss.

I love my Bev. Beverley Watson, to be precise. Beverley Anne Watson, to be even more so. A name which has fallen out of fashion somewhat, but I can’t think of one any more beautiful. She doesn’t think so, my Bev. She thinks it’s a name for an old crone, a spinster. I always laugh and shake my head. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, I insist. I’ve told her so often, which she loved at first. She seemed to weary of it over time, but I still tell her. She needs reminding, the silly girl. We met two years ago. Two years, two months and seventeen days, to be precise. I like to keep count, but Bev tells me it’s silly. I tell her that that day was the start of our lives together and that nothing on earth would ever make me forget it. I’m a little hurt that she doesn’t see it in the same light, but that’s okay. I can keep count for us, so there is no need to worry.

We met at Kingston University in London during our final academic years there. I was working on my dissertation in the library when a woman’s voice with an American accent nervously asked me a question. I had been absorbed in my work and so had missed the inquiry, and upon glancing up I found myself gazing into a pair of hypnotic blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat and my breath caught in my throat. I stammered lamely, asking the woman to repeat herself. It turned out that the owner of those mesmerising eyes was also a student there and she wanted to borrow the book I was studying once I had finished with it. It was a history book concerning the use of propaganda during the Second World War, and she said it would be very helpful for her dissertation in Film Studies. I had the last copy, it appeared. I had swallowed nervously and told her that of course she could. She had smiled at me, a relieved, grateful smile that was every bit as captivating as her eyes. From that moment I was under her spell.

Bev told me that she was from Miami, and that her family had moved to England roughly five years previously. She was amiable and chatty, and I was hooked on every word. We spent the rest of that afternoon getting to know one another, and we parted on pleasant terms after I had practically begged her for her phone number. She had been embarrassed, but I saw her hidden delight. She had given it to me, and I had floated back to my student flat as if on air, her smiling face filling my thoughts entirely. We instantly struck up a friendship and began to talk every day, via text messages, phone calls and on Facebook. Bev was committed to her studies, and so we often had to cut our conversations short so that she could focus on her work. I found it extremely difficult as my own studies were the furthest things from my mind at that point. I asked her out twice during our final terms, but she politely rejected me both times. She reasoned that she could not afford any distractions, no matter how tempting they might be. She had said it with a smile and a laugh, robbing any sting from her words in my eyes. I decided to be patient; I would wait an eternity to be with Bev. It certainly seemed like I had waited that long when results day came around. I had become less and less focused on my studies once we had met, and so my marks had dropped sharply. I had, however, worked hard enough previously to gain a second-class honours degree, but barely. I could have failed for all I cared. Bev had done fantastically well, with her hard work earning her a first. She was deliriously happy, screeching in my ear with joy and dancing round and round in circles with her friends, all of them whooping with excitement. Later that night, whilst we and hundreds of our fellows were celebrating in the student bar, I asked Bev if she would like to go out with me again. It was exactly four months to the day that we had met. I held my breath as she regarded me, a sly smile on her face and her cheeks reddened with alcohol. Finally, she leaned forwards and whispered to me gently.

“You betcha, handsome.” Then she had slipped her arm around my neck and kissed me. If I had died at that exact moment I would have died the happiest man on the planet.

Ah, what a sweet memory that is. I’d like to voice it aloud, but I don’t want to disturb her. I’ll leave her be, and keep stroking her hair. She’s always liked that and I’ll never tire of it. I’ll simply memorise my thoughts and write them down at a later date, just like Dostoevsky during his imprisonment.

I had lived for Bev from the moment I saw her, and now that we were together I felt like my life belonged to her. Unfortunately, the mundane structure of society had pressured me into finding a new place to live and seeking some form of employment. I hated being away from my angel, but they were necessary distractions. We still saw each other several evenings per week, as well as on the weekends. I took any opportunity to spend time with her, which irked her friends a great deal. I ignored them, whereas Bev good-humouredly laughed their objections away.  So many wonderful things happened during those few months: day trips to history museums, the sharing of our favourite films snuggled under blankets, the first time we made love…Bev was as much caught up in the whirlwind that surrounds new relationships as I was, and it seemed to me that during that time she never stopped smiling.

But things started to go wrong exactly six months into our relationship. I was thrilled that we had made it so far, and the months had flown by in a dizzying dream for me. I was complete with Bev, and wanted to tell her so. I took her out into London for a meal at her favourite Italian restaurant, the one with the garlic bread sticks and the live bands. I even booked it for the night the Elvis impersonator was on, because she loves that silly man. Personally, I’ve always thought that having an Elvis Presley impersonator in an Italian was a bloody stupid idea, but I’ll happily endure it for Bev. We ate well, with creamy carbonara for me and seafood risotto for Bev, her favourite. She even had two helpings of dough balls that night, winking and warning me not to tell a soul because of her diet. I told her that I wouldn’t dream of telling on her, and that she could eat dough balls morning, noon and night for all I cared. She laughed, her beautiful mouth raising up into a dazzling smile and her hair swishing to and fro. I ordered a couple of bottles of the best wine they had; no expenses were spared that night. We were sitting quietly at the end of the evening, comfortably full of good food and more than a little bit tipsy. Bev was sitting slightly forwards with a demure smile, nodding her head to a passable rendition of “Blue Suede Shoes” with her eyes half-closed. Drinking in her beauty, I sat there in silence just watching her. After the song had finished, Bev had noticed me staring and asked me shyly what I was thinking about. It was then that I asked her to move in with me.

Her reaction was not pleasing to me.
“Oh, sweetie…I don’t know what to say…” She looked shocked and perplexed, not in control of herself as she almost always was. “I mean it’s a great idea but…isn’t it a little bit soon for that? It’s quite a big step to take…”
I was confused and hurt. I told her that it didn’t seem like a big step at all to me, but the logical progression of our devotion to one another. Again, she seemed bewildered and extremely uncomfortable.
“Yes, I suppose, but still…have we reached that point yet?”
It was as if she had slapped me across the face with her words. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Of course we had reached that point, we had reached it months before! We were made for each other, and this was the correct step, a way to properly begin the forging of our life together. Romeo and Juliet had only needed one evening to come to the realisation that they were destined for one another, and she adored that story. Therefore I was at a loss as to why she would balk at my suggestion. I mean, six months was positively aeons in comparison!
Needless to say, the pleasant mood was utterly ruined. I made some bumbling comment about rushing into things in a half-arsed attempt to appease her before asking for the bill. We sat in a painful silence as we waited, with me struggling to come to terms with my injury.

Whoops, I’m gripping her hair a bit tightly now! That memory does that to me, unfortunately. The pain still feels fresh when I recall that night. I haven’t hurt her, thankfully. There, I’ve smoothed her hair back and resumed stroking it gently. She still seems quite content to just let me be. Bless her, I love her so.

Then what? Ah yes, things had become quite awkward for us after that. I was wracked with doubt and deeply hurt, but I couldn’t stay away from her. She meant so much to me. After a couple of agonising days we met up once again and laughed the whole thing off. Well, Bev laughed anyway. I smiled and held her hand, determined more than ever to never let her go. I had come to the conclusion that she had not progressed to the same emotional level as I had, which whilst unfortunate, was not a major cause for concern. I was certain that she would catch up before too long, and meanwhile I would patiently dote upon her and let our love cleanse away any doubts.

Only, that didn’t quite happen. I blame her friends, personally. Those shit-stirring, envious parasites she calls friends, anyway. They were constantly whispering amongst themselves about me, I know it. They disliked how much time Bev spent with me, which was somewhat understandable. Friends of new couples often tend to react to their changing time commitments with jealousy, it’s almost a rite of passage. However, these “friends” took it beyond mere jealousy. They despised me, and I know that they were trying to turn Bev against me in order to get her back. I’d often come back from using the toilet or buying drinks at the bar to see Bev laughing uproariously with two or three of them surrounding her, whispering. When I’d ask what they had been talking about, one of them would interrupt Bev and palm me off with some half-thought drivel. They were like vultures, bloated with lies and guarding their next meal.

They were no good for her, and I tried to tell her that various times. Bev brushed it off at first, then she grew defensive and finally angry with me for suggesting it. So I stopped saying anything to her about it, and instead began to check up on her whilst she was out with them. I’d arrive unannounced and uninvited to coffee dates, lunches and even cinema screenings, much to the chagrin of the friends in question. At first Bev was pleasantly surprised to see me, and was happy to have me tag along. However, she began to become visibly disheartened by my sudden appearances and grew frustrated with me. It led to heated rows, during which I insisted that her jealous friends were getting to her, and that by causing arguments between us they were getting what they wanted.

Damn it! I’m gripping her hair again and my fingers are tangled in it. It’s those bloody friends of hers, it still infuriates me to think about what they did to us. OK, I’m untangled now. Slow, gentle strokes…

I continued checking up on Bev, especially when she started becoming evasive. I was angry when she got like that, and knew her friends were behind it. A couple of times I called in sick or swapped shifts at work in order to sneak out and follow her. It was often simply a matter of touring her usual haunts, as I could usually locate her that way within a couple of hours. If she had gone out of town, I found out where she would be by contacting her cousins or her siblings and convincing them that I had something urgent to tell her. That worked like a charm, but eventually they became maddeningly unhelpful. Her brother even threatened me once, and told me to stay away from Bev. I had never heard such a ludicrous suggestion, and angrily told him so. She didn’t need her family anymore anyway, she had me. All they would do is get in the way. Presently, whenever I appeared to rescue Bev from her parasites I was pleased to see that they were becoming visibly shaken by it, even frightened. I would have revelled in my victory if Bev had not started exhibiting the same reactions towards me. As I watched from afar and out of sight, I could see her casting her head to and fro, restless and fearful. She started stammering when we were together, and she was reluctant to let me touch her at times. The smiles I craved became fewer and further between, and the laughter was strained if it was even there at all. I couldn’t understand it; I was trying to protect her from her “friends”, for her sake. For our sake.

Nine months and fourteen days into our relationship, something terrible happened. Bev told me that we needed to talk, and sounded very much on edge. When I met with her, she blurted out that it was all over and that she didn’t want to see me again. She said I frightened her, and that I needed professional help. As I think back on it, I must say that I was surprisingly calm about the situation. It’s because I knew that she wasn’t serious; this was merely another setback which we would get past and be stronger for. It would hurt me being away from her, but if she needed space then I could forgive her for it. I could also forgive her for her harsh choice of words, as they were uttered in a moment of passion. I love how passionate Bev is, and I could never fault her for it. No, I would just be patient and everything would be fine. Bev would come back to me and I would welcome her with open arms and a full heart.

After about a month, I had seen on Facebook that she had been writing statuses about losing weight for the summer time. She had blocked me by this point, and I had seen this by hacking into her mother’s account. Although Bev is rightly considered by all to be beautiful, charming woman, she has always been troubled by her size.  She has come from a society where beach-ready models with glorious sun-kissed skin and toned bodies were abundant and held up as the American standard, and she never really has been able to ignore that particular form of indoctrination. Her wonderfully curved hips, ample thighs and plump rear are anathema to her, and she has convinced herself that she is fat. No amount of argument on my side has budged that opinion, but I have been pleased to note that our relationship has inspired a certain confidence within her. Anyway, upon reading her status, I had bought her some fairly expensive summer dresses which would complement her figure delightfully and sent them to her address. I reasoned that even though she hadn’t come to her senses just yet it was still part of my duties as her boyfriend to make sure that she felt and looked good regardless of the season. It was a sweet, loving gesture. However, I received several furious messages on my own Facebook account, all from her friends and all insisting that Bev was uncomfortable with my gifts. Not a single message from Bev was sent to confirm their ramblings, though, so I knew that this was untrue.

All of a sudden, our first anniversary as a couple loomed overhead. After days of trying, I finally managed to contact Bev directly and arrange to meet for a meal. I told her that I needed to see her and that I loved her dearly, and that if she felt any compassion for me she would agree to see me that evening. She relented, and I eagerly booked a table at her favourite Italian in London once again. This time it would be a happy occasion from start to finish, with no awkwardness or disappointment. I was even looking forward to hearing that mediocre Elvis-wannabe again! I was a bundle of nerves as I waited for her. We had not seen each other properly for nearly three months, an excruciatingly painful length of time for me. But I was certain that once we started talking again Bev would come to her senses and stop playing her silly game. We would laugh and forget that anything ever happened. Imagine, then, my shock when Bev finally arrived, looking resplendent in a blue dress, flanked by her brother and her cousin. I was speechless with indignation; how dare they intrude on our celebration! I’d met her brother, Harvey, a few times but her cousin was nearly a stranger to me. Bev smiled at me weakly and mumbled something about us needing to talk, when her lout of a brother sharply interrupted her.

“Bev’s only here to give you some closure, creep, so don’t get any ideas.” He barked, folding his arms. “We’re watching you.” Her cousin stood next to him in much the same manner. To me, that had more than a passing resemblance to a pair of burly guards escorting a dejected prisoner to her cell.

For a few seconds I couldn’t respond, I merely sat at the table trembling with suppressed rage. I then managed to quietly ask Bev if she had planned for those two idiots to join us for the evening.

“No, sweetie, I had planned to come alone,” She began nervously. “But Harvey and Bob insisted that they-“. That was as far as she got. I don’t remember much about what followed. The red mist had descended and I had launched myself out of my seat and attacked Harvey. I vaguely remember knocking him off of his feet, and I think a woman nearby had screamed. Cousin Bob must have hit me because I ended up with a black eye. I was roughly seized by a hulking chef at some point and tossed unceremoniously out of the restaurant whilst someone called the police. I remember seeing Bev crying as I was taken away. Harvey was mopping at a gash on his eyebrow, trying to stop the blood trickling into his eyes and Bob had a broken wrist. As it turned out, neither of them decided to press charges, which I suppose was lucky for me. Lucky for them, too. I should have killed them.

I didn’t see Bev for a while after that incident. Her family and friends were on high alert which made it difficult for me to follow her, much less try to talk to her. I was forced to back off by those cretins. None of them seemed to realise that their actions would be hurting Bev just as much as they were hurting me. I had tried to warn her but she hadn’t listened! Just like Romeo and Juliet we were hindered in our love by the unreasonable zealotry of family. But also like Romeo and Juliet I knew that we would find a way around their oppression, a way to be together forever.

Blimey, look at me getting all romantic about it! That was almost thespian of me! Bev does that, her presence unlocks deep wells of emotion within, wells I didn’t even realise I had. She is my muse given exquisite physical form.

A little over four months later, I discovered through my various sources that Bev was planning on travelling down to Brighton to visit her aunt. My head was filled with fantasies of a tearful reunion on Brighton Pier and romantic walks along the beach as we inevitably reconciled. My heart ached for it, and I knew that it would be possible whilst she was away from her loathsome self-appointed guardians. I hacked into her email account and saw that she was getting a coach from London Victoria. I eagerly bought a ticket on the same coach and waited for the day with an impatience born of deep longing. The day finally came, and I excitedly boarded the coach a few stops out of Victoria. The overweight, bored-looking driver waved me on with little more than a grunt, hardly glancing at me. I was wearing my sunglasses and had my hood up so that Bev wouldn’t recognise me as I walked past her down the aisle, my heart leaping as I saw her reclining peacefully in her seat and gazing out of the window. I sat on an empty seat just behind her but on the opposite side of the coach, so that I could see her easily and day-dream about running my fingers through her beautiful golden hair once again.

Disaster struck on the way to Brighton. Firstly, the heavens had opened and deluge of rain had poured down on us as we cruised along the motorway. Secondly, we all overheard the driver panting heavily and attempting to discreetly contact his management back in London. He seemed to be in some distress, and some of the passengers started to become uneasy. I barely noticed any of this, I was too focused on my Bev. Suddenly, the driver lurched to the side, clutching his chest and dragging the steering wheel with him. The coach lumbered crazily across the road and into the fast lane. The screeching of brakes and the urgent blasting of horns filled our ears. Several passengers screamed in terror. The driver attempted to wrestle the wheel back, his ashen face and wide eyes visible in the rear-view mirror. Bev sat bolt upright, gripping her seat in panic. The coach swerved. A van collided with it at speed. The coach was spun around slightly on the wet asphalt, tyres squealing in alarm. Another vehicle hit the coach on the other side. Windows shattered. More people screamed. Another collision. I saw a section of the cabin burst inwards in front of me, and everything went black.

I came to in a hospital bed. My first thoughts were of Bev. My head was full of fog and I couldn’t think straight. I had vague memories of being pinned down under a cage of jagged metal and broken glass, soaked to the skin with rainwater and blood. I remember managing to look up and seeing another decimated coach seat in front of me, and a mangled body with golden hair streaked with red…I had been in a coma for almost a month with severe head injuries. When I asked about Bev, they tried to tell me that she was dead, and that her funeral had come and gone whilst I was unconscious. I refused to accept this information. She couldn’t have died. She simply couldn’t have. It was another heartless scheme conceived in jealousy by Bev’s family and friends. They were all in on it, every last muck-scraping one of them. They must have bribed the hospital staff to spin me that story, too. I was filled with disgust and contempt for them. They had taken advantage of a horrific accident and had faked Bev’s death, and all because they didn’t like me! All because Bev didn’t need them anymore! It was, and still is, unbelievable. The strength of some people’s vindictiveness is quite literally breath-taking.

I have since been searching for Bev. She was no doubt forced away from me whilst I was laid up in hospital, coerced or threatened to do so by her monstrous relatives. She is an exiled princess, and I am her lonely prince, tenaciously seeking her trail. She had previously discussed a desire to travel around the country in order to “get the full English experience”. The thought still makes me smile. So, I have been travelling from place to place, trying my utmost to catch sight of my beloved.

Which brings me, unfortunately, back to my present situation. I was so sure that I had found her this time. Those bright blue eyes, the welcoming smile, the gorgeous blond hair…But no, she is not Bev, and no amount of pretending will change that. I thought that perhaps she’d gotten amnesia from the crash and therefore needed some coaxing to awaken her memories, but I was wrong. I had realised my mistake eventually, but by then she was dead. My anger and frustration had gotten the better of me and I’d lost control. Still, she looked so much like my Bev that I was quite content to sit here on the floor, stroking her hair as the day grew darker and her body grew colder. It is nearly dark now, which is good; I can get rid of her more effectively in the dark, and then I can get back to finding Bev.

This young girl is the third almost-Bev I have stumbled across in the last six months, but I know that the real Bev, my Bev, is out there.

I will find her. We will have been together for two years very soon, and I must tell her once again how much I love her. Bev loves me too, I know it.

We’ll be so happy once we’re together again.

Pews and Paranoia

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Pews and Paranoia

By Adam Dixon

It was October 1979, and Vasily knew that his life was in danger. He had no real proof to confirm it as of yet, but his recent occupations had as good as signed his death warrant. His colleagues and friends called him paranoid, but he knew better. Vasily was a journalist who had made it his business over the years to obtain valuable information and see it revealed to the world. This information was often top secret, and to certain parties it represented power. Vasily was a freelancer, which gave him a great degree of flexibility as he did not need to be chained to one corporation or another in order to ply his trade. Feeling chained down had been one reason why he had left the U.S.S.R. in the first place, back in the ‘50s. 1958, to be exact, the year he had realised how dangerous the Soviet Union had become and how the death of Stalin had done precious little to thaw the Cold War. Nikita Krushchev had ousted his rivals to become its undisputed leader, and that was warning enough for Vasily to flee to Western Europe. Just like the Western capitalists, Vasily saw his former government as bear-like: aggressive and prone to raging destruction. As a young, liberal-minded intellectual, Vasily had been the kind of man whom the authorities in the Soviet Union would have considered potentially dangerous. Inevitably, he had found himself being watched. However, he had cunningly evaded the authorities in Russia and fled to the relative safety of Paris right under their noses. Twenty years had passed, and now it was Leonid Brezhnev who held the reins in Moscow and Vasily was in London, determined to continue working against them.

Vasily was acutely aware of the danger that his line of work could attract. Persistent journalists who refused to be quiet were irritating to governments who had secrets to keep; they were like flies buzzing incessantly around their heads. Sooner or later, though, those flies would get swatted. Vasily knew that only too well, with the frighteningly recent example of Georgi Markov to prove it. Markov had been something of a hero to Vasily. He had admired him on a professional level, seeing as they were both dissenter-journalists, but it stretched further than that. Vasily had found himself inspired by Markov’s unwavering tenacity and his sense of justice; a man to emulate if ever there was one. But now Markov was dead. A tiny ricin-filled pellet on a crowded London street was all it had taken. Markov had believed himself to be safe in London, safe from the tyrants in Sofia. He had been wrong.

It had been a year since Markov’s assassination and it still weighed heavily on Vasily’s mind. He reasoned that Markov had underestimated the reach of the Bulgarian government, but he also reasoned that it would have been impossible for Markov to anticipate the manner of his execution. That was what frightened Vasily the most; he was afraid of the endless invisible agents of his own silencing. It now meant that Vasily avoided travelling via the London Underground whilst alone, he vetted his drivers thoroughly before employing them and he was overly suspicious of any meal he hadn’t seen prepared with his own eyes. Unsurprisingly, he also became nervous around anyone who carried an umbrella. He was aware of how unbearable his paranoia was making him, but he simply couldn’t take any chances. He planned to live to see Brezhnev overthrown, and he hoped to be a helping hand in the process, if possible.

A soft knocking on the door of his study made Vasily start.

“Come in.” He called, silently chiding himself for being so jittery. Vasily’s wife, Natalya, came gliding into the room. As always, Vasily’s heart lifted at the sight of her. She was tall, dark and strong-limbed with piercing blue eyes and the permeating will of a tsarina. She was a quite a bit younger than he was, and he still counted his lucky stars that she had agreed to marry him before their flight to Western Europe. He had been in his mid-thirties back then, and she had not quite been twenty. He felt that he didn’t deserve such good fortune.

“Some letters have arrived for you, my husband.” Natalya chimed in her slightly rough accent. “I also bring tea for you.” Natalya smiled and placed a simple stainless-steel tray on his desk. It held a steaming pot of tea, a single mug and a small pile of letters.

“Ah, thank you, my love.” Vasily smiled back and took her hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze. Natalya let her hand remain in his for a few moments before pulling away and moving back towards the door.

“Do not be working too hard, Vasily,” she called, with a trace of humour in her voice. “The world will still be here in morning if you decide to relax for one day.”

“Not if Brezhnev isn’t careful, my love,” Vasily replied, half-joking. The door closed behind him. He sat in silence for a few minutes, musing over his words. Vasily fully believed that Brezhnev was the single greatest danger to the world at present, and that it was imperative that the world became aware of it. People like himself had a duty to cast light on this danger, to illuminate it and force back any shadows of doubt or indifference regarding it. Of course, a large part of the peril was Brezhnev’s repeated baiting of the United States whilst under the pretence of friendship. The United States were hardly innocent or ignorant of the proceedings, however, as they had been playing their own games of guile and forced courtship for decades. Thus the insane Cold War was perpetuated, and smaller countries surrounding the two superpowers were dragged into the maelstrom it created with very little choice in the matter. The world was a vast cauldron set over a raging fire, threatening to boil over at any moment.

Vasily glanced down at the letters on his tray. Most were the uniform tan colour of bills, but one caught his eye. It was a small white envelope, with his name and address printed in standard black typing. Vasily picked this one up and carefully ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with only three lines. However, the contents of those lines caused Vasily to sit bolt upright in his chair. It was written in Russian.

“It would appear that you were correct. The bear extents his claws to the south. I have something for you. Meet in the usual place at the usual time. Be vigilant.

N.S.M.”

Vasily’s mind raced. His correspondent was a disgruntled K.G.B. man who had access to highly sensitive material regarding Soviet activities. This man had occasionally seen fit to throw Vasily a juicy bone in the form of government secrets, and those bones had been juicy indeed. The abbreviation “N.S.M.” was how he referred to himself, the letters standing for “New Soviet Man”. It was a term used by Communist ideologists to describe the desired modern archetype among the Soviet people. They were supposed to be intelligent, strong-willed and loyal, among other things. This seemed to be a joke, although from the half-a-dozen times they had met Vasily had become fairly certain that the man did not possess a sense of humour. “The bear extends his claws to the south.” There was no doubt in Vasily’s mind as to what that could mean: the Soviet Union was preparing to invade Afghanistan. Tensions had been building for months surrounding the country and it’s in-fighting, with the capitalists and communists of the world alike looking on with interest. It would appear that matters were not proceeding in the way the Soviets had hoped they would, and that they intended to force an outcome. The Soviets had invested a lot of time and money in Afghanistan and could not afford to let her slip away. An invasion would not come as a surprise for the rest of the world, but revealing their scheme before it happened would undoubtedly have serious ramifications, even if they attempted to supress the article. It would worm its way into the public attention, and it would humiliate the leadership in Moscow. The man had something Vasily could use, a potential rod for Brezhnev’s back. At the very least it could be another small fire to set under his feet.

Of course, that would also greatly increase the frustration directed at Vasily. He could embarrass them this time, and they may not take it lying down. The thought turned Vasily’s blood to ice, and he became aware of a fine sheen of perspiration forming above his eyes and his lips. He wiped his face with the back of a shaking hand and forced himself to calm down. There was absolutely no question of not taking advantage of such a potential game-changer; this was the kind of information that political journalists hungered for. Of course, Vasily would require some hard evidence to support any story he wrote on the subject, but he had faith that it would be provided; New Soviet Man had not let him down on that front yet. “The usual time” was two o’clock in the afternoon. Vasily glanced at his wristwatch; it was a quarter to twelve. He had plenty of time, and he simply had to meet him, even if he was frightened to leave the house.

Vasily stood up slowly, gripping the desk with one hand and holding the letter in the other. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver cigarette lighter. He casually flicked open the lid in an upward motion with his thumb before striking the spark wheel as he brought it back down. A flame ignited in his fist, and he paused only for a moment before passing a corner of the letter through it. The flame licked the paper greedily, leaping upwards to consume it like a starving animal. Vasily turned his hand to spread the flame more evenly, strangely soothed by the destruction it caused. He stood watching the flame devour the page before dropping it into the empty waste-paper basket at his feet. There it smouldered resolutely for a second or two before extinguishing itself. Vasily wondered briefly if his next report would have that effect on the U.S.S.R. He smiled to himself, shaking his head at the thought. Foolish for him to be thinking so ambitiously at this stage when he didn’t know what information he would be receiving, or whether anything he wrote would have that kind of tenacity. But still, he enjoyed the thought nonetheless.

Filled with new confidence, Vasily turned to leave, striding towards the door. As he reached out a hand to open it, he hesitated. Glancing back over his shoulder, he looked at the untouched pot of tea on his desk. He should leave Natalya a note, rather than just leaving without a word. He scolded himself for his lack of concern, and moved back to his desk. Pulling out a plain sheet of paper from his desk drawer, he wrote a short message in his characteristically spider-like hand. It was short and to the point:

“My dearest one,

I have left on business. I should not be gone for more than a few hours. The bear sharpens his claws.

All my love,

Vasily”

Vasily nodded to himself and placed the note gently on the tray. With that, he straightened up and left the room. As he walked through his front door and was embraced by the London air, his fears threatened to come back to him once again. He started, one hand still on his door handle as an old lady pulling a shopping trolley passed nearby. For one ludicrous moment he expected the arthritic, white-haired pensioner to rummage into her trolley and come up brandishing a pistol. She merely tottered past him, oblivious to his wild day-time fantasies. Vasily shook his head, angry with himself and feeling more than a little bit foolish. He pulled the door closed with a resolutely firm thud in order to take control of himself before striding off into the afternoon.

A couple of hours later, after two tense train journeys and a nerve-wracking bus route, Vasily arrived at the rendezvous point. It was an area of quiet countryside, with rolling green hills in the background and ragged woodland nearby. Vasily had trudged through said woodland for a few minutes, actually enjoying the solace it provided. He now stood in front of a small church, which had clearly fallen into a state of disrepair. It was a quaint little building, with the classic weather-worn stone walls and elegant stained-glass windows associated with English country chapels. Although abandoned, it was still a fairly impressive building, with its tower and steeple soaring proudly and defiantly above the landscape. Vasily was not religious, but he still felt a thrill of appreciation whenever he approached a church, which was often mixed with a feeling of sadness at their neglect in the modern age. They were examples of a cultural heritage, and should be preserved in his opinion. Perhaps he would write a paper on the subject one day, if he found the time. He sighed in resignation and set off up the path towards the entrance. As he passed through the graveyard, his mind whispered that the decrepit, moss-strewn gravestones must be an omen of some kind, a thought which he angrily and forcefully dispelled. There was no question of turning back now.

Vasily pushed open the heavy door and was immediately assaulted with a mixture of scents; a trace of spicy incense, a whiff of damp paper and the pervasive odour of mouldy wood. The stained-glass windows generated a soft glow within the church as the light passed through them, and dust motes swirled in front of him as a breeze disturbed them. Vasily walked inside the church, noting how his footsteps echoed ominously around the building. Leading up towards the altar were five rows of wooden pews with a pathway in between them. Vasily’s informant was seated on the second pew from the door on the right-hand side.

New Soviet Man was as Vasily remembered him: large. He was tall even whilst sitting, with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He had intimidated Vasily the first couple of times they had met face-to-face, as he had a dangerous quality about him. He supposed that was to be expected; after all, you could hardly expect an agent of a powerful national security organisation to appear meek. He was also wearing a tan-coloured trench-coat, which was odd. It looked like something out of an American sleuth drama on television. Vasily assumed it was just another example of the man’s strange sense of humour. He approached the pew behind the man, feeling nervous. Previous meetings with him had always been short and sweet, a quick relay of information followed by some form of proof. Vasily hoped today would be the same, as he felt distinctly uneasy this time. He sat down behind New Soviet Man, unsure what to do. The man was slumped forward with his head resting on the pew in front of him, his arms on his knees. He appeared to be praying silently, another surprise to Vasily. He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to two; he was early. He decided not to disturb him right away and sat in awkward silence as he waited.

Minutes passed slowly. Vasily began to fidget in his seat. He was sure the man must have heard him enter. He didn’t expect him to stop his religious contemplations right away, but he had hoped that he might hurry it up a bit. They had important matters to discuss, possibly world-changing matters. As the seconds and minutes dragged past, Vasily felt his impatience becoming unbearable. Perhaps his extended residency in Britain had caused him to absorb that country’s culture of excruciating politeness, as he found himself resisting the desire to interrupt the man and seize his attention. In fact, he was certain that five years ago he would have done just that without any such internal dithering. After nearly fifteen minutes had passed Vasily finally forced himself to clear his throat. The soft noise echoed weirdly around the church, reverberating duly off the cold stone walls. New Soviet Man did not move or show any indication that he had heard the noise. Vasily grew angry quickly. He repeated the action, more loudly this time. The man did not move.

“Excuse me, comrade,” Vasily broke the silence with a sharp, irritated outburst in Russian. “I see that you are occupied, but deliberately ignoring me is extremely rude. I have travelled a long way to speak with you and I will not treated in such a manner. Now, kindly end your prayers and tell me what were are dealing with today.” Satisfied, Vasily folded his arms and waited expectantly. Still New Soviet Man did nothing. He simply sat there, slumped forward in silence. Vasily started to feel uneasy again. He leaned forwards slowly, stretching out his right arm.

“Erm, excuse me? Are you listening to me?” Vasily grasped the bald man’s shoulder and gave it a vigorous shake. New Soviet Man’s upper body moved with the motion, his forehead scraping along the pew in front of him. Vasily let go, and watched with alarm as New Soviet Man began to slide to the right. His head lifted from the pew as his body listed sideways and he collapsed onto his side without a word. His eyes were wide open and glazed over, his mouth slack. There was an indentation on his forehead from the pew. New Soviet Man was dead.

Just as Vasily’s mind was feverishly attempting to process this information, he heard the muffled creak of a floorboard behind him. Without thinking Vasily threw himself to the right. As he moved he heard the rapport of a gunshot and a bullet smashed into the pew in front of him, passing through air where his back had been half a second before. The wood was old and belched out a shower of dust and splinters, coating Vasily’s prone body. He rolled to his left and fell to floor between the pews, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard a voice curse in Russian followed by quick footsteps. Vasily lurched forwards in a crouched run, barrelling down between the pews towards the wall. He reached the end of the bench and turned left towards the front of the church. Another bullet shattered the wood next to his head, ripping a cry of fear and panic from his lips. Vasily ducked his head and ran forwards, keeping low. Gunshots fired twice more, with one bullet ricocheting off the wall to his right and burying itself in the floor. Panic flooded Vasily as he ran; it was a trap! New Soviet Man had been murdered and no-one else knew where he was this afternoon. He was in an abandoned church in the middle of nowhere with a gunman on his heels. He should never have come in the first place!

As Vasily reached the front row, he was momentarily wracked with indecision. Now what? The pews had provided rudimentary cover from his assailant, but another step and he would be exposed. The door to the vestry was to his right, but it was securely locked with a padlock. The only thing in front of him was the stone altar, a mute sentinel observing the ensuing chaos with indifference. Vasily whimpered in desperation and ran towards the altar, making himself as small a target as possible. Two more shots were fired. He felt a bullet flash past his left arm, hearing the material of his jacket tear as it was nicked in its path. The second bullet hit him in the shoulder like a tiny freight train. Pain exploded through Vasily’s arm and he screamed. He dove forwards, landing heavily on his right and desperately scrambled behind the altar. Blood seeped out of his now useless arm, rapidly staining his shirt and jacket. He leaned his back against the stone, eyes closed, panting.

There was nowhere else to go. The pain in his shoulder was incredible and he knew that he was going into shock. Footsteps slowly approached the altar. Desperately, Vasily cast his eyes to and fro, seeking something, anything that could help him. He spotted what appeared to be a large piece of wood on the floor next to him. He reached for it, groaning as the movement sent fresh waves of pain through his arm. His fingers curled around the object and he hefted it. Blinking through tears, Vasily brought it close to his face and peered at it. Despite the situation, the realisation of what the object was caused Vasily to laugh weakly. Nestled in his trembling hand was a heavy wooden crucifix bearing a carved figure of the corpse of Jesus. So it had come to this: Vasily’s only hope lay with the physical symbol of a religion he had never believed in, despite the attempts of his parents and his country to force it upon him. He noted the irony of the situation with distaste. Not that it would be particularly effective against a gun, not unless he became impervious to bullets through divine intervention. Vasily judged that it would be somewhat unlikely to happen.

A shadow fell across the wall in front of him and steadily grew larger as the gunman crept closer. With an effort Vasily bunched his legs underneath him and rose up slightly. He groaned as his legs threatened to reject his body weight, but his right hand held the crucifix in a vice-grip. If his enemies wanted him to die, then at least he would not die a coward. God knew that he had nearly been reduced to one recently. But no more.

Vasily waited until the slow, cautious footsteps were right beside him. As a shining black boot became visible past the altar, Vasily sprung upwards, screeching wildly. He spun on his heel and struck out with as much force as he could muster. He had misjudged how close his attacker had approached, and so hit an outstretched arm instead of their skull. Wood struck flesh with a dull thud, and the hands holding the pistol were jerked downwards. The gun went off, punching a hole into the floor between Vasily’s feet. The attacker cried out in surprise and pain, but Vasily barely registered it. He raised the crucifix quickly, this time focusing his full concentration on the head of his assailant. He suddenly noticed that the head was covered with long, shining black hair. The head came up…and Vasily froze. That beautiful face, those hard blue eyes…

“Natalya?” Vasily croaked in disbelief. He couldn’t move. That face darkened, and the gun swung back up. The second-to-last thing to go through Vasily’s brain was a combination of shock, incomprehension and fear. The last thing was a bullet. Blood spattered across the altar, crimson droplets disturbing decades of dust on its surface. The crucifix dropped to the floor from his fingers, clattering on the ground just before his body thumped down heavily. He had fallen backwards, his body forced back by the fatal impact.

Natalya stood over her husband’s corpse. A strange mixture of emotions were bubbling inside her: elation, relief, sadness and pity. However, she did not feel regret. She had loved Vasily in her own way, but she would always follow her orders. Emotions could stand in the way of orders, and so she had learned to block them out. Besides, it had not been her fault that the foolish man had had such grand delusions about publically shaming the Soviet Union. His work had been noticed, and he had become a nuisance. Marrying him had been an ideal way in which to get close to him, to keep an eye on his findings and report back to her superiors. She had known this day would come, and somehow she knew that the task would have fallen to her. How terrifying it must have been for him during those last minutes to realise that he had been right all along, she thought sadly. His paranoia had not been unfounded.

Natalya gingerly felt her left wrist and winced. He had struck her quite hard with that damn cross, there was sure to be some bruising there. Strange how the mild little journalist had proven more difficult to silence than a large, well-trained K.G.B. man. She shook her head. Although she had not once panicked during the confrontation, she had still managed to waste seven bullets before she had managed to take Vasily down. She had not fired so many shots at a target since her very first kill. It had been sloppy work today, and her kind were not supposed to be sloppy. Perhaps it was due to her age – she was not old yet, but forty was old for someone in her line of work. No matter, the job was done. Natalya turned from the body of her husband and walked calmly out of the church. The Soviet plans would go ahead with one less threat. One less buzzing fly to swat. She did not look back.

Reminder

AJ.Dixon3 Comments

Reminder

By Adam Dixon

Ken opened his eyes slowly. His attempts to retreat back into the safe oblivion of sleep were denied by the sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window. What greeted him that morning was what always greeted him: feelings of self-loathing and despair. He groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut from the glare of the new day and from the punishments it promised. He fidgeted in his bed, trying to find some source of comfort within his duvet beyond the warmth of his body. There was none to be found and Ken glanced miserably at his digital clock on his bedside table. The neon-green digits declared proudly that the time was 07:11 A.M. Ken groaned again, noting how pathetic it made him sound even to his own ears. You are pathetic, whispered the malicious voice in the back of his head. That voice was often one of the first things he heard during the day, as well as one of the last. It was his own voice, but with a sneering, hateful edge to it. ‘Fantastic,’ thought Ken sarcastically, ‘this is going to be another brilliant day’.

Ken’s mind began to drift as he lay there, drifting to dark places. He felt increasingly as if he was merely a passive bag of meat and bones that was directed according to the whims of his brain. He thought about the torment that a new day could bring him, and a familiar feeling of crippling inadequacy and incompetence began to settle on him like a lead blanket. Why bother waking up at all? The voice seemed amused, as always, and faintly triumphant. He stared miserably at the ceiling, noting dispassionately the cracks in the paint and the stains from a recent leak. Another day with the empty hours extending endlessly before him like a barren stretch of motorway. Could he manage to endure another day like that? Ken didn’t know.

His eyes slid slowly from the ceiling and across his room. He was in the attic of the house, so his room was small and slightly cramped, with exposed beams jutting out from above. His belongings were scattered around without any particular order or thought. His jeans were tangled around the back of his desk chair, one leg drooping sadly a few inches from the floor. His t-shirt was crumpled on the carpet, the creased face of the Darth Vader print gazing forlornly up at him. Various unopened letters lay in a stack on his desk, on top of which sat a half-finished bottle of whiskey. Two more empty ones lay in the waste-paper bin beside the desk. Upon seeing these last objects, Ken’s self-loathing deepened. ‘Great,’ he thought, ‘become an alcoholic while you’re at it too. Why the hell not?’ His untouched medication was still in the white and green pharmacy bag. One box of finest citalopram, courtesy of the NHS. God bless ‘em, eh, Kenny-boy? Oh yes, the voice was definitely amused this morning. Ken had been told that he should to take them, but so far he had ignored that piece of advice. He knew he should trust the drugs, but he still refused to admit that he needed them. Even in his misery he was stubborn.

Looking again at his desk and saw that his mobile phone was flashing. He had set it to silent so that he wouldn’t be disturbed when he eventually managed to sleep. He had seen the screen light up a few times during the night as he lay awake, but he couldn’t summon the motivation to get up and retrieve it. He stared at it for several long minutes. You won’t find anything, the voice mocked, nobody cares enough to contact you. Ken tended to agree, but he decided to check his phone just in case. Sitting up required a herculean effort as Ken felt like his limbs were made of stone, but he managed it and reached over to snatch up his mobile. He instantly slumped back down in bed and held the phone up in front of his bleary eyes. He swiped his screen and saw the tally from the previous afternoon to that morning. Five missed calls and three text messages. So it seemed that some people cared after all. Big deal, the voice scoffed, they tried to call you, so what? None of them understand. Ken sighed, deflated. It was true, nobody who knew him understood what he was going through. They were sympathetic to a point, but Ken could almost hear the doubts forming in their heads and the things they would be saying if they had the nerve speak up. Things like “come on now, Ken, pull yourself together”, or “you’re twenty-one, what have you got to be depressed about?” or his personal favourite “lighten up, mate”. Lighten up? Lighten up?! As if it were so simple! Like the thoughts and feelings in his head could be changed from melancholic to cheerful like flicking a bloody light switch! Some people were so patronising in their ignorance that Ken wanted to scream at them. They didn’t understand, so what was the point of trying?

Unbidden, another voice echoed in his head. This was a woman’s voice, civil if not quite friendly, and authoritative. Remember, Ken, not everyone will be able to understand your feelings. But any who try will be worth having around. Ken grunted, but his contempt was only half-hearted. That had been the voice of Dr Matthews, his counsellor. He had been visiting her sporadically over the last six months, after his friends had begged him to see someone. Ken had expected to come face to face with an old crone when he turned up for his first meeting with her, and he fully expected it to be a waste of time. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Dr Matthews was in fact a red-haired beauty in a suit, probably closer to thirty than forty, but that didn’t change the prospects of the meetings in his mind. It had been difficult enough to drag himself out of bed for the damn thing, and he fully believed that he wouldn’t be returning. Strangely, however, he had returned. Dr Matthews had been irritatingly emotionless and almost condescending in her manner, but she had managed to coax a semblance of conversation out of him more than once. Just talking for a few minutes about his pains seemed to alleviate them somewhat, much to his astonishment. Dr Matthews seemed full of those obvious motivational phrases which seemed to come straight from syrupy self-help books, revealing such gems as “it’s okay not being perfect”, or “stars can’t shine without darkness”. The latter almost made him laugh out loud when she said it, except that he could not bring himself to laugh. What kind of watered-down psycho-babble was that? It merely served to cement his notion that Dr Matthews knew absolutely nothing and wouldn’t be able to help him. The stupid bitch would just keep spewing out this drivel in order to earn her salary. As if she really cared about him. Nobody else did, and she was a complete stranger.

Except…she wasn’t a stranger anymore. Not really. After seven or eight sessions with her, Ken had revealed as much information about himself and his struggle with his mind as he could, and that was a damn sight more than most people knew. He had begun to enjoy talking to her, even if he didn’t completely believe she was helping him. Perhaps that was a start. It got him out of the house at least. Just take each day one step at a time, Ken. That’s really all you can do. That was another pearl of wisdom from the good doctor. But that that one made some sense, at least. Sometimes Ken tried to act on that advice, and sometimes it worked and he would get up and actually do something. Nothing earth-shattering, of course, usually just getting out of bed, showering and tidying his room. Sometimes he would even read or talk to his friends online, although never for very long. He found their good spirits hard to bear. He had nearly applied for a part-time job online a few days before, but had backed down at the last moment, his cursor hovering over the ‘APPLY’ button for a tense few minutes. He had even made some progress with his university studies, even though he was still behind. He felt slightly more useful those days, more whole. Perhaps he had Dr Matthews to thank for that. Maybe she wasn’t completely useless.

Something else Dr Matthews had said rattled around in his head whilst he stared at his phone screen. Real friends will listen because they care. Instead of lying around wallowing every day, try calling someone. You may find that they can help you just by starting a conversation. Ken desperately wanted to call back everyone who had left him a message, but his thumb simply hung in the air in front of his phone screen; it was a mute, dumb appendage which failed him this morning. That’s what Ken tried to tell himself, that it was his thumb’s fault this time. He put his phone down in disgust and rolled on to his side to resume gazing around his room without interest. His stomach growled softly. Ken ignored it. Leaving his room to get something to eat was beyond the realm of possibility if he couldn’t even will himself to make a phone call. Just lie here and feel sorry for yourself, the voice sneered from inside Ken’s head, that’s all your good for.

Ken lay in miserable silence for a long time afterwards. He realised after a while that he was caressing his phone screen with his thumb, swiping the menu backwards and forwards and pressing random applications. He stopped, and after a moment’s pause opened his text messages. Two messages were from James, his best friend, and the other was from Chloe, another friend. Ken’s heart fluttered a little as he saw Chloe’s name. That often happened, because Ken fancied the pants off of her. He thought she may have liked him back, but he hadn’t allowed it to progress. After all, why would she want to be with a useless lay-about like him? But still, he liked that she had texted him. Her message was from 20:15 P.M. the previous evening. He opened it. It was short and sweet.

”Hi, Ken! Hope you’re doing alright. Pub some time? Gimme a call when you’re free x”

So, she wanted to meet up. A nice thought, but Ken didn’t see it happening any time soon. He sighed sadly, and opened the messages from James. The first one was predictably lively, sent at 19:25 P.M.

“Alright, mate? Me and a bunch of the guys are heading over to The World’s End in about an hour, so get your head out of your arse and join us, you old hermit! We’ve not seen you in days, and we’re starting to forget just how ugly you are. Come out and remind us!”

At another time Ken would have smiled at this kind of message from James, and more than likely would have sent a witty rejoinder advising him to ask his mother for the reason he hasn’t been seen for days. Following that he would have left the house and joined his friends. Perhaps he would have invited Chloe along too. But now it simply made Ken feel worse, as if he didn’t deserve to intrude on other people enjoying themselves. He saw that the next message from James had been sent at 23:15 P.M. Most likely James had been drunk by this point, and quick check confirmed that three of his five missed calls had been from James, at 21:23, 22:30 and 23:12. This message had come after his third failed attempt to reach Ken. It was not as lively as the earlier text.

“Ken, I know you’re having some trouble. Don’t lock yourself away, mate, it can’t be good for you. Call me if you need someone to talk to, I’ll make the time for you. See you soon, you hermit.”

Ken could have wept. He was slowly losing his ties to his friends through his apathy, and it was soul-destroying. Maybe he should try to contact them, at least to check in with them. He wouldn’t be able to explain his absence, as he could not find words with the depth to do so adequately. He checked his phone again. The two other missed calls were from his mother, at 20:45 P.M and 21:00 P.M. That made Ken feel slightly uplifted, bizarrely, even though he didn’t speak to his mother as often as he used to. He supposed she was worried about him, just like James was. Chloe didn’t really know about Ken’s difficulties, so her contact was just a friendly invitation. Maybe he should call them back. James said he’d make the time…

Ken sat up and dialled James’ number. It was early, but he was clinging to the hope his friend had given him. His heart leapt up as he heard James’ cheerful bass rumble, but sank immediately as he realised his call had gone straight to voicemail.

“Hello! This is James, sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, if you’d like to leave a message I’ll-“. Ken ended the call in disgust. So, James hadn’t really meant it when he had said that he’d make the time talk to him. Part of him knew that this was a little unfair, as James was likely sleeping off his night of carefree drinking, but another part of him didn’t care. This was the stronger side of him, his cynical, pessimistic side. I told you they don’t care, the voice said. Ken gritted his teeth in frustration. It was a moment or two before he realised that the dial tone was sounding from his phone’s speakers, and he saw with dumb horror that he had unconsciously called Chloe. He was about to cancel the call, when he thought better of it. Maybe she would pick up…

No. Her phone rang four times and then went to voicemail. Hers wasn’t even personalised. She had rejected the call. Again, the ever-shrinking voice of reason within him suggested that it was still early and perhaps he had woken her up…But the spiteful voice drowned it out completely. See! She doesn’t care either! Ken wondered why he had been cursed with a psyche which was so thrilled by his own pain. It was enjoying this! He whimpered and swung his bare legs out and over the edge of his bed. Surely someone would talk to him? It seemed so unfair, to be foiled right when he had finally summoned the courage to speak for the first time in days!

Dr Matthews! He could call Dr Matthews’ office and see if she was at work already. He knew it was a slim chance, but she was a professional, wasn’t she? Surely someone would be able to direct his call to her? He dialled the number for her office and listened with bated breath as it rang. It rang, and rang, and rang. Ken groaned with impotent anger as the precise, business-like voice of his counsellor’s secretary answered:

“Hello, this is Dr Matthews’ office. I’m sorry, but there is currently no-one available to take your call. Please call back during our opening hours, which are-“. Ken spat out a vulgar curse as he cut off the automated message. So, even the good doctor was unreachable? Fat lot of good she was to him! Just when he had begun to like her too…

Ken got out of bed and stood still, holding out his phone with a shaking hand. There was one more person he could call, who surely, surely, would want to talk to him. She was always up early, always. He breathed deeply with his eyes closed, composing himself and forcing down his rising dread and panic. You’ll regret this…the voice jeered at him.

“Shut up!” Ken cried, realising how ludicrous it was to be answering his imagination. He glared at the phone again, and then he called his mother. His free hand found his mouth, and he began gnawing on his fingernails anxiously. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…

Ken stood very still as fresh waves of despair began to creep into his body like a virus. Calling his mother had been supremely difficult, even more so than calling his friends or Dr Matthews’ office, and so to be ignored by her as well was so much worse. He let his phone drop to the floor as his grip loosened, the thud as it hit the carpet sounding far away. Hurt, angry tears followed it, spilling unbidden from Ken’s eyes. Dr Matthews had been wrong. Nobody cared enough to answer his calls, not even the red-haired bitch herself. He hated her deeply as he realised this, and he was once again hopelessly devoid of direction. He was alone, adrift in a sea of misery with no land in sight.

As he cast his eyes around his prison-like room once again, his gaze fell upon something near his window. There, on top of his wardrobe, with one end draped over its edge and hanging seductively, was a black tie. Ken stared at the tie, vaguely recalling that it was part of a suit set he had bought recently to wear for job interviews.  The last time Ken had used it had been a week or so beforehand; he had given up on the idea of going out one evening whilst he was half-way through dressing himself. He had slung the tie vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe and there it had remained, forgotten. Until now.

With his tears glistening on his cheeks, Ken took a step towards the wardrobe. He was still staring at the tie, marvelling at how much it resembled a thin snake lounging casually in its domain. He took another step, his legs seeming to move by themselves. He passed his desk and his left hand found the back of his office chair. He gripped the edge of it and pulled it along with him, its wheels squeaking in protest. Or perhaps in alarm. It didn’t matter, Ken was oblivious to it. The only thing he was focused on was the black tie. The long, serpentine, seductive tie. As he drew nearer to the wardrobe he reached out his right hand slowly and pulled the tie from its resting place. It slithered off of the wood with a sound like a silken whisper, or a sigh of relief.

As Ken looked at the tie now safely in his grasp, he became aware of how fast his heart was beating. It was hammering against his chest like a lunatic throwing himself against the door of a padded cell. He could almost feel the blood rushing through his veins, accelerated cells vibrating with anticipation. Do it, whispered the voice in his head, you’re worthless anyway, and no-one will miss you. Ken whimpered slightly, blinking through his tears as he approached his window. He dragged his chair, which was still squealing its protest, directly in front of it and stepped up on to the seat. The chair groaned slightly under his weight and leaned to the left, but Ken kept his balance. With oddly steady hands Ken pulled his curtains shut, blocking out the morning sunshine and his small view of the world beyond. He cast one end of the tie upwards, watching it rise lazily into the air and over the wooden beam above his head. It came back down and hung limply in front of his face. He felt that it was almost expectant.

In his dazed mind-set, Ken briefly wondered if he should leave a note, but dismissed it instantly. That would mean delaying his chance to escape his torment for the benefit of those who didn’t care enough to help him when he needed it most. No, they would just have to deal with the outcome of their neglect. It was their fault anyway. Grimly, Ken slipped one end of the snake-like tie over the other and knotted it tightly. He then slid the knot upwards with a sharp tug so that it settled against the wooden beam. At least the Scouts wasn’t a complete waste of time, the voice scoffed gleefully, but Ken was unable to appreciate the dark humour in its words. He took a deep breath and carefully turned around on the unsteady chair so that he faced away from the window. He closed his eyes and tied the other end of the tie around his throat.

“I wanna be the very best, like no-one ever was…”

Ken’s eyes snapped open. The theme from ‘Pokémon’ filled his ears, with the low murmur of vibration accompanying the music. It was his mobile; someone was calling him. He didn’t even realise that he had turned the sound back on. He must have done it whilst he was fiddling with his mobile earlier on. Too late, sneered the voice in his head, but Ken cast his eyes down on to the carpet regardless. He couldn’t read the text from the caller I.D., but the picture on-screen was clear enough. It was his mother. She was calling him back. She’s too late! The voice screamed at Ken, you can’t back out now, it can all be over!

But Ken ignored it. With a plaintive cry, he tore the half-knotted tie from his throat and leaped from the chair, his sudden motion sending it crashing to the floor. He landed awkwardly and twisted his ankle. He swore loudly in pain and crawled on his knees towards his phone. He snatched it up desperately, swallowing a sob before slamming his thumb down on the ‘answer’ button with feverish strength. With shaking hands he lifted the phone to his ear.

“H-hello?” his voice quavered as he spoke. He hardly dared to hope.

“Ken! Hello, darling!” His mother’s chirpy, high-pitched voice assaulted his ears like honey-filled water balloons, shocking him intensely but oozing sweetness and life afterwards. It occurred to Ken that hers was the first real voice he had heard that day aside from his own, voicemail messages and malicious imaginings notwithstanding. It felt so good that Ken almost wept with gratitude.

“I’m sorry I missed your call, my love, but I was helping your father in the garden. Well, by ‘help’ I mean bringing him a cup of tea and telling him off for starting so early. I mean, honestly, who in their right mind starts weeding at half-past seven in the morning? But you know what he’s like, never one to waste the sunshine!” She broke off with an affectionate chuckle. To Ken it was like a damp cloth gently mopping his fevered brow.

“Anyway, love, how are you?” his mother continued. “I tried your mobile last night but I imagine you were out and enjoying yourself!” Ken looked guiltily over at the whiskey bottles decorating his desk. He cleared his throat carefully. His mother was mostly in the dark about how bad things were for him, and so he spoke cautiously.

“Yeah, I know you did,” his voice only cracked slightly this time. He hoped it just sounded as if he had recently woken up. “Sorry I missed it, I was…busy. I’m fine though, thanks.” The lie was an easy one to tell; it was well-rehearsed and barely required thought anymore.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Ken could almost sense his mother’s doubts. It was true what they said: a mother knows.

“I just thought I’d check up on you anyway. You know that I like to know what you’re getting up to. So does your father, of course, but he’ll never bother to pick up the phone to talk to you himself. I swear that it must be some kind of male pride rubbish. None of you ever call one another directly, and you only know that you’re all still alive through your mothers and partners!” Ken swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. She had skated dangerously close with that one. A mother knows, indeed.

“I must admit, I was surprised that you called me so early,” his mother wittered on. “You never were one to wake up early after a night out! Not that I’m complaining, mind you, it’s lovely to hear from you at any time. Have you got any news to share? You have been a bit quiet recently.”

Ken closed his eyes and wiped the moisture from his cheeks before answering.

“Erm, no, mum. I don’t really have any news. I’ve not really been up to much recently. I’ve been a bit…distracted, you know?” He finished lamely.

“Well, you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted, Kenneth,” his mother chided. Her use of his full name brought back childhood memories of being scolded. It almost made him smile. “You’re going to end up owing a lot of money once you get your degree, so you may as well study hard and get a good one!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Ken found himself smiling after all, a weak bubble of a smile rising tenaciously to the top of his torrent of emotions. Relief, self-loathing, happiness, anger and exasperation all fought for his immediate attention. However, it was disgust which prevailed; Ken was disgusted and full of revulsion at what he had almost done less than two minutes beforehand. If he had left his phone on silent… He prayed that his voice did not betray his feelings as he spoke again.

“Listen, mum, would you like to meet up? Today, I mean. I don’t have any lectures today, and I could use an excuse to get out.” The former part of that statement was a lie, but it had been a full fortnight since Ken had actually managed to attend one of his lectures. The latter, however, was all too true. Ken knew that he needed to get out of his bedroom as soon as possible. He couldn’t cope anymore. He held his breath as he waited for his mother to answer him. If she said no…

“Oh, that would be lovely!” His mother crowed, her delight full and genuine. “Where would you like to meet, and when?” Ken released his breath, emptying his lungs with a sense of relief which approached ecstasy.

“Let’s meet in the park,” he said quickly, excitedly. “This morning, preferably. Maybe in an hour? I’ll buy you some breakfast if you like. My treat. Ask dad as well. Please?” Ken didn’t like the pleading tone his voice took towards the end of his sentence, but it seemed to have some effect. His mother was silent for a few moments, and Ken knew that she was weighing something in her head.

“I don’t see why not, seeing as you’re awake,” she said slowly, her earlier chirpiness replaced with concern. “I’ll have a word with your dad, I’m sure the weeds can wait until later.”

“Great!” Ken’s reply was a bit louder than he had intended. “So, I’ll see you both in an hour then? In the park? By the fountain?”

“Yes, darling, that sounds lovely.” Again, his mother was silent for a few seconds. “Ken…” she said quietly. “Are you sure everything is alright? You sound a bit…off. You can talk to me if you need to, you know.” Ken squirmed as he fought down more tears. ‘I know I can,’ he thought, ‘but where can I start? What can I possibly say to make you understand?’ He took a deep breath and answered her.

“Yes, I know, mum. I haven’t been great recently, but I’m alright now. Let’s just meet up, okay? I’ll tell you more then.”

“Alright, my love,” his mother replied. “See you in an hour then”.

“Yep,” Ken said. He hesitated. “Thanks, mum. I love you”.

“I love you too, darling.” His mother sounded surprised and touched. “See you soon. Bye bye!”

“Bye.” Ken remained on his knees for several minutes after the line went dead. He then slowly got to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his twisted ankle. He’d have to come up with an excuse for that one, as he knew his parents would notice it. That, however, was unimportant. What was important was that he was getting out of his room! He was about to leave and spend time with people who genuinely cared about him. His mother had literally saved his life, albeit unwittingly. She would never find out either, Ken determined. Never. He thought again about his incredible luck concerning his phone volume. He shuddered as a chill ran down his spine.

Ken started moving about his room with a fresh purpose. As he dressed himself, he realised that his plan for the morning had made him feel better than he had in days, in weeks even. Life had had some of its colour restored. Not all of it, of course, but the bleak drabness of his recent existence was no longer so apparent. He pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans, a clean white shirt and slipped into his scuffed black trainers. He peered in the mirror long enough to run a comb through his unruly brown hair and to wipe away any trace of tears from his face. Feeling nervous with excitement Ken moved towards the door and opened it.

As he passed through the threshold and on to the landing, Ken stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder towards his bedroom window. He looked at the fallen office chair lying abandoned on its side. He looked at the black tie hanging from its knot on the solid beam. A new thought crept into Ken’s mind, spontaneous and unnerving. He turned around and walked back into his room, back to the window. He lifted the chair and set it back down on its wheels so that he could climb on to the seat and reached for the tie once again. A few seconds of fumbling saw the tie slide free of the beam and rest in Ken’s hands. Carefully, Ken climbed back down, gingerly putting weight on his injured ankle. With slow, precise movements he lifted the collar on his shirt and slipped the tie into place. He folded the collar back down and tied the tie neatly. As a final touch he pulled the tie tightly around his neck. A nice, snug fit. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled on it once again. It was now a little too tight, constricting his throat in a somewhat feeble chokehold. That was good. It would serve as a reminder of that terrible morning and how it had almost ended. The voice in his head said nothing.

Ken smiled to himself, and walked out of his bedroom.

To be a writer…

AJ.Dixon1 Comment

Stephen King once said “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot”. With regards to the former, I read at every opportunity that presents itself: on the bus to and from work, during my lunch breaks, and through long hours of the night. For the latter, I aim to be writing with similar dedication and enjoyment via this blog. I have always dreamed of becoming a writer, and so finding a way to write frequently and potentially for a willing readership is very exciting. I hope that my humble short stories will provide just some of the enjoyment that I personally receive from reading for whoever stumbles across them.

Thus I begin my attempts to become a writer. I look forward having to you join me.

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