Saturday 28 July 2012

Susceptible (short story) by Dr Spock


 Susceptible


They said He was a tough nut to crack. The usual interrogation techniques had been tried - without success – and then it was my turn. I was to be the ‘good cop’ or rather the good psychologist.

They didn’t give a lot of information; they wanted me to go in ‘cold’ – unbiased.
However I’d heard the stories doing the rounds; you couldn’t stop people from talking and speculation in the department was rife: the prisoner in block nine was different; one theory had him as an alien, another speculated on genetic divergence…was he a mutant?  Some said he had strange powers… psionic…something like that - but I wasn’t bothered; I didn’t go in for any of that stuff. I was a pragmatist by nature.  I think that might have been a factor in choosing me. They said I wasn’t the susceptible type. It got me wondering: susceptible to what? Of course they wouldn’t say.

First impressions: well he wasn’t really very impressive. I suppose I had built him up too much in my mind; I couldn’t help imagining some kind of wild eyed Rasputin character - but actually, He seemed fairly ordinary – a bit malnourished and in need of a shave, but still ordinary.

This guy was head of a cult? I couldn’t see it; No charisma…no nothing - a blank. He looked at me blandly…looked straight through me. I couldn’t read him at all, which was a problem, I suppose, considering my job.


His medical files set the record straight on some of the extreme theories; there were no physical abnormalities detected. The brain scans were particularly detailed on that account; they showed a perfectly healthy normal brain. Text book stuff, really. or so I thought at the time - but then later it occurred to me: was that actually normal? My own scan revealed  right brain dominance and some thalmic idiosyncrasies. 

My questioning strategy was to be simple and direct - have a candid conversation. But with each question I got the same bland lack of response. If I hadn’t known better I would have wondered if he spoke English. But I knew he did; it was one of the few details in his case notes, where he was simply named Mr X but I eventually thought of him as Mr Bland, for obvious reasons.

I felt myself flounder a bit. It was ridiculous – I was a professional; I’d dealt with this kind of thing before. But his silence was unnerving; there was a strange vibe to it… an intensity, a hypnotic concentration.

Was he trying to hypnotise me? If he was, it wasn’t like any kind of hypnotism that I knew. No eye contact…no contact at all, really, and yet I definitely felt that I was being affected by something…

I was about to give up – to get the hell out of there, thinking they would need to get someone else – when he startled me:

‘Giving up so soon’ he said, as if he had read my mind. Of course he had been reading me since I entered the cell, I realised. He had somehow managed to reverse the tables on me. Okay, I thought, round one to Mr Bland. I must try harder.

He held my gaze. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ His voice was a whisper.

‘I don’t get it!’ My voice sounded too loud. I felt like I was loosing the advantage but I had to ask: ‘what don’t I get?’

‘It doesn’t matter’ I had to strain to hear his library whisper. Well, I didn’t get him, that was for sure. I shot him a quizzical look. He dropped his gaze.

‘You don’t get that it doesn’t matter’ He laughed softly. It was infuriating.

‘Look, I’m here to help you’ I said, trying to reassert myself, trying to stay calm. 

 ‘Funny’ he said. ‘I was about to say the same thing’. Was he laughing at me?

‘Okay, okay’ I said, checking my annoyance with a show of professional calm. ‘Maybe we can help each other’


 ‘Maybe…’ he said. His laughter was almost imperceptible. It showed in his eyes. ‘Maybe we can’

The look he gave me reminded me of my suspicions of hypnotism. The strange feeling was back again…no it had always been there, I realised, I was just now aware of it once again. It was like the sound of a clock ticking; fading to background noise but always there - only this was like hearing a sound beyond the normal auditory range, like a dog whistle. I put the thought out of my head. I had to remain pragmatical. I needed to concentrate. He still held my gaze, looking through me.

I knew that I needed to do something, to get the upper hand, as it were…it was my job…I had to take control, but why was it so important? I couldn’t seem to pin down my thoughts…it doesn’t matter…I didn’t get that it doesn’t matter…My thoughts were elusive… not my own, somehow…

‘You know’ he said. ‘Maybe you do have a chance…maybe you will get it, after all - You can never tell with intellectuals …’ His words sounded far away. My head hurt and I wondered if I had been drugged - then suddenly there was clarity, like the moment the ophthalmologist inserts the correct lens during an eye test, like tuning a channel on a TV set.

Everything changed in that moment.

‘We don’t have long’ he said. ‘But it’s okay’. His expression spoke volumes; I felt like I was receiving a high speed download through the eyes.

‘I think you’ve got it now’ He said.

He told me in advance what would happen; my debriefing was more like an interrogation - he was right about that and, of course, I was taken of the case. They were not convinced with my lack of results; the amnesia story was not accepted, although I discovered that I was not the first to report this. Although my interview was concluded, I knew that I was under surveillance, as predicted. His final prediction was the hardest to acknowledge; weeks later I found out that it, too, was accurate. They killed him.

If I hadn’t been looking every day in the papers, I would have missed the brief report of his death:

CULT LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE


The story characterised him as delusional and mentally unbalanced and suggested that this lead to him taking his own life. A convincing piece; it painted the picture of a crazy cult that preyed on the weak and vulnerable members of society.
I didn’t believe a word of it. I had experienced a higher state; I had been transformed by it, reborn in a state of grace…like the early Christians, the Buddhists. I knew the truth.

At least I thought I did. But what did I really know? Who was Mr Bland really? What if I have been susceptible, after all?




Tuesday 24 July 2012

Adventures


James Tubb was sixty four years old and had never been away from his home town of Flodsem. He had been born there, had gone to school there and was now working there. On Flodsem railway station, to be precise. His title was senior porter. When he had started at the station he was a junior porter and his duties included sweeping the platform, washing the waiting room windows and making the senior porter’s tea. Now he was the senior porter but due to cut backs had no junior porter under his tutelage and so carried out all the said duties himself including making his own tea.But nothing was too much trouble for him. The passenger’s comfort was his main aim
He carried their cases, helped them on and off the train and was always able to give them the necessary information for their journeys.
James lived by himself in a little thatched cottage in Flodsem which had been owned by his late mother and father and bequeathed to him upon their demise.
There were little gardens at both the front and back where James grew flowers and vegetables respectively.

Monday morning was quite busy as quite a few parcels arrived for the residents of Flodsem. The ticket collector and guard on the 7.15 am would pile them in a cage which was then taken to the luggage office to await collection. James was up and out of bed by 6am on a Monday so he was ready for the delivery.
After the busy period was over James would snap the kettle on and after it boiled make himself a good strong cup of tea which he would drink while sitting on the platform watching all the passengers getting on board or alighting from arriving trains. Often, if he saw someone struggling with cases, he would put his cup down and go off to help them; often as not the cup of tea was cold by the time he got back!

Some of the passengers would come across and pass the time of day with James. Telling him of the exotic places that they were going off to. A holiday to France or Thailand.
Sometimes some of the more thoughtful of them would send James a postcard addressed to him at the railway station. He would carefully pin them to a board in the office to allow him to study them at his leisure and to provide material for his day dreams.
For James did dream of just going off to foreign climes, but he had been in Flodsem for so long that he secretly feared to leave his predictable and safe life.

The 7.15 am had just left and James made his way to his office for a welcome ‘cuppa’. As he moved across the platform he was conscious of a dull ache coming from his left arm. He had felt a nauseous when he had risen that morning and made a mental note to see Dr. Brabham, the local GP as soon as possible.
Switching on the kettle, James sat down and his gaze drifted to his collection of postcards. In them all, the sun shone brightly in a blue sky with large wispy clouds. The foreign places looked so inviting that he was tempted to book up for a holiday right away. But then the doubts arose and as he stirred his tea he realised that he was safer just staying in Flodsem.

The 8.30 train pulled up as James left his office feeling a bit better after his cup of tea.
The doors of the carriages swung open and soon the platform was a moving mass of bodies as the passengers hurried to leave the station. Soon all but one person remained and she was an elderly lady struggling with two large suitcases.
“Can I help you madam?” asked James politely.
The woman looked up and started to smile then her whole face changed and became serious.
“Oh dearie!” she said. “You are not well.”
“Oh, I’m alright, just a little indigestion.”
James reached for the two suitcases and began to walk towards the station’s exit. When he had gone only a few yards it felt as if a belt had been tightened round his chest.  He staggered and the cases fell to the ground. The old lady rushed to his side and took his arm.
“Do you have an office, where you can rest?” she asked kindly.
James pointed at the door to his room and together they struggled towards the office.

The old lady insisted on making James sit in his chair while she made him a cup of tea.
“You spend so much time looking after your passengers that no one looks after you.”
As James sat and drank the tea the tightness in his chest began to reduce.
“Thank you madam,” he said. “You are too kind.”
The elderly lady was looking at James’ postcards.
“Have you been to all these places?” she asked.
“Oh no,” he replied. “Some of the passengers sent them to me from their holidays.”
“Have you never gone on holiday?”
“No…I prefer to stay at home.” James said concentrating on finishing his tea.
The old lady stared at James for a few minutes and then seemingly having made a decision said.
“I think this is the exact time for you to go on holiday,” she said and began to search in her large handbag.
“No, madam…” spluttered James. “There is no one to take my place. I can’t afford it. The …..” The excuses ran off his tongue.
“Nonsense,” she said. “You need to get away….now. Here take this!”
James was handed a very strange looking ticket. It was like a piece of gold foil and had ‘World Adventures’ printed on it. It was perforated in the middle which divided the ticket into an ‘Out’ and a ‘Return’ section.
“Now!” said the lady. “Look! Your train is at the platform waiting for you. Off you go!”
Sure enough a train with carriages sat in the station. It was a very strange looking one as it was coloured red and had gold ornamental rails and decorations covering the train and carriages. It looked like a train fit for a king.
“But I haven’t got any clothes to wear. I haven’t even got a suitcase!” James protested as the lady helped him over to his elegant transport.
“Pshaww!” she said and when James looked down he was dressed in a smart charcoal coloured suit, white shirt, multicoloured tie and black shiny shoes. He had a smart looking leather case in his hand and a rolled umbrella in the other!

The old lady stood on the platform waving to James as the train pulled away.
“Have a lovely time!” she shouted. “You deserve it.”

No sooner had the town of Flodsem vanished in the distance, than a steward was at James’ elbow offering him lunch. A large menu displaying various meals and drinks was handed over and James licked his lips as he read the delicious list.
After a very heavy meal James returned to his carriage and due to the rhythmic rocking of the train, soon he was sound asleep.

“Train arriving at Paris!” a porter shouted rousing James from his slumber.
“What??” he stuttered looking out at the elegant platform where passengers dressed in very chic European clothes moved about, talking and laughing.
“Monsieur, you must get off now and enjoy the delights of gay Paree!” said an elderly lady who had been one of the passengers who had shared the compartment. She looked very familiar, but James just couldn’t think why.

Paris was wonderful. A taxi awaited for him outside the station and whisked him away to a very stately hotel. When James tried to pay, he was told that it had all been taken care of. His hotel room was large ‘light and airy.
For several days he would have breakfast then leave the hotel to walk along the bank of the river Seine, or climb high up to the top of the Eiffel Tower or just sit drinking in the atmosphere while he sipped a coffee.

Too soon he found himself climbing on to the gold and red express. James was positive that he had gone to bed the previous night and after he had fallen asleep he had awoken to find himself stepping onto the train, dressed in a very sporty looking suit with a bow tie. A pair of chestnut coloured shoes completed his dress.
The waiter arrived once again at his elbow as the train pulled away from the station and James noticed that there were different selections of food listed.
After the meal when he re-entered his compartment an old lady with a very tall hat offered him her newspaper to read.
“Thank you very much madam,” said James. “Don’t I know you?”
The lady laughed quietly and shook her head.

“Train arriving at Agra!”
James opened his eyes and bent to pick up the newspaper which had fallen off his knees when he had fallen asleep.
“Where is Agra?” he asked to two people who were sitting in the carriage with him.
“You must get off. You are in India. You will have a chance to see the beautiful Taj Mahal. It is one of the Wonders of the World!” said a very old lady who was wearing a string of beautiful pearls.

The taxi, as before, sat waiting outside the exit from the station. James was driven to the Palace Hotel where he was informed he would be staying for a few days.
“But I must pay you for the room and any meals I choose to eat in your premises…” James started saying, but the manager politely interrupted him.
“Sir, please excuse me, but everything has been taken care off. Just enjoy yourself.”

Visiting the Taj Mahal in the evening was a truly magical trip. The Moon hung high in the sky amongst jewel like stars. The white walls of the beautiful edifice catching and reflecting the moonlight.
A walk by the mighty River Ganges as it made its way through the country. James watched the holy men lie on beds of nails and climb ropes up into the air where they suddenly – vanished!

Life passed like a dream for James. His train took him to Austria where he skied on the snow covered Alps. He visited  London and saw the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace. He visited New York and climbed up the Statue of Liberty. He sailed down the canals in Venice in a gondola. Ate rice and noodles in a cafeteria in Tokyo.
The whole experience was almost surreal had it not been for the solid feel of the world’s landmarks beneath his hands. Each place the train stopped was a real place and James knew he had been there.

One night lying in a large four poster bed in the Regal Marco Polo Hotel in Thailand, James suddenly felt tired. He had been on the move continuously and his feet were beginning to hurt with all the walking. But, the sights he had seen, the people he had met and wonderful meals he had eaten. A trip of a lifetime.
But know he longed for the peace and solitude of  Flodsem with the duck pond and old mill. He thought of the station and finally of his little cottage. Home sweet home.

“Well James, have you had a lovely time?” the elderly lady asked as she stepped out of the shadows. “ It was your reward for all the good deeds you did for people who passed through your railway station. Now sleep, sleep…”

James’ lifeless body was found seated in his office in Flodsem station. It looked as if he was looking up at his postcard display which he had affixed proudly to a notice board above his desk.
In his hand he clutched a ticket made out of gold foil that had ‘World Adventures’ printed on it. The policeman who came to check out James’ death said that it was unlike any of the station’s ordinary tickets which were made of cardboard.
The other strange thing about James’ ticket was that both the‘Out’ and the ‘Return’ sections had been punched with a little heartshaped hole.




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Sunday 22 July 2012

Termination





Earth was dying; its atmosphere poisonous in the wake of the two Cyclowars of Attrition. Mankind had found ways to kill itself a thousand times over and the planet had to bear the consequences.
 Factories constructed mechanoidal robots. Bioclinics bred ‘halfmen’ to operate the robots. What need for legs if your lower limbs were mechanical?
All armies were now populated with these hybrid monsters.

The ordinary non military people no longer existed. Refugees fleeing from one zone to the next were massacred as they crossed the borders. They provided the armies with ‘targets’ to test out their increasingly destructive weaponry.
Country’s landmarks lay in ruins, the Taj Mahal, a heap of masonry, the Eiffel Tower, a pile of tangled rusting metal and the Statue of Liberty lay in the dirt, its head contemplating its bronze navel.
The surface of the Earth was scarred by nuclear and neutronic blasts. Forests of blackened stumps and lakes where the water was polluted beyond redemption.

“How many units can you provide?” screamed Major General Abbot into his telecommunicator. “I need a thousand yesterday!”

“Impossible, sir. Production is at capacity and by the end of this daycycle we will only have eight hundred units checked and ready to go,” whined the voice of a factory technician.

“Damn it man, put on your supervisor…now!”

“Sir, this is Supervisor Stellence. What my technician told you was true. If you want more mechanoidals you will have to go to Dallas or Elmsdale. But, although I know Major General Scarr already has these factories producing for him, there maybe excess.”

Abbot smashed down the telecomm.
“Scarr, Scarr, Scarr! That is all I hear now! But we are fighting for the same side. Could he not allow our forces to be equal?” he said to himself.


The Tensa plain stretched for a thousand miles over the southern hemisphere. Vast armies were camped over its battle pitted surface. Many skirmishes had been fought and refought by the opposing armies, but always the winner had pulled back from total annihilation of the loser as if that final step would be the ‘straw that broke the camel’s back’. Better to reduce your enemy by several units than risk bringing attention, by one of the other opposing armies eager for conquest, to yourself.

The Earth had become just one gigantic battlefield. Between the North and South Poles there were at least two thousand different armies feuding for land to rule. They relied on the factories, they automatically built upon winning a significant area of land, to provide the weaponry and machinery.
It was all about supply and demand. Barren planets like Mars and Uranus were mined for raw materials to supply the factories, to equip the armies and ultimately to continue the conflict.

The Eastern bloc had made significant progression into the mid Eastern conclave and it looked as if a state of conquest was about to occur. Mid Eastern was on the run and leaving a scene reminiscent of hell on earth, the Easterners pushed their advantage till the ocean could be seen many miles away, but like a cornered rat the retreating army’s back was to it. They had no where to go and nothing to lose.
The first Hammerhead missile was launched by the mid Easterners in error. The misinterpretation of the word ‘fire’ lead an overenthusiastic warrior to press the button. As the weapon left the Earth and plummeted towards the oncoming army the retaliation was immediate. Dense poisonous mushroom clouds were born and dissipated till the entire area glowed with radioactive fire like a beacon.

Several of the missiles had been incorrectly aimed and behaved as ICBMs, falling thousands of miles away in other warlords’ blocs. These areas thinking wrongly that the projectiles had been set off by their opponents, returned fire with their own weaponry. Soon the Earth’s skies were full of these ‘birds of death’, rising, falling and destroying.

Then over the entire planet’s surface could be heard the screams of the dying, the roar of burning and the groaning of the Earth’s surface as it writhed in earthquake and tsunami.

All at once everything came to an end. There was a silence, the like of which no human ear had ever heard. It was an absence of sound, of noise and even vibration.

The Earth lay raped, violated and dead.

How many minutes, weeks or millenia elapsed for this sterile rotating rock, is not known, for Time is elastic and infinite?

*  *  *

The roar of the colossal space vessel echoed through the entire Solar System, years before it arrived. It stretched for thousands of miles and darkened everything in its shadow.
The surface of the planet that had been Earth was a wasteland where sandstorms roared and the wind shrieked as it battered the high cliffs and the barren mesas. Nothing living existed.

From the under surface of the ship, a gigantic tube appeared. It was wider than the diameter of the Earth and as it neared it began drawing into itself like a black hole. Soon material and debris were being sucked off the planet, as it rotated and travelling across space disappeared into the tube’s voracious mouth.
When the removal process had been completed the tube closed and retracted into the vessel, to be replaced by a similar but smaller tube which began pumping out material that resembled soil. When the old Earth had been given a new and vibrant surface, a spray of millions of tiny particles were projected onto the surface and lay dormant.
The second tube withdrew and high on the upper surface of the space vessel a long rod projected high into the boiling hydrogen and oxygen gases that swirled out of the end. A gigantic spark erupted suddenly and the combination of gases transformed to water and fell as rain on the newly formed surface of Earth.
After a period of many daycycles, small shoots began to rise above the new soil. Soon they covered the planet as trees, grass and flowers.

The roaring and vibration gave a warning that the space ship was preparing to depart. The new Earth gleamed green where the continents lay and blue where the deep oceans and seas had formed. Several small bubbles emerged from the vessel and began spiralling down to the planet’s surface as the mighty rocket ship began negotiating its way to proceed out of the Solar System. Once it reached the area by Pluto, the Magnegrum system would operate and zype it to a position giga light years away. The journey had been worth it for by the Celestial Law of Randominity the planet may grow and mature to be a worthy member of the Universe.

The first bubbles landed amongst the trees. The surface dissolved and small microbes and bacteria were deposited in the water and on the land. More arrived and landed in other areas of the globe.
Soon there were only two floating like feathers in a gentle breeze. They approached a particularly lush area of vegetation where the growth had burgeoned. The bubbles touched down, dissolved and deposited two pieces of genetic material contained in biological sacs, originally labelled as A-dam and E-v onto the ground.



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Friday 20 July 2012

Ignominy


  


Ignominy




The house looked forlorn and neglected as I made my way up the drive. Its windows were gray with dust that the autumn gales had blown from the road. I noticed that the grass needed cutting and the bushes in the garden, trimming. I made a mental note to contact the gardener and book him for a visit.
The key slid into the lock and I turned it together with the handle. With an audible sigh from the hinges the door swung open. An odour of boiled cabbage and mould assailed my nose as I advanced through the hall. I would have to get in touch with the cleaning firm that worked for us. They would have to install air fresheners if this property was ever going to sell.
I entered the kitchen and pulled a chair out from where it sat under the table. Collapsing onto it, I pulled a thermos flask out of my bag and poured myself a cup of coffee. I looked about me as I sipped the hot liquid. Why, I thought, could I not get a buyer for this property?
Mr Robertson, the previous owner had died at the venerable age of ninety six and his family had wished for a quick sale to allow them to share out the money. That was two years ago!
I had shown umpteen couples, families, single people and potential landlords around and although they all were excited with the house and promised an immediate offer, no one replied after they had left! I even rang a few up, but got fobbed off with weak excuses and supposed ‘change of hearts’.

My name was Sam Dyer and I worked for Durham and Durham, an estate agency. I was an old hand at the house selling game and this was why this property, 17, Falcern Place, was becoming a millstone round my neck. I had boasted, two years ago, to my boss, Graham Durham, that I could sell water to a drowning man and he had asked me to prove it, by selling this property. This ruddy albatross!
Well, I had pulled all the stops out and went out of my way to expose as many punters to this attractive property. Extolling its attributes, boasting of its potential and generally over rating its qualities, but would it sell? No, it wouldn’t.

I sighed and drained the final few drops of coffee. Tomorrow, I decided, I would have the printers print several ‘flyers’ with descriptions of the rooms and a picture of 17, Falcern Place on it and I would have them distributed round the neighbourhood. I knew this was last ditch tactics, but surely I could interest someone out there in this desirable residence.
The week before, I had sold three properties; but 17, Falcern Road still sat stubbornly on my register. Oh, we had had a few nibbles in response to my flyers, but, after twenty four hours of leaving, the responses had turned decidedly lukewarm.





Later I was visiting our local supermarket for a few necessities. I tended to have a crisis management style of shopping. I waited until I had nothing to eat or drink- then I went to the shops. I usually bought just enough to tide me over for a few days.
“Look, Mummy,” a child’s voice rang out. “There’s the man who tried to sell us that spooky house!”
I turned and saw a little girl standing in one of the aisles pointing at me. Her parents stood just behind her and as I watched they suddenly developed an intense interest in the various cereals on sale.
“Hi Mr Blair!” I shouted loudly and approached him holding out my hand.
“Oh, Mr Dyer……” he muttered looking a little shame faced. “How are you?”
We stood and chewed the fat for a few minutes until 17, Falcern Place raised its inevitable head.
“It was a superb property,” agreed Mr Blair. “The price was just a little too high for us.”
“I could drop the price for you,” I countered. “What would you be willing to offer?”
“Oh, I don’t know…..” Mr Blair said hesitantly. “What do you think dear?”
He turned to a little mousy like woman who I took to be Mrs Blair. She had a worried look and her voice wavered as she replied. “I really wouldn’t like to make any decision…..”
“Tell them about the ghost!” the little girl shouted and her mother and father began hushing her and telling her to be quiet.
“What ghost?” I asked, shocked that a property of mine could be haunted.
Mr Blair blushed quite violently and with a laugh he shook his head.
“There is no ghost, Mr Dyer. It is just our imagination!”

What I managed to extract from the Blair family was that the night after visiting 17, Falcern Place, all three of them had been beset by nightmares relating to the property.
Although none of them remembered everything clearly, they all knew they were in the house and had seen ‘something’ which had filled them with dread.
“It was probably something we all ate,” Mrs Blair suggested, although I knew that that was not the case.
 
                                          *        *        *
Mr Robertson, Mr Sebastian Robertson, the previous owner of 17, Falcern Place., had led a chequered life. After leaving school at the age of fifteen, he had joined the Army and after receiving basic training had been drafted to an Army camp in the town of Danlang in India to serve with the 35th Hussar Lancers. He had risen to the rank of lieutenant within two years and had requested that he remain in that country when his peers had been drafted elsewhere. Danlang was such a ‘hell hole’ that Robertson’s superiors were more than happy to grant his request and drafted some raw ‘squaddies’ in to man the camp.
One night as Robertson was making his rounds he overheard some of his men planning a midnight foray out of the camp. He stepped out of the shadows and the group of four men fell silent. Upon demanding to know where they had intended to go, the weakest member of the four, a man called Delcher, admitted that they had intended to visit the nearest Zoroastrinist cemetery to steal jewels from the bodies laid on the Towers of Silence.

The tradition of the Zorastrians deems that a dead body is unclean and to avoid polluting the Earth the dead are placed atop Towers of Silence and so exposed to the sun and to birds of prey are reduced to bones.
Many of the dead are bedecked out in their best clothes and finery including jewellery, to display to the world their wealth and social standing.
Sadly the Towers and their affluent corpses drew thieves like bees to a honey pot and due to their often remote position, the cemeteries were difficult to guard.

Lieutenant Sebastian Robertson’s ears had pricked up when Delcher described the amount of precious stones that could be available, if the higher caste families in Danlang had suffered bereavements. If a person could keep a cool head while stealing from corpses, that person could be set financially for life.
Robertson liked the sound of this and agreed to allow the men to go AWOL if he could be given a share of the booty. Delcher and his colleagues grudgingly conceded to the plan and the division of the spoils and at midnight they set off to the far side of the town. They returned just before dawn and Robertson could see that two of the group carried large sacks on their shoulders. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
The jewels lay sparkling in the lamplight. Robertson had taken receipt of his share during the morning but had left off inspecting them until he had carried out evening rounds. There were rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pieces of gold mixed in with jewelled brooches and pendants. A king’s ransom.
Robertson rapidly converted his share into currency and began sending it to his home address in Britain. His spinster sister had lived there since their parents had died. She put the envelopes unopened into a cupboard to await her brother Sebastian’s eventual return.
The day arrived two years later when the Army decided to close the barracks at Danlang and draft the personnel back to Britain. By that time Robertson and his four man team had acquired a fortune for themselves, but as with all greedy people Robertson had to have a ‘little more’. He approached Delcher without the other three knowing and laid out the plan for a final visit to the cemetery before they left for Blighty.
Robertson knew that a powerful man had died several days before. His palace lay on the outskirts of Danlang, but he being of the Zoroastrinist faith, his earthly remains would be deposited on one of the Towers of Silence frequently visited by Robertson’s group.
The sky was strange dark purple colour as the two men approached the cemetery. The Towers, three in number, rose out of the desert floor, standing tall and proud. High above in the sky several vultures circled awaiting their carrion meal.
Delcher threw a grapnel attached to a rope up and it hooked on a piece of the tower’s crenulations. Before climbing up, the soldier tested the rope by yanking on it. It held fast and he pulled himself up and was soon at the parapet. He looked down at his lieutenant and gave a thumbs up. Robertson took a firm grip and began climbing.
He had forgotten how much effort it took to pull one’s body weight up a rope and before he reached where Delcher waited, Robertson had made a mental promise to himself to exercise more – and eat less!
The body lay on the wall amid other cadavers in varying states of putrefaction and decay. The vultures and the blazing hot sun had taken their toll on the congregation of the dead and Robertson and Delcher could see the odd bits of jewellery giving off twinkles of light.
After pulling the obvious rings, brooches and pendants off the man’s clothes, Robertson began to check his pockets and inside his burial garb. Far off the men could hear peals of thunder and as they watched a gibbous moon was blotted out by a very dark cloud. A flash of lightning lit up the hillside behind the town.
While Delcher began to push the stolen items into a bag Robertson decided to have one more look inside the dead man’s clothes. He pulled the jacket back and there around the waist of the corpse was a thick webbed belt. Without a thought Robertson pulled out a knife and cut the belt free. It fell to the ground with a thud. 
Using his knife again Robertson snatched up the belt and cut into the webbing. Carefully he turned the belt upside down and a large dark red jewel fell into his hand.
The flashing lightning reflected into the precious stone’s heart and reflected a thousand times giving the impression that the stone was alive.
Both Delcher and Robertson jumped with fear when the corpse of the man who they had robbed gave a loud groan of almost relief and slid to the floor amidst the skeletal remains.
The journey back to the Army barracks was nightmarish. The thunder rolled, the lightning forked down to the ground and the rain fell in sheets. As soon as Robertson got back and had hidden the dark jewel deep in his kitbag he fell into bed and a dreamless sleep.
The next morning the detachment left the barracks never to return.

                                                       *           *           *

The coffee was steaming as it arrived with the piece of carrot cake. I was treating myself after the successful sale of two ‘bijou’ flats at non ‘bijou’ prices. Yes, life was good and I felt great. The waitress looked at me strangely as she laid down my bill.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked. “Won the Lottery?”
“Good as,” I replied, calculating what sort of tip I would leave this angel of mercy.
I picked up a newspaper from the neighbouring table which was vacant. The headlines spelt out doom and gloom and I quickly turned to the sport section. My local team had been beaten in the Cup finals and it looked like relegation for them.
I arrived back at my office at about two o’clock and opened the mail. It consisted of four advertisements, one circular offering cleaning staff and two bills.
I wrote all the details of the flat sales on my computer and made hard copies for my files. As I opened the drawer in the filing cabinet I spotted the address of 17 Falcern Place and my good humour slipped away. Would I ever get this property sold?

                                                  *               *                *

Dyrak Khan stood in the shadows cast by the trees on the side of the road opposite Falcern Place. He was watching no.17 for any movement in the windows, but all seemed quiet. Dyrak had come a long way and was on a mission of great importance that had been ordered by the Master of his temple. A great wrong had to be corrected while the time was right.

                                                     *              *               *

It was about midnight when I arrived at 17 Falcern Place. I was carrying a sleeping bag, a flask of coffee and a detective novel in my rucksack. I intended to spend the night in this house and see if I could see any ghosts. Imagine, one of my properties – haunted!
I slammed the front door shut with a bang and tried to decide where I would set up my ‘camp’. The lounge seemed the most obvious place so without further ado I spread the sleeping bag out and sat down on it while I poured myself a coffee.
As it got dark the wind picked up and several branches tapped at the windows. Mental note to myself; bring a pair of branch loppers with me next visit.
Just before midnight I climbed into my sleeping bag and settled down with my book. I had been round and round the house checking and rechecking windows and doors. Each time I looked they were locked tight, but if the supernatural was involved, anything could happen.

I must have dozed off about one o’clock and suddenly found myself standing at the bottom of a small valley. The sun was high in the sky and the temperature was high. I felt sweat trickle down my neck. The floor of the valley was covered with bones, both human and animal and I could see by their brittle condition that they were old.
“You have come to Assigar!” boomed out a voice from above me. “You stand among my subjects – the dead!”
I shaded my eyes and looked up to where I thought the voice was coming from and saw a very tall dark figure holding its hands high above its head.
“Who are you?” I shouted. “Why have you brought me here?”
The figure vanished from above me and reappeared in front of me out of a sulphurous cloud of smoke. It stood seven foot high, as skinny as a bean pole and its flesh writhed over the surface of its body. I cringed in terror before it.
“You will do my bidding!” It screamed at me. “You have been chosen to bear my glory!”

I woke tangled up in the sleeping bag. I felt that I was trying to escape from a shroud and the imagery made me scream. I went through to the bathroom and washed my face with some cold water. It woke me up and as I rubbed my face with an old towel I discovered in one of the cupboards, I tried to remember the content of the dream.There had been a lot of old bones. A valley and a black figure. Mercifully my brain had forgotten the other details and I felt my eyes growing heavy. I was soon back in my sleeping bag and drifted off to sleep.

This time I was in an ancient cemetery. The wind swept a mixture of dust, dried bone and old wood about. There was a perfume of putrefaction mixed with grave scents of sandalwood, myrrh and frankincense in the air. The site seemed remote and poorly visited. Stones lay at angles and many were shattered resembling broken teeth.
I looked across the surface of the necropolis and saw a dark shadow undulating between the gravestones. It was very tall and gave out a feeling of revulsion.
I fell to the ground and cringed behind a large tomb. The whole area exuded a feeling of death and damnation. The true end for all that was evil. A heat rose from the ground as the chemistry of dissolution continued below ground.
“You are a vessel for my being!” the dark entity screeched as it stood over me. “Bow slave, before your master!”
I saw the being turn to a flowing liquid and all at once poured from the air towards me. I raised my hands to fend it off and caused the flow to deflect. It shot through the air and formed once again into the pillar of squirming darkness.
“You do not have it!” It screamed furiously. “It has not touched you to allow my entry!”
The creature rose screeching into the air and was gone, leaving me alone in this city of the departed.

It was five a.m. when I next awoke and I decided enough was enough. These dreams were leading somewhere and it wasn’t where I wanted to go. I poured a cup of lukewarm coffee out of my flask and sat pondering the night’s occurrences. There was definitely something in the 17 Falcern Place and it was not good.
Once again I went around the house looking for anything untoward in any of the rooms, but they were just empty rooms, the relations of the late owner having taken everything movable from the house.
Then I started tapping on walls, peering into air ducts and generally giving the place a good ‘shakedown’, but I did not find any hollowed out spaces, and apart from ‘dust bunnies’ the ducts were empty.
My next port of call was the attic. A classical if not gothic situation which historically hid ‘skeletons’ out of several families’ cupboards.
The cobwebs hung thick from the roof space and I swore I saw traces of mouse damage in the odd bits of paper that lay scattered on the floor. I held my torch tightly and focussed its beam around the space. There were boxes containing bits of fabric and others holding old newspapers.
“OK,” I whispered to myself. “Where should I look?”
The wood on the floor must have been full of worm for as I stepped forward my foot went through the panel and I avoided pushing my foot through the ceiling below by falling backwards.
“Yuk!” I grunted as I carefully pulled my foot out. I scrabbled forward and pointed my torch beam into the hole to check for any damage to the plaster below. That was when I discovered Mr or should I say, Lieutenant Sebastian Robertson’s journal. I carefully removed the mouldering volume from its hiding place and carefully carried it down stairs.

The wind was howling round the house as my made a pot of tea for myself. The weather forecast was for heavy rain later and I decided just to settle down for the evening in Falcern Place rather than make a miserable journey over to my own house on the other side of town. I made a fire up with some sticks I found in the shed and by stoking it up with some dross and a pair of logs I soon had cheery looking flames.
“I am not proud of myself,” the journal began and I realised that Robertson was making a sort of confession possibly knowing that due to its concealment, the journal would not come to light till long after his death. What had he done, I asked myself? Was it something that I would have to report to the police? A crime committed?
I sat aghast as I read about his ‘mission’ into the Zoroastrinist cemetery almost seventy years before. The theft of the jewellery from the corpses, the sacrilege of disturbing the dead and the illegal possession of the ‘dark jewel’. He had been guilty of grave robbing while in a position of responsibility and betrayed the trust put in him by the local people.
“The Thing has haunted me day and night, to provide it with blood and before I began stealing cats and dogs from the area, I was supplying it with my own, but I was becoming faint and ill from the exsanguination. After providing it with some of dog’s blood and It not noticing the difference, I decided that It was non discerning about the source of the blood and began supplying it with animal’s blood.” So this volume of the journal finished and I realised that I had let my tea go cold as I sat engrossed in the content.

Eager for some fresh air I went out to the front door and threw it open letting the rain and wind in. I felt it was cleansing me from the atrocious account in Robertson’s journal.
It was then that I noticed that there was a figure standing in the shadows across the road. The bushes and trees were being whipped about by the gale and the person was not always visible. Something took my attention away for a second and when I checked for the figure, it was gone.
It was with a troubled mind that I crawled into my sleeping bag that night. I knew sleep would not come easily and if it did I was sure that I would have more nightmares.

I stood high on a mountain and below me a precipice yawned. Far off the sky was turning blood red and the breeze smelt of putrefaction. Dark smoke was rising into air and I knew that this was Earth’s end, the Armageddon. I knew that I had been instrumental in its coming, but had no memory of how or why. High above my head hung a large figure with vulture – like wings.
“Take hold of the jewel!” It screamed. “I thirst for blood!”

My head felt twice its size when I awoke and the headache pounding inside was monumental. I rolled out of bed and grunted as my feet hit the floor. What had I been drinking? I was experiencing a hangover the size of an elephant, but I couldn’t remember doing anything to deserve it.

The door bell rang and I instinctively told it to be quiet, but it rang again as if to laugh at my condition.

“Yes?” I said as I threw the door open revealing a small black man. He was dressed in European clothing but I could see him looking far more at home in a boubou which I understood to be a loose fitting robe. On his head I imagined a fez or some flowing headgear. “Yes?” I repeated.
“You are the owner of this house?” the small man asked politely.
“I am in the process of selling it, Mr …” I paused to allow him to fill the necessary information in.
“I am Alamis Gibaren,” he said quietly. “You have a problem with this property.” It wasn’t a question; he knew that all was not well in Falcern Place.
“Well…” I started to say. “The house is in need of some renovation and repair.”
“Not the physical aspects of the house, but its soul is in jeopardy, sir” he said, looking into my face.
I knew in my heart of hearts that this man, Alamis Gibaren was spot on with his diagnosis, but was this cloud cuckoo land or what?
“Thank you for your information Mr Gibaren,” I started to say swinging the door shut. “If I need help with the house’s soul, I will give you a call.”

His foot shot forward and blocked the closure of the door.
“Please listen to me Mr Dyer, if you value your life!”


Alamis stood in the kitchen and gazed out at the overgrown garden. He looked very worried and I knew that I had been right to let him in. He obviously knew something and I felt that it was important.
“Mr Dyer, many years ago, something of great value was stolen from the body of one of out priests as his body lay in the Tower of Silence. I and my brothers have been searching for it over the years. Many of us have died, but enough of us still exist to continue the sojourn.”
“But Alamis, what is it that was stolen?” I asked trying to establish whether the jewel referred to in Mr Robertson’s journal was the item of ‘great value’.
“A jewel, Mr Dyer.” Alamis replied. “Not used for decoration, but for containment.”
“To contain …what?” I asked hesitantly.
“The demon Zarrian,” was his reply. “One of the Outer Circle entities.”


I rang out for a pizza and as we were waiting for it to be delivered Alamis brought me up to speed on the hierarchy of demons. It sounded real gobbledegook to me but I knew that there had been a jewel stolen, the thief had lived in this house and there was definite ‘something not right’ about this abode.
“We must find the jewel and then somehow encourage Zarrian to return to within its containment.” Alamis said as he scratched some symbols on the floor. “These are part of an invocation to call Zarrian, but without the jewel It would destroy us.”


For the next few hours Alamis and I searched the house from the attic to the cellar, but we found nothing. I had explained to Alamis that I had already scoured throughout and had been successful, but he assured me that the jewel was here and that he may see something that I had missed, but it was not to be.
“There is nothing else for it,” he said pulling a small paper packet out from his inside pocket. “I know that this will find the jewel.” He began to empty a rusty coloured powder onto the floor next to the crude symbols that he drawn earlier.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “This won’t call up the demon, will it?”
“No,” said Alamis. “It will just show us where the jewel lies.” Taking a box of matches out of his pocket, Alamis struck and ignited a match, then applied it to the pile of powder. A greenish coloured smoke rose off it and began to swirl through the air.
“That stinks!” I shouted holding my nose with my fingers. “I hope it works.”
The plume of smoke stayed together and behaved rather like a cobra. It swayed to and fro and moved up and down the walls before moving on through to the living room. Alamis and I trailed behind it hoping that it would find something before the pile burnt out.
“There!” shouted Alamis triumphantly pointing at where the smoke had stopped. It prodded at an area of plaster which looked on the surface quite ordinary, but on closer inspection displayed a slightly different colour to the surrounding wall. I drew a cross on the wall with a pen.

After ten minutes of scraping and gouging at the wall we disclosed a niche that had been cut into the wall behind the plaster. A small box lay within the gap. I reached in and brought it out. It looked fairly normal and I made to open it.
“Don’t open it!” shouted Alimas grabbing it out of my hand. “You must not touch it or Zarrian can take control of you.”
Suddenly I remembered the dreams where the creature demanded I touch the jewel. This was why. Had it not been for Alimas, I would be facing a life like Robertson, that of finding sources of blood for the demon till my death.
Now we can entrap the demon for all time” whispered Alamis. “He would have begun with you and then called his army through to join him to ravage the Earth.”
“But what stopped him bringing them through when Robertson had the jewel?” I asked.
“Robertson stole the stone from the body of a very powerful magician who had the demon in his thrall,” explained Alimas. “The period of time during which the demon could be kept supine by the presentation of blood is over. Zarrian will haunt your dreams, wearying you until in desperation you seize the jewel in your open hand and then with the magician’s thraldom gone, Zarrian will take over the earth with his hordes.”

The next night we decided to make an attempt to bridle the demon. Ariman drew various symbols on the floor of the lounge and lit small lamps which burnt with a sweet smell.
I stood outside the house looking up at a full moon which seemed to sail in an endless sea of clouds. A quiet night, without even a breeze to ruffle the trees.
“Mr Dyer!” came Ariman’s voice from within the house. “It is time!”

I was placed to the south of the room and Ariman stood to the North. He began to chant quietly and the atmosphere in the room began to change. It felt as if a cold wind blew through the area and the sweet smell of the lamps changed to a smell of putrescence and rot.
“He is close! The beast is close!” called Ariman.

It was suddenly as if all time had stopped. I thought that I had gone deaf, for the silence was absolute. The lamps flames flickered and then went out and darkness fell. We had left the curtains open but even the friendly glow of the moon failed to penetrate the gloom.

“Zarrian! Zarrian! I command you to appear!” Ariman’s strident voice cut through the impenetrable feel of the room. “Do you hear me, Zarrian?”

A large dark figure suddenly materialised in the centre of the inscribed symbols on the floor. It grew and grew till its head was rubbing the ceiling.
“Mortals! Why have you drawn me here? Do you wish to die?” the dark figure roared.

Ariman immediately picked up a small wand and pointing it at the creature called Zarrian began to chant and swing his wand round and round above his head.

“You think this chicanery will dominate ME? Zarrian screeched. “I have the power to destroy you little men!”

“I command you to obey my will Zarrian,” cried out Ariman and he slowly opened the box in which the purple jewel lay.

“I knew you had the gem!” screamed the demon. “Now one of you, take hold of it and release me!”

From the other side of the room I could see that Ariman was beginning to lose the unequal battle. Sweat ran down his face and he looked exhausted.
“Ariman!” I cried. “What can I do? Tell me so that I can help you.”

“Mr Dyer, it is too late for me. The demon is more powerful than I realised. There is only one way that he can be contained for a thousand years and this is what we must do.” I was aghast at what he proposed but Ariman knew what to do and… well I was just an extra in this divine production.

Throwing down the box onto the floor at Zarrian’s feet, the jewel was exposed and shone like an evil eye from its setting in the box.
Quick as a flash Ariman pulled a knife from his pocket and cut deeply into his arm. A spray of arterial blood shot out and by twisting himself, Ariman directed the flow onto the jewel coating it and the box with blood.

The creature Zarrian gave a loud shriek and started to elongate until his dark form was intertwining with the stream of Ariman’s blood. Black and red it twisted and fell becoming one jet as it neared the jewel. Then it was flowing into the jewel, the stone seemed to be greedily absorbing the liquid taking it into itself. Containing it.
Ariman collapsed on the floor and I knew that the man was dead. He had given his life for me and humanity.

After the police had come, the ambulance had taken Ariman’s body away and I had given a statement which explained that I had no knowledge how the person had entered the empty house, but that he had obviously been seriously deranged and had committed suicide after involving himself in some hocus pocus.
The police sergeant was standing outside looking very puzzled when I came out of 17 Falcern Place and locked the front door.
“You know Mr Dyer, the only thing that puzzles me is the lack of blood. The corpse was almost completely exsanguinated and yet apart from a few puddles there was no other blood visible. I wonder what really happened.”

The rest of the story is fairly ordinary. I got a cleaning crew in to the house followed by a painter and his mate and a couple of gardeners and 17 Falcern Place was off my books within the month. A family took it over and as far as I know had no problems with it.
As for the jewel, I took it safely in its box on a cruise across the Atlantic to America. I reckoned that I deserved a little holiday and…well I was only indirectly obeying orders- those of Ariman’s.
Reaching, where one of the ship’s officers said was the deepest part of the ocean; I hurtled the box with its crystalline prison into the water and watched it sink down into the depths. Goodbye, Zarrian or maybe just au revoir?








Tuesday 17 July 2012

Go on...



...depressed worker of the night.
Sullenly, overcome by the oncoming dawn.
Prepared for any eventuality as the darkness fades.

Red light prevents your progress, nothing comes from either direction
If only you could press the green button,
and get the city moving.

As mothers rise for the fourth occasion,
with demanding babe.
Broken sleep, doesn’t count as a sleepless night.
The night workers claim to fame.

Myriads of cheap slumber proof granules,
wrapped up in plastic cups,
prevents the inevitable.

Your dawn is near.
Repent the darkness.
As `the` mothers, through drizzle soaked windows,
watch the frost form contemplating the forthcoming light.

Good Fairies




They arrived in clouds of perfume, one, lavender and the other, lily of the valley. They were dressed in ‘no – nonsense’ tweed that exuded adventure. Lavender wore a cameo brooch at her neck and Lily of the Valley sported a gold locket on a chain. On their feet were brogue shoes and they carried knapsacks on their backs. Both were aged about eighty plus.
 “Good morning, what a lovely day for a bus trip! My name is Ella and this is my sister Prissy.” they both chirruped to their fellow passengers as they made their way to their seats.
I nudged Carol and whispered in her ear.
“I told you we were too young for this bus trip. The clue was in the wording of the sign, ‘A Two Day Coach Trip to the Quaint and Exotic’. Imagine where we’ll end up!”
Carol my fiancée, punched me non too gently on the shoulder.
“Shut up! Now listen Jack, just because we are the youngest on the bus doesn’t mean that the journey wont be interesting and there is always the cream tea at the end of today!”
“Wow,” I said. “High spot of the trip!”

The coach left on time and soon we were flying down the motorway. The guide, a tall gentleman with a small moustache, announced that we were proceeding towards Wykhampton where we were to tour a medieval church and a swannery.
“I knew it would be fun with a capital ‘F’” I whispered and earned myself another punch.

The church was one of the really old types with a square tower sporting a small steeple. There was a large graveyard full of lichen and moss covered tombstones, where I smoked a cigarette as I waited. Churches were not really my scene, but Carol said she enjoyed the ambience of a really old church the air, still redolent with odours of candle wax and age. Me? I could only smell must and mould!

We spent an inordinate amount of time at the Swannery, the passengers parting with hard earned cash to obtain bags of mouldy crumbs to feed already over fed birds! Photographs had to be taken and cameras were handed to and fro to record this momentous part of the journey.

Our next stop was the Forest of Aveldon. A particular place of interest due to the large number of oak trees that flourished in this part of the country. Although other species grew there, the mighty oak predominated and had for the past four hundred years.
Carol caught me yawning as the guide pointed out various aspects of the forest as we proceeded deeper into the leafy jungle and she left me in no doubt that we would have some serious falling out, if I, in her words, didn’t grow up and get with ‘the programme’!

The guide, whose name I learnt was Mr. Goodman, helped each of our fellow passengers down the steps of the bus. We were now parked in a small area which had been laid out in one of the forest glades. A tea /coffee and snacks trailer was stationed across from where we sat and we all made our way across to it to check out its fare.
“Toilets are across there!” shouted Mr Goodman indicating two brick buildings on the edge of the forest. “Back here in an hour please everybody and we can continue our trip!”

By the time most people were back on the coach, we all had had something to eat and drink, stretched our legs and had relieved ourselves. There was a growing air of expectancy as to our next port of call amongst the passengers which I was trying to plumb into, if for no other reason than keeping Carol sweet.
“Is every aboard?” called Mr Goodman expectantly. “We really need to be at our next stop in an hour.”
A silence fell, for everybody knew who was missing – the two old ladies, Ella and Prissy.
“Has anyone seen them?” asked a slightly worried Mr Goodman. “In which direction did they set off?”
Everyone, including Carol and I shook our heads. I think we had all given the old ladies a wide berth as they exuded an aura of slight eccentricity and no one wanted to get ‘latched’ onto by them.

After a further fifteen minutes Mr Goodman was beginning to look distraught.
“Where can they be?” he was murmuring to himself. “I wonder if I should inform the police.”
Carol turned to me and said.
“Come on Jack, we’ll go look for them.”
“Wwwhatt?” I stammered. “You want me to go looking for the two old dears? What happens if we get lost?”
But Carol was on her feet and forcing me out into the passageway.
“We’ll go look for them, Mr Goodman!” she cried shoving me towards the bus door.

Mr Goodman, Carol and I had a powwow before we left the safe confines of the glade.
“I have a whistle,” said Mr Goodman. “If the ladies appear back I will blow it and keep blowing it till you return.”
“If we return…” I grumbled, getting a very nasty glare from Carol.

The branches closed behind us obscuring the bus and its occupants. Carol and I were following a well used path, if the amount of litter was anything to go by. Coke cans, crisp papers and sweet wrappers blew about.
“How far do we have to go?” I moaned to Carol’s back. “I’m hungry and I’m cold.”
Carol turned on me and hissed.
“It’s always me, me, me with you, Jack! What happens if one of them is hurt?”

Ten minutes later we heard a squeaky voice calling.
“Oh come down kitty. Please come down!”
Stepping into a small clearing we saw one of the elderly ladies, Prissy, I think, beckoning to a small cat which was sitting high up in a tree.
Ella stepped forward and pointed at the trapped animal.
“I am so sorry my sister and I have got you to come looking for us, but we couldn’t leave the poor animal trapped up there.”
I stepped up to the tree and shouted. My voice being a little louder than the old lady’s gave the cat a shock, for suddenly it ran along the branch, scampered down the tree trunk and vanished into the forest.
“Oh, I feel so foolish…” Ella began to say, but Prissy cut her off.
“No good deed goes unpunished, sister. We achieved what we set out to do.”

By the time we got back to the bus Mr Goodman was on the point of sending some of the more able of the passengers out to look for us! The law of diminishing returns! Goodness knows what would have happened then. More passengers setting off later to find these passengers? The bus would eventually be found as empty as the Marie Celeste!

As Ella and Prissy made their way back to their seats amid hostile stares from their fellow passengers, Mr Goodman told the driver to start up and get on our way.
The next visit sadly would have to be cancelled, explained Mr Goodman. It was to be a trip to a winery for some tasting but to ‘our’ tardiness we had missed our time ‘slot’ and would have to carry on to the next venue.
This news engendered mumping and moaning amongst the passengers especially with the wine aficionados and I noticed that the two old ladies kept their heads down and pretended to be fascinated by the passing scenery.

Castle Tresdal was our next stop and the battlements and towers of the edifice were visible from quite far away. The property was the family seat of the Vernon family and they had owned it for several hundred years, passing from heir to heir. Their crest was a rampant cockatrice and the motto read ‘Fear what I can do’.
As Carol and I stepped down from the bus the two elderly ladies rushed up to us and thanked us again profusely for coming to look for them.
“We haven’t been formerly introduced,” one of them said. “I am Ella and this is my sister Prissy and you are…?”

As Carol and I walked round with the sisters their tongues never stopped, even the castle guide had a hard job getting heard, but eventually the ladies took a hint from the other passengers and their conversation subsided to a ‘peep’.
The tour wended through the Great Hall with its elegant furniture, wall drapes and tapestries. The guide pointed to the stone staircase that descended from the first floor to centre of the hall. Several suits of armour stood guard at the edge of the banisters giving the area a baronial feel. As the party made their way up the steps Prissy stopped at one of the armoured suits and put out her hand to touch it.
Ella hissed at her.
“Prissy, don’t touch it. You might knock it of balance…”
Prissy started at her sister’s rebuke and knocked into the suit. It stood quivering for a second then fell sideways into the suit of armour below it on the stair. Like dominoes, the suits crashed down the stairs until they came to rest at the bottom looking like a scrap dealer’s collection.

As our coach made a hasty retreat from Castle Tresdal leaving very long faced guides and a very angry Lord Vernon, Mr Goodman decided that we should make for our hotel where we would have dinner and sleep the night. It had been a full day, he remarked and he hoped that everyone had enjoyed themselves. More muttering could be heard from the passengers and I received another punch in the arm from Carol for my muffled sniggering.

The Hotel Splendour (Five Stars) lived up to its name and provided the tour passengers with a meal to be proud of. A three course dinner that gave us a choice of meat, fish and vegetarian plates. Wine was served with the meal and there was coffee and biscuits to follow.
By the time Carol and I made our way to our bedroom, we were very tired what with the day’s activities, the meal and the excellent vintage of wine. As I closed the bedroom door, Carol switched on the thirty inch television which was attached to the wall of our room. It just happened to be a football match between two Premier teams.
Carol just grimaced and said she was going to take a long soak in the bath. “Wake me up when your football’s finished,” she said shutting the bathroom door.

With a can of beer, a packet of peanuts and a bar of chocolate, all from the mini bar in my room. I settled down in the armchair to enjoy the game. It had just started and it looked like Fernwall had scored already.

When I heard the knocking I thought it was someone in the next room telling me to turn the volume down, but on muting the sound I realised that it was coming from our bedroom door. I strode over and opened it.
“Oh Jack!” cried Prissy as she shot into our room dressed in a flannelette nightie.. “We are in dreadful trouble…”
“Can you help us Jack? We’re in a real pickle,” wailed Ella, who was sporting a purple pyjama suit.

It transpired that after changing for bed in their room, Ella had decided to leave her shoes outside the room for cleaning. No sooner had she emerged when Prissy rushed out with her shoes and the room door had banged shut behind them. As luck would have it the door had locked and the key was inside the room.
“All you have to do is go down and borrow the night porter’s key,” I said looking over at the television where Fernwall had scored another goal.
“Oh Jack,” they both chorused. “Couldn’t you go down? We’re in our bedclothes.”

Descending to the foyer I approached the desk where a elderly woman sat.
“Good evening sir,” she said, looking over the top of her spectacles. “How can I help you?”
I explained about the sisters’ predicament and asked if I could borrow the spare key for their room.
“If you could just wait for a couple of minutes, sir, the evening porter has gone to check the kitchen. When he returns he will come up and open the door.”
I thanked her and wandered over to the front door where I was just about to light a cigarette when I heard a shout and the sound of someone running.
“Quick Nancy!” shouted a man in uniform who I took to be the night porter. “Room number 233’s bath must be overflowing, there’s water coming through room 122’s ceiling! Who has room number 233?”
I knew instinctively before Nancy checked that it was Ella and Prissy’s room. It just had to be!
I followed the night porter and the receptionist up the stairs where upon the door to the sisters’ room being opened, a cascade of water rushed out. Prissy went white and began to cry.
“Oh I am sorry, I was going to take a bath and when we were locked out it just skipped my mind!”

Later that night as I lay in bed watching some stupid sitcom and Carol read her book I reflected on the trip – so far.
“They had to put the people from room 122 into another room, you know, Carol?” I said. “Everything was dripping and their bed was saturated.”
Carol put her book down and looking at me said.
“Ella and Prissy are just old. Life is too fast for them and sometimes they have a bit of bad luck.”
I reached over and drawing her to me kissed her on the lips.
“That is what I love about you sweetheart. You are always able to see the positive side.” I rolled over, switched off the television and was soon sound asleep.

It was a pair of very sheepish looking people who came down to breakfast the next morning. The sisters sat quietly at their table and ate some toast and drank a little coffee. Carol waved across to them and gave them a smile but the reciprocal greeting was very muted – from both ladies.

The coach pulled away from the Hotel Splendid with a sigh of relief from the staff. The insurance would cover the flooding out but as to whether the coach tour company would ever be welcome back was another matter.
Mr Goodman tried to get some songs sung by the passengers but the atmosphere was a little stilted and his attempt fell flat. Soon, the only sound was the coach’s engine and the hum of the tyres on the road.

“Here we are everyone!” enthused Mr Goodman. “This is Raithnett Glass Factory. It is famous all over the world for its glass products. Glass is blown into vases, bowls and other beautiful objects. It also has a cafeteria where we can have a snack.”

Ella and Prissy were the last ones off the bus. They were looking a bit down and Carol decided to raise their spirits.
“Come on ladies,” she said as she approached the sisters. “Let’s see what we can buy in here.” Linking an arm with each of the ladies the three of them entered the doors of the factory.
I stayed outside to enjoy a cigarette. I didn’t smoke a lot but I savoured the few I did smoke.
It was a warm day and the air was full of the sound of bees buzzing and birds’ cries. The sky was blue with little puffy white clouds drifting along. Idyllic with nothing to spoil it, when….Crash!!
The sound of glass smashing came from inside the building. I heard screams and all at once a flow of people began exiting the factory – quickly. I looked out for Carol, Ella and Prissy but couldn’t see them. What had happened?
Eventually the flow of bodies slowed then stopped. All was silent through the doors and myself and the members of the coach tour stood waiting with bated breath.

“Right ladies,” said a stentorian voice from inside the factory. “If you would make your way back to your coach please.”
Ella, Prissy and Carol emerged led by two security guards. Mr Goodman followed wringing his hands and looking thoroughly upset.
“What happened?” I asked Carol when we were walking back to where the bus was parked.
“Oh, you know, a little problem that got out of hand,” she said. “Ella picked up a paper weight and after admiring it handed it to Prissy. Prissy wasn’t watching and she dropped it onto the glass shelf- which broke. But Ella went to catch the falling paper weight and knocked one of the security guards who in turn fell through a glass display of vases. Not to be outdone the glass display smashed into a series of glass shelves displaying glass decanters.”
“Is that all?” I asked stupidly.
“Is that not enough?” replied Carol angrily.

On our way home, I thought to myself, only another few hours and I can get down to the pub and play darts with some of the lads. The bus trip had been a disaster. The poor old biddies, everything they touched seemed to go awry. Well at least I had had two days with Carol even if I had picked up some bruises on my arm!

“Can I have everyone’s attention please?” Mr Goodman shouted. “I’m sorry everything has not gone perfectly today.”
There were a few groans and sniggers from the passengers, but Mr Goodman soldiered on.
“We will be back in Cherton in a few hours, but I thought that we would stop at the Skylan Nature Reserve for a few minutes. The flower displays are beautiful and I feel it might raise our spirits. What do you say?”
No one spoke for a bit then Carol stood up and said.
“We owe Mr Goodman a vote of thanks for this entertaining (more groans) two days. I for one, think it is a wonderful idea to stop at Skylan.”
Suddenly everyone was shouting yes and clapping their hands. Mr Goodman was quite carried away by the response and began to sing the words to the ‘Happy Wanderer’ to which everyone joined in.

Skylan Nature Reserve was a beautiful spot and as Mr Goodman said, the flower displays were outstanding with their mixtures of colours and hues. The sun was shining strongly and it seemed as if all the mishaps that had befallen the trip had been forgiven. The coach passengers laughed and joked amongst themselves. Promises to stay in touch were made and addresses exchanged.
 Ella and Prissy were admiring the flowers and pointing out various species to all who cared to listen. They laughed aloud at someone’s joke and looked thoroughly relaxed.

The bee that was flying through the fields happened to pick up the scent of Skylan’s flowers and decided to stop for one more sample of pollen. It had flown many miles from the hive and it was tired, but it would manage one more stop. It flew down and alighted on a large hydrangea blossom- just as Carol bent over to smell the same blossom. The bee panicked due the proximity of Carol and stung her.
As the bee died so too Carol began to die. She had an allergy to bee stings and as she fell to the ground her air passageways began to close up.
 “Carol!” I screamed as I saw her fall to the ground. “What is wrong?”
I knelt down next to her and put my ear to her mouth. She managed to choke out the word ‘bee’ before her breathing stopped. I jumped to my feet screaming for medical help. She needed anti histamine right away if her life was to be saved. The seconds counted. She needed help.
Mr Goodman ran to the bus and got the first aid kit as I knelt down again and held my lovely Carol in my arms. I must have started crying for teardrops began to fall on her face.
“There’s no anti histamine!” shouted Mr Goodman. “Why is there no antihistamine?”

Suddenly everything went quiet. The shouting died away and I felt as if Carol and I were totally on our own.
“Don’t let her die,” I pleaded. “Please don’t let her die.”
Then there was Prissy and Ella standing by us. Their clothes gleamed with a radiance and I knew that they were very special.
“Let me take her for a minute, Jack,” whispered Ella and lifted Carol out of my arms as if she was as light as a feather.
Prissy took a handkerchief out of her bag and laid it over Carol’s face and then from a small bottle she dripped some golden coloured liquid onto the cloth.
All this was done in total silence and the whole area had taken on an ethereal ambience to it. Then came a darkness which swilled around like inky flood water and swallowed me up.

When I opened my eyes I saw Ella and Prissy standing looking down at me. I was lying on the grass and the sun was warming me.
“Carol?” I managed to splutter.
“Here I am, my love,” said Carol kneeling down next to me. “I think you must have fainted. Too much sun.”
“But, you died. I watched you. You were dead,” I was trying to make sense.
“Now Jack,” said Ella. “You must have been dreaming.”
“No!” I was adamant. “You and Prissy brought her back. I know you did.”

The coach drew into Cherton and stopped at the bus depot. The passengers gave Mr Goodman three cheers and sang ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ over and over again until he held his hands up for them to stop.
Carol helped me off the bus and then went back to help Ella and Prissy down the stairs. I walked over to the two old ladies and I held each of their hands in mine.
“I don’t care what anyone says, all I know is that you used magic today and I will always believe that. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for giving me back Carol.”
Both ladies blushed furiously and mumbled that they didn’t know what I was talking about, but that they hoped we would stay in touch with them to which I whole heartedly agreed.

Later as Carol and I walked home I told her what I remembered about Ella and Prissy’s ‘magic’ and its effect.
“But Jack, if they are fairies or witches or something magical why do they have so much bad luck? “Carol asked.
“Well,” I said thinking before I spoke. “I suppose sometimes bad things happen to good people.”