Ken Westell annual comp submissions

Harry’s Game

By Janet Baldey     

      

His small face solemn with concentration, Harry’s chubby hands struggled to twist a grass stem around my finger.

         “When I get big, I’m going to marry you, Auntie May.”

         “That would be lovely.” My thumb holding the deep green band in place, I kissed the top of his sun-warmed head,

         My daughter, Susie, looked at him with disdain, befitting her four-year seniority.

         “Isn’t he silly mummy?” Boy’s don’t marry their aunties.”

         “Sssh,” I placed my finger against my lips, Harry’s eyelids were fluttering towards his cheeks and I felt him grow heavy in my arms on that long, slow summer afternoon as we sat underneath a blue sky that seemed as if it would last forever. I listened to the song of the birds and Susie humming softly as she threaded a circlet of golden-eyed daisies, and I remembered another day.

         On that day, I had held Harry’s mother in my arms. The front of my blouse was soaked with her tears and I strained to hear as she struggled to speak, her voice hoarse as if worn out by her sobs.

         “Colin’s gone,” she wailed. “He’s never coming back.”

         I’d looked towards the cot; Harry’s face was  rosy with sleep and his red-gold curls were plastered to his head, as if painted on.

         “How could he leave that baby?” My words were immediately regretted as a fresh storm shook Heather’s body.

         When Harry was six months old, Heather went back to work full time.

         “I must. I want him to have the best of everything.” 

During the day, I looked after Harry. I was lucky; I had a loving husband and one child easily became two. He was a good baby and I grew to love him as if he was my own but my love was marred by my sorrow for Heather. She missed out on so much. She missed his first stumbling steps from one chair to another. It was I who had to explain that “diddoo” meant dummy and that he only cried for a while after she left him. I had the best of Harry. After dropping Susie off at school, we headed for the park where I spent the morning shadowing a toddler following his own agenda. Together, we fed the ducks, watched the death-defying squirrels and stood entranced as workmen dug a hole.

         It only took six months. During that time Heather steadily became thinner and quieter. I squeeze my eyes shut and when I open them the room shimmers. Why didn’t I realise it wasn’t just fatigue but something much more sinister? Why didn’t I realise that the silent killer had wrapped his arms around my friend and was drawing her into the dark? In the end, Heather’s courage wasn’t enough.

         “I want you to have him. He’ll be safe with you.”

         Those were her very last words before she closed her eyes and her pale face merged with the sheets.

         So, our little family of three became four. Four is a good number. We couldn’t formally adopt Harry and for a while, his life with us was clouded by uncertainty but Colin never reappeared; it was as if he had vanished into the ether.

         When you have just turned two, the world is a bewildering place. Harry was too young to understand the absence of his mother. His world had been shattered and for a while he made us all pay for it. But gradually we weathered the night terrors and temper tantrums and with every passing day he burrowed deeper into our hearts.

         When he was four he became a cowboy. Using small sticks as guns, he would gallop around the garden, firing his weapons into the air.

         “Bang bang”, he’d yell. “Bang bang you’re dead.”

         When he was eight, my husband took him to the Imperial War Museum. When they got back, Harry was bubbling. All through supper, he didn’t stop talking, his eyes darting from one face to another, desperate for someone to share his enthusiasm. Susie, who had just discovered make-up, had made a great fuss about handing round the bread rolls and sat eating with large, showy gestures, waiting for someone to notice her neon-pink nails. At the end of the meal, with Harry still in full flow, she gave up.

         “Oh, shut up, Harry. Give it a rest, please!” Pushing away her plate, she flounced from the table.

         Harry stopped for a moment, turning his head to watch her as she marched up the stairs. When he looked back, his face was puzzled.

         “What’s the matter with Susie?” Then, he was back in the museum and his eyes grew dreamy. “I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up.”

         My husband looked at me and we grinned. He’d get over it. It was just a passing phase.

         Sometimes, at the leaden hour of three in the morning, I lie awake wondering why Harry became fascinated by the thought of war and all its violence. I’m haunted by the thought that it was my fault. I know that sometimes, worn to a frazzle by his boundless energy, I’d sometimes leave him in the care of the television. Perhaps, that was it. Or, maybe, the warrior instinct is a seed waiting to germinate in every small boy; what Susie would call, with a theatrical role of her eyes, “a boy thing.”

         But he could be so tender in other ways. I have seen tears roll down his face at the sight of a dead bird; its legs, like dead twigs, sticking skywards. And later he became strongly anti-hunt.

         “It’s like this, Mum. A wild animal has a tough time. It has nothing but its life and it’s not right that people, who have everything, should take even that away.”

         So, why did that compassionate boy join the Army?

         I turn to the mirror. I have to look my best for Harry today. I fasten the turquoise pendant, his gift on my birthday, and pick up my lipstick. Suddenly, a great rolling roar fills the sky and my hand begins to shake as the plane sweeps low over the house.

         My husband crosses to the window. For the longest of times, he stares upwards then looks back at me. He seems to have aged ten years.

         Susie appears in the doorway.

         “I think we should go now.”

         She’s trying hard, but her eyes are too bright.

         I always knew that one day I would lose Harry. He’d grown into a good looking lad; sooner or later some pretty girl would claim him and I would no longer be his number one. I often imagined myself sitting in Church listening to the chime of the bells and feeling a mixture of grief and joy as I watched Harry’s tall figure dwarf that of his bride, slim as a reed in a sheath of white satin.

         But I never thought it would be like this. Outside the house, a snowy cloud of orange blossom is outlined against the sky as we three crows walk towards the car polished to a high sheen, especially for the occasion. None of us speak as my husband starts the engine and we head slowly towards the small market town where, even now, silent crowds will be gathering in honour of my beloved ‘almost son.’ I remember Heather and try to be brave but all the time I hear, inside my head, the faint echo of a childish voice.

         “Bang bang. Bang bang. Bang bang, you’re dead.”

©  Copywrite Janet Baldey

Flamingo Pondyalsya Ch 1

FLAMINGO PODNYALSYA Ch 1

By Philip Miller

Craig Burnett rang the doorbell a few times but there was no answer. He rapped hard on the old victorian brass door knocker,  catching his thumb in the process and cursing under his breath -  ‘haven’t these people heard of the “Hive”, for Christ sake! Wrinklies! probably think they’ll get stung- probably would too’. Curtains began to twitch next door to the dilapidated semi and there was no response from inside. Not a sound. Craig walked slowly past the large bay window, cautiously trying to get a view through a small slit in the heavy mildewed curtains. He turned and raised a cautionary hand to his colleague before asking her to fetch the Iron Lady from the meatwagon. Cody, struggling,  handed the heavy metal battering ram to Craig. Two powerful strikes strategically delivered was enough to force the door inwards off its hinges, offering up a tremendous noise as it hit the hard 1930’s Belgian mosaic floor. The young officers walked into the dust-filled hallway and with a degree of trepidation eased opened the reception room door. That is where they found him. He was sitting slumped in his chair with his oxygen mask still strapped to his face, or what was left of it.  Someone or something had mutilated it beyond recognition and both hands and feet were missing. Both officers began to gag at the stench and were quickly brushed aside by the paramedics who were stopped dead in their tracks.  The old man had been there a while as the dead flies would suggest; five or six days at the most. Craig followed protocol and made the relevant calls. Cody was keeping inquisitive by-passers and neighbours at bay while she waited for back up, oblivious to two small children who thought it an opportune moment to relieve themselves up the rear of the police van while it sat empty then ran off shouting, “labagiu, labagiu”. They were soon grabbed by an old man who began to beat them both severely around the legs before launching the pair inside there ramshackle hovel, spitting and cursing as they went..

It had been a long day and when Cody and Craig had finished there shift they decided to have a drink at the Cow and Templar pub. Naturally, they talked about the day’s events but when it came to the demise of the old man  Cody felt a cold chill down her spine.

‘ Can we talk about something else’, she said, as she took a large gulp of Muscato.

Craig was staring into his near-empty beer glass and then turned to see if anyone was listening.

 ‘I just can’t believe the state of the place. Did you see the colour of the walls and the ceiling? They were shit brown, and that bird, dead in the cage, the same colour’.

‘All right Craig! do you have to go on about it’, said Cody, softly.

‘Jesus! that little bird must have been smoking about 60 fags a day to get that colour, I’m sure it was a yellow canary once’. He looked at Cody and made the sound of a parrot, mimicking its death throe. They both laughed and Craig wished she would laugh more. He loved her smile. He loved lots of things about her. Pity, she was married to his brother.  He felt an urge down below and felt bad about it. He loved them both, his brother and Cody.  He smiled to himself. Lucky bastard he thought.

                                                   1

Monday morning soon arrived and for Craig, the weekend was over far too quickly and his hangover was crippling. He walked into his department’s office and sat down at his desk. After Ignoring his colleagues he massaged his temples, wincing at the hammer blows inside his skull.  He had a sudden flashback and grimaced. He sat for a few minutes trying to decide where he could crash for a few hours; the first aid room  - no, always stinks of puke on a Monday morning;  transport room out back; no – nerdy Nigel is always there, the guy never sleeps and he never changes his socks either; meat-wagon – nope, all the little favours normally get done in them over the weekend.  He began tapping his pencil on his laptop, looking rather pensive when it suddenly dawned on him that his was the only sound resonating around the office. It was dead quiet. He looked up. Why are they all staring at me? he thought.  He wiped his face with his hand, checking to see if he had something on it, like a wart or clump of hair that he missed while shaving, before running his fingers through his hair quickly, just in case something was stuck on his head.

‘OK!  What's up? Whats happened?’, he said to no-one in particular as he arched back in his seat.

Not a sound from anyone. Craig’s heart began to race. His head was already throbbing and the silence just compounded the tension which was only made even worse when Chief Inspector Moreau opened his small office door and beckoned him in. Craig stood up and marched into the small war room and quietly sat down. His foot started to itch – always did when he was nervous.

‘When did you last see Cody?’

‘Two nights ago Sir, what’s happened, is she all right?’

‘No, she’s dead'.

‘Oh! My God! No,’ I don’t believe it, what, w-why! How? no. Tom. What about Tom? Jesus!

‘There is more bad news I’m afraid Craig’.

Craig was in shock. He was in survival mode. His mind went into overdrive and it began to rapidly slam shut all the doors of his amygdala and hippocampus, slowly rendering him into the human form of a jellyfish when the last sentence he heard sent him into  the abyss------ ‘ your brother’s dead too’.

The young officer thought his heart was in his head and it was about to explode. His  Palms started to sweat and his feet were itching like crazy. He had an intense ache in his stomach, a hollow emptiness that was screaming to get out. He made for the door but Moreau beat him to it.

The inspector stood at 6’6” and was a good 8 inches taller than the young officer. He placed his hands on Craig’s shoulders and looked down at him sympathetically.

‘Sit down lad,’ he said, in an almost fatherly manner.

                                                   2

Craig sat down but his mind was all over the place. Why both dead? It’s crazy. He took a sip of water from a glass on Moreau’s desk then took a deep breath just as the chief inspector sat down opposite him.

Moreau studied his subordinate for a few minutes and then stood up and looked out the window.

‘Have you ever heard of The Okhrana or a man named Ruberov?’  He said softly, almost inaudible.

‘No Sir,’ sniffed the young officer, still blinking back the tears.

‘We believe the man you found dead was Ruberov. Before he defected to Britain in 2007 he was an amateur archaeologist who had a contact in one of Russia’s most prestigious DNA research facilities.

We think that he, along with his friend, had evidence that the remains of the last two children of the Romanov’s that were found in a shallow grave are, to coin a phrase, “fake news”. Now, while this means nothing to you it does indeed mean a great deal to the Russians, especially the Kremlin. They don’t want this getting out as it could cause an almighty diplomatic row and indeed a threat to world peace. The Okhrana were the secret police of the Russian Imperialist Empire and, like the Phoenix, have risen again, operating covertly in Europe, mainly here in London. We think the KGB killed Ruberov. They want Okhrana too.

Craig sat down open-mouthed for a minute before asking, ‘what on earth does this have to do with me or Cody or Tom, for Christ’s sake!

‘Nothing, but the KGB will not gamble on this. They cannot risk anything getting out. They can quash stories but scientific evidence is hard to deny. Now, do you know anything about Okhrana?’ he asked sternly, staring intently at Craig. ‘ Did you find anything in that room? Did you take anything?’

‘No Sir. Nothing.’

The phone rang, which made Craig jump. Moreau answered it then shortly dismissed the rather perplexed and confused and shocked young officer.

‘Go on,’ sighed Moreau

‘Forensics here Sir, cleared with the Home Office. Anthrax Ebola hybrid, highly contagious. The mortality rate is 100%’.

Moreau ended the call and stared out the window for a moment before hitting speed dial on his phone.

‘He knows nothing and soon he will be dead anyway, as will I. Flamingo Podnyalsya! God bless her Imperial Majesty! God bless Russia’.

Craig Burnett walked uneasily and unsteadily to his desk. He felt something near his ear, wiped it, and then collapsed.

                                                         ©  Copywrite of Phillip Miller      

                           

The Cull

THE CULL 

 by Peter Woodgate

It was spring in Winnipeg in the year 2021. Just outside the city, nestling in the hills of the beautiful countryside of Manitoba stood a grand mansion. This magnificent building highlighted by the soft spring sun would normally have been the epitome of calm. Not today, however, as multiple helicopters descended on the building like bees returning to the hive.     

All this hum-drum of activity was due to a covert meeting called by the governing bodies of certain countries, these being; USA, Canada, the UK, Germany, Japan, China and Russia. The said meeting had been arranged by the Heads of State in the aftermath of the particularly devastating Coronavirus which had ravaged the globe for the past eighteen months. The death toll had now peaked at 1.4 billion, 1.3 billion of which were the elderly over 70’s.     The president of the USA opened the meeting and immediately thanked the representative of China explaining that a vaccine had now been formulated by that country and would be distributed immediately. During further discussions, all agreed that “The Cull” had been necessary as the ageing population had been causing global markets to fall. 

The manufactured virus had been a great success targeting those deemed to be surplus to requirements when trying to build a strong global economy. It was further agreed that healthy growth could now be expected.    

 Of course, viruses had been released in the past but had never been as successful as this and it was agreed that China should again be nominated to manufacture another to suit the occasion when needed.     Mission accomplished, the bees left the hive. 

©  Copywrite of the author

First diary post

Dear Diary:

by Richard Banks

Hi Everyone,

Spoke to Sis recently. Discovered that she, like me, is keeping a diary - family history for generations to come. This is my entry for Wednesday, 25 March:

Set off for Iceland just before 8am. According to their web site, the Rayleigh branch opens at 8. Arrive to find the shutters down and a handwritten note on the door saying their opening hours are now 10-6pm. Go home have a cup of tea and go back at 10 to find a queue of shoppers some 30 metres long. People not wanting to get too close to each other but nothing like the recommended 6-foot gap. As one customer leaves the shop another is let in. The staff wear black surgical masks which on the younger girls is rather alluring.

Despite the first hour of opening being for wrinklies, there are several people in the queue conspicuously less than 70 years. They are let in and served like everyone else. Payment by cash is being discouraged so I pay by contactless debit card, the first time I have ever done so.

I encourage the young lady at the till by saying they are all heroes. She says she must be mad being there. I say that younger people, not at risk, so don’t worry but she has read something in the Daily Mail which says they are. Go home. I have purchased groceries to the value of £22; added to the stuff I already have I’m stocked up for the next two weeks.

Cousin John phones to say that Tony, the husband of our mutual cousin Anne, has died. Nothing to do with Covid 19. He has been unwell for quite awhile spending most of this year in hospital. No date yet for the funeral but when it happens there will be no funeral service, just a short committal service around the grave to which no more than five people, including Anne and Vicar, may attend. The worse thing happening at the worse possible time.

Tune into The Archers. Unbridled joy! Everyone in Ambridge safe and well. No one even talking about Covid 19, in fact no one seems to know anything about it. Where is this place? My road atlas tells me there’s no such town in the UK so logically it must be in some other corner of the world. I look at the map that Len has sent showing the unrelenting spread of the virus – what a boost this has been to my morale! The only place thereon that’s clear of it seems to be Greenland. This makes sense. Would anyone in the centre of that huge landmass know what was going on in the rest of the world?  Just think about it. Despite the fact that the Ambridge folk are constantly on Radio 4 do you ever recall any of them actually listening to the radio? And if they don’t get the radio signals what chance the internet! Someone needs to be warning them and soon. I mean to say why should I be housebound and washing my hands every five minutes when they don’t have to. It ain’t fair. I want them to suffer just like me.

I finish the bottle and go to bed.

How have your days been going? Write one down and send it out to the rest of the Group. What you do and think, however remarkable it may seem will be gold dust to future generations of descendants and social historians. Looking forward to hearing from you.

Richard

You are invited to add to this journal:

Thank you for starting it off Richard.  So whose next?

From a bus

The world from a bus

by Christopher Mathews

  I wiped the greasy, misted windows with the back of my hand. I must have done this a thousand times on this same bus, number nineteen, upper deck, halfway down, on the right, just behind the stairs.

Naturally, the back row was reserved for teenagers: this is an unspoken law which everyone knew. The front was the window on a world of dreams for small children with their mothers on a day’s outing. The journey to the bank, where I worked took thirty-four minutes, less in the school holidays. How did I come to this? Sixty-one years old with a massive mortgage like a millstone, working long hours in the dullest job in the world. Whatever happened to my schoolboy dream to be an archaeologist discovering the wonders of history? 

‘Get your head out of the clouds and don’t be such a dreamer, just stick to maths lad.’ said the school career’s advisor, Mr Doughty the PE teacher, who despised those of us who were not good at sport.  Sixty-one from three score years and ten only leaves nine years left to bloom. 

A small boy, two seats in front was kneeling on the bench, flying a spaceship made of his mum’s washing up bottle, completely oblivious to his dull, drab surroundings, his imagination fixed on his perilous mission to save the universe in deepest space. He was piloting his rocket through meteor storms and evading the death rays of alien fighter ships carrying his precious cargo which would save his homeworld.

‘Tickets please!’ bellowed the ticket inspector in my ear, wrenching me from the copilot seat in a Fairy Liquid bottle.

I glanced at my watch, eight twenty-seven, we’re a bit late we should be on the corner where Mumbles the men’s outfitters used to stand, long gone now though.

As the bus passed that corner, a young woman was shouting at a man, everyone on the pavement stopped to look, mesmerised by the scene.  Then, with all her strength she slapped him full in the face.  He reeled back as if punched.  An audible gasp rang out from nearby shoppers. Hell hath no fury… I thought.

The bus drove on and that brief snapshot into life was gone.  But in my imagination, I filled in her back-story, the tragic details which had led up to that one moment where lives, like colliding billiard balls, suddenly break apart. 

‘What do you mean you’re leaving, we have a child, you have responsibilities now! ‘But I’ve fallen in love with… or; 

‘But you were seen kissing Mandy Bridgwater behind the bike sheds…’ or maybe;

‘You can’t go off to university, what about all our dreams…’ 

I had forgotten how turbulent the teenage years were, where everything was either wonderful bliss or unendurable pain.  Looking back, life seemed so volatile, as if anything were possible and the future could unfold in hundreds of different ways, none of which saw me working in a job I hated for forty-three years at the same dull bank.

But perhaps there was much more to this slap than we witnessed. Maybe it was part of a ‘pop-up’ street drama put on by a local acting school. Or, part of an elaborate scam where the shopper’s attention was momentarily distracted as unseen pickpockets worked through the crowd, purses heavily laden with cash for the morning shop. 

We were now passing through Weaver Street, lined with narrow terraced houses, long front gardens and parked cars.  What a shock, there at number sixty-four was a gigantic

ocean-going yacht, now rather battered and damaged obviously from a long sea voyage.  It was as if, overnight the tide had beached an enormous Blue Whale jammed between a battered old Ford Cortina up on bricks and new shiny BMW.  The bow of the yacht was within inches of the upper floor bedroom window and the stern, which was covered in tatty stickers of the flags from different countries, was jutting out over the front gate.  The mast was broken and there was a gash in the side of the hull as if a sea monster had bitten through it and after hastily patched at sea. ‘here be dragons’ the old maps said.  The underside was covered in seaweed and barnacles.  The cabin was at my eye level and I could see that the interior was a mess as if everything had been tossed around in a violent storm, the sort you get in the Southern Ocean.  An old man of about seventy, a mop of grey hair, tatty shorts, bronzed face and legs were tinkering around inside energetically, as if desperate to get her seaworthy again.

The bus passed quickly as if to rip the fascinating scene from my eyes, but it lingered on in my imagination. I saw him waving to loved-ones who stood on the quayside not knowing if they would ever see him again. He was driven by an inner storm far more powerful than any found in nature.  Each night they were glued to the radio set hoping for a crackly word from him.’

I’m now about forty miles off the coast of …. The storm has passed but… I saw a school of mermaids today…’. But the rest is lost in the wind. 

And they lived in the unspoken fear of a call, in the dead of night from some foreign coastguard saying, 

‘I regret to inform you that…’ 

And I thought of Longfellow’s poem The wreck of the Hesperus. At that moment was he too battling a frozen storm in mountainous seas, his yacht rushing down a wave-like a surfer only to plough through a wall of deep green water and turn stern over bow like a toy ship on the beach. Or, swimming on the mirrored surface of an iridescent blue sea, exposed under the vast cloudless heavens above and the bottomless bottle green sea below, remembering to tie a line to his ankle in case the wind blew. Watched on by curious sea creatures or a massive whale spouting a tall column of water.  Or perhaps, emerging out of a becalmed mist, he could hear the rumbling of engines as the vast blind bow of an enormous bulk freighter came rushing toward him, ‘No time to start the engine, I must…..’

‘Ain’t this your stop governor?’ said the conductor.  

Climbing down the steps of the bus, exhausted from my own battles with the sea as vicarious loneliness mixed with a strange exhilaration flooded through me, I thought of the place in the Bible where it says ‘God has set eternity in the heart of man’ And I too felt that longing for more, much more than just this life, it was the call of eternal significance we are all grasping for. I walked slowly up the monumental steps of the bank, as I had every working day of my life, with its stolen Ionic Greek architectural order evoking the enduring solidity of Classical Greece. I felt the familiar sinking feeling at the prospect of another grey, dull day shuffling numbers on a computer screen. Ironic Greek Order would be more fitting nowadays, given the state of modern banking. In the vast marble-lined hall, I was met by Mr Perkis-Jones, the young, sharp-suited manager who shook my hand warmly. It was a well-practised greeting, warmth tinged with regret and just a little sadness, it was very well done. On either side of him were a man and a woman dressed in grey and looking very stern in contrast to his practised engaging smile. My imagination raced at this unexpected greeting, are there going to be accusations of fraud?  But my mind was brought back as he went on in a hushed sympathetic voice.  

‘We at the bank have valued your hard work and commitment over many years Frank, urr, I mean Georg, oh yes Bernard of course,’ the woman had whispered in his ear, ‘But following the recent Blue-sky Consultancy report the bank is redirecting resources and streamline the blar, blar, blar… I recognised the management-speak at once, of course. 

‘My, our deepest commiserations’ he continued and then paused waiting for me to take it in.  He went on in a much more jovial unrehearsed voice; well, it is a very generous redundancy package and your pension is first-rate.  

‘Just think Frank, now you can fulfil all those dreams.’  

The end

© Christopher Mathews – March 2019

A Star Break

A Star Break

 (by Janet Baldey)

What makes a perfect weekend break?   Everyone has an opinion.  Words zip around the office rebounding off the walls like ping pong balls on speed.

Tracey loves Blackpool.  Doing the birdie dance in front of the Wurlitzer in the Tower ballroom; walking along the seafront at night eyeballing the lights, scoffing fish and chips out of newspaper with her latest honeybear.  Tracey heaven!

 ‘If you want sand, sun and sex you can’t beat St Tropez.’   Michelle likes to think she’s sophisticated, shame her leer lets her down.

Plump Maureen sighs and raises her huge owl eyes to the air-con inlet.

‘Florence,’ she declares. ‘That’s the place if you want a bit of culture.   It’s a city in Italy.’  she adds like we were all thinking she was talking about the Magic Roundabout. 

I yawn.  I can feel my eyes glaze over. In fact, they double glaze over.

‘Keeping you up are we.’ says Tracey.  ‘Ok.  So what did you do last weekend, Karen?  Come on, surprise us!’

The gauntlet has been thrown down and suddenly they are all dead quiet.  Looking at me.  But I’m ready.

‘Well actually,’ I say, laid back and nonchalant-like.  ‘I went to Mars.’

Stunned silence, then,.,,,

‘Yeah. Right,’ says Tracey. 

But it’s true.  I really did.  Thanks to all this clever modern technology you can now do the red planet in a weekend.  I tell them all about it.

‘Of course, you have to sign lots of papers first. In fact. it would have taken the entire weekend just to read them, but Krerkel our tour guide was ever so helpful.’

‘Just sign it, pet.  Basically, it’s there to protect us if anything goes wrong, and in the remote possibility that it does, the Institute of Space Medicine has the rights to your body!” He adds ‘and what a gorgeous body it is.”’ The gleam in his emerald eyes make me insides moist.

         ‘Not that anything will happen.  Well, probably not.   Passengers do survive – well, some.  And those that do amaze their friends with tales of a weekend break that’s out of this world. And of course, at the prices, we charge you can’t complain.’

‘The space ship was just like a plane, except we all had to wear spacesuits.  When everyone was aboard, Krerkel stood up.   “Now, I’m just going to run through the emergency procedures – well, actually there are no emergency procedures because if there was one, we’re doomed. “

Cracks me up, does Krerkel.

He gives each a couple of ‘anti-space sickness’ tablets. 

“They’re smarties,” I said. 

         ‘Of course.  There are no tablets for space sickness. But just think! Twenty-four hours of realised nausea!  The ultimate detox.”  He looks at Fat Bertha overflowing from her seat into mine. ‘Think of it as a never-to-be-repeated slimming opportunity.  And all for no extra charge.’

I don’t remember much of the take-off.

‘G-forces,’ explains Krerkel.  ‘affect a lot of people that way.  But you weren’t unconscious for long.’

‘Took us all day Friday to get there.  Fat Bertha talked about her bloody pet budgie for the entire 53 million mile journey.  It was a relief every time she turned away to throw up.

I was hoping to see stars and planets but there weren’t any windows.  ‘Who do you think you are – Warren Buffet?’ said Krerkel but he gave me such a lovely smile I knew he was being nice really. 

And when we got there, boy was it was worth it.  The beach went on forever. In fact, the whole planet was an endless golden beach – no sea mind you, but that didn’t bother me cos I can’t swim anyway.  If you wanted to bathe you ‘ad to use the pool.  But you ‘ave to be sharp cos the Gorgs go down early and leave their life support systems on the loungers.

Krerkel was the perfect tour guide.  He made sure I got my Full English pills each morning and at dinner time that my steak pills were medium-rare.  Little things like that make such a difference. 

It would have been nice to wriggle my toes in the sand but Krerkel said it were best not take the spacesuit off on account of how there’s no oxygen in the Martian atmosphere. 

The journey back was quieter than the journey out ‘cause most of the other passengers had died.

‘Some people just can’t take the radiation.’ Explained Krerkel, and I swear there was a tear in his eye.  He’s so sensitive, bless him.  But at least it meant Fat Bertha, didn’t spend millions of miles boring me rigid about her budgerigar.

Well, we did get back and I’ve gotta say it was the holiday of a lifetime even though Krerkel said I owed the travel company one hundred million dollars on account of me not dying.  Apparently, it was all in those papers I signed.  The Space Medicine Institute need bodies for their research.  I felt awful about holding up such important work but Krerkel said not to worry - he was sure we could work something out.

         ‘But did you meet anyone tasty?’ asked Tracey.  Slapper! But actually, it was good timing ‘cos just then, Krerkel popped in to take me home from work - part of our “arrangement”.

Tracey fainted.

Don’t know if it was his scales.  You can see right through them, like fine green lace, so sexy.  On reflection, it was probably the second head.  Threw me, at first.  But it’s amazing what you get used to when you really like someone.    

‘Sorry guys’ I said.  ‘I shoulda’ warned  you – Krerkel is a Martian.’

 Michelle laughed.

‘So that’s it!’ she sneered. ‘Might have guessed.  Suppose you realise he’s just after a British passport?’

         Well, jel bitch!

But I don’t care.  My weekend break was tote amazeballs.  And when Krerkel says he wants to get his head down I don’t think twice.

©  Copywrite of the author   (988 words)

TWINS

TWINS                                   

 (by Richard Banks)

I am a twin, identical in every detail to my brother, Jonathan. We are the same inside and out, a symmetry that extends to our personal traits. We laugh at the same jokes, watch the same films, dig the same music, we are affable, outgoing, if there’s a party we’ll be there. We like the same people, have the same politics, are impatient of those who stand in our way. We are clever, equally clever, our IQ is the same, 139.

         Only in our conception are we different. Jonathan is the product of human procreation, myself the handiwork of medical science. I am the spare. To be precise I am a fifth-generation, 28B. In the common vernacular, I am a clone. My function is to ensure the survival of Jonathan. If our father had had his way Jonathan would have been the first of many sons; sons who would have continued his business empire, ensuring its survival for hundreds of years. Why father was incapable of having further children I don’t know; this was not a subject he wished to discuss. What we can be sure of is that he became obsessively protective of Jonathan. Without him, without the children he was expected to provide, his vision for a business dynasty was at an end.  That father was able to afford the best medical care for his son was not enough, he needed to ensure that should Jonathan lose an organ or limb that a perfect match be available to replace it. I was, therefore, brought into this world when Jonathan was two years old, to supply the body parts that might be needed should he fall short of his normal good health. In this plan, I had no say, no right to object, indeed no rights of any kind. As a man-made entity I am the legal equivalent of a household machine. In the eyes of the law, I am inferior to Whiskers, the family cat.

         Our father being the practical, straightforward man of business that he was informed me of my situation when I was eleven years old and about to leave home for Harrow. To him, my existence was a generous act of philanthropy for which I should have been grateful. On finding that I was not he was at first angry but on the intervention of our mother condescended to explain my situation with all the powers of persuasion for which he was renown.

         There was, he said, every chance that I would live a long and happy life. Of course, I was not permitted to marry or have children, indeed the ability to procreate had, at my making, been removed from my biochemical functioning. That was the law over which, he assured me, he had no influence. What was within his gift was to give me access to all the material benefits that his great wealth could buy. In return, I was to make whatever sacrifices were necessary to ensure the good health of my brother. Who knows what they might be, perhaps no more than a pint or two of blood, some glands or soft tissue. Those I could do without. Even if an eye or kidney was required I could manage perfectly well with one. The heart and brain were, of course, another matter but those he hoped would never be needed. There was every prospect that I would live for many years, more or less intact. Until then it was best I put all morbid thoughts aside and concentrate on the good life he intended I should enjoy to the full. As if to illustrate this point he handed me the biggest chocolate bar I had ever seen and sent me out to play.

         Fortunately, optimism is a natural condition of the young and knowing that my brother was possessed of vigorous good health encouraged me to think that I had little reason to be concerned. Also, mother had given me a lucky charm and this I wore around my neck night and day. It was an uncharacteristic act of kindness from her that meant much to me at the time although I am now persuaded that the principal reason for the giving was to distinguish me from my brother, her only true son. Of course, she would also have known me from the registration mark inserted on my person by my creators. A mark that was clearly visible at bath time but, as we grew older and showered in private, was seldom seen, even by myself.

         Harrow I enjoyed, as did Jonathan. Two brothers, together at work and play, straight ‘A’ scholars who were also ever-present in the school rugby and cricket teams until Jonathan was hit by a cricket ball that rendered him bruised and unconscious. It was then that father decreed we be excluded from all sports involving hard balls and hard knocks, a prohibition which did not extend to tennis and athletics at which we also excelled. It was in our final year there that Jonathan took to smoking Scaff, a development I observed with increasing concern. The perils of inhaling addictive substances were well known, but Jonathan was eager for every new experience and when a new brand called Rapture became available he was soon a regular user. This presented me with a moral dilemma. Did I say nothing about this out of loyalty to my brother or did I inform on him to remove a risk to his health that one day might have become a risk to mine? Him or me? It was a stark choice, and once I had decided in favour of me I knew there was no way I was going to lay down my life for his. However, we were a long way from this happening and, as father said, it might never happen. Our form master administered the usual punishment to Jonathan’s posterior and father arrived unexpectedly one evening to do much the same. Suitably chastised and back on the straight and narrow Jonathan sought his revenge by trying to make me second best in every sporting and academic contest in which we were obliged to compete. Fortunately, I had the common sense to let him win and by degrees, we returned to the good fellowship we had previously enjoyed.

         Our progression onto Oxford was no more than we expected. That’s not to say we were complaisant, far from it, but for both of us, failure was not an option. We were cleverer than the rest and worked harder, how could we fail. Largely unsupervised as we now were Jonathan again succumbed to the allure of Rapture, an attraction that fortunately was not shared by his girlfriend, Marlena, who detested both its aroma and the strange behaviour it induced. Having given him an ultimatum that it was either her or the weed Jonathan decided that the ample attraction of Marlena was well worth the sacrifice demanded of him. To keep her on the case I let slip that Jonathan was the heir to a larger than large fortune, information that caused her to be as concerned as myself that he should stay safe and healthy.

         Marlena was definitely good news not only for Jonathan and me but also for father who soon recognised in her the qualities he considered essential in a suitable daughter-in-law. Qualities that were only enhanced by the knowledge that she had six siblings, five of whom were brothers. At father’s insistence, they were engaged to be married, their legal union to take place as soon as they graduated. They would then receive a wedding gift of twenty-five million credits followed by five million more on the birth of every son. That each one had to be medically examined to prove Jonathan’s sireage showed that father did not altogether trust Marlena. In this, he was later proved right, as he was in nearly everything else.

         Eighteen months later the three of us collected our degrees and trooped back to father to begin the next phase of our lives. Jonathan and Marlena were duly married, he appointed Vice President of the company’s New York office and myself dispatched to the Nordic Federation to supervise our mining operations there. It was sink or swim and when I doubled our profits even father was impressed. Jonathan, however, was swimming among corporate sharks who were only too happy to see him drown if that furthered their own hopes of advancement. That father knew what was going on I do not doubt but if he expected his son to win through he was to be disappointed. For the first time in his life, Jonathan knew how it felt to be unsuccessful and the feeling filled him with a shame that could only be dulled by narcotics and alcohol. Within a year he became a shadow of his former self, unable to function either in the workplace or in the work of begetting a son. When I received a video call from Marlena asking me to pay them a visit, but not to tell father, I knew that something was seriously wrong and that the something was likely to have unwanted consequences for me.

         I arrived to find Jonathan in bed, knocked out with morphine and covered in cuts and bruises from a fall that had seen him plummet from the balcony of their bedroom. It was, she said, no accident; he had meant to fly, not fall. She took me out onto the balcony and, having pointed out the place of his landing, closed the doors behind us. She wished to discuss what she described as, “our options”. He had, so she told me, broken six bones but the most serious damage was to his liver which was already the worse for wear from his excessive consumption of drugs and alcohol. She felt sure that I no more wished to lose such an essential organ than she to remain within an abusive, loveless marriage.

         “I thought you two were happy?” I said.

         The advantage of asking a question to which you already know the answer is that it gives you valuable thinking time. I recalled my earlier determination that, come push to shove, I was not prepared to give up my life to save Jonathan or anyone else. No doubt once my liver was put into him a replacement would be found for me but this might be only the first of many sacrifices to come. Was Marlena warning me so I could make myself scarce or did she have another plan? Whatever it was I had a feeling that Jonathan’s recovery was not going to be a part of it. Marlena’s recitation of her matrimonial misfortunes came to an end. She waited anxiously for my response.

         “It’s the drugs,” I said. “Get him off the drugs and he’ll be back to how he was.”

         “Not on Hi-Trek he won’t.”

         She had a point. No one had ever kicked that habit.

         “So what’s to be done? Does father know?”

         Marlena shook her head. “Only that he mixes booze and hash. Best it stays that way.”

         “But he’s going to find out sometime.”

         “Well, that rather depends on us. What good would telling him do, it would break his heart, the end of his dreams. And if we did, what would the next few years bring for us? How many body parts would you lose before what’s left of you was put in cold storage? How much shit can I go on taking?”

         “Is there nothing we can do for Jonathan?”

         “If father gets involved his life might be prolonged a year or two, but why put him through that. He’s already lost to us. There are days he doesn’t know who he is, even what he is. It’s only going to get worse.” For a few moments, she was overwhelmed with emotion which I was inclined to believe might be genuine. She slipped her hand into mine. “Of course, there is a way out.”

         “What’s that?”

         “Do you remember how you use to steal kisses from me while pretending to be Jonathan? Don’t look so coy. We both know it was you. When it went no further than that, there could only be one explanation, that you didn’t want me to see the telltale mark on your backside. Is it still there?”

         I replied that I had had it removed in NorFed.

         Her hand tightened its hold on mine. “I thought that might be the case. There’s so much now that can be done on the black market. All strictly illegal, of course, but don’t worry I won’t snitch on you. But then you knew that or you wouldn’t have told me. Would I be right in thinking that the same person who removed your mark would be equally skilled in inserting one of identical appearance?”

         “That would be big bucks,” I said.

         “But feasible?”

         I nodded.

         “Then this is what we must do.”

                                                *****

Fifty-seven years have passed since Jonathan was encouraged to fly again, this time from cliffs overlooking the Dover Straits. The initial stir caused by the discovery of his body was soon stilled by the news that it was only that of a clone, the property of a Star Zone businessman. The body was parcelled up by the Civil Bureau and sent to father in the clothes it was wearing, along with my watch, the contents of my wallet and the chain that mother had given me when a child. A few days later a Certificate of Determination was also received attributing the demise of the clone to an accident or genetic malfunction. The possibility of foul play was, of course, never considered, there being no crime on the statute book relating to the murder of a cloned being. The owner’s rights in the wilful destruction of his or her property rested only in the taking out of a civil action to secure compensation. As most clones were insured, like any other item of significant value, it can only be supposed that father put in a claim that returned to him the cost of my creation. Did father ever have any doubts about the identity of the body on the beach? Being father it would be surprising if he didn’t. Perhaps that was the reason he invited me to join him in the sauna of his club. When the next day he told me he wanted a grandson by the turn of the year I knew for the time being, at least, I was in the clear.

         In the matter of children, he was, of course, to be disappointed. I was, to use a tawdry expression, firing blanks, a deficiency, however, much appreciated by Marlena who saw motherhood as an affliction worse than the plague. Returned to New York, this time as President, I took my revenge on Jonathan’s persecutors and oversaw an expansion of the company’s business that had me winning the Achievement in Commerce Award. While father was suitably impressed he left me in no doubt that I was failing him in my primary objective.

         “Did I need a new wife?” He asked.

         I replied that Marlena was well up to the job and to prove it a month later we declared a pregnancy that soon after became a miscarriage. Eighteen months later we pulled the same stunt again. Father’s anger at these reverses slowly cooled to a smouldering frustration, and when I pointed out to him that he had only fathered one child, the muted response I received indicated that he was now blaming himself as much as me. When more time passed without a grandson he changed his will naming Henry, his nephew’s son, as his heir after myself should I remain childless. The young man, as he was then, has been provided with a thorough grounding in the family business that should enable him, once his turn comes, to be a worthy successor to myself.

         Now that father is no more I am Henry’s sole advisor and confidant. It is a role I have taken much trouble in, spending many hours in his company. He is suitably grateful, as well he should be. I sometimes tell myself that I do this because that’s what father would have wanted, but the main reason, if not the whole reason, is that I like being Jonathan and want nothing more than to be him after my death.

         When I die medical scrutiny may reveal me to be the imposter I am. If so, I will be incinerated with other household waste. That’s why I have written this account of my life, my unexpurgated testimony. This, Henry, is for your eyes only. Allow no autopsies! no medical fussing! See me decently buried in the family tomb, make sure I am remembered as Jonathan, the man who gave sixty years of his life to the company which will soon be yours. Also be generous to Marlena who, if she outlives me, could be charged with my brother’s murder. Remember that without her intervention you might never have become what you are today. Remember also that every corporate document I signed with Jonathan’s name would, if the truth is discovered, be open to legal challenge. All good reasons for doing as I ask.

                                             *****

I am the spare brought into this world to ensure Jonathan’s survival into old age, a resource to be disposed of once my usefulness was at an end. Made in his image I was imbued with all his flaws and virtues. Am I less worthy than he? A greater villain? Would his loyalty to me have been more than mine to him? I doubt it. He was the template to which I was made. How then can I be worse than him? Find fault in my construction, not in me. If man must make man make them better not the same.  

[2,991 words]

©  Copywrite of author