Tuesday, 26 February 2008

Extract from GSOH – hiding at Crispin’s

(The scene: Roger, on the run from the police, suspected of a series of murders of women he has met through a dating agency and trying to prove his innocence, has recruited one of his dates, a TV journalist called Candice, and her colleague, Crispin, to help him. Roger and Candice have tried to get his remaining former dates to go into hiding with him, but, having initially drawn a blank, are forced to stay the night at Crispin’s house.)

As they drew up back at Crispin’s house, it was already growing dark, which suited both of them fine. Roger didn’t want to be seen. Candice certainly didn’t want to be seen with Roger.

"How’s the exclusive going?" was Crispin’s only greeting.

"Have you any food?" was Candice’s only reply.

"Try the freezer."

Candice grilled some pork chops without ceremony and without vegetables. Crispin added some canned peas, microwave chips and instant gravy as an afterthought. Bachelor cuisine. Candice sat, studying the meal, Roger toyed with his food, and only Crispin made any attempt to eat anything.

"You should get stuck in, mate," said Crispin to Roger. "It’s probably better than prison food."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," said Roger.

"I’m going to make some calls," Candice announced, abandoning her plate. She pulled out Crispin’s mobile. "I’ve got to have another shot at talking the women round."

"You won’t be needing this, then" said Crispin, stabbing her chop with his fork, along with a generous scoop of chips.

"You can have this too," said Roger, scraping his food on to Crispin’s plate before Crispin could stop him.

Crispin had just loaded his face with a huge mouthful, when the doorbell rang.

"You expecting anyone?" said Candice.

"Don’t!" said Roger. "Remember what happened when I said that?"

Unable to talk, Crispin stole a sidelong glimpse out of the front window.

"Fffck!" he cursed, spitting potato down the curtains. "Iff Frnnk Knn’nnduh!"

"It’s what?" said Roger.

Candice suddenly caught on. "Frank Kennedy! He’s a friend of Crispin’s. A detective friend."

"Oh, God! Not again!"

Crispin emptied his mouth on to his own plate in a disgusting spray of food, and slipped the other two plates underneath. "Quick – get in the kitchen! I’ll find out what he wants and try and get rid of him. If I can’t, make a dash for it."

"Don’t worry – we know how to do this."The two scuttled out of sight while Crispin gave himself a quick preen, tried to remember what normal looked like, and nonchalantly opened the door. He made sure he had a tight grip on it, just in case he needed to shut it again quickly.

"Frank!" he said, a trifle too cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"Let me in for a start. I’ve not come all this way to admire your bloody doorstep."

"I’m just having my…" But Frank had already pushed past him. So much for holding the door.

"You in here?" Frank made his way into the front lounge where the dinner table was set. "Good. It’s turning miserable out there tonight."

"What do you want?" said Crispin, following him into the room. It didn’t look like he’d brought the rest of the police force with him, but Crispin didn’t think this was a social call either.

"I got to thinking, perhaps we can do each other a favour on this dating agency killer thing." He noticed the huge pile of food on the stack of plates. "Flippin’ ‘eck. You eat well, for a thin ‘un."

"Er, that’s because I work hard. Got to keep my strength up."

"Why the three plates?"

"I’ve no place mats."

"Just as well – you might eat them an’ all. You don’t mind me coming in, do you? I’m not interrupting anything?"

"No, not at all. Well… yes. Only my dinner."

"There’s nobody else here is there?"

"No, of course not."

"Only I don’t want to get in the way."

"No, Frank. Stay as long you want. As long as it’s only a few minutes."

Out in the kitchen, and easily within earshot, Candice and Roger craned to catch every word of this performance. The number of times Candice had told Crispin not to contradict himself when writing copy.

Crispin attempted to back-track. "So, what is it you want, exactly?"

"Well, I was thinking – I’m giving you the nod and wink on any developments from the police end, when it occurred to me that you are in a privileged position with the public."

"I’m… I’m sorry, Frank, I’m not following you."

"Get rid of the little blighter," Candice hissed to herself behind her hand.

"I’ll second that," whispered Roger.

"What we could do with," said Kennedy expansively, settling into an armchair, "is some background on dating agencies in general, y’know what I mean? What kind of people use ‘em, what the service is like and so on. Build up a picture of the clients or whatever they call themselves. Sad bastards, I call ‘em."

"Know what you mean, Frank," Crispin nodded.

"So how about you run a piece on Northwest News and see if you can get members of the public to phone in with their stories? See if you can paint a picture of these nutters. Any gory details, so much the better. Especially off-the-record confessions."

"Frank – you know, nothing is ever off the record."

"Exactly. Find out as much as you can about these wierdos and losers."

The sound of Candice’s teeth grinding was abruptly drowned out by Crispin’s mobile phone going off in her hand.

"Excuse me, Frank." Crispin was the height of casual urbanity. The only thing was, he thought he was going to wet himself. "Duty calls. That’s my phone, in the kitchen."

"Wish I could cook," said Kennedy and, as Crispin left the room, stole a mouthful of pork from Crispin’s plate.

"I can’t get rid of him!" Crispin whispered to Roger. "He’s going to reinvent Crimewatch, Police Five and Dragnet at this rate!" He suddenly realised that Candice was taking no notice of him, and listening with rapt concentration to the phone call she had just received.

"Candice," said Crispin, "if it’s another date, tell him he’ll have to wait!"

Candice hung up. "It’s Elizabeth! She’s in trouble. She thinks she’s got a prowler."

"Well? So have we!" said Roger. "Does she want to swap?"

"We’ve got to go," said Candice.

"I’ll not argue with that!" Crispin leapt to the back door, unlocked it and shoved the pair of them out into the night. Trying to recollect a Tai Chi exercise, he then slowly swaggered back into the lounge to rejoin the detective.

"Just one of my sources with a tip," said Crispin.

"That mobile phone of yours must be bloody loud," said Kennedy, swallowing hurriedly. "I could almost hear what the other person was saying."

"Well… er, they do say good policemen have big ears."

"Do they bollocks. You’re thinking of Noddy."

Outside, in the pitch dark of a damp Manchester evening, Candice and Roger encountered another obstacle. The gate on the side path of Crispin’s house was locked.

"Hang on," said Roger. "I’ll give you a bunk up."

"You will not!"

"Then you give me a bunk up."

"Piss off."

"Which finishing school did you go to?"

"Roger! Climb on top and pull me!"

"Whoa! Honeymoon night flashback."

A patent leather toe-cap caught a shin.

"What was that noise?" said Kennedy. "Y’know, these chips are a bit soggy. You should give ‘em another couple of minutes… There it is again. Can y’hear?"

"It’s… it’s…" Crispin shook his head, utterly bereft of a cover story. "It’s burglars. Probably."

"Oh, that’s alright then."

"Excuse me? You’re a police officer. Aren’t you supposed to catch burglars?"

"Jesus Christ!" said Kennedy, giving up on the chips. "If I went after every bloody burglar in Manchester, I’d never get any work done."

Outside, Roger and Candice had somehow managed to scale the gate. Candice thought she might have laddered something. Roger though he might have ruptured something. They tiptoed over to the Galaxy and quietly let themselves in.

As Crispin heard the familiar sound of his own car starting up and driving away, Kennedy took out a Regal and lit it. "Now, about this TV piece…"

Crispin looked in stern disapproval at Kennedy’s cigarette. "Do you mind?" he said.

"What?" said Kennedy, puzzled for a moment. "Oh! Sorry." He took out the packet and offered it to Crispin. "Help yourself."


End of Extract

Monday, 18 February 2008

Not Dead Yet

I wrote this originally as a song for a friend who had just recovered from a serious illness - now it feels more and more like tempting Fate every time I sing it! On the other hand, if I don't post it soon... well, I might not get the chance!

Some friends say I’m on the way out
Won’t give them satisfaction by checking out
I am staying here a while have no doubt
And if you say it one more time, I’ll give you a clout

I’m not dead yet, not dead yet
Going to live another day, you can bet
Go down to the bookie’s, see what odds you can get
I’m older but I’m not dead yet.

I maybe flaky, shaky like a share price going down
I’m as good as a gold standard and as sound as a pound
I’m feeling kind of dried up but don’t put me in the ground
Get you wallet open and buy me another round

I’m eating at life’s buffet, the crackers and the dips
Spin the roulette wheel, I’m not cashing in my chips
I’ll take what life throws at me, chew on it and suck it
The last thing that I plan to do is go and kick the bucket

I might look run down like I’m going to the dogs
But I’m going to chase the hare, I’m not going to pop my clogs
If you think I’m packing in, well, you can go and stuff it
I’ve got housework left to do before I’ve time to snuff it.

You can forget the lilies and you can lose the blossom
I may be lying still but I’m only playing possum
Some think that I’ve departed but I’ve not gone for good
Put me in a box and I’ll play "knock on wood"

I’ve met some care professionals all so earnest
A funeral director and a taxidermist
My doctor says I’m at death’s door, he’s going to pull me through
I turned around and told him just what he could go and do

Some friends say I’m on the way out
Won’t give them satisfaction by checking out
I am staying here a while have no doubt
And if you say it one more time I’ll give you a clout

I’m not dead yet, not dead yet
Going to live another day, you can bet
Go down to the bookie’s, see what odds you can get
I’m older but I’m not dead yet.

I’m still warm and walking, still dancing and a-talking,
shouting, crying, skipping, jumping, laughing and a-squawking
So think about it, sort it out, get it through your head

I AM STILL NOT DEAD!

Thursday, 7 February 2008

29

How far would you go for justice? When is justice just revenge, and when does revenge become evil?

(Beginning piece of a longer story)

"The highest achievement of human ingenuity is justice."

Dr Hall looked round the lecture theatre to gauge the reaction to this assertion, so lacking in equivocation. This was the third lecture in the module, The Psychology of Morality, and so far it had been pretty regular stuff. Pretty regular reaction – note-taking, yawning, wandering gaze. Which were paying attention, which were thinking, which might want to debate with him in tutorial later in the week? Which might anticipate what he was going to say next?

"And the ingenuity of the achievement lies in the way we humans deceive ourselves that it exists."

Did he detect a faint murmur in the ranked tiers of his audience? He held up his pen, a plain, ordinary ballpoint. "Supposing this was yours, and I stole it – what would be justice? Suppose, on the way out of this lecture someone picks the loose change out of your pocket? Not very serious. But suppose that was the only money you had for your bus fare to get home this evening, or to buy food for the weekend. What would be justice then?

"Suppose your change included your keys. Someone gets into your bed-sit and steals your hi-fi? Or you live at home with your parents – someone breaks in, rapes your mother, kicks your father to death. How would you feel if a court said, ‘But the attacker didn’t mean to kill the man – he was sick and the illness, aggravated by the assault, was the cause of death.’ Your mother suffers trauma for the rest of he life, can’t go outdoors. What would be a suitable sentence from a court in this country?

"Would you take justice into your own hands, perhaps? It’s against the law in this country, but if the victims were your own flesh and blood, would you feel entitled? Obligated? Forced to take action? Justified?

"We equate justice with punishment. But how do you make punishment as great as evil and are we in the right even to try? And wouldn’t we be committing evil ourselves?

"This pen I am holding up was sent to me through the mail. It was from Amnesty International, a well-know, world-wide charity that campaigns for fair trials and just treatment of prisoners, and the stopping of torture. They were asking for funds for their cause. They pointed out in their leaflet that a pen such as this, in the hands of a secret policeman, could be used as an instrument of torture. To blind somebody. I will leave you to imagine the fundamental details.

"It is often said that the best person to define what is just response to a wrong-doer’s act is the victim. Let the victim decide what is just. If you’ve just had your eye gouged out, what do you think you might say?"

Terry felt distinctly uncomfortable in his seat. He was a mature student, which meant that he was a good fifteen to twenty years older than most of the other students on this course. He had chosen psychology because he wanted to know more about people, and, being a social science, he had been led to believe there would be lots of women on the course. He thought it might be a positive thing, to start looking around for someone to start a relationship with, since his wife had died. And, since he had also been made redundant with a fair settlement, and had no other responsibilities, he felt he should do what he liked. There was some doubt he’d get another job at his age anyway. He could re-skill… or he could just go and be a carefree student doing what he wished. He looked round at the other students and wondered what they were thinking. When he’d picked this particular module, "The Psychology of Morality," he hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe dry and dull. This was turning out to be neither.

Dr Hall, the lecturer, was continuing. "You see, it’s not just a question of ‘who is qualified to make decisions about justice?’ It’s also about what would satisfy the unjustly treated." He paused. "There was some work done at the Psychology Department of Freedom University in The States back in the Sixties. It was very controversial, and could never be repeated now, certainly not in this country, in this university. The usual guinea pigs were students, and they were locked in cells for long periods, then shown films of people undergoing torture, and told they would have similar things done to them unless they confessed to some crime none of them had committed. To make up for the fact that this was not a real prison – and to spice things up a bit, because – after all, experimenters love to push the parameters – the subjects were given adrenaline beforehand, so they would have a fear-reaction guaranteed. Then – when they had identified with and empathised with the victims – they were asked what sort of punishment the torturers should get. The results were surprising.

"A lot of the students actually came up with suggestions that were even worse than the things they had been shown – and believe me, they were bad enough. But in some instances, the pseudo-victims couldn’t say anything. They became hysterical. They started to scream. Some carried on screaming for several hours, until the adrenaline wore off or they were given barbiturates to calm them down.

"And that is my point. The only justice some victims get is to scream. All they can do is scream. They get nothing else. When you are hurt, you can scream intermittently for hours. But how long can you make a single scream? How long could you scream for, if you were in pain and believed you were about to die?

"I’m going to tell you a number. It’s a number that I promise you that you will never forget. Not when you leave this lecture theatre, not when you go home, not when you finish the term, nor the course. Not ever. The only justice these people got was to scream. And the longest single scream any of them made was for just 29 seconds."

(To be continued, possibly...)

Saturday, 2 February 2008

The House With The Room With The Hi-Fi

After Creative Writing classes, I swore I would never write another poem. This is it.
I was reminded of this piece by meeting a fellow writer who actually owns a Bang & Olufsen. Sigh....

In sixth-form there was a lad called Tony Ormerod
Quiet, curly hair, glasses.
Looked a bit like Buddy Holly
but no-one bullied, abused, threatened or touched him
For he was armed with the most venomous grolly

Could spit, split a reed at thirty feet
If it was an inch.
Knock a wayward schoolmaster off his bike
At a pinch

Didn’t really know him.
Was a friend of friends
but already I knew better than to cross him,
Then try to make amends

for vile sputum, rotten, rancid and mephitic
would have winged my way, asteroid-like
There was some irony to hear A-levels
Were his passport into medical school
to learn the art of physic.

Fermented his own wine,
Supercharged alcoholic
He drank as if in training
for his bedside manner
As, for days after, he was sick.

In Assembly the headmaster read
religious bromides from behind a lectern
while Tony loaded his mouth like a breach
and practised yokking from the balcony
during lunchtimes to see if one day
his range might reach the teach,
mid-preach.

One evening my friends of Tony
were invited to his house down
the posh end of town.
Well-heeled hardly came into it

The house was massive and plush
But, what took my breath away
Was a room that had one purpose only.
It was furnished solely with a hi-fi (and a sofa)

Oh what a hi-fi, mounted on a simple table
Speakers like wardrobes and a single Paschal light
Phonograph, plinth, elliptic diamond stylus
and the amp! A temple and its altar in its church
The house with the room with the hi-fi.
How I prayed. How I craved.

From that day on the thing I wanted most of all
(Apart from, with hormones coming to a head,
a girlfriend) was a house with a room
with a hi-fi, to listen to Ummagumma
And see Pink Floyd’s instruments where they lay
In the dark – See Emily Play
In the house with the room with the hi-fi.

I was at an impressionable age.
At 16, like putty used to duplicate keys
to unlock other people’s pleasures.
Now, in this age and of age, with CDs, DVDs MP3s,
music’s
in reach with ease.
And I no longer wish for
A house with a room with a hi-fi

but I wouldn’t mind having the girlfriend.

Saturday, 26 January 2008

Touch of Creation

Rock and Roll!

Steam lifted the nearly-triangular and flat cardboard box out of the back of his SUV and took it up the back stairs to the rehearsal rooms over the studio.

"Let’s see what we’ve got here."

There were plastic securing tapes around the box – not unlike Plasticuffs, Steam thought to himself – perhaps he could find another use for them later – before he took out his penknife and slit them apart. He lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was a swathe of bubble wrap and polystyrene balls. The bubble wrap contained an object, like eggs in a spider’s nest. He lifted the bundle out and began to tear away the wrap. The roadies would probably have great fund popping the little air cells later, between duties. Or instead of them. "Show me a conscientious roadie," Steam had been known to say, "and I’ll show you a wannabe groupie who couldn’t even make it as a bank clerk." The wrap protested and he tugged hard, shredding it away. Then, revealed at last, like Tutankhamun’s tomb to Howard Carter, there lay before him a treasure beyond price, the shining lacquered wood, ivory-coloured scratch board and gleaming brass-gold frets of a Fender Stratocaster guitar.

It was not the first time in his life he’d uncovered a Strat to the light of day. But the thrill of that first time, that magical moment when he saw the strings, the humbucker pickups and the fret-board, its pale, flesh-maple perfection under its slick patina of varnish, was always the same. It was like the first time he’d had sex, the first time he had stripped a woman and seen her naked, curved body. The moment when time itself held its breath, and he shivered with delight.

"Wonder how you’ll play," he murmured. He gathered the guitar up into his arms and held her comfortably close, like a familiar lover. Or a child, in need of comfort. Suddenly, he was gentle, cradling her, stroking the long sleek neck in an act of tenderness.

Now he was holding the wooden body up to the light, sighting along the length of the guitar like a marksman, armed with a weapon, checking for flaws. The barrel of the neck was dead straight, her aim would be true, he could go into battle safe in knowing she would not jam, or misfire or let him down at the crucial moment. When the notes would cascade like bullets, or shower like communion wine over the supplicants of the crowd. Tonight, during the show, the baptism.

Steam looked at the strings. They were Fender’s own brand and they were fine strings. But they would have been on the instrument some time at the showroom and would they would need replacing, and he preferred his own choice. This were Ernie Ball Super Slinkies with the 9 top E – he’d tried the Extra Slinkies which were an 8, but this was just too light. 9 was just right. He would put them on later, fresh like dew on grass for tonight’s show. But first he just wanted to check the electrics. He reached down for a TEAC cable – alleged to be so tough they were roadie-proof, connected one end to the angled cable slot rudely on view on the front of the body, next to the control knobs, the other into a small Marshall practice amp, and snapped on the chunky red switch.

The guitar became alive.

He caressed the strings, held down a G major . Amazingly, the instrument was almost in tune. Considering the rough ride it must have had from manufacturer to showroom to him. Steam tried a few more chords – the D was out – a riff, and a couple of runs – everything was fine. He just needed to get the Slinkies on and give them the chance to settle down – new strings always took a while to bed in and would slip for some time on the machine heads. Get the in-transit strings taken off and play in the new strings ready for tonight, when they and their blood-red and sunburst new home would start earning their keep before a live audience.

Hard-egg came in the room. "You got it?"

Steam nodded. "I don’t like changing guitar in the middle of a tour – it’s like changing ladies in the middle of the night. I wanna stay with the old one."

"Romantic bugger," said Hard-egg. "You should have thought of that before you trod on the old one."

Steam looked at his old sunburst Fender standing in the corner of the room. Already battered before the ‘mishap,’ gouges and scrapes in her skin, varnish worn right down to the wood on a fretboard that had had an army of fingers march across it, the scratch plate was cracked and the pickups depressed inwards. Steam felt contrite. "Yeah, well – I dunno, I was really drunk at the time. I didn’t know she’d fallen over. What’s that melon-head technician say about getting her fixed?"

"Solder-iron Boy? He’s out now getting new parts. I don’t think he’ll have her fixed for tonight. It’s almost tea. You’d better get prepped."

Steam picked up the psychedelic pink packet of Super Slinkies. "Already on it," he said.



The concert was a sell-out, the tour indeed was sold out, the album climbing high in the charts. The new Stratocaster had a lot to do and it didn’t let Steam down. When it came to the big solo, screaming and aching to touch a level of meaning that no words could match, it was like the guitar was playing him. His back arched, his fingers bled to please, the feverish desire of every note soared over the heads of the enraptured crowd.

A young man in the audience, at his first ever gig in his life, felt the pleading urgency and spirit of the guitar seeking him, stretching out to him. His skin rose in goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck bristled.

Just then, as Steam tipped himself back to the peak of the final squealing crescendo, a solitary bright spotlight held him in its aura, the dazzling beam bounced off the diamond-shine of the Stratocaster’s smooth slab body and shot into the fan-mass to the young man, sanctifying him, in a blazing spark of brilliance. It was like God reaching out to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The young man now knew what he must do – with himself, with his world, his life.

He must play guitar. A new guitarist was born.

The End

Thursday, 17 January 2008

Shank

Monologue by person dressed in an overall

Don’t ever be taken in by appearances. Don’t! It’s a big mistake. It could cost you.

Take a look at me, for instance. At first, you might think that I’m a labourer. A hard-working man, grafting with his hands. I’m not a labourer. Though I do keep my hands occupied. But I don’t have a job. Still less, would I ever have tools. They’re not allowed.

I’m not allowed any other clothes besides these overalls, either. Except for flip-flops. A ridiculous combination. Don’t blame me. I didn’t choose it.

If you look closer at these overalls, you may notice there is something not quite right about them. That’s partly what I mean about appearances. You need to look closer than your first impression.

Can you see what it is? This kind of overalls is sometimes called a "bib and brace" overall. Well, no sleeves, and they’ve got the bib. But have a look at the braces. See? Denim overalls, but no denim brace. That would be too strong. So we have these stupid elastic straps instead.

You can’t strangle yourself with a piece of elastic. At least, not easily. You can’t strangle anyone else either. They’d just struggle and get away. It would be hard to pull the elastic really tight and, anyway, this stuff’s so thin it would easily snap.

We’re not allowed anything like that in here. I’ve been here quite a long time. Never mind why. To be honest, I don’t understand why. I didn’t do anything wrong. At least, anything I see as wrong. Sometimes people just judge you with their opinions. Their opinions, your appearances – it’s all dodgy. Don’t.

They think I’m safe here now. Or rather, that they’re safe. I can’t get out, that I can’t hurt anyone. I’d never hurt anyone, honest. Not unless I had to. Sometimes you don’t have a choice in these things.

They don’t let you have anything you could tie something with, so no braces and no sleeves. Nothing you could hit with, so no shoes. Nothing you could cut or stab or lever with. They don’t let you have anything you could do anything with. Nothing. So you have to take, or, if you are lucky, find something.

I found a coin. It wasn’t… I don’t know how much it was for, but that didn’t matter to me. It had a far greater value than currency. There’s a stone step in the entrance way to the compound – they let us out there to exercise and leave the doors open on fine days so we get some fresh air and a bit of movement. There’s no way out of that compound, though. They’ve built it too well. As far as I can tell yet at any rate. Maybe I’m missing something. I don’t usually miss much. I’ve a lot of time to look at things. Anyway, the step. When nobody was watching, I’d rub the coin on the stone. I had to get it sharp. And to change its shape. Round was no good. I needed a sharp thing with a flat edge. One of the other inmates told me about that. Took me ages, to get the shape.

That inmate taught me something else. There’s an office attached to the ward. The door’s open in the day, so the orderly can see out from his desk. Come out and intervene if anyone kicks off. That happens quite a bit in a place like this. When the staff were busy, I used my coin to start undoing the screws in the hinges of the door. It was finger-breaking work at first. Took a lot of time to loosen those screws. But that’s OK – I’ve got a lot of time.

There’s another door out of the office to an adjoining office connecting to another ward. But it’s not used, ever. They’ve put filing cabinets in front of it. That was another mistake of theirs.

We go to our beds at night and the lights are put out and there’s no orderly at night. The office door is locked. But I got most of the screws out of the hinges. One night, it was really quiet, I just pushed the door hard on its hinge side, wiggled it, moved it around, and the door suddenly fell inwards, off its hinges. It didn’t take me by surprise. I’d been ready, and caught it before it fell. Got in the office. Moved the filing cabinets out of the way. The other door wasn’t even locked. Another mistake. Not that getting into the other office was really what I was after. Searched this office, trying to find stationery supplies that might be useful, but even they weren’t quite that stupid. Apart from the adhesive tape and some pencils. But the other door was interesting. There was a kind of carpet tack strip in the threshold of the door. There wasn’t any carpet, of course – the floor is covered in lino-like tiles. But the strip was there, held down with more screws.

Had to keep going back, night after night. Forcing the door back into place before lights on. But I got that metal strip, eventually. And, as the door was never used, no-one knew. I broke off what I needed, hid the rest. Not that it matters if they find it. I’ve got what I need.

Did the same thing with the strip as I did with the coin. Rubbed it on the stone. Always made it look casual, like the boredom of the place was driving me into delirium. Like you sometimes see with animals in zoos. I remember once seeing a tiger in a cage, just pacing, back and forth, back and forth. So I was just messing around, moving my hand, back and forth. Appearances. They didn’t know, under my palm, was the metal strip.

That metal strip is now sharp, a blade. Bound it with the tape into a bundle of the pencils, to make a handle. Now I’ve got my own shank, my own knife. I can prise things open, lift snecks, undo screws, force windows. And cut. Slice, hack, puncture, stab. I’m sure the tiger would approve.

They think they’re safe. They think I’m safe.

We're getting out tonight. Me and my knife.

So much for appearances.

The end.

Sunday, 13 January 2008

Letter to Connor

This is a real letter

Dear Connor,

SOME INFORMATION ABOUT EARTH

(A Passing Traveller's Guide)

Thank you for visiting our planet. We are sorry that you were unable to stay longer, but we know there are much better, brighter and more enjoyable places for you to see and we look forward to joining you some time. But, for now, our paths have to part. In the meantime, if I can, let me tell you a little about the place where we have to stay before catching up with you.


1. Jokes. Jokes are our way of coping with Earth. Some jokes are quite funny while others aren’t so good. Sometimes they have to be very good indeed, because being on Earth can be not much fun at all. Earth can be nasty, and this is our way of getting our own back, by making jokes about it.

2. Laughter. A lot of the laughter occurs just out of nowhere, like grass or an irritating itch between the toes. And then some the laughter comes from the jokes I mentioned before. If it wasn’t for the laughter, we’d just have to cry all the time.

3. Friends. Friends are great to share jokes and laughter with. We also share crying with friends. We were looking forward to sharing things with you as our friend, but we know you had more important things to do elsewhere. That doesn’t matter too much because we’ll still be friends anyway, so there’s nothing to worry about.

4. Time. Time is strange because it goes on forever, yet there never seems to be enough of it. Except when you’re waiting to see a friend. That’s one of the times we need the jokes and stuff, just to pass the time.

5. Pain. You won’t need to know anything about pain. It’s something only we have to put up with.

6. Loss. Sometimes we lose things and we cry, or we say, "where on Earth did I put it?" but then we just have to laugh because nothing’s every really lost, it’s just moved away from us for a short while.


So that’s Earth. Not very exciting really. OK for a visit but not a place you’d want to stay forever. I bet you’ve found somewhere better already.



Please wait for us and get things ready.


Tuesday, 8 January 2008

Away Day

Many people have to travel for business. Best advice is: don't leave home... unless you have a good reason to go back.
(First published in Runshaw Writers' Write Lines magazine)

Just another commuter, Lizzy thought, as she stood at the barrier, collecting tickets. Everyone in London always in a hurry. Never time to stop and exchange pleasantries. Pity – he had a certain look about him she liked.

" ‘Morning," he said, courteously. "This is Farringdon Underground station, isn’t it?"

Ah, she thought, not local. "Big city, isn’t it?"

"Vast," he replied, struggling with briefcase and unnecessary raincoat as he passed her his ticket.

That settled it – definitely a Lanky accent. Like her Dad’s. "This is the wrong ticket," she said, patiently.

"How much more is it? I’ve got a job interview at half past. I’ve only come from Euston."

It flashed through her mind how her Dad had "got on his bike" and come down to London from the Northwest looking for work in the Eighties, and had never gone back. "You’ve given me given me your Virgin Day Return ticket – you’ll be wanting this back. It’s your Underground ticket I need to see."

He swapped the ticket for the Virgin Return to Wigan North Western. "You see, this job means a lot to me if I get it and I’m running late. I’ll have to be fast."

"This is the right ticket," she said.

He thanked her then sprinted for the station exit.

He sprinted back a moment later. "You couldn’t tell me where Saffron Hill is, could you?"

She told him.

"Thank you – must dash."

He was back within the hour. His pace was rather more measured but he seemed no less agitated. "Excuse me."

"Yes?"

"I – I’m awfully sorry, I don’t even know your name."

"Lizzy."

"Nice to meet you. I’m Arnold. Lizzy, I was wondering if I could ask you a favour."

"Well… I get off in half an hour so you might be lucky," she grinned. She was kidding with him, but wasn’t quite sure he realised.

"Oh. Ah. That’s jolly kind of you. Thank you. You have a nice laugh. But what I really wanted to say was – I don’t suppose by any chance anyone has handed in a Virgin Day Return ticket, have they?"

"You mean this one?" She held up the little card. "You must have dropped it before. I didn’t notice it till you’d gone."

"Yes, that’s it…"

Lizzy noticed that her customer had suddenly gone rather quiet, as if a final burden of anxiety had been taken from him. But not in a good way. "I expect you’ll be down South here again before long."

He hesitated. "I wouldn’t bet on it."

"Oh? Why’s that?"

"I don’t think the interview went that well. In fact, not awfully well at all."

"You can always hope," she said.

"I think when they say, ‘We don’t want you, you’re not adequately qualified and you don’t have the necessary experience,’ it’s hard to take it as a good sign."

"Oh," she said. She looked him up and down. He was about her age, clean-cut – smartly dressed, if a little crumpled. Did he really want to come and live down here? If her father hadn’t come South, would she herself have moved anyway? She could imagine Arnold, setting out that morning neat and tidy and eager, hopeful and optimistic. Now all he had was a return ticket and a long journey home. "You’ll be going back to Euston then?"

"With these Away-Day tickets or whatever they’re called, you can only travel on certain trains. The return is not till early this evening. I was expecting the interview to last a little longer. I suppose I’ll just have to find a way to pass a few hours."

She studied him again. "You know," she said, "I wasn’t joking when I said I was getting off-duty. Perhaps I could join you. How does Kew Gardens take your fancy?"

"I was hoping you’d suggest something, I didn’t like to ask."



They had explored the hot-houses of white-painted wrought iron and glass with their exotic foliage, climbed the spiral stair cases up to the walkways just below the roof, and looked down on the succulent fronds, while exchanging idle chit-chat that had been about nothing, yet told each everything that needed to be known by the other. Now, sated and not a little tired, they went outside.

"You’re a Lancashire lad, aren’t you?"

"How d’you mean?" Arnold said.

"‘Vast, pass, dash, laugh,’" she recited.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Arnold was puzzled.

She burst into giggles. "No Southerner would pronounced them the way you do!"

"Really?"

"No – it’d be all ‘Varst, parss, darsh and larf!’ You say them proper, like me Dad.

"In that case, he grinned, "let’s sit on the grass."

"I like coming here," Lizzy announced, gazing at the parkland as if it were her own private garden. "Me Dad grew up in the country, so he said."

"I like countryside. Do you?"

"When I can get to it. Either here or Richmond Park. That’s almost real countryside."

He rolled on his side to look at her. "I suppose so. I’ve never been. But isn’t it still inside London?"

"It feels like countryside. I once saw a deer. Don’t tell me Wigan is countryside."

"I don’t live in Wigan."

"Where do you live, then?"

"It’s a village, outside. Called Appley Bridge."

"What’s that like? Is that countryside?"

"Oh yes," said, turning away. "It’s in a beautiful river valley, full of fields and trees. I live in a small old house near the Leeds and Liverpool canal. I bet you’d love it."

She looked round at the park, with its strolling visitors and pathways and its feeling of being ersatz – familiar, totally explored and well-trodden by countless feet. Not wild and strange and fresh. "Why do you want to move down here then?"

"Job, career, prospects… Don’t know really."

"You mean – it’s someone else’s idea of what’d make you happy."

He considered her remark. "You’re probably right, Lizzy. In fact, now you mention it, I’m sure you’re right!" It was as if an epiphany had befallen him. "I don’t want to move down to London at all! It’s just a big sprawling city that some people think is important. There are other important things." He stopped, as if another thought had struck him. "But you live down here."

"Why should that matter?"

"Well…"

"Yes?" she teezed.

"I wouldn’t like the thought of not seeing you again. Meeting you has been the nicest thing that’s happened to me today. The nicest thing in a long time."

"What a sweet thing to say," she said, making fun of his grave tone. Then, herself, more serious: "In fact – actually – Arnold, this has been the nicest day I’ve had for a long time, too."

He plucked a green stem from the lawn. "Oh, Lizzy," he said, mock-serious. "What are we going to do?"



Euston Concourse, early evening. People bustling over the black rubber tiles, heaving luggage, dragging reluctant children, staring nervously at the annunciator board, checking arrivals and departures.

"Tickets, sir?" said the inspector at the gate.

"Here," said Arnold. "One return…" he turned and took Lizzy’s hand. "And one single."

The End

Thursday, 3 January 2008

Real Christmas

Real Christmas should be magical. Sometimes it really is.

It was hard. Really hard. Darryl had lost his job in the summer. The redundancy had come out of nowhere, like a summer storm.

"We’ll be alright," he said to Stacy. "Don’t worry. I’ll soon get something else."

The summer ended and the new school year approached. Stacy said: "Can we get the kids new uniforms for this year? They’re growing up, Jason and Beatrice."

"Can’t they get a bit wear out of the clothes they’ve got?"

"It’s not fair, Dad. The other kids will make fun of us," said Jason.

"And I don’t fit this any more," said Beatrice. Darryl could not help but feel a tiny wave of pride wash over him has he saw his little girl was already on the threshold of becoming a young woman. That he could not dress her in the finest of fine clothes bit into him like a whip.

"It’s true," said Stacy, "it’s not a case of wear – their things just don’t fit – they’re growing kids."

It ate into the few savings Darryl had left to see the two youngsters properly kitted out for the forthcoming term. Maybe somewhere would have vacancies as the winter came on. He had worked for five years in the same company in the strategic planning department. He had to look forward, and have faith in the future.

Christmas approached, and what little cash he had left dwindled almost to nothing on essentials. It looked like Christmas was going to be bleak indeed. No fancy food, no decorations, not even any presents. Stacy knew the situation they were in all too well. What were they going to do? She and Darryl could get by, they’d had many a happy Christmas in the past, before this famine of lean times had befallen them. But, for the children, the thought of the disappointment on their faces was almost too much to bear.

Darryl led Stacy, Jason and Beatrice into the living room. "Keep your eyes closed!" he commanded, as he directed each one of them into position. "Tight closed… right – open them… now!"

Jason and Beatrice and Stacy all looked, and blinked in amazement. There was a tree, decorations, lights, cards… Selection boxes of chocolates and great big packages underneath – a great Lego ‘Dinosaur’ construction kit for Jason, a new hi-fi for Beatrice and a collection of CDs. Other, little parcels, small objects of desire. On the table, the food was stacked high, cakes and biscuits, liqueur chocolates, cooked meats and paté, a cheese board complete with a ripe Stilton, nibbles of every description. There were stacks of Christmas crackers, and not cheap ones either. Nuts, fruit, bottles of red wine, cans of beer, even a bottle of champagne. And, in the centre of the display, a huge turkey. On side plates, trimmings like roast potatoes in goose-fat, honey-glazed parsnips, pork and apricot stuffing. In fact, everything for a perfect family Christmas.

Stacy was open-mouthed. "How could you possibly have afforded all this?" she gasped, her voice choked with joy.

"I was in strategic planning," he said. "And I was good at my job. And I mean, good!"

"But where did you get all the money? It must be a miracle."

"It cost next to nothing – they were virtually giving it away down the shops. Happy Christmas!"

It didn’t matter that it was January 3rd, that it was past New Year. All the shops were selling off their excess Christmas stock as fast as they could unload it, at rock-bottom prices. Darryl had banked on this. He had planned ahead. It was a miracle that he knew would happen, as it did, every year.

As the children set about tearing the wrapping off presents and pulling crackers to gales of laughter, Darryl said, "And I got you this – that cashmere sweater you wanted. Even that was half price!"

Stacy found it more difficult than ever to speak. "But I’ve got nothing to give you!" she said, caught out by Darryl’s surprise master plan.

"Yes, you have," said Darryl, quietly. "I’ve got you."

It was their miracle, even if some of it was cut-price. It was their very own, special, January 3rd Christmas.

And, with it, hope for the future.

The end.

Tuesday, 1 January 2008

The Meeting Place

To commerate the re-opening St Pancras railway station and inspired by its Paul Day statue, The Meeting Place
The Friday evening Eurostar glided into St Pancras like an ice dancer, three minutes ahead of time, having left Paris just over two hours earlier. Jocelyn felt her stomach flip and her heart jump at the sight of the white, blue and gold train. It slid into place along the platform and sighed to a halt. This, she realised, could be the most important moment of her life. The most wonderful, or the most horrible.

Either way, she would never forget what was about to happen next.

Don’t go

Wait for me

She made her way from where she had been standing beneath the Paul Day statue to watch the crowds coming up to the ticket barrier. Dozens upon dozens of people, like a ragged, growing tide, began to drag round her. The business man in his smart suit, shoulder bag and lap-top, the family group perhaps back from a holiday, the young woman with a child, the middle-aged woman steering a trolley of luggage, the couples and the singles, like a billowing cloud around her, blocking her view. And still she could not see the one face she sought. Was Dominic going to be there, amongst them?

She was distracted by a cry from her right, as two people fled into each others outstretched arms, reunited at last.

"I expect you’ll forget me," she had said.

That day, she had just been to order a new tumble dryer for her flat. On the way back from the store, the heavens opened, great fat gobs of water splattering. As she dived for the cover of a taxi, they met.

"Share?" he suggested.

The rest of the hours of the day they passed together. As the light faded, Jocelyn realised a feeling of contentment, like she had never known before. She was thinking of the many days to come when Dominic broke his news.

"I have to go away – a long trip. Europe, then the Middle East, India, China and Polynesia. It’s all to do with work, liaising with local offices."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"That – " she shifted her gaze from his, "… not what I wanted to hear."

"I know. I’m sorry. It’s my job. It will be the big trip for the company. Once it’s done, someone else can worry about the day-to-day details. I was quite looking forward to it. I never took a gap year from college. Now I’m not so sure I want to go."

"It’s part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," she said. Where was that from? "Where is Polynesia?" she tried to sound intellectually curious, detached.

"What is Polynesia? – That’s what I said," he told her, trying to joke. "I thought it was the ability to forget a parrot, when they first told me. Either that or being able to forget about several things at once."

"Are you likely to forget things?"

"Oh, lots of things. I forget almost everything given half a chance."

"Does that included strangers you’ve met?"

"Strangers, yes."

"So you could forget me?"

"You’re not a stranger," he said, "I feel I’ve already known you for ages."

"But you haven’t."

"Don’t misunderstand – I’m sure it will take ages more to get to know even a tiny bit about you."

"How long will you be gone?"

"About two months. Not sure exactly. Perhaps you won’t want to know me then. I mean, if I can’t wash my clothes while I’m away." He offered a remorseful smile.

"You’ll need a tumble dryer," she said.

Thoughts passed between them.

Don’t leave

Don’t forget

His postcard had a picture of a parrot – a scarlet Macaw. It said when he would be back. After that were the words, "Wish I wasn’t here."

Perhaps she had got the wrong date or time. She had washed the sweatshirt she jogged in, not realising she’d pushed the postcard into the pocket, until she found it mangled and shredded in the very same tumble dryer she’d bought that day. Somehow she had forgotten to check before she threw the shirt in the wash after her morning run. The date and time of his return had been on the card and she was sure she remembered them anyway. But what if she were wrong?

What if he didn’t want to come back and see her after all. They had barely had time to get to know each other. Time – something you always have too much or too little of.

The stragglers from the train were clearing the platform. If he had been amongst the passengers she had missed him. More probably, he just wasn’t there. He’d said he forgot things. Perhaps she was one of them. She was positive she had seen everybody who had got off the train. Even when she’d glanced away at the affectionate couple greeting. Hurt and disappointment pricked and stabbed at the back of her eyes. She turned and, slowly at first, but with gathering pace, she began to walk away.

Just as she hurried beneath the statue, her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, someone got in her way. Before she could side-step, she had collided with the stranger. Why couldn’t the fool look where he was going? She stared up angrily into the eyes of the irritating person blocking her path.

"Hullo," said Dominic.

"Dominic!" She thought her eyes were lying to her. "Did you just come in on the train?"

"Why else would I be at the station?" he smiled.

"But I didn’t see you coming off the platform." She almost stamped her foot.

"You must have missed me."

"Missed you? Missed you? I was waiting at the barrier!"

"I did say, ‘beneath the statue.’ If you’d stayed at the barrier I might have missed you."

I remembered

I’m here now

He put his arms around her waist. She reached up to touch him on the cheek. She didn’t speak, just looked into his eyes.

"I told you I’d come back," Dominic said.

"I never doubted it," she answered in a whisper. It may have been a lie, but it didn’t matter.

She was right. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.

The end.

Friday, 28 December 2007

Winter Song

The time will come for everyone of us to say goodbye to all
We’ll meet again upon that distant shore
Where pain and misery will be
Just memories of what used to be
And happiness will reign for ever more

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we come to the year’s end
With brothers, sisters, foes and friends
Both by our side and scattered round the Earth
The memories that we hold so dear
Of precious ones both far and near
The future starts now with our love’s re birth

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we gather round the fire
The flames of hope reach ever higher
All come and join beside us in the feast
Holding hands and in the calm
Sharing in this safe and warm
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace

Friday, 21 December 2007

The Truth About Santa Claus

Christmas should be a magical holiday. But how can you believe in magic when Reality keeps getting in the way? Then again, sometimes, even Reality has a few tricks.

Kids have a right to believe certain things. Should we believe in fairies and elves? Is Christmas a special time? Should we believe in Santa Claus?

I’m not sure whether you should believe this story. But I promise you, it could be true. I had gone into what had once been called "The Traveller’s Rest" for a couple of drinks before the evening shift at work. It was around tea-time, the shops were shutting and it was a bitingly cold, wet evening. Christmas was not far away, and all the decorations and coloured lights and other trappings of the so-called festive season just served to throw my own despondency into stark relief. This Christmas did not look like it was going to be one of the best of times. I was in a job I didn't like, which didn't pay enough to cover the bills on my credit cards. And my girlfriend was leaving me, at the end of the week. It was going to be a great Christmas.

I was slightly surprised to see, that quiet December evening, one of the barmaids standing on the other side of the bar, evidently on her day off, making a social call. She was chatting to one of the barmaids on duty, and a chap, who answered to the name of Chris and who I gathered was the manager. The barmaid off duty had brought with her a young girl, of about eight or so, probably her daughter, to show off to the other staff.

Chris, the manager, was explaining with great gusto and in great detail, all his clever plans to make the most money out of the forthcoming holiday season, especially Christmas and New Year's Eves. On the one hand, his know-all clever-dickness was getting on my nerves, on the other he just sounded like a guy who knew his job very well.

It was at this point that Chris decided to share another snippet of his vast range of knowledge with the little girl. "And I'll tell you something, Sarah, about Santa Claus."

"What?" asked Sarah, agog with anticipation. She'd probably been looking forward to Christmas for weeks, and the merest mention of Santa Claus stirred her excitement.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist!" Chris announced.

"What?" she said.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist."

"Yes he does," she said, with determination, defying him. "Course he does!"

"Course he doesn't," he insisted. "How could he? How many chimneys are there in the world? Millions, right? - " I was wondering when we'd get round to statistics again - "And how long does it take you to see just ten of your friends in an evening?"

She tried to answer him, but she was clearly worried. Seeing he had an audience that could not escape either his logic or his voice, he continued, "Santa Claus can't exist. He couldn't get down all then chimneys in one evening. And some people don't even have chimneys. So he can't exist."

"Yes he can," she insisted, "He's magic!"

"He's not magic," said Chris, "Santa Claus is dead! So you can forget about Santa turning up on Christmas Day. It ain't gonna happen."

There was nothing more she could say to that, and she fell silent.

I drained my glass and prepared to go. Just at that moment, the little girl got up and walked past me to look at a pinball machine by the door. She was still very quiet.

As I got level with her, on my way out, I leaned over to her, and said, quietly, "Don't you take any notice. Santa Claus does exist, you know?"

She said nothing, staring at her feet. I'd said what I had wanted to say, and my hand was almost on the door. Then, I said, "You do believe, don't you?"

She looked at me briefly, then her gaze returned, silent, to the floor.

"Listen," I tried again, " I know he exists. Because I've seen him."

This got her attention, at last. Her eyes were so big and dark, you could fall into them. "When?" she said.

"Well," I said, "it was a long time ago." I had to stop and think what to say next. I had a feeling it might be important. "It was a long time ago," I continued, "well, not all that long, really, when I was just a little bit older than you are now. And I was growing up, and one or two people - one or two silly older people who didn't really know anything really - were telling me that as I was growing up I shouldn't believe in Santa Claus any more. They told me Santa Claus didn't exist.

"Then it came round to Christmas, and I started saying, 'I don't believe in Santa Claus any more, he doesn't exist'. Though I felt a bit funny about it really."

"Why?" she said.

"Well, I'd always believed in Santa Claus before and I had always got lots and lots of really nice presents every Christmas, and here I was saying he didn't exist. That wasn't a very nice way of saying 'thank you,' was it? Hm?"

"Suppose so."

"And then it got to Christmas Eve, and I went to bed early, saying, 'I don't believe in Santa Claus.' And I settled down just to go to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. So I got up, and I went downstairs to where we had this big Christmas Tree. And there were presents all around the bottom of the tree, presents for every one. Every one, that is, except me."

Sarah looked suitably impressed by this.

"Every one had been left a present, except me. And it was all because I stopped believing. Because I had said Santa Claus didn't exist. And I ran out of the house, thinking, 'Oh no, it's too late, Santa's gone and not left me any presents, all because I didn't believe in Santa Claus.' And I bet you'll never guess what happened next!"

Sarah's eyes were firmly fixed on mine by now. "What happened?"

"I looked up in the sky, and that's when I saw Santa Claus! He was up there, in his sleigh, being pulled across the sky by his reindeer, and all their bells were ringing, and he had a big sack of presents on the back of his sleigh, the biggest sack you've ever seen. I called to him, 'Santa, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't believe in you! Come back!' But he was in a hurry. He had presents to deliver to all the other children, the ones that still believed in him. He didn't have time to waste on people who thought he didn't exist. But it was too late, now. Or so I thought." I gave her an inscrutable look.

"Why? What did you do?"

"Well, I went back in the house, and I couldn't believe my eyes. Because, there, all around the Christmas Tree where they had been presents for everyone else but me, there was an even bigger pile of presents!"

"An even bigger pile?"

"An even bigger pile! And all of them were for me. And there was a card, for me, too. Do you know who it was from?"

"Santa Claus!" she squealed.

"Yes, Santa Claus! And do you know what it said?"

"What?"

"It said 'Just Kidding'!"

"'Just kidding'?"

"That's right. Santa Claus was just kidding that he wasn't going to leave me any presents. He knew I still believed in him really. He just wanted to make sure I didn't forget!"

Sarah stared at me, her eyes twinkling. I watched her tiny bright face, and started to laugh. And she laughed too.

"So," I said, just glancing for a moment in the direction of Chris, "you'd better remember Santa Claus really does exist, because you've met someone who's actually seen him."

* * * * *

Well, I got in to my job and did a terrible night's work, and it got to the end of the week my girlfriend moved out, and then it was Christmas Eve. I was stuck in the house all alone, and no amount of trying to watch the banal pap that passed as festive entertainment on the TV was going to get me in the mood to celebrate anything. I had steadfastly turned down any offer from friends to go to any party or anyone's house, because I didn't want to turn up alone, and now I was regretting it. I decided to try the local pub, a dull pit of a place - at least the landlord would have restricted himself to a few paper streamers. It was a place I normally avoided, so there was no-one there that I knew, but I picked it tonight because it was in walking distance.

I thought briefly about all that cobblers I had told that little girl. Making her believe in fairy stories, when there was a real world to grow up into. What had I done? Poor little girl, I thought. "Stuff this," I said to myself, and I wandered off home.

When I got back to the house, I realised something was slightly different. I let myself in, and found the small reading light in the living room was on. I was certain that I had left it switched off when I had gone out. The house was quiet, but not in the deathly, isolated way it had seemed before, but peaceful and welcoming. In the little pool of light, on the coffee table, there were some packages. Someone had been in the house while I had been out.

There were various people who had a spare set of keys - my folks for instance, and my girlfriend, of course, and a set that were hidden under a plant pot outside the door, that several of our friends knew about. I figured that it could be any of them that had decided to call round, leaving whatever they had been doing that Christmas Eve in order to see me, and I'd been out. So they had left me some presents! I could hardly believe it. A feeling came over me that I could not describe. It was as if I had been standing for a tremendous time in a shadow, and now I had stepped out of it.

Suddenly, as daft as it sounds, I didn't feel lonely any more. I made up my mind that I would find out who the presents were from, and make sure that I went round and thanked whoever it was next day. And I wouldn't stay in on my own being a miserable git feeling sorry for myself, but I would get out and have a good time. After all , it was Christmas! A time to celebrate had to find who the presents were from, so that I could thank them, even if they were only pairs of socks, unbearable after-shave and a ghastly tie. They had really made my evening.

But the first thing I picked up was not a parcel, but a small envelope. I opened it, and a plain little card slid in to my hand. Inside, written in a wide, flowing handwriting - that I couldn't recognise and yet it looked familiar - was a two-word message.

It said, "Just kidding."

Then, at the bottom: "Thank you!"

It was the best Christmas I've ever had.

The end

Tuesday, 11 December 2007

Home From Home

A death in the family - a tragedy, good fortune, a coincidence? Or even more?
#

(This story was originally published in Chorley and District Writers' Circle magazine, Aware, issue 3, November 2007, on the theme Home and Away.)

I stepped into the familiar hallway over a dune of junk mail circulars and free-sheet newspapers. The air was at once familiar yet cloyingly strange – the house had been shut up for many weeks. It was tomb-like, yet I breathed the air I knew from childhood. So different from the boiled cabbage, urine and disinfectant soaked atmosphere I had had to tolerate recently.

I entered the living room. Brown wallpaper, some faded floral pattern whose colour scheme seemed to be based on recycled teabags. The fusty armchair, seat bellowed inwards. Dull books on the shelf, dull ornaments and pictures. All this would have to change. Not a problem now. This chair would be first to go. This was where my father died.

At least, that is to be assumed. That is where they had found him. It was a fair assumption. It’s where I had last seen him alive.

‘What am I going to do?’ he had asked. ‘Everything was going to come to you. And I’ve tried to keep going on my own, but it’s too much.’

‘You are very ill, father,’ I had agreed.

‘But I can’t look after myself anymore.’

‘I look after you, father.’

‘I know you do.’ He tried, painfully, to readjust himself in his chair, and grimaced. ‘Pass me one of my little friends, will you.’

I handed him the book-sized bag – it had been a sort of pencil case, I think. But, instead of pencils, it contained spliffs of cannabis, papers, lump of ‘substance’ wrapped in Clingfilm. He took one, lit it, and drew deeply on it. Hot tiny cinders fell from the end and burned pinprick holes in his old shirt – I was surprised the health visitor never picked up on this. ‘If I go into a care home, this is the one thing I will miss,’ he said at length, hoarsely. ‘You know, this is the only thing that gives me any relief from the pain?’

‘Yes, I know, father. You’ve told me many times. Many times. You forget, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’

I reached for his other medical kit, the one with the insulin, and, as I did so, I couldn’t help feeling how life could be so unfair, inflicting a man with two severe illnesses, diabetes and MS, either of which could, if left untreated, kill him. I checked his blood sugar tester and absent-mindedly looked up the dose – I already knew the table pretty much by heart.

‘The thing is, I can’t go into care unless I sell up the house. I will need the money to pay for the home.’

‘Not on medical grounds,’ I reminded him, patiently, for the umpteenth time.

‘But I will need the residential care – I need somewhere comfortable where I’ll be properly looked after.’

I passed him his syringe. ‘The Health Service will look after you.’

‘No they won’t,’ he insisted, as always. He equated National Health Service care as being in hospital, incarcerated, waiting out his days.

‘Here you are.’

He started to cough intermittently, the smoke irritating his lungs. God help us, I thought, if he also ended up getting cancer. However, I noticed that, apart from the shaking from each minor spasm, the tremor in his hands had eased. I wondered if he would make the injection himself. It would be easier.

‘You do it, son. My little friend is making me a bit woozy.’

‘You can do it, Dad,’ I reassured him. ‘Your hand’s much steadier now.’

I had left shortly after and that’s how they found him. When the post-mortem showed he had died from a pulmonary embolism, that there was air in the injection fluid and my fingerprints on the syringe, I was arrested and charged with murder. I had means, opportunity and, with the chance of being bequeathed an entire house, the motive. They made it sound like I had almost been sloppy. Some rising star was picked by the CPS to make the prosecution case just for the practice, so sure were they of winning, of sending me away for a long time. I should get used to my prison cell. It would be my home for many years to come.

I had my own hot-shot lawyer, however. While I was on remand, waiting interminably for the case to come to court, we went over my defence. Counsel is not allowed to coach a witness, even one speaking in his own defence. There is no law against doing things the other way around, however.

I merely suggested that my father had increasingly relied on illicit drugs for pain relief. It was perhaps no surprise that he had graduated from just cannabis to intravenous heroin. And the post-mortem also concluded that my father had enough of the stuff in his bloodstream to anaesthetise a horse. Certainly that would have been enough to kill him. I often gave him his insulin injections because of his hand tremor. Of course my fingerprints would be on the syringe. It would not be possible, with his prints and mine both present, to say who handled the little glass tube last.

Why, if I had wanted to kill my father, would I use two different methods to finish him off, especially one that was so easily detectable?

This was sufficient to sew doubt in the mind of the jury. Much more reasonable to assume the old man had been ham-fisted in preparing the injection for himself, before I even arrived for my daily visit. That I’d already left before took it. The simplest explanation is always thought the most likely.

And so, the case had collapsed. I was discharged, a free man, not put away to rot out the remainder of my life, any more than my father had needed to be put away to see out his own.

I stood in the house I had grown up in, and had now inherited, without a stain on my character, nor, for that matter, on my conscience.

The fact that I had prepared the fatal injection containing both heroin and the bubble of air that had formed a clot in my father’s lungs, swiftly and painlessly killing him, was irrelevant. I was in the clear, I was home free.

I was home.
The end

Wednesday, 31 October 2007

Season's Greetings

A rant, just in time for the 'Festive Season.'

Autumn is often regarded as the most emotive of seasons. The bright glory of lazy summer days or the high activity of holidays in the resplendent sunshine give way to the fading grandeur of woodland in a gaudy yet decaying plumage. It is with a feeling of being reconciled that the year is coming to an end. Yes, Autumn is a season of resigned calm. This is what autumn does to us writers and poets.

Not so, the season of Winter. Winter is an ugly beast that chillingly wants to suck on the marrow of our bones. But there is a most hideous evil at the heart of Winter! I speak openly of none other than the abomination that is called: "Christmas."

Everyone knows that Christmas is bad for you. Normally sensible people who diligently handle their financial affairs suddenly lose all sense of reason and blow every penny. People binge openly. Habitually-temperate individuals are to be seen as drunk as a lecturer with a pay rise, or a poet with any pay at all. Alcohol intake soars, tobacco, otherwise eschewed, is suddenly fashionable, as cigars light up like bonfires, food is gobbled in vast quantities as diets are cast aside, waistlines bulge, five a day comes to mean "meals," rather than "portions of vegetables." Promiscuity is encouraged, with sinister rituals dragged up from antiquity involving sprigs of plants such as mistletoe. Never mind how many children are conceived outside wedlock during this period, the number who start life outside any kind of enduring relationship must be staggering. All the more frightening is proportion where the act of conception has been captured for posterity on a photocopier at office parties.

And then there’s the lies to the children. How many children are dumb enough to believe a fat interloper in a conspicuous costume but with his hooded face covered can enter umpteen different properties all around the globe simultaneously though an antiquated and indeed often non-existent heating system? And then just give things away for nothing in return, no favours of any kind. The fat guy and the sleigh, all the supernatural creatures and the cloven-footed animals with illuminating body parts, it is revealed as the children get older, were invented, and used as a form of behavioural modification blackmail as the year’s end approached. Trust you parents after that? Why should you? They’ll say rubbing belly-buttons makes babies next!

Then there’s the extended family and the problems Christmastime entails. Families are extended for a reason – the reason is they can’t stand being near each other and want to put as much distance between who they share a blood line with. Blood is thicker than water and it usually ends up spilled on the carpet. Families getting together is the biggest cause of family breakdown in the world today. This is not rocket science – they couldn’t break down if they weren’t brought together in a supercritical mass in the first place, could they. It’s a sociological atom bomb waiting to go off.

While all that’s going on, there are questions about the damage inflicted on commerce and industrial activity. Whole industries close down while others, briefly, like fungus, spring up in their place. Just when they are needed most, in what should be their money-making peak of the year, plumbers and electricians disappear. And not only does God not exist, try finding a doctor or dentist at Christmas. Absenteeism is so rife, some companies can’t even tell whether they are actually still operating any longer or have gone into receivership. From the customers’ point of view, as far as public transport is concerned, it may as well have done so. "How was your journey then?" "How do you bloody think it was? No wonder Joseph and Mary had to stay in a stable – we nearly had to break our trip at a bloody Travelodge!"

Almost the ultimate indignity is yet to come. This is referred to as The Christmas Number One. For music-lovers everywhere, this alone is justification to stick a pencil into each ear and swirl it around until you stop moving. (A similar phenomenon with the eye is to be encountered when you are forced by some niece you have discovered makes you watch a DVD of Dude Where’s My Car? or Weekend at Bernie’s II. While on the TV, just to get you in the Christmas mood, there’s Saving Private Ryan followed by Schindler’s List.)

Christmas is as desperate as a famine inside a war inside a plague. Finally there is the social cost. This is best illustrated by the colossal, soul-crushing feeling of desperation when you find that you are actually left out of the festivities, that you have no cringe-inducing parties to attend, no visitors nor people to visit, no presents, no cards and only the wallpaper for company. As if to rub salt in the wound, the televisions companies have started to pick up on this and just as you are sitting through your umpteenth viewing of North By Northwest they spray across the screen a phone number you can call "if you’d like to talk to someone." How would you start such a conversation? "I’m such a Billy-No-Mates, I was going to slash my wrists but I can’t find the kitchen knife so I thought I would call you, you self-pious, do-gooding little bastard."

Christmas begins to blight us now from the beginning of September along with the anniversary of the start of World War II – a re-enactment of the Somme artillery barrage rumbles on from mid October till advent calendars come into use. Then New Year (why does the Year of Our Lord start seven days after the anniversary of His arrival – did someone forget to post the birth announcement? Had they been sniffing too much myrrh to remember till a week later? "Messiah arrived – must make a note." Then it’s back to work, just preceded by carting car-loads of wrapping paper, greetings cards, the odd dodgy present and possibly the odd clingy relative, to the recycling centre, staggering credit car bills or mind-numbing overdrafts until the final embarrassment of St Valentine’s Day. At last, you can remind yourself, Summer is now not far off, once you’ve got past Easter.

Then you’ve got about six months before the whole ghastly spectacle begins all over again. Let nothing you dismay, you merry gentlemen! God rest ye!

The End (-ish)

Wednesday, 24 October 2007

The Road To Perdition

What might happen if you let students - an intemperate bunch at best by all accounts - to throw a party behind the students union bar. Nostalgia about what might have happened afterwards

"Where does this road go?"

"It doesn’t go anywhere – it’s stationary."

"Stationery!" I said in mock surprise, at an attempt of surreal humour. "You mean it’s made of paper? It’ll collapse into the Bristol Channel!"

"It’s stood here for years," said Tariq. "Solid as a rock." All night he’d adopted this insouciant tone. At first it had seemed hilarious. Then funny. Then slightly amusing. Now, in the grey morning, it was getting just a tad irritating. This may have been in inverse proportion to how sober I was. "What’s to stop a big gust of wind blowing us off this bridge and into the water, dozens of feet –"

" – hundreds of feet – " He corrected.

" – hundreds of feet below?"

"Well, there’s that railing there."

"Then what?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Would the authorities come and rescue us?" I pressed the point.

"God, no."

"Why not?"

"Well… if they’d seen us here at all, they’d have come and arrested us for trespass."

"But that’s still no reason not to rescue us."

"It is, if you think about it," Tariq reasoned, reasonably. "You see, if they’d not seen us to arrest us, they’d can’t have seen us to rescue us, can they? Besides…"

"Besides – what?"

"Besides, the fall would kill you, and even if it didn’t, you would drown in the current. If the hypothermia didn’t get you first. So it’d hardly be worth their bother."

I digested this. We’d been walking for about half an hour on the path-and-cycle-way that ran alongside the elevated approach to the Severn Bridge. This, Tariq had informed me, was a cantilevered path. I looked up ‘cantilever’ much later, and it said: "A cantilever is a beam anchored at one end and projecting into space." I could aver that this was true. The path was "temporarily closed for safety reasons" with a small barrier but we’d scrambled over that. We were now barely out over the water and hadn’t even reached the huge concrete structure, the size of a large block of flats, into which the suspension cables were anchored. There was absolutely no cover of any kind and we would have been clearly visible for miles to anyone who’d cared to look.

"Well I’d hate to put them out, if they’re so busy not seeing trespassers and all. I mean we’re hardly hidden from view." Even to myself I was beginning to sound a little grumpy.

"No, but we are a long way off. That’s probably why they haven’t seen us." Tariq still seemed as chipper as ever. "That and the fact that no-one in his right mind normally crosses on foot."

"Tariq, exactly why are we crossing the Bristol Channel by suspension bridge on foot at nine o’clock in the morning."

"Ah. You do you remember last night?"

"Which bits?"

"The later bits."

"The bar-staff party."

"And afterwards?"

"Nope." I strained to recall something. Something that might have been important, the sort of thing that explained why I was here now doing this thing. "Not really. Little bits. The bar closed. We tidied up in twenty minutes and that left us forty minutes in which to cram an entire party evening’s drinking, before the Students’ Union building shut and we all got slung out. We started drinking and… I don’t think I remember anything after that."

"The people all lying around on the grass?"

"Not really. Were they drunk?"

"It was hard to tell. They were all unconscious." Tariq seemed remarkably unconcerned about this, much as he was about everything else.

"Don’t you think they might have been drunk before they became unconscious?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. Let’s face it, everyone was drunk. In fact, every thing was drunk by the time we were thrown out."

"Why weren’t we unconscious?"

"Must have been down to our robust constitutions," Tariq grinned. "Anyway, that’s when I suggested that we go down to Keele motorway services and hitch a ride with the first truck-driver who’d give us a lift."

"You did what?" I’m not sure how much I was surprised, feigning outrage, or genuinely outraged. "Why couldn’t I have just been unconscious like everybody else?

"You said you thought it was a good idea."

"I said that? Why didn’t you disagree with me?"

"I thought it was a good idea, too. After all, it had been my idea. So that’s what we did. You insisted on going back to your room first for some reason, then we set off."

"You can’t just hitch-hike away from a hangover."

"Oh no? Look at you now? Up, fresh as a daisy, out in the bracing open air. Imagine all those others – just waking up with their heads throbbing. Have you got a hangover?"

He had a point. But so did I. "No – but I’m nearly getting my tits blown off in this ‘bracing air’!"

"So it wasn’t such a bad idea."

"But… but how? What happened?"

"We got a lift to Aust Services back there and the driver said he was having a stop-over, so we said we’d walk."

"But why are we crossing the River Severn bridge on a pathway closed to the public?" I persisted.

"Because it’s there!"

"But we don’t have to be!"

"And to get to the other side, of course."

"Of course. How silly of me."

"Because, on the other side is where my uncle lives. He owns a pub in Caerleon. The Red Lion. Or the White Lion, I’m not sure which. But I’m sure we’ll find it. And he can give us a lift back to Keele."

I was starting to worry that this was actually making some kind of sense, when it shouldn’t. "Tariq, don’t take this personally, but you’re, sort of, of a dusky Asian hue and you’re from Bolton. How come you’ve got an uncle who owns a pub in south Wales?"

"What’s wrong with that? I’m a good barman back at the Students’ Union, aren’t I? Serving booze to white folks runs in our family."

"I suppose you’ve got a point. How far is it to Caerleon?"

"Oo… only a few minutes’ walk. We’ll soon be there."

"Tariq, we’ve been walking for hours and we’re not even half way across and I can barely see land in either direction."

"It’s just a trick of perspective. The bridge is only a couple of miles long – at most – including the approach sections.

"Then – how far to Caerleon?"

"Not far. Only about 15 miles."

"Only!…"

"There’s two things to keep in mind. Firstly, don’t look down."

I looked down. We appeared to be walking on thin steel plate. Well, it looked like steel plate. Its apparent thinness was revealed because at frequent if irregular intervals there were holes right through the metal, for no readily apparent reason, about the diameter of a ten pence piece, revealing the steel to about the thickness of a ten pence piece. Clearly visible below that, about as far down as a ten storey building, curling, twisting brown waves, like a pit of vipers, wriggled, waiting with waning patience for their prey to fall amongst them.

"What was the second thing?" I croaked.

"We’ll be alright, just so long as we don’t hit a spot of bad weather."



We reached about half-way across the bridge, and became the centre of a sphere of air, sky and water, with just a puny piece of engineering to indicate Man’s existence. At that point, some weather – a spot, bad – blew in from the general direction of America, and it seemed to be in a hurry. The metal at our feet was matched by the metal sky overhead, and the metal water below disappeared from view as we became entombed in a racing ball of cloud. Every step we took seemed to turn us sideways. To have jumped up, losing contact with the armour-like decking, would have been suicidal.

Then the rain came in. To call it rain was a bit of a liberty, insofar as the only resemblance this phenomenon had to rain was that it was wet. Horizontal spears of water daggered into us, making us yelp. But this was just the beginning. We started to realise we might be in serious trouble when it became unwise even to lift one foot off the slicked surface, and we attempted a cross-country skiing movement. Progress went from slow to slower. Then, as the bullet rods and hydro-tracer puckered and cratered my denim jacket, making it dark as though stained with blood, we fell to our knees. As an afterthought, we decided to lie down altogether and time froze – as, indeed, did we – until the venom of the elements subsided once more. Eventually, the wind lessened, we got to our feet and we plodded on in what was to me a bubble of misery.

Long after we were no longer over the waters of the Bristol Channel, the road continued in an elevated arc round to the west parallel to the bum of Wales. Hours seemed to drag past. Eventually road met land, and we were able to get off the motorway and walk on the grass embankment alongside. Caerleon, whatever it was like, still did not hove into view. I was not sure how it would appear but I was imagining something like Valhalla. The morning grew old and tired.

At long last, we crossed under the motorway to get on its northern side and approached a motley collection of buildings. This was Caerleon. This was Caerleon? It was, probably, quite a pleasant village – it even had some Roman remains somewhere, to which some human remains were in danger of being added – mine – but it was hard to appreciate under the circumstances. Its one merit was that it contained a public house where we could find shelter, rest, food and, most importantly, transport to take us back to the home whence we’d so pointlessly come.

It took some time for Tariq to identify the correct pub. It turned out that Caerleon, with a population of just two thousand souls, had twelve of the establishments. The one we wanted was in fact called The Black Bull – Tariq had been close, apart from an appalling lack of awareness of colour and zoology.

The only thing was, we were too early and the place was still shut.

We had nowhere left to go.

All we could do was wait for his relatives to wake, open up, let us in and take us back to the little student residence blocks we called home.

"Drink has driven me to this," I exhaled, and, exhausted, slid to the ground, where fatigue enveloped me like a foggy pall, and I sank from the conscious world.



When I finally saw my room again, many, many hours later, several things argued for my attention. Firstly, not only was the door unlocked, but it was slightly open. Secondly, the light was left on. Thirdly, an empty vodka bottle was embedded, neck first, into the wall plaster. It came back to me. I had taken this bottle back to my room "for later," but having got there, I had drained the last of its contents then flamboyantly thrown it at the wall, as if completing some dramatic toast. To my befuddled amazement, it hadn’t shattered and I hadn’t the heart to attempt to heap further injury upon it.

And that was how, for me, the one and only Keele University Students’ Union bar-staff party ended.

The End

Friday, 19 October 2007

The Twins Paradox

Non-fiction about one aspect of Special Relativity

The other day somebody sent me a recording of the play, Insignificance, by Terry Johnson, made into a radio production. In it, at one point, a character – who happens to resemble Marilyn Monroe – explains – to a character resembling Albert Einstein – parts both of Einstein’s theory of Special Relativity and General Relativity. In particular, she refers to something known as The Twins Paradox and adds that Special Relativity is inadequate to explain how it works, and that the General Theory is required.

I will not digress to comment here on a play where characters resembling Marilyn Monroe and Albert Einstein discuss Relativity (not to mention that characters resembling Joe DiMaggio and Senator MacCarthy show up) nor ponder why the play is called Insignificance. However, I will state here and now quite categorically that you do not need General Relativity to explain The Twins Paradox and that the Special Theory is perfectly adequate. Indeed, using the General Theory would probably mess up your answer while the Special Theory gives you the right answer. What’s more, I’ll show what that answer is and prove it is right!

And no maths.

(Just a tiny bit of arithmetic, and you can even skip that.)

So what’s all the fuss about? Well, it gives an opportunity to look into what Relativity really means and hopefully make it a bit more easy to understand for more people. I’ll show you don’t have to be a maths genius to understand it too.

Why Two Theories?

Just to explain, for the moment, why there are two theories of Relativity – or, more accurately, two parts – Relativity is all about things moving. It concerns the speeds of things. The word "velocity" is sometimes used in place of speed (in physics, "velocity" has a more precise meaning.) But, for simplicity, I have used the word "speed" most of the time to help keep things clear and used the words physicists prefer when it matters. For the moment, what you need to know is that Special Relativity deals with constant speed while General Relativity is about changing speed, going faster or slower. This is not just playing with words – if you were moving at constant speed smoothly enough – on a train or a plane, for example – you might feel as if you were standing still. If you were on a train, plane or anything else that was speeding up or slowing down, you would always know that you were moving. This difference is vitally important. There will be more about this later.

I have used the word "mass," as preferred by physicists, in place of "weight," just to keep the physicists happy. But they mean almost the same thing.

Einstein was probably the most famous physicist – indeed the most famous scientist – of the 20th century. His face is instantly recognisable in any picture even today, and, as most people are aware, his work led to the development of atomic energy and the atomic bomb (though he emphatically did not work on the atomic bomb himself, as he was a pacifist.) His work also explains how stars burn (though I won’t be going into that here.)

Not surprisingly, Einstein won a Nobel prize for physics. More surprisingly (and quite unfairly, in my view) he did not win it for either versions of his theory of Relativity, but for a piece of work that led to an area of physics called Quantum Mechanics, which a lot of people have never even heard of (although I talk about some bits of it in other articles on this website.)

(His work could also have saved someone from committing suicide, but alas this tragedy was not averted – the news of yet another discovery by Einstein that proved the existence of atoms did not reach, as far as we know, the ears of Ludwig Boltzmann, also a brilliant physicist who worked on a theory of atoms. Boltzmann suffered from manic-depression, it is believed, and was sometimes ridiculed by other physicists. With no proof that he was in fact right, he killed himself a year after Einstein’s proof might have lifted his mood and saved him.)

So what is all this theory of Relativity about then? I’ll try to keep this brief, but if you’ve already had an introduction to this subject, concerning the speed of light, you may want to skip this altogether and get straight to The Twins Paradox.

Light Speed

It had been known for some time that light had a finite speed, although a very great one. Sir Isaac Newton did some work on light (also discussed elsewhere on this website) but he did not, as far as I am aware, investigate what the speed of light might be. He may have been hampered by the absence of telescopes and very accurate clocks during his lifetime, though Newton was such a clever-clogs he probably could have got round this, if he’d set his mind to it.

By the nineteenth century, all the necessary equipment was available. It was still no mean feat to measure something so fast. A man named Albert Michelson came up with a clever method which I will sketch out here. Imagine light from a lamp focussed to shine off a flat mirror to another mirror some distance away – a distance we have measured with extreme precision. The light reflects back to the first mirror and then back to the experimenter with his face just above the lamp. You can see that a bright lamp and a telescope would be quite handy for doing all this. Now, if the first mirror is in fact mounted on the edge of a wheel that is made to turn after a flash from the lamp has reflected off it, the returning flash will no longer be visible to the experimenter – the mirror will now be turned to the wrong angle.

To get round this (literally) how about covering the rim of the wheel with a series of mirrors all placed at precise angles, and spinning the wheel? If the wheel is going fast enough, by the time the flash of light gets back from the second mirror in the distance, another mirror on the wheel will have moved into just the right position for reflecting the light back to the experimenter – he will see the reflected lamp again!

All you need to do is have enough mirrors on the wheel, and spin the wheel fast enough to make this work. And if you know how fast the wheel is spinning (and, as I said before, the exact distance to the far mirror) you can get an exact measure for the speed of light, because you know how long it takes the wheel to turn one mirror’s-worth and therefore how long it takes the light to cover the distance. Nice and simple (and I’ve not used any maths to explain this, notice.)

For a moment we need to consider what speed is. Well, obviously, it’s distance covered in a certain amount of time. If only things would stay that simple.

Let’s think about two cars colliding – fun, I know, providing no-one gets hurt, but who said this couldn’t be fun? If a car runs into a brick wall at 60 miles an hour it hits the wall with a speed of – d’ur! – 60 miles an hour. If it runs into a car driving towards it at 59 miles an hour, the speed of the collision is 119 miles an hour. This seems obvious – we just add up the two speeds. (This is about as hard as the maths gets in this writing so I hope you are keeping up.)

However, if the second car was driving away at 59 miles an hour, the collision would be just 1 mile an hour. Simple.

(Only – it isn’t. For reasons I’m not going to go into here, combination of velocities is not determined by addition of velocities, but don’t worry about it – addition is good enough for speeds much slower than the speed of light, and we will not be looking at faster collisions.)

Another, less obvious thing is that there is no such thing as the speed of something on its own. The speed has to be relative to something else. For cars, this is usually the ground. The important thing is that you have to have two things moving relative to one another to have a value for speed. It’s more obvious if you talk about rate of change of distance between two things, if a bit clumsy. You simply cannot have rate of change of distance between something and nothing else. (It’s a bit like the sound of one hand clapping… but we won’t go into that!)

Now back to the speed of light. From what I’ve just said, if we are moving towards or away from a lamp flashing at us, we ought to get different answers for the speed of light. Also, there are other ways in which we should be able to alter the answer, by shifting the whole experiment about. The thing is, when Michelson tried doing tricks like this, he didn’t get any variation in the value for the speed of light. He always got exactly the same answer! This should be impossible. But what turns out to be impossible is to get the speed of light ever to change!

Various means were used to attempt to explain this. One by one, however, they didn’t work.

Speed Invariance, and Special Relativity

Meanwhile, along comes Einstein. He didn’t worry about how or why the speed of light was fixed. He simply accepted that it never changes, and that was that. He never liked the name ‘theory of Relativity’ for his theory – he wanted to call it the ‘theory of invariance.’

The thing is, if light never changes its speed, you’ve got to fiddle around with other mathematics in order to get the sums to add up. In fact, the maths is not difficult, it’s just that what the answers mean sounds a bit weird. But here we go.

Imagine you are sat still in a room, wearing a watch. On the mantle-shelf stands a clock. As your watch ticks, so does the clock. Time seems to go at the same rate everywhere.

Now we will need a bit more arithmetic here. To make things easier, let’s imagine that light-speed is 10 centimetres per second. (It’s a lot faster, but using made-up figures makes it easier to see what’s going on and, apart from the values, doesn’t have any effect on reality.)

Suppose the clock now began to slide smoothly across the mantle-shelf towards you at one centimetre per second (never mind what’s making it move.) A flash of light comes from behind the clock, passes it and on to you. In one second the light would go 10 centimetres. But if you measured how far the light had gone past the clock, using the clock’s time-keeping and measure of distance, it would only have gone 9 centimetres. If you used the moving clock to measure the speed of light, you would get only 9 centimetres per second – which is the wrong answer!

It’s easy to get back to the right answer (though you have to ignore how weird the answer seems to be.) All you have to do is have the moving clock run more slowly. By stretching out a second on the moving clock, light again travels 10 centimetres in one clock-second.

A similar correction works for any other speed.

This is the first bit of Special Relativity – time goes more slowly, relative to someone watching, for moving objects. It has to, in order to get the speed of light to be constant.

However, if you were moving with the object, you’d notice no difference.

How about – instead of using the clock’s timing, we used the thickness of the clock to measure the distance light travels in one second? If the clock was itself 10 centimetres thick and it was moving at 1 centimetre per second, in one second the light would appear to move 9 centimetres past the clock in travelling from the back to the front. Again, the wrong answer. Again, it is easily fixed, mathematically. We just say that the clock gets thinner in its direction of travel when it is moving. Once again, we get that light takes one second to move from the back to the front of the clock because the clock, while moving at one centimetre per second, is only 9 centimetres thick, from our point of view, giving a light-speed of 10 clock-centimetres per second.

Again, a similar correction works for any other speed.

This may sound very peculiar and not at all true, but it is, in fact, exactly how the Universe works, and that is that. The only ‘fiddling’ I’ve done is to make the numbers easier to work with.

This is the second bit of Special Relativity – things get shorter, relative to someone watching, when they are moving, in their direction of travel.

However, if you were moving with the object, you’d notice no difference.

Using our imaginary light-speed of 10 centimetres per second, it’s easy to see that, if the clock itself were sliding towards you at 10 centimetres per second, it would have stopped ticking altogether, and it would have no thickness at all! This still gives the right answers for the speed of light, as measured by the moving clock. It also shows that to travel at or faster than the speed of light is impossible for a physical object – time can’t go backwards and you can’t have negative thickness or length.

A third problem arises. When a thing with a certain mass is moving at a certain velocity, it has momentum which is calculated by multiplying its mass and velocity together. If it collides with something else – which may also have its own momentum, it’s a law of the Universe that the total amount of momentum after the crash must be the same as the total momentum before. It doesn’t matter if the things get smashed up and the parts scatter in all directions – do the arithmetic properly and you will see that no momentum has been gained or lost. This is known as The Law of Conservation of Momentum, and it’s been known about and proved to be absolutely true for ages.

The thing is this. If you stuck clocks on all the moving objects involved in the crash, those clocks start running slow, depending on how fast the things are moving. As velocity is distance covered in a given time, you start getting speeds that are too slow and the momentum doesn’t add up properly any more. The Law of Momentum seems to be broken – which it can’t be – so something again has to altered to allow for this. The only thing is left is the mass, so the Universe needs to increase that to make up for the loss of apparent velocity.

This is the third bit of Special Relativity – things get more mass, relative to someone watching, when they are moving compared with when they are still. (We’ll see where they get the extra mass from in a moment – you don’t get anything for nothing!)

However, if you were moving with the object, you’d notice no difference.

In fact, if you had something moving at very nearly the speed of light, its mass would become very nearly infinite. You would therefore need a very nearly infinite amount of energy to push it that little bit faster – and even then this energy would be turned into mass – the fat thing you were pushing would get fatter rather than faster. It was from this that Einstein realised that energy would turn into mass, and could be turned back again, in certain circumstances, giving us atomic power, the atomic bomb, radioactivity, why the core of the Earth is still hot after so many years of trying to cool down, and how stars burn. But we’re not going to go into that.

So, in a nutshell, in Special Relativity, when things are going at constant speed, things get shorter, more massive and their clocks runs more slowly.

Now, in practice, light goes an awful lot faster than this. But it is absolutely true to say that, every time you move, relative to your surroundings, all the things around you get more massive, shorter, and have time going slower. It’s just that at ordinary everyday speeds, you never notice it and can ignore it. (Global Positioning System satellites works to such high precision, their movement and altitude do have to be taken into account, however.)

But, just for a moment, let’s go back to the clock sliding towards you at constant speed. From its point of view, the clock feels as if it isn’t moving, and that you are. So the clock sees you get heavier, thinner and your watch running more slowly. How can they both be running slow, and which one is right? What time will each show after you’ve been moving for a while? This is where The Twins Paradox comes from.

First of all, let’s look at the clock and the watch both looking as if they are going slow from the point of view of the other, while each ‘feels’ as if it is running normally. This is a bit like watching a ship sail over the horizon (possibly through a telescope, for a clearer view.) From someone watching on land, the ship appears to sink into the sea (and, if we could look very carefully, the mast of the ship would appear to tip away from us.) But, from the point of view of someone on the ship, you and the land would appear sink into the sea (and tip slightly backwards) while the ship stayed afloat and its mast vertical. What we have is two different horizons caused by being in two different positions. In a similar way, we have two different ‘time horizons’ for things moving. Neither clock is ‘right’ while the other is ‘wrong.’ If you brought the two clocks to the same speed – that is, stationary relative to each other – the two clocks would show time going at the same rate, much as bringing the ship back to the same place, at shore, shows neither of them sinking and that vertical things point straight up.

The maths of all this, when things are moving at constant speed, is really quite simple and any teenage maths pupil at school should be able to do it (though I have deliberately left as much maths out as I possibly could.) Things get tricky when you start looking at things speeding up and slowing down, accelerating or decelerating. The maths for this probably needs you to be a graduate maths student. Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity is so called because it deals with the special case of constant speed. When he wanted to work out what was happening generally, when things are changing speed, he had to resort to much more complicated maths. Surprisingly, some of the maths had been done already by a man called Berhard Riemann, about thirty years earlier, but Einstein was such an appalling student (from the point of view of his lecturers) that he skipped the lectures where he would have learned about it so, sadly in some ways and impressively in others, it took him longer to come up with the General Theory as he had to work out the maths for himself. Notice that, in the General Theory, if you have a velocity change of zero, that is a special case – the same as the Special Theory and why the Special Theory is so called.

However, we want to avoid the maths of the General Theory as much as we can, and this is why The Twins Paradox is interesting. Many people think you can only explain The Twins Paradox with the General Theory. But they are wrong!

But what is The Twins Paradox? Well, I’ve hinted at it already, but here it is in full.

The Twins Paradox

Take a pair of twins – who are, naturally, the same age. To distinguish them, we’ll have fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. The girl becomes an astronaut. She gets on a rocket, cruising steadily at a sizeable fraction of the speed of light (which is not forbidden, but would require a pretty powerful rocket) and she flies to the star nearest to Earth, which is Alpha Centauri, 4 light-years away. (A light-year is the distance light travels in a year. It is not a time, it is a distance.) She turns round and comes back to her stay-at-home brother, still on Earth. OK so far?

Looking over the theory of Relativity as explained above, because she’s been a gal on the move, her clock has been running slower than her brother’s on Earth, so she is now younger than her twin brother!

As odd as this is, things get worse. Also according to what I’ve said earlier, the brother has seen her fly away and come back, so it’s from his point of view that her clock looks slow. But it also depends on whose point of view you are looking from. From her point of view, he has moved away (along with the Earth) then come back, so, as she sees it, his clock has run slow and he’s younger.

They can’t both be right. Are they the same age? No – as we shall see. Which one is younger? Well, it depends – in some way something that has happened to one of them is different from something that has happened to the other. The questions are: what? To which? And with what result?

The usual explanation – and the one referred to in the play Insignificance, is that she has had to undergo an acceleration in order to fly away from Earth. She also had to slow down when she got to Alpha Centauri, turn round and speed up again to fly back. She probably had to put the brakes on as well when she got back to Earth so that she could have a chat with her ageing, Earthbound brother. This involves changes of speed, so we have to use General Relativity with all its horribly difficult maths to explain why – as it turns out – she is younger than her twin.

This is true. The astronaut twin ages less. She is younger. So that’s the answer to that one. But it’s nothing to do with General Relativity.

That’s because we can cut out the bit about speeding up and slowing down. It’s not so important that the two people are twins now – any two people will do – we just want to see which one ages less – who has the slower clock, and why.

Suppose that we use stopwatches to time everything and our lady astronaut sets off in the opposite direction from Earth, away from Alpha Centauri, to start with. She turns round, has a good run-up and gets to her steady cruising speed just as she passes her brother on Earth, and both of them start their watches. Onwards she travels. As she gets level with Alpha Centauri, she stops her watch and applies the brakes; back on Earth he stops his watch at the same time. There is a problem with this – she is 4 light years away so can’t actually see her pass Alpha Centauri for another 4 years (and with a very good telescope.) But he knows, for a given cruising speed, how long it should have taken her, from his point of view, so he trusts nothing has gone wrong and stops his watch by dead reckoning. (This might not sound very convincing, but it is not a fiddle – read on.)

Sister now turns her spaceship round, accelerates to steady cruise speed just as she gets level with Alpha Centauri, and, as she does so, she and her brother both start their stopwatches once more. (To do this, they will have had to plan the mission out very carefully and stick to the plan, but as long as they do so, everything will be fine.)

Now, she gets level with Earth and, as she does so, both brother and sister stop their watches a final time. (She can now get on with braking and coming back to Earth for a soft landing.) The important thing is – both watches have only been timing the part of the journey when the rocket was flying at a steady, unchanging, Special Relativity-friendly speed. So what do the watches show?

They show her watch is slow compared with his! She has aged less! How is this possible, when, from the point of view of each of them, it’s the other that has been moving?! Surely, now that we’ve cut out the speeding up and slowing down bit, they have experienced exactly the same things!

Not so. It’s a bit like a magician’s trick. We’ve been looking at the wrong thing about the experiment.

The thing is – she has flown to Alpha Centauri and back, a distance of four light years as seen by the brother on Earth. Earth and Alpha Centauri have not been moving, as far as the brother is concerned. But she has been moving, and quite quickly too. And from her point of view, Earth has moved away and Alpha Centauri has moved towards her. Or, thinking of it another way, the Earth-Alpha Centauri route are two ends of something moving past her, like light going past our old clock on the mantle-shelf.

Anything that moves, shrinks in length of the direction of travel. Remember?

From her point of view, the journey to Alpha Centauri, and back, has been shorter than it looks to the brother on Earth. Because the journey is shorter, as she sees it, her watch hasn’t had enough time to run for as long as her brother’s, nor has she aged as much. The two siblings have not had the same experience and that’s why they’ve not had the same number of birthdays by the moment she gets back. Speeding up and slowing down have nothing to do with it – at least as far as our stopwatches are concerned, because they weren’t running for that part of the experiment.

So that is the answer and explanation to The Twins Paradox. The travelling twin ages less and is no longer as old as her brother, but you only need Special Relativity to explain it. General Relativity can be kept out of it.

That’s about it, really.

The End

(Much of the information for this article was drawn from lecture notes made available on line by Michael Fowler at http://galileo.phys.virginia.edu/classes/252/ - however, all errors, faults and general confusion are my fault. For much more – puzzling, interesting and accurate information on Relativity and other stuff - see this site.)

Addendum - For all you Doubting Thomases out there
(Gary, this means you!)
Some people have doubted that the difference in ages can be a Special-Relativity-only effect. Here is a worked example using actual maths and figures to demonstrate that the twins will age by different amounts even without considering acceleration and deceleration – that is, constant speed.

The situation.
One twin – the female – is going to fly to Alpha Centauri, a distance of 4 light years, and back, 60% of the speed of light (v = 0.6c) while the male twin stays at home.

During the trip, each will send off a flash of light from a beacon, once a month. In other words, each will have aged one month between emitting each flash.

It is vital to realise that each flash from its sender means that one month has passed for that person. In other words, counting up the flashes sent by either person shows how much they have aged.

As she sets off at 0.6c, she sees flashes arriving from him just once every two months, just as he does from her. This is partly owing to the ever-increasing distance, (an ‘optical’ effect) and time dilation (a relativistic effect.)

Not convinced? And I think I can hear you say - Hang on - after 1 month travelling at .6c, the next flash ought to be after 1 + 0.6 = 1.6 of a month! But you are forgetting that time dilation is slowing her clock. The amount by which it is slowed down is worked out using the following formula: Time observed = Time at rest / square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 ) where v is her speed and c is the speed of light. Her speed is 0.6 so v^2 = .36. So v^2 / c^2 = 0.36. 1 – 0.36 = 0.64. The square root of 0.64 is 0.8. So her time is dilated 1/0.8 which is 1.25. In other words it takes her 1.25 months between signals, owing to time dilation. But in that time, she has travelled 0.6 * 1.25 light-months which is 0.75 light-months. Therefore her next light signal takes 1.25 + 0.75 = 2 months to reach Earth. (And, of course, swapping things around to her point of views, his signals reach her only once every two months as well.)

On the way back, the situation is reversed as far as the change in distance is concerned. Each signal is sent out, as seen by the other, with time dilated to 1.25 months. But in that time, the distance has closed by 0.6 * 1.25 = 0.75 light-months. So the signal arrives at the other end of its journey 1.25 – 0.75 = 0.5 of a month, in other words, two signals a month.

From the Earth, the total journey time (excluding speeding up slowing down and turning around) is 8 light years at 60% the speed of light = 13 years 4 months, or 160 months.

What does she see?
The distance of the trip to Alpha Centauri, where she sees the star rushing towards her, is shrunk by length contraction. The formula for this is the original distance multiplied by the square root of 1-v^2/c^2. This equals 80% of 4 light-years, which is 3.2 light years. (The square root of 1-0.36, which equals square root of .64, which is 0.8.) It therefore takes her 64 months to get there (3.2 light-years/0.6 = 5 years 4 months.) Therefore she sees 32 flashes from her brother.

She turns round and heads back, and immediately sees the frequency of flashes from her brother increase. This is despite time dilation as she is shortening the distance to her brother. She now sees flashes twice a month. It takes her another 64 months to get home, and she sees 128 flashes. By the time she reaches Earth her brother has flashed, and aged, 32 + 128 = 160 months. This is just what we would expect (see above.)


What does he see?
From his point of view, the distance to Alpha Centauri remains 4 light years, so he expects her to take 4 light years / 0.6c = 6 years 8 months = 80 months to get there. But, because Alpha Centauri is 4 light years away, he doesn’t see her turn round for another 4 years = 48 months. (This is a key difference in their experiences – she sees the flashes from her brother change immediately she turns round. He doesn’t see her turn round till 4 years later.) So it is 80 + 48 = 128 months into the mission before he sees her turn round, during which she has flashed 64 times and aged 64 months.

There is now only 160 – 128 = 32 months left before she gets back Earth. Because the distance is closing and despite time dilation, he too sees flashes from her at twice a month, 64 flashes in total.

By the time she arrives back, he has seen 64 + 64 = 128 flashes from his sister who has therefore aged only 128 months to his 160. So his twin sister is now 32 months younger than he.

Note that this difference is regardless of accelerations and is a constant velocity, Special-Relativity-only effect.

Don’t take my word for it, doubt all you want to – but do the maths

(I apologise for breaking my word about there being no maths in this article, but sometimes sums speak louder than words!)

P.S. Notes
Equations of Special Relativity
Length observed = Length at rest * square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 )
Time observed = Time at rest / square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 )
Mass observed = Mass at rest / square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 )