Changing Channels

So? – what have you changed for the New Year?
(Doing some more writing for a start! – specially for Lynne)

"Hello!? Anybody about?"

Mike stepped inside the apartment, and listened. He could have sworn he’d heard a faint noise, muffled, distant, but now it appeared to have stopped. "That fridge’s getting noisy. I suppose we’ll need a new one soon."

He immediately started hunting for the remote for the TV. As usual, like all remote controls, it had attempted to secrete itself under a cushion. He was wise to its ways, however, retrieved it, aimed the priceless gadget at the set and pressed ‘On.’

He was waiting patiently for signs of life when the hallway door opened. "Good grief! Spencie! I didn’t know were home. Why didn’t you answer when I called out?"

"Called out?" Spencie looked startled, and her eyes darted round the room. "I didn’t… didn’t hear you."

"How come you’re not at the office?"

"Took the afternoon off. Things to do. Anyway, how come you’re home so early?"

"The international’s on live. England against Belarus. The kick-off’s four o’clock, so I thought I’d sneak out of work and catch it. I didn’t expect you’d be in for dinner till it was nearly over. Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You seem a bit feverish."

"Do I?" She put a hand to her cheek, her fingers fidgeting upwards to cover her eyes. "I’ve just been doing a spot of gardening. Potting some flowers. In the bedroom. Why don’t you come and see?"

"That’s alright," Mike laughed, in the way that she had once found so appealing. "I wondered if you had a secret lover in there!" He moved closer to her and put his forehead against hers. "Hey, toots," he said, mock-Bogart, "I thought I was all the man you could handle."

She seemed to relax into his arms. "Why don’t you come into the bedroom anyway, and let me…" she brushed his cheek with her mouth, "… check?"

"Well, swee’heart… – what is wrong with this damn remote?" He suddenly snapped his attention to the still-silent television. "The game will have started! I think we’re going to have to get a new TV. And a new fridge too. I’m sure I could hear the thing buzzing when I came in."

She stared at him coldly. "The batteries have probably gone."

"Again?" he said, exasperated. "They’re always packing up. I can’t change channels on this stupid TV without the zapper." He snapped the cover off the back of the control and again he looked puzzled. "The batteries really have gone! There aren’t even any in here."

Spencie licked her lip and took his hand. "Maybe you don’t need to watch football after all."

Mike looked back at her, adoringly. "Spencie. Darling… It’s a qualifier – I’ve got to watch it. Have we any spare batteries?"

She pivoted on her heel and stamped off up the hallway to the bedroom. She returned, jackboot, and threw a pair of Energizer Extra Power at him. "I shall get a bunch of spares tomorrow," she announced, as if making a manifesto commitment, then retreated back to the bedroom, closing the door sharply.

It wasn’t until half time, with the score still nil-nil, that he wondered what she was doing in there.



There was an atmosphere in the apartment after that. Christmas was coming. To Spencie, this meant: presents, wrapping paper and decorations. To Mike, it meant a crowded fixture list in the Premier League. Negotiations were entered into, and a rapprochement was achieved – Mike would go shopping anywhere Spencie wished as long as this didn’t coincide with Manchester United playing at home. He would not attend away matches as long as highlights were shown.

It came to the Saturday before Christmas. Both had had a good day – a pile of purchases lay on the throw-rug before the couch, and Mike was secretly relieved to have an excuse not to travel to all the way to Fratton Park.

And so they ended up on the couch, Match of the Day seemingly sinking into the background as the two of them demolished a bottle of Pinot grigio. Even the highlights had lost relevance as Mike had already accidentally seen the results in a branch of Currys.

"I was wondering," said Spencie in her curiously circuitous way, "whether we might be thinking of an early night."

Mike looked at her and seemed on the edge of a decision. "And Carrick keeps feeding Ronaldo down the channels," the commentator was saying, "but the Portsmouth defence is holding firm."

"Well, change it," Mike yelled at the TV, "cross to the other wing!"

Mike wondered later at what point in the evening Spencie had gone to bed.



It was already dark on New Year’s Eve when Mike let himself into the apartment, with his now customary sheepishness. Spencie had become so volatile these days, so unpredictable, he had to be ready for anything. And, on this occasion, he felt pretty sure that he was.

Spencie confronted him in the lounge. "I was wondering when – or if – you’d turn up. Thought perhaps you had gone to see your precious United."

"Don’t be daft, pet – they don’t play on New Year’s Eve."

"I sometimes think you love Man United more than you love me."

Under his breath, he muttered, "I sometimes think I love Man City more than I love you."

"What!?" she bellowed.

"I said Man United aren’t as pretty as you."

"How can I be compared with a football team on the basis of who’s prettier!?

"Come on, Aspen," – he knew she hated it when he used her formal name – "change the record: ‘you’d rather watch a game than make love.’ When have I ever said that?"

Spencie seemed to coil like a serpent and hissed, "Do you know what is the one time each year we don’t make love?"

"When your mother visits?"

"No," she retorted, triumphant, "when it’s the football season. Well, not any more!" She strode out of the room and returned a moment later with a stranger, another woman, rather plain and shapeless in Mike’s view, with a blunt bob haircut. "Meet Geraldine – my new lesbian lover! So whatever plans you had for this New Year, I think you might have to change them!"

Spencie had imagined her announcement would have the lurid impact of a bomb in a paint factory. But it somehow landed curiously flat.

"I’m not so sure about that," he said, and fetched a male stranger from the entrance. "Meet Gerald, my new best mate. I just came back to tell you – we’re going down Canal Street for the evening to discuss a flat back four and two holding players over a few glasses of Bailey’s."

The End

Author’s note: several people were kind enough to offer constructive criticism of this piece and, particularly, whether the use of the word ‘Lesbian’ was necessary near the end. I myself agonised over this as I am all in favour of letting the reader draw his or her own conclusions and at no other point is gender orientation mentioned explicitly (why should it be?) I came very close to removing the word, but changed my mind, for the following reasons. Firstly, she is not just adopting a new partner, but making (apparently) a major life-style choice - the main interpretation of the piece's title, Changing Channels - as a consequence of her recent relationship. Secondly, she wants to emphasise this point specifically to annoy and prick the conscience of her former partner. Finally, and more trivially, she is probably lying! – she has in all likelihood, neither got a new partner nor adopted a new lifestyle – her outburst is motivated as an attack on her old partner. His response, however, is somewhat different…

Small Sacrifices

This story orignally appeared in Chorley and District Writing Circle's magazine Aware (issue 4, December 2008) where it was a prize-winning entrant in Aware's competition, themed around, "Flight." A jolly good reason to go a buy a copy too!

Otto stood at the edge of the high ground, the point at which it fell away most steeply, and felt the stiff breeze tug at his neatly cropped hair and beard.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Charles asked, in his head.

"Please don’t," said Miyoko, her voice catching in her throat.

"I have to," Otto murmured. "There is no other way."

"You realise how this is likely gonna end up?" said Wilbur, concerned.

"I promise you," said Otto, "I have keine sorge – no fear."

"Well…" said Wilbur, "it’s your neck."

"Not just yours," Charles murmured.

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen, madam. But now, I must fly."

With that, Otto turned, broke into a run, hurled himself off the edge of the mound and into space.

The crowd below, men in frock-coats, ladies in their Sunday-best dresses, gasped.

The bat-winged-like structure of wires and fabric around Otto stretched and groaned as the updraft of air lifted him high over the heads of the people watching. His control of the craft was now well-practised; he could, if the wind was right, hover in the air. Adjusting himself against the triangular control frame, he called down to a figure amongst the spectators beneath him. "Make one of your pictures, Herr Anschütz!"

"I will! I do!" cried out Anschütz, from behind his apparatus, mounted on a tripod.

As Otto alighted on the ground, Wilbur and Orville ran to join him. "That was mighty swell. Whaddya call this thing?" Otto Lilienthal did not speak English, but his brother, Gustav, helping Otto out of the glider, answered in English tinged with both a German and Australian accent, "We call it the ‘Derwitzer.’ Derwitz is where first we made it."

"We read translations of your articles, back in Ohio. But to see it in action – well… that’s something else!"

Otto beamed with pleasure. He may not have understood what the two Americans had said, but their excitement was obvious. "It is a delightful distraction, to fly like a bird." Gustav translated.

"Hey, more than a distraction," said Orville. "It’s been man’s dream to fly like a bird down through the ages! We’ve been trying to solve the flying problem for years now."

"Yeah, we’ve made lotsa machines to test ideas," said Wilbur.

Otto listened to the translation before replying. "To invent an airplane is nothing. To build one is something. But to fly is everything."

"Maybe not the best thing," said Charles’ voice.

"What harm could there possibly be to fly like a bird?" Otto thought to himself.

"You have no idea," Charles Sweeney answered.

"No idea at all," Miyoko sobbed. "Not unless you become a hibakusha."

"So," said Orville, "how do you control the – whaddya call it? – the Derwitzer?"

"Ah, yes, gentlemen," Gustav answered. "My brother simply changes the centre of gravity by the slightest shift in his weight. That controls the direction in which the glider travels."

"The slightest shift?" said Wilbur. "Can just a slight alteration make such a big difference?"

"Believe me," Miyoko fought to bring her voice under control. "The tiniest things can have the biggest consequences."

"Ain’t that the truth," said Charles Sweeney. But only Otto, in his head, heard them. Gustav translated what Orville and Wilbur had said for his brother. Otto replied, "It is sufficient. I have made almost two thousand flights now, some as far as fifty metres."

"But what if you had an engine?" Wouldn’t you need some kinda control surfaces? And what about going further? And picking when and how you land?"

"It is true, the glider does not manoeuvre as would a bird. There is a tendency to pitch down, from which it is difficult to recover."

"But we are working on it," Gustav added, "and also are we working on an engine."

"Then we will be able to fly wherever we may wish, whenever we wish, for whatever purpose we wish. We will be as free as the birds."

"Not all of us will be free," Miyoko whispered.

"Come and see me fly again tomorrow," said Otto.

"Gee, I dunno," said Orville Wright. "Me and my brother have found you a great inspiration, Herr Lilienthal."

"But I think we wanna look at some other ways of doing things. We wanna powered machine," Wilbur added.

The next day, August 9th, 1896, as Otto Lilienthal took off in his glider from the great artificial hill he and his bother had constructed outside Berlin, he imagined the two American brothers were still there with him. Suddenly, the glider pitched forward. Otto struggled in vain to regain control, but smashed into the ground. His spine was broken. In his final hours, the voices he had been hearing in his head returned. With one final effort, he said to the Americans, "Kleine Opfer müssen gebracht werden."

"What?" said Wilbur. "What did he say?"

"‘Small sacrifices must be made.’"

Otto Lilienthal died next day aged 48.

Exactly 49 years later, the span of a man’s lifetime, on August 9th 1945, Major Charles W. Sweeney banked the B29 Superfortress as sharply as he could and at full throttle to get away from the bomb his airplane had just released over the Japanese city of Nagasaki. Forty-three seconds later it exploded, killing seventy thousand people.

One of the survivors, one of the "explosion-affected people," or Hibakusha, as they were known, Miyoko Matsubara, imagined herself talking with Otto Lilienthal. Talking, asking, pleading with him not to develop a flying machine. But all she could hear him say were his final words.

Small sacrifices must be made.

The End

"Brother, Can You Take Me Back?"

Remember what is was like being a teenager? - You will!

-1-

"What is the logical value of this q-bit here?" Ms Trisconi demanded, pointing at the magiscreen. She seemed to be getting quite worked up over the matter. It sounded to Daniel like he ought to know – that it was obvious – from something Ms Trisconi had said in the last five minutes. The trouble was – Daniel had not been listening for the last five minutes.

"Erm… True?" he hazarded.

Ms Trisconi glared at him. "Daniel, do you want me to refer you for Realignment Programming?"

"No, miss."

"So – I ask again, if the input q-bits to a ZOR gate are a True and a False, what is the logical value of the output q-bit?" She really meant it this time.

"I don’t know," he answered, honestly. He really meant that too.

"Anyone?" she addressed the rest of the class, mock-weary.

"True-and-false," the class all chorused, like reciting a mantra.

"Now, Daniel, why didn’t you know that?" Ms Trisconi said.

Daniel searched the air itself around him. He glanced at his transputer screen, looked across his desktop and searched, wide-eyed with growing despair, the faces all staring at him. Perhaps he had a chance to redeem himself with one last throw of the dice. "Because it’s all bollocks, miss?"

-2-

Daniel was wandering disconsolately down the blue atrium, with no particular place to go, when he spotted Claire. Claire was just about his best friend. Indeed, she was about his only friend – for some reason he just couldn’t seem to get on with the other kids. Claire, however, seemed to understand him. A little. At least, she was prepared to listen to him. Usually. He approached her. She spoke first, before he had time to say hello.

"You idiot! Do you really want to go to Alignment classes?" she snapped. Perhaps she was not so understanding after all.

"I suppose not."

"Then why do you say such daft things in lessons? Trisconi’s bound to report you now!"

"What did I say that was daft?"

"Everyone knows the output of a ZOR gate is true-and-false. It’s like, d’ur, the most basic thing in quantum transputing. And using language like that too. You’ll get an F for respect in Civics as well now."

"But it is bollocks," Daniel insisted. "How can anything be true and false at the same time?"

"That’s the whole point of quantum transputing – it’s all based on a superposition of entangled possibilities before the collapse of the probability density function! Like Shrödinger’s Cat."

"Claire," Daniel spoke cautiously, "where did you learn to speak English?"

She glowered at him. "Do you know, at this rate, by the time you graduate from school, you’ll be a hundred years old?"

Daniel hesitated. Claire was his best friend. Perhaps now it was time to tell her his biggest secret. No matter what the consequences.

"Claire – listen. I’ve got something very important to tell you."

She shrugged, turning partly away from him, and didn’t speak.

"Claire… I already am over a hundred years old."

For a moment, she still said nothing. Then she spun back on him. "Daniel," she yelled, "you’re impossible!" and stormed off.

-3-

It was after Environics that he caught up with her again. She was in the panodome but, unusually for her, she didn’t have her head in a screen, but was staring out through the thermoglass into the distance, arms folded.

He walked up behind her and said, quietly, "I accept you for what you are ."

"What do you mean, ‘accept me’? For what?"

"Well… for having purple hair for a start."

"What’s wrong with purple hair? It’s not dyed – it’s natural, you know."

"That’s what so scary," he murmured.

"What?"

"And you’re a girl."

"Of course I’m a girl, you – " she ran out of words. "Is this about us having sex again?"

"We didn’t have sex before," he quibbled.

"We talked about having sex before. We decided it would be a bad idea at our age. And with wrist-pods," she raised her hand to show the electronic device strapped to her arm, "we’d soon be spotted together and get in trouble, and we’d both fail our Responsibility exam."

"That’s what I meant," he winked. "We talked about it before, but we haven’t had it before."

Despite herself, Claire couldn’t keep a grin playing around the corners of her mouth. Of all the people she knew, he was the only one who could make fun of serious matters like this. And he was the only one who made her laugh about them.

"What’s wrong with being a girl, anyway?" she pouted.

"Nothing. It’s very nice, in fact. It’s just that – when I first went to school, it was a boys-only school."

"When was that?" she mocked. "In the middle of the twentieth century?"

"Exactly!" he hissed. "I first went to secondary school in 1966."

The smile faded from Claire’s face, replaced by a look of concern. "Why don’t you speak to Ms Grubczak, in S.E? Maybe she could help you."

"I don’t need advice from Ms Grubczak or Spiritual Enlightenment or anything else. I just need to confide in a friend. My best friend. Even if my best friend does have tits."

"Daniel!" Claire could snarl like a rottweiler when she chose to.

"I’m sorry. It’s just that when I was a teenager, I never knew any girls."

"Daniel, you’re a teenager now."

"Alright – when’s my birthday?"

"I dunno – sometime around the summer solstice."

"What year?"

"2055 – same as mine. We’re both fifteen years old."

"Claire – I was born in 1955."

She studied his face. "Maybe you should get your hormones checked at MedLab."

"I’m absolutely serious, Claire. This is the second time I’ve been through adolescence in my life. And I’m absolutely hating it."

-4-

He caught up with her again outside, behind the bicycle sheds – it was funny how some things didn’t change about school even over a century. Even if, now, the bikes all had hydrogen cells. They both were wearing shades, to protect their eyes from the UV, but it looked like a fashion statement. Claire was listening to pipe groove on her wrist pod. She was moving in time with the music, as if in a miniature dance, and the volume was so loud he could hear it coming out of her nose. He tapped her on the shoulder.

"That stuff will rot your brain."

She removed her earplugs. "It’s top – don’t tell me you don’t like pipe."

"It’s sodding bag-pipe and drums like they used to play at the Edinburgh Tattoo, speeded up and played on synthesisers!" he snorted.

"What’s a bag-pipe?"

"What you were – almost – listening to now. They were played by Scots men in kilts and annoyed everybody because it sounds like someone strangling a cat!"

"Get up to date, will you? You’re beginning to sound like my parents."

"I’m old enough to be your great, great grand parent."

"And where do you get off on that rubbish? ‘I’ve been here before’ and all that crap?"

"It’s not crap. It’s the truth. I went to a school with no girls in a building that was made of brick with windows so high up the wall you couldn’t see out, not this – " he gestured to the gleaming building behind him " – thing that looks like someone threw up a pile of goldfish bowls. And we had uniforms and we had proper subjects like chemistry and history and maths – not Personal Development and Civic Responsibility and Quantum Transputing and – what’s that other thing? – Spiritual Enlightenment, whatever that is."

"And I suppose you didn’t wear sun-screen and drove around in petrol cars too!" she snapped.

"No," he shook his head slowly. "Not the cars. You couldn’t learn to drive till you were eighteen."

"So how did you end up here in year ten of Ganesh College?"

He sat down on a low wall and waited patiently for her to join him. Eventually, she gave in and took her place by his side. "You didn’t meet me to the beginning of this academic year?"

"No."

"That’s because they didn’t let me loose till this summer."

"Who? Who didn’t?"

"I had a whole life before this one. In the middle of my nineties in 2050, I fell ill. The doctors told me that they were developing a treatment for what I had, but it wasn’t quite ready. They offered to put me in suspended animation and when the treatment was perfect they would fix me and bring me round. I mean, I didn’t know what they had in mind – I was an old get who’d long since lost interest in scientific developments in the world, and, to tell the truth, the world in general. I was what some call, ‘waiting for God.’ My life seemed almost over. However, have you heard the saying, ‘Everyone wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die?"

"I – I’m not sure. I might have in S.E."

"Well, I thought, ‘What the hell,’ and said, ‘OK.’ It was stupid really – all my friends had gone, all my close relatives had died and I didn’t see even my kids or grand-kids any more. To be honest, I didn’t think it would work. I’d just quietly go to sleep in comfort and that would be that."

"What was the treatment?"

"It was called stem-cell technology or something at the time. I suppose it’s what you call bio-regenics today."

Claire was taking this seriously. She tugged absent-mindedly on her wrist-pod. "What happened?"

"Well – apparently – they eventually got it to work. They brought me round, finally. But it was ten years later. And they’d not simply cured my illness, they had re-grown my muscle, skin and bone. I was a centenarian in an infant’s body."

"Ozone holes!" said Claire. Beyond that, she had no other comment.

"So after that I went through a period of rehabilitation and readjustment – there was no need for me to got to school to learn to read and write and I didn’t have to be potty trained. Walking was a bit odd at first. Ultimately, they got me to a state where they felt I could be reintegrated back into society. I was a teenager by then. So here I am at school. I’m learning all these stupid subjects that didn’t exist when I really was a teenager all those years ago, I don’t understand any of it, I’m not interested in any of it and everybody is giving me a hard time, especially that Trisconi woman. She just keeps getting on my back every day and I’m sick of it. All the stuff I know is useless and all the stuff they’re trying to cram in my head just gets on my bloody nerves."

Claire absorbed this. "What was it like, life back then? In the nineteen hundreds?"

"Nothing special. Or, that’s how I felt at the time. By comparison, it seemed a lot more sensible than life today."

"I’ve often wondered about back then. I mean I’ve read about it and see it in videos. I sometimes think I might have liked it."

Daniel was dubious, then something occurred to him. "Maybe that’s why you and I sort of get on together."

"What did you do for a living?"

"I was a computer programmer until I retired. Then I took up growing roses in my back garden."

"But you don’t programme transputers. You just specify the problem in assertive terminology and the solution-algorithm is self-generating."

"Well-remembered! It’s almost like you’re brainwashed. Meanwhile, the one thing I was good at and earned a comfortable living from isn’t even a job anymore and I’m supposed to learn a new career. As if I could care less. And I’m supposed to like bloody bag-pipe music too!" Daniel was clenching his fists in rage by now.

"Daniel," said Claire at length. "What’s a rose?"

-5-

They were walking along beneath the overpass near the Interchange, the quiet hum of vehicles above filling the gaps in their conversation. At length Daniel asked, "Won’t they notice we’re missing Recreational Studies?"

Claire thumbed at her wrist-pod. "With a bit of luck, the overpass will mess up our pod signals and we’ll just tell them we missed the Shuttle back from the Mall."

"That’s just what I used to say when I used to bunk off Latin. Sort of." He looked at her. "Before you ask, Latin was the language everybody spoke before English took over, but about two thousand years earlier. Alright?"

Claire mouthed the word, "Oh," in ill-feigned interest.

"But you do really know what a rose is, don’t you?"

"Of course I do," she said. "I was just testing you to see if you did."

"Ah. I see."

"I’ve seen one in the museum. I’m still not sure what a kilt is, though."

They were running short of anywhere interesting to walk. There was a service gantry with a metal stairway that rose to a dizzying height. Few people passed by here. Opening a gate, they climbed to a platform, sat and looked out on a deserted urban tableau.

"Why are you testing me?" Daniel said. "Don’t you believe me?"

"That you’re a hundred and fifteen years old. Of course I believe you."

"Thank you," he said.

"It’s just that you don’t look a day over a hundred and ten."

"Look!" he said, seriously, on the edge of losing his temper. "I’m like that Shrödinger’s Cat. I’m in a superposition of states – I’m fifteen and I’m one hundred and fifteen!"

Claire looked suitably chastened. "What about your parents – the people you live with?"

"The foster parents, you mean?"

"You’re a hundred and fifteen and have foster parents?"

"No – the parents I live with are called Mr and Mrs Foster – they have other children… What do you think I mean! I have to appear to be an ordinary teenager. And that’s just how they treat me – always on at me to work hard at college, grounding me if I stay out late and being a real pain in the backside."

"Why?"

"So that I won’t stand out and because I’m supposed to need looking after – this is an entirely different world from the one I knew. What’s more – " he broke off.

"What?"

"I’m not supposed to tell anyone. The treatment I had is still experimental. You don’t even qualify for it unless you reach a hundred."

"What – like a prize?"

"Some prize! Anyway, if anyone finds out, it could be… rescinded."

"Rescinded?"

"Revoked." He could see her staring at him, uncomprehending. "I think it means they’d take me and chuck me back in the freezer if I blab. What’s more, you could be in danger too."

"Why would I be in danger?"

"Because if you told some old folk they could have a second life, they’d all want one!" Daniel was exasperated. "I don’t know – all I know is it’s supposed to be a secret and I’m sworn to silence. The old folk wouldn’t be so keen if they remembered what it was like to be a teenager, having grown-ups always telling you what to do and asking you ‘what about your future?’ and crap like that. And now I’ve gone and told you because you’re the only person I really trust. And you’re probably the one person I shouldn’t have told because you could get into trouble!"

"I can take care of myself."

"Oh, yeah, tough-girl. And what if they turn you into a Popsicle too?"

"Let them try," she said, defiantly. "Creeps."

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look, I don’t want anything happening to you, because I care about you."

"I know. I care about you," she shrugged.

"No – I mean, really care. Y’know?…"

"You mean?…."

He nodded, slowly. "Yeah," he said, at last. "I have strong feelings for a fifteen year old school girl and I’m over one hundred years old."

She looked at him, surprised at first, then, coyly. "You dirty old man," she said, with a wink.

-6-

The Educhief’s private lounge, Ms Trisconi and Ms Grubczak faced Ms Ohuruogu, the chef du mission of Ganesh College.

"He’s rude, ignorant, and… dare I say?… discourteous even," Ms Trisconi was going on. "I’ve never met a student like him. He shows no interest in learning anything. He behaves like somebody from the Middle Ages!"

Ms Ohuruogu looked askance at Ms Trisconi. This was a day she had secretly been dreading. Before she could respond, Ms Grubczak interceded. "I think Daniel may have some deep spiritual issue he is struggling with. I have noticed him showing signs of distraction, as if something is preying on his mind. I have attempted to show empathy in compassion-sessions with him to seek out his inner conflicts…"

"Oh, shut up!" said Ms Trisconi, her voice, soggy with derision, betraying a slightly less enlightened attitude than was conventional.

"Colleagues, colleagues," said Ms Grubczak, "we need to try and find a way to move forward with Daniel. This groupthink has done nothing but focus on the past so far!"

"If we allow a student to realign his learning posture, it could spread to the other students."

"I think you’re overstating the situation," said Ms Ohuruogu, though she sounded less than convincing.

"Am I? Things like this have a contagion. And once it gets a hold, we could lose our educredit rating!"

"It is true," Grubczak nodded. "Disrupting the harmony of one insight period could spread to – "

"Will you stop talking like some reincarnated hippy!" Trisconi snapped.

"You’ve no idea what hippies were like, you post-post-post-modernist!" Grubczak retorted, with unusual venom.

"Colleagues, you are becoming heated!" said Ms Ohuruogu, heatedly. "There is more to this situation than meets the eye." She sighed heavily. "I didn’t want to have to tell you this. You are sworn to secrecy. Understand?"

The two education engineers exchanged glances, then nodded. "What is it?" said Grubczak.

"Is it something we really want to know?" said Trisconi.

"I’m afraid… it has become so." Ohuruogu pressed her thumb against the identity window of a filing carousel and extracted a piece of gutenberg. The sheet glowed with Daniel’s college report. She invited the two education engineers to see.

"There’s nothing odd there," said Trisconi, still reading Daniel’s record details. "He turned up here last solstice, seemed to settle in, then he’s gradually become more…"

"Discordant," Grubczak prompted.

"Where was he before?" said Trisconi. "I can’t see any previous college record."

"It’s confidential," said Ohuruogu. "Here’s why." She pressed her thumb against an ident patch on the gutenberg, and the image changed. "See?" she said, heavily.

Grubczak craned her head and read aloud. "‘Daniel… educated to tertiary level… Hertford College… King George V grammar school…’ Where on Earth’s that?"

"And ‘The Lazarus Institute’?" said Trisconi. "That’s not a college… Isn’t it a?…" She broke off.

"A hospital?" Grubczak broke in.

"‘Daniel was admitted, after attempts to treat him for…’" This time Trisconi’s voice trailed off into silence. Grubczak, still reading, remained speechless.

"So you see," said Ohuruogu, "if anyone’s ‘reincarnated’…"

"So that’s why Claire gets on with him so well," said Grubczak, with sudden realisation, "She’s always been a bit of a romantic when it comes to Antiquity Studies."

"Claire? Who’s Claire?"

"The girl he spends most of his personal study sessions with," Grubczak and Trisconi answered in unison. "They’re inseparable," Trisconi added.

"Possibly in more ways than one," Grubczak continued. Was that a twinkle in her eye?

"Where are they now?" said Ohuruogu. The two education engineers shook their heads. Ohuruogu flicked at the gutenberg. It was hyperlinked to the Omnipres that tracked the students’ wrist-pods. "Something’s interfering with the signal. They were last detected heading under the Interchange"

"You don’t think they might…" said Trisconi.

"Oh no," said Grubczak. Though she might have been struggling to hide a wry smile. She was a bit of a romantic at heart, too.

-7-

"That was nice," Claire said.

"Really?" said Daniel.

"Really."

"Would you like to do it again?"

"Already?"

"We’ve waited a long time till now."

"And people our age used to do it all the time?"

"Not all the time. They needed to rest occasionally," Daniel winked. "And, usually, when a little older, to be honest. At least, you ought to have been older. And," he waved his hand in act of dismissal, "without quite the age gap."

"What’s it called again?"

"Kissing."

"‘Kissing’," she mused. "It’s a nice word. I often wondered what it would have been like, to have lived a hundred years ago. It always sounds, well, so much nicer than now. So much more alive."

Daniel grinned. "Believe me, if you liked that, you’ll love what comes next."

"You mean ‘sex,’" said she.

"I mean ‘making love’." His face suddenly clouded over. "I’m… I’ve just realised… I’m sorry."

"What? What’s the matter?"

"Well, you really aren’t old enough."

She sighed. "C’m’ere." She kissed him again. "Of course I’m old enough." He was aware that she was breathing slowly but heavily. "After all, I know all the theory. Time for the practical."

He kissed her back, slowly and longingly. "I’m sorry," he said again, hoarsely.

"There’s no need to be," she spoke, hoarsely back.

"No – I mean ‘I’m sorry we’re doing this under an overpass.’"

"Don’t be," she whispered in his ear. "It’s just like in those 20th Century novels. It’s so book."

They kissed again. "I don’t know" he murmured, "the 21st Century has some good points too."

Suddenly, an amplified voice boomed out. "You are surrounded. Come out with your clothes on!"

"They’ve found us!" Claire gasped.

Daniel leapt up. "How did they manage to track us down so quickly?"

"You really aren’t used to this century, are you?"

"Daniel!" a voice boomed, "we know you are having some… problems. Please come and talk to us."

"What are they up to?" hissed Claire. "Are they planning something?"

"In this day and age – what do you think?"

"Daniel!" The voice again. "We’ve got someone here from The Institute. They just want to talk to you."

"Like fun they just want to talk," said Daniel. ‘Like fun,’ – an expression he remembered from The Catcher In The Rye.

"What will they do to you?" Claire demanded.

"More to the point, what will they do to you."

"But I’ve not done anything." Then, realising what she had said: "Neither have you."

"It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you know."

Again the booming voice: "If you don’t come out, we’ll have to come in and get you!"

Daniel stood at the railing of the gantry platform. "It seems," he said heavily, "I’ve got no choice."

"There’s always a choice!" said Claire. "I don’t want Realignment Programming, or any of their other techno-crap. I want to be me."

Daniel turned and looked at her, then kissed her gently on the forehead. "That’s all I ever wanted. That and being with you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me in both my lives."

He was turning away once more as she grabbed his arm. "That’s the one thing they can’t have. Who we really are. Our lives."

He stared hard at her face. "Do you mean…? Do you really mean…"

She suddenly seem to relax, become calm almost. "It’s the only thing we’ve got to lose. And what have they got to offer us in return?"

"Claire, I –"

"Do you really want to go back?"

"Do you really not?"

"Not without you."

Way below the gantry and some distance back from the overpass, Dr Stinger stood with two nursing attendants and the Community Custodians. Ms Ohuruogu and her education engineers watched in horror as two figures flung themselves from the platform and crashed sickeningly to the ground.

Ms Grubczak screamed. The nursing attendants dashed to the prone stricken forms, motionless on the asphalt.

"Why did they do that?" Ms Grubczak began to sob.

Ms Trisconi shook her head, more puzzled than distressed like her colleague. "They had no cause to rebel."

"Who knows?" said Dr Stinger. "Perhaps we will find out, eventually."

"What do you mean?" said Ms Ohuruogu. "You think you will be able to save them?"

"But of course," said Dr Stinger. "It may take us a little time, a year or two even. But we have the technology. Of course, I must insist that you do not tell anyone – it is still," – he paused – "a sensitive subject. Nevertheless, I promise you we will be able to treat them. Perhaps a little realigning also. Then they will be back with you, bright young students. Their whole lives ahead of them."

The End

Mental Lottery Chinese Chicken

(Lyrics from the album)

All The News Of The World

The day is reaching an end now
Time to spend some time
What a message to send now
Driving me out of my mind
It’s OK to say you’re doing fine now that it’s over
You’re glad you once were mine but now you’ve another
On the line
And all the news of the world doesn’t match the way I am feeling
All the news of the world forgets the story you are leaving me
Behind

Fold the papers away now
There’s nothing left to say
Send the letters away
There’s no-one else to pay
It’s OK to say the business is all done, now that it’s over
Turn the final page and close the cover
And sign
And all the news of the world has missed the deadline
All the news of the world doesn’t equal the headline
You’re not mine, any more. You’re not mine, any more. You’re not mine any more
It’s the news of the world.
It’s the news of the world.
All the news of the world.
It’s all the news of the world.

Bad For Business

High heels and hot wheals
Stiletto shoes and razor steels
Diamond rings with a shoulder cut
Keep your eyes wide open and your mouth tight shut
We've just gone several rounds of passion
But I can't tell you in the usual fashion
Cos a lover like you might just be bad for business

Heaven sent and heady scent
No-one knows where evening went
Little kisses leave a trail of fire
Burning up I got just one desire
I've a head full of crazy visions
But I'd better wait for someone’s permission
Cos a lover like you might just be bad for business

You tell me sweet nothings are nothing at all
You look swell and I fell when you gave me the call
But when you leave it's a greed it's a long way to fall
So long, so hard, check me out on my calling card

I've heard the odd word
It could be love but it's so absurd
So quick and so slow
Hot wax as the candles glow
You could become a personal obsession
I pick up fast and I've learnt my lesson
A lover like you might just be bad for business

Same Old Story

I remember, I caught you in a show
Your eyes were bright, with the tale you told
Love is new, but the story is old

Time together, time we had to spend
You turned to me, turning from a friend
Like you needed someone when love is at an end

Late at night your keepsake still reminds me
How I let my own compassion blind me

It’s an elaborate game
When your turn comes, you will do the same
Love is old, but the story is the same

Late at night your keepsake still reminds me
How I let my own compassion blind me

I remember, I caught you in a show
Your eyes were bright, with the tale you told
Love is new, but the story is old
Love is new, but the story is old
Love was new, but the story is old

Room For The Day

After so many hours it’s hard to believe the time is almost here
So many miles, so many sighs, so many times I’ve wished that you were near
Now at last you stand before me, real and clear and solid to my touch
If this is all we ever have nothing we could give would be too much

We
Have the room
For the day

Time is frozen for the moment, it and everything and we are one
Only space between us ever, in this place today the space is gone
All our waiting, meditating, contemplate mistakes we may have made
Should we love, expect so much, should we part and go our separate ways?

We
Have the room
For the day

Hardly chance to pause for breath before I’m up and running from your side
So many words are left unsaid, so little time we had in which to hide
Did it really happen that way that we were for a while as free as air?
No evidence, nothing left except the haunting feeling we were there.

We
Had the room
For the day.

Snowfall

Lonely feeling as dead as ground
The high days of summer, the colours and sound
An evening’s dream of love to be found
Lost under snowfall

Heavy the leaves, flowers in bloom
A scent of passion, the heart’s distant boom
Desire woven in hammering loom
Lost under snowfall

No fear of ageing, preserved in winter’s chill
Ambition fading, the empty page unfilled

Passion that flamed, fire in the air
A love that was hope, turned to despair
Frozen to nothing as if never there
Lost under snowfall

No fear of ageing, preserved in winter’s chill
Ambition fading, the empty page unfilled

Colder than ice, colder than stars
The blanketing white hides all the scars
A change of season from Venus to Mars
Lost under snowfall.

When The Morning Comes

You breathe out
I breathe in
Contact
Skin to skin
And when the contact’s broken
There still remains a line
Words remain unspoken
And end in just a sigh

I breathe out
You breathe in
You count
My rhythm
The clock is going slower
As time is winding down
You hold on to my hand
But you can’t hold a sound

So when the morning comes
I’ll be on my way
When the morning comes
You know I cannot stay
When the morning comes
I’ll be gone.

I draw breath
I draw the line
You hold breath
You hold on to time
Fingers of light begin
To grasp the coming day
Tomorrow can never be
There’s nothing left to say

So when the morning comes
I’ll be on my way
When the morning comes
You know I cannot stay
When the morning comes
I’ll be gone.

So when the morning comes
I’ll be on my way
When the morning comes
You know I cannot stay
When the morning comes
I’ll be gone.

At The Health Club

Welcome to the health club
Now the time has come to turn your life around
Welcome to the health club
Now you choose to lose your body by the pound
Step up the machine, we know where you have been
So wave bye-bye
Welcome to the health club
Now it’s time to change our fate with just a sigh

Welcome to the health club
Now the time has come to give it all away
Welcome to the health club
That you have said all there is you have to say
Your therapist is here to take care of your needs
And make things clear
Welcome to the health club
Here is your last chance to hold on to what’s dear

Welcome to the health club
Now the time has come to be going down
Welcome to the health club,
Feel the rhythm, see your heart race and pound
Connect up to the machine, you know what we have seen
And now you’re on your way

No Reprieve

Late in the afternoon
[Sunlight shining fair
Fluorescent Striplights
Starve the very air

The trees outside the window
You see them in the breeze
Hanging flags at half-mast
Reaching for some ease

As you come to realise
There’s no way out, no way out
Trying hard to believe
There’s no reprieve, no reprieve.

Limp and plastic curtains
Close around your bed
Cutting you off from view
Deep inside your head

You remember a sunny day
Running as a child
Things you will look back on
Memories stockpiled

Time is running thinner now
This is how we leave
Hanging on to the air
There’s no reprieve, no reprieve

There’s an open window
You can feel the breeze
You look forward to the light
But you know longer see the trees

Limp and plastic people
Turn and walk away
Cutting you off from view
You were here today

You remember another world
Running as a child
The past another country
From which you’re now exiled

Time is over, has run out
Time has come to leave
Time has gone, like the air
There’s no reprieve

There’s no reprieve
There’s no reprieve
There’s no reprieve
There’s no reprieve

Domestic Bliss

(Short story with a new twist on an infamous old problem)

Fluorescent jackets, two, bright yellow, Day-Glo strips, belts heavy with equipment – night-stick, radio, spray, cuffs – below stab-vests. Fluorescent strip lights, dirty grey, flooded the shadow-less pallor of late-night casualty. The police officers approached the reception desk. The triage nurse nodded in dull acquiescence towards the far corridor, opposite the entrance, leading out of the waiting area to the treatment section. The officers walked through.

#

"Mrs Beryl Rimmer?" said the first officer. The second stood holding back the plastic curtain of the assessment cubicle. The nurse, a plump-ish woman in her forties, finished attending to a dressing on Mrs Rimmer’s face. She’d seen this all before. She stepped round the trolley and squeezed past the second officer, out into the corridor.

"How did it happen?" said the officer.

#

Bob was late. Beryl hated it when he didn’t come home in time for tea. She was always fearful there would be a scene. She would try to avoid it, try not to say anything that might upset him, provoke him into one of his moods. But it wasn’t fair. He would be out enjoying himself, spending their money, having too much to drink. He always seemed to drink too much these days. How was she supposed to get on with her life, let alone enjoy herself, when she didn’t know what time he’d be back? Or in what state?

It hadn’t always been like this. There were the good times. The old times. Back when they were first courting. They couldn’t get enough of each other then. There was no where else either of them wanted to be. Now, it was difficult to be in the same room together, without there being an atmosphere. A tension.

She flipped the shirt over on the ironing-board. She’d done the sleeves, now the shoulders, about to do the back. Her mother had always said, "Be a good housewife, and your man won’t wander." That, and "A happy marriage is one where both of you know your place." All sounded a bit old-fashioned now. The iron was too hot, but she didn’t think to turn it down. As long as she didn’t linger, it would be alright. Get the creases out faster.

She thought she heard his key in the lock.

#

"Had your husband been drinking, Mrs Rimmer?" said the officer. The other took notes.

"Why do you ask that?"

"You said he was late home. Why was that?"

"He can come and go as he pleases. I don’t mind him spending a bit of time with his friends. There’s nothing wrong with our marriage."

"Of course not," said the officer. "Was he drinking with his friends?"

"He might have been."

"Is that why he stayed out?"

"He doesn’t stay out," she said, defensively. "He’s always back at a proper time."

#

Bob let himself in. Beryl was ironing. That was good. He was pleased to see her doing some housework. Perhaps she had learnt her lesson. It wasn’t just for him. There were the children to think of. They needed a good family environment to grow up in. Perhaps she had sent them off to bed early. He didn’t like them to see when he and Beryl had words. "Any tea?"

"Don’t you go expecting to be fed at this time of night," she said. He thought he saw her bite her lip. "I threw your dinner in the bin."

He was angry and disappointed. "I told you I was going to be a little late." He was hungry, and he had told her he wasn’t sure when he’d be home. He had had nothing to eat and here she was, being difficult. Why for once couldn’t she just do the right thing – get him a meal that would keep till he got back. "It was a leaving do. I couldn’t come home any earlier."

"Oh no, of course you couldn’t. Always putting someone else before me."

"How dare you say that," he retorted. "I’ve always put you first."

She seemed unable to contain herself. "You go out, spending our money on yourself and your mates. What about me?"

Bob was surprised. It wasn’t like her to refer to his friends like this. She usually didn’t even mention them, as if she preferred to pretend they didn’t exist. Why couldn’t she be more reasonable? Why couldn’t she be friends with them too? He felt his anger rising. "They could be your friends too if you’d make an effort. "And as for ‘our money’? This is my money. I earned it. And I haven’t spent all of it. Trouble is, my sweet angel, if I bring it home you go through my pockets and steal it and spend it on clothes that make you look like a tart. Most men would give you a clip round the ear for carrying on the way you do!"

#

The police officers pushed into Bob’s cubicle.

"You Bernard Rimmer?" said the first officer.

"Bob," said Bernard. "My friends call me Bob."

"Well, Bernard," said the second officer, "would you mind telling us how you come to be here?"

"It all started when I was a little late getting home from work," he said. "It was somebody’s leaving do. A colleague who’d been with the company for ages. We were giving him a good send-off. Drinks, food, everything. Or, rather, everyone else was. I could only stop for a couple of drinks. My wife, Beryl, doesn’t like me staying late after work. No matter what the reason. Then my colleague – the one who was leaving – bought everybody a round of double brandies. That was very nice of him, that. I bought him one back, knocked one back myself. Then I had to dash off. I had to catch a bus – I couldn’t drive after all that alcohol. That made me even later."

"What happened when you got home?"

"Well, I’d all this to drink on an empty stomach. I’d not had any time for anything to eat. So when I got home I was starving. Beryl – that’s my wife – said she had cooked me some dinner but thrown it away. I’d told her I was going to be late home. There was no need to do that. It’s not right."

"So you hit her," said the first officer.

"It wasn’t like that," Bob protested.

"Let me just go and check with the doctor," said the second officer. "I think he’ll confirm somebody hit her."

"Yes – no," Bob struggled for words. "I did hit her. But it wasn’t like that!"

#

The two officers stood, heads together, in the corridor as the doctor approached them. One turned to the other and said, "I hate domestics."

"Waste of time, if you ask me," said the other. "She should just walk out and leave him and take the kids with her. Divorce him, have the house, all of his money, and be done with it. Get rid of the bullying little creep for ever."

"Just got the results of the x-ray," said the doctor. "Mrs Rimmer has a broken cheek-bone. She’s been struck a very heavy blow, possibly with a blunt object."

"Good enough for me," said the first officer, "let’s go and arrest the sod."

The two officers pushed their way into Bob’s cubicle once more. "Bernard Rimmer, you are under arrest for assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Anything you say will be used as an excuse to beat the crap out of you."

The police officer hadn’t realised the doctor had followed him in to the cubicle and was standing right behind him. "I think there is something you should see first," said the doctor.

"I was trying to tell you before," Bob protested. "When I got home, my wife was ironing. I offered to give her the money I still had from the leaving do when I came in. As I put it down on the ironing board, she trapped my hand with the iron. She burned me! The only way I could get free was to pull the iron off. It broke free and hit her in the face. I was only trying to protect myself."

The doctor pushed between the two police officers and showed them both Bob’s hand.

There, right across the palm from fingertips to wrist, was a livid purple burn, triangular, curved edges, in the shape of an iron.

"His hand must have been in contact with something very hot for quite some time to inflict such a severe wound," said the doctor. "If it had been me, I don’t think I could have stuck it for so long."

The end

Epilogue – Ignorance Isn’t Bliss
"In January 1999 the UK Government’s Home Office published the results of a survey into domestic violence. It was the biggest ever carried out anywhere in the world and involved more than 10,000 men and women.

"It was called Study 191 and it stated, quite categorically, that 4.2% of men and 4.2% of women perpetrate the crime of domestic violence. In other words they had discovered that men and women are equally violent."

For any who wants information about men being victims of domestic abuse, contact www.mensaid.com, help@mensaid.com or call 087 1223 9986.

Hitler – The Comeback

It has been announced today that there is to be a remake of World War Two. There are a number of reasons for this. First of all, World War Two – The Original, proved to be very popular with large numbers of people everywhere. This was more so than a proposed sequel, World War Three – What are You Doing After The Apocalypse? shown to a test audience, which was rated badly for a lack of, well, anything, really, after the opening minutes. Secondly, it has widely been suggested that World War Two brought out a lot of stirling qualities in people, such as selflessness, forbearance, camaraderie and communal singing.

However it was felt nevertheless that the original World War Two had a number of shortcomings. First of all it was in black and white. Secondly, it was not in stereo. Nor was it available in a universally accepted format. The remake will have a broadly similar plot to the original. However, the Director’s Cut Special Edition DVD will feature a number of alternative endings for those who like a surprise. Look out for the one where, as the hostilities cease, Josef Stalin joins Cambridge Footlights with a song on ukulele called Lenin On A Lamp-post!

Rumours of a prequel to the series, The Franco-Prussian War – Who Are You Calling ‘Sausage-breath?’, are unfounded.

Anyone who wants to participate in any capacity whatsoever, from cast to crew, are welcome to get involved. And if should one of you feel that you can contribute some saucepans and kitchen utensils to make fighter aircraft, please hand yourself in to your local mental hospital or throw yourself into the nearest quarry immediately, whichever is more convenient.

(A remake of The Yom Kippur War, Your Land Is Mined Land – This Time It’s Anti-personnel, is still in its planning stages. More wars are definitely in the pipeline. Speaking of pipelines...)

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

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!

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...)

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.

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

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.