RUNESTONES 5/3  

by Richard Banks

 “The man’s a monster. He put a gun to Roy’s head.”

         Roy?” I say.

         “My dog, I have a dog called Roy. Parry said he would shoot him and me too if he had to, that it meant nothing to him because he couldn’t be called to account. Some people, he said, are above the law and he’s one of them.”

         “So, what’s all this about then? Surely there’s more to it than what they found on my land?”

         Jones looks around him as though he thinks we’re being watched, but there’s no one in sight. “It’s not the first one, you know.”

         “First what?” I say.

         “The first skeleton. There’s been others. At first it was thought they were some kind of missing link but when the bones were carbon dated they turned out to be no more than fourteen hundred years old. The scientists wanted to tell the world but the Government said no, that it all had to be kept under wraps until we knew exactly what they were. Then DNA testing became possible and we found out what had long been suspected, that the creatures were neither man or ape, or any other Earthly thing. Then the Americans got hands on; there had been strange lights over the Western Seaboard and the whole country was well and truly spooked. The last thing their Government wanted was proof of alien life, and that’s when they insisted that our own Government ramp up the news blackout that had already been imposed. Since then everyone who knows the least little thing about the skeletons has been interviewed and anyone thought likely to spill the beans assigned to classified projects in the Mojave Dessert. The press is now under Government control and any published information unacceptable to the Americans has either been changed or refuted. It’s like 1984, the book I mean, and to top it all MI5 have recruited nearly a thousand spies to check up on their fellow citizens.”

         “How do you know all this?”

         “Professor Henderson,” he says, putting his hand to his mouth. “We’re friends from university. He’s in charge of the skeletons and a member of a committee advising the Government. He’s also working with the linguists and code breakers trying to work out what the gravestone says.”

         “And have they?”

         “Yes, almost. They’re runes, you see, but not like the ones the Vikings had. These are older, much older, some of the words we know and from them we’ve worked out most of the rest. What we have found is more than an obituary, it’s a prophesy of things to come, dreadful things.” He begins to hyperventilate, and I fear he’s going to have a heart attack but he manages to steady himself.  “They’re coming back, the descendants of those who were here before. We call them the Runes, and they mean to destroy every last one of us. That’s what the stone says, and who’s to say they can’t do it – they’re light years ahead of us. And that’s not all the stone says; there’s a date when all this will happen and the date is now, they’re coming now, this year, any day in the hundred and twelve still left. They may already be in Russia, that’s what the Americans think. With the internet down who knows what’s going on. It’s utter madness, any day could be our last!”

         I tell him to quieten down before he’s overheard. “Where’s the evidence for all this - some skeletons, a gravestone, lights in the sky, is that all there is?”

         Jones shakes his head, “there’s more,” he says, but a man in a suit comes towards us and sits down on the next bench. I continue speaking in a whisper but Jones won’t say another word. He gets up and heads off along the path that goes round the edge of the park. I stay where I am. Whatever happens now I need to retrieve the recorder from Jones’ briefcase, but to my surprise he’s one step ahead of me. He’s on the other side of the shrubbery where he put it. If I can glimpse him through the bushes so might the man on the bench. I slide off my wrist watch and ask him for the time and when he tells me it’s half past one I keep him looking at me by saying how nice the weather is. By the time he says a few words in response I see Jones, replete with briefcase, walking across the grass towards the exit. He waits for me outside the gate and when I catch-up with him tries to hand back the recorder. 

         “Are you sure this is mine?” I whisper. He isn’t, and as they look the same neither am I; if we don’t get this right it’s not just the Runes we have to fear.

         He looks flustered, his lips quiver, but he’s managing not to panic. “Give me five minutes and go to the back door of the museum.” He strides off and five minutes later, almost to the second, I’m there. The door’s ajar and|Jones is waiting for me on the other side. He peers out, and satisfied that no one has seen me enter, closes and locks the door. I follow him up a flight of stairs into his office. We are fortunate, he says, the museum’s closed for the day, we will not be disturbed. He has taken both recorders from his briefcase and put them on his desk which he appears to have cleared by pushing everything on it to the floor. We search in vain for some small mark or blemish that we might recognise but there are none. Jones returns them to his briefcase.

         “We will have to take a chance,” I say, “either that or spoil the tape inside, but if we do that nothing could be more obvious that we have been talking together off the record.”

         “And maybe doing more than talking.” There’s someone behind me. He sweeps by and sits down beside Jones.

         “Henderson,” I gasp, “what are you doing here?”

[To be continued]

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Space Junkers ~ Scrap One

By Len Morgan

You’d have thought a joint 1^st in Cosmology, Space Design & Innovation from Oxford would lead me to a dazzling career in the space industry?  Well so did I, but I have a few fatal character flaws, I am completely devoid of drive, ambition and I’m lacking the necessary interpersonal skills which in the 22^nd century makes me a pariah!  Which is just one step above being a psychopath. 

So, with ‘the Universe as my oyster’, to coin an arcane phrase, I went from job to job, dropping a rung on the ladder with each move.

Five years after graduation I’d been rejected or let go by every major aerospace company.  "Not a team player" they said. A loner, by choice, that’s me.  A few centuries ago I might have become a ‘Lighthouse Keeper’ but sadly there are no lighthouses left.  So I guess that’s why I settled for the modern-day equivalent.

I’m a space jockey cruising the junkyard that encircles the Earth. In a purpose-built spacecraft that hangs out permanently on the borders of space.  I’m what you might call the modern day equivalent of a ‘bag-lady’ I haul a magnetized net around just beyond the thermosphere.  I go round and round like the ‘Circle line’ did in London before the big quake swallowed it together with half a million hapless Londoners and most of the square mile.  I live in Manchester now, the new Capital.

I’m not disgruntled with my lot, I do twenty trips (half a year) returning via the shuttle, for a six-month furlough, It’s a necessary job so my pay is commensurate.   I get paid at the end of each trip by The Magnetite Company.  They have/had a contract with the ISC (International Space Council).  Then of course I also had a sideline that earned me three times my regular salary, tax-free. 

The job was, to net space junk and shoot it towards the sun; where it presumably sank down to the core.  But, on my third trip out, I miscalculated the slingshot and sent it towards the moon.  I fully expected to be fired or at least reprimanded when the moon authorities reported my mistake.  But, nothing happened; like throwing a rock into a lake (no splash?).   The other 19 dumps on that trip all hit the target without a hitch, so maybe that errant dump landed undetected in some remote area? 

I returned home to Earth on the shuttle, looking forward to my 6 monthly furlough.  My mail system had messages from Moonbase 3, and a large denomination ‘bearer bond’, informing me that I would receive a similar sum for every load I could drop on the moon at approximately the same location.   I made some rapid calculations and discovered that I would save a third on fuel by dumping metal junk on the moon and I was fairly certain I could hit that spot on Mare Vaporum (sea of vapors).  It was approximately 80 Kilometers from Moonbase 3.  I could make 30 drops with the same fuel. The question is, was a moon dump legal?  What happened when other refuse collectors missed the Sun?  The answer was ‘zilch’ the Company was paid to remove space debris from near-Earth orbit; the safest destination was the Sun, but if Moonbase 3, can make use of it, why shouldn’t they have it?

So, I set up a few ‘Bitcoin Accounts’, and converted my bearer bonds; it just made sense!  Three years on The Company went 'tits up' they were making losses and would not be renewing their contract. 

The Company employed six refuse collectors, but there was always a high turnover in the other five posts, not many space jocks can stand the boredom month in month out…  There’s a learning curve, and accidents do happen when a jock's concentration wanes.  That’s why there have been 9 units Mag 01 is mine, The others still in commission are Mag03 04 06 & 08.  Mags 02 to 05 were all written off by inattentive ex-jocks.  While Mag 07 & 09 were down for routine maintenance.

Apparently, because of the hazardous work, the insurance rates had become astronomical (was that a pun?).  So for a further year, the debris began to build up.  Several commercial craft including a shuttle were damaged by collisions with debris. Yet still, nobody wanted to take on the ‘Junkyard’ contract.

Moonbase 3 made me an offer.  They would take 50% of the contract if I could persuade another Company to take on the other 50%.  So, I sold my Bitcoins and purchased four units 01, 03, 06 & 08, at a little over scrap value.  Then, we made a fair offer for the contract which, in the absence of competition, was accepted. 

We named the Company Scrap One.  For a year I worked without furlough, until I finally, located four other intelligent jocks, devoid of drive and ambition.  I trained them.  If they didn’t damage their Craft they were promised a generous bonus, at year end which they all earned.  Meantime there were two serviceable junkers 07 & 09 for sale with no takers so I snapped them up for a song, hired two more ‘lighthouse keepers’ on the same terms and the rest is history. 

You’d think that with all my riches I would retire and employ others to do the work.  Not a bit of it, I love my work.  We now have a dozen refuse collectors and six craft supplying Moon bases 1 to 5 with scrap.  Yet I still have absolutely no ambition!

Copyright Len Morgan

SUNSET 02

 SUNSET

By Rosemary Clarke

After the accident was the sunset of my dreams
I couldn’t work again it was the end of all my schemes.
I thought it was all over, I’d never make amends
But I forgot the main thing, the loveliness of friends.
Jane helps by coming over and tidying up my life
And Sis she listens to my woes and all the pain and strife.
Len, he works our things to write as I think little more
Without all of my friends I know
My life would be so poor.
My Bookworms buoy me up always
None of my friends are shirking.
And with my niece and her friends too, this remedy is working!
From being silent and cut down I really feel I’m growing
And all because of these fine friends
It’s such a pleasure knowing.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

SUNSET 01

 Shades of grey

Janet Baldey

Until he arrived at this Godforsaken place, Gerry hadn’t realised there were so many shades of grey.  To while away the creeping hours, he has formed the habit of counting them. To date, he has reached thirteen.  His eyes track from the silver-grey sheen of the ice covering the permafrost, to the steely grey shadows etched on its surface by the bristle of aerials, the purpose of which he hasn’t yet deciphered. Not surprising.   After all he’s not a scientist or a geologist, just a grunt employed to service them.  He returns to his count - there is the dense charcoal bulk of the station itself and also the cosmos is not always entirely black. Sometimes it’s covered with swirling, frosted grey clouds of meteoroids which appear only to vanish within minutes.  But mostly it’s a ghost of a landscape. A negative that drains one’s spirits.  No wonder there is a resident psychologist with a plentiful supply of medication.

         As he turns away from the triple-glazed windows, he wonders whether strands of the same colour have appeared in her hair. Sooner or later, its glory will lose its vibrancy and she will get older like everyone else but he’s sure that, unlike others, she will never be anything other than beautiful.  He imagines her hair as a shining silver bob framing a face with skin as fragile as a rose petal.  He jerks his thoughts away. He mustn’t do this - although he is getting better.  Yesterday, he only thought of her three times.

         He glances at the atomic clock set into the wall. His shift is due to start in thirty minutes and he must focus.  Like, he imagines, all the other crew members, he has to press gang his body to leave the relative comfort of his quarters for the howling cold of the planet’s surface.  What a fool he’d been to sign up for this. But at the time he’d been desperate; he’d wanted to get away, far away and for as long as possible.  A familiar pain squeezes his chest, causing him to gasp for air.  It shouldn’t be this way. He’s been here for eight years already and he’d counted on the fact that the body renews itself every seven.  By now, he should be a new man and thoughts of her should have disappeared.

         She’d been so lovely.  He thought back to when he first noticed her. It was at school, in the sixth form. She wasn’t a newbie but he’d seen her through fresh eyes.  Miss Rother, the games mistress, who doubled for a man with her hairy chin and muscular legs, had chosen them as partners in a tennis double.  After a long, hard battle, they’d won and overcome, she’d flung her arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth. He remembered his senses swimming as he breathed in her perfume, a mixture of ‘Mon Paris,’ sweat and something he couldn’t put a name to.

         After that, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.  Slim and golden haired, she slipped in and out of his line of vision like a ray of sunshine but it was a long time before he plucked up enough courage to ask her out.  He would remember that evening for the rest of his life.  He took her to the cinema and they’d sat watching ‘Zack Snyder’s Justice League,’ his arm lying across the back of her seat like a dusty snake, slowly inching down before finally dropping over her shoulders.  After that, they were an item and went everywhere together.  They talked about marriage, she laughed but not unkindly, and he thought it was forever.

         That long ago summer was filled with hot, lazy days and cooling dips in river water from which they emerged with a sparkle of poor man’s diamonds decorating their bodies.  But he remembered the sunsets best.  Drunk from the heat, they would sprawl in deckchairs and watch that great, glowing orb first kiss and then sink behind the horizon leaving behind a landscape full of ash.

         But that was pre-Edward, post Edward it was quite different.  He’d adored his brother, still did really.  Edward was his elder by six years and when he was little, he was his satellite.  But Ed had been away travelling for two years and was not expected home before Christmas, so one evening it was a complete surprise to first hear the click of the latch and then see him bounding down the path towards them.

         “Hiya Bonzo”.  He’d felt his brother’s hand clout his head and he’d grinned with delight.  Bonzo was his childhood nickname and no-one but Ed called him that.

         “What are you doing back?” he yelped.  “Been deported?  ‘Spose it was only a matter of time.”

         They hugged, and he’d felt complete for the first time since his brother left.  Then he remembered his manners.

         “Leonie, this is my brother Edward.  Ed, this is Leonie.”

         He’d seen her eyes widen as she looked at his brother but had paid it no heed.  Later, he thought that if he had been paying full attention, he might have heard the sizzle of electricity as they shook hands.  It took him some months to cotton on. They tried to be kind but eventually it was obvious they had eyes for no-one else.  Heartbroken, he took his misery off to Uni.  He stayed away for three years but it was no better when he returned.  In desperation, he scoured the newspapers for jobs set in far-away continents.  An extra-terrestrial base was even better. He’d always been interested in astronomy, but with no qualifications in that field, he plumped for maintenance work on the Lox containers, waiting for the healing balm of time.  Surely, by the time his tour of duty ended he would be cured.  He’d imagined himself, freshly minted, watching the sun’s ostentatious farewell with a different girl by his side. 

         But that was before and now everything has changed. If only, he hadn’t been so desperate. If only he’d read the small print.  It seems that when it comes to contracts time is elastic.  Yesterday, the maintenance crews were summoned to a meeting. They were nearing the end of their tour so all thought it was routine.  But when he entered, the captain was not the captain.  This was a different man from the one who had welcomed them on board. Gone was the twinkly eyes and genial smile, instead a slab of granite had taken his place.  As he watched the man and saw similar hulks surrounding him, a feeling of foreboding hit him with the force of a meteorite.

         “Men,” rapped the captain.  “I have some grave news to impart….”

It seems they weren’t going home. Planet Earth was now defunct. A shell of a world ravaged both by flood and fire.  To prove it, a wall behind the captain exploded into lurid colour, showing cities blazing while others toppled into the sea.  The legacy of greed and neglect, their planet which had once been so lush and teeming with natural life was now virtually inhabitable.  And now they were learning the true purpose of their mission. They were to search the universe for a substitute planet capable of supporting human life. That had always been the aim and everything else they’d been told was a smokescreen of lies.  With difficulty, he’d dragged his mind back to what the captain was saying.

“Despite our best efforts, this planet had been deemed unsuitable.  So tomorrow, we begin another mission.  Our journey will be long and arduous but it is every man’s duty to endure any hardships that may be thrown our way.”

          His eyes scoured the group of no-hopers daring any to blink, let alone voice an objection.  There was none and Gerry knew they’d all guessed the penalty for dissent.

         As he pulls on layer after layer of clothing, Gerry suddenly realises that eventually memories of his previous life on Earth will become insubstantial, as if they'd never been.  Instead, this will be his life, cruising the universe. A space gypsy in search of a home.  Brooding thoughts of Leonie will fade and maybe he will also forget the evening sky slashed with lemon and rose as it darkens into night.  The colour grey will be the new normal and maybe he will learn to love its negativity.        

Copyright Janet Baldey

        

 

 

                 

Cheilin Saga ~ 11

 Cheilin Saga ~ 11 The Abbey at Samishaan 1

By Len Morgan 

 In a small roof garden set atop of what appeared to be a crumbling ruin a young novice, clothed in the simple red tunic of his order, assumed his post as keeper of the orb.   Which, seemed, at first glance, to be a rather unimpressive globe of frosted glass; approximately two inches in diameter.   Closer inspection revealed an opalescence that seemed to draw the eyes into an intimate union, diffracting and diffusing the light into iridescent, languidly flowing clouds.   Slowly they cleared to reveal a still and silent naked male figure composed, and sitting cross-legged eyes closed, in a state of sublime meditation.

“He sleeps still brother, it will be several weeks before he begins to visualise; that is when his true nature will be revealed.”

Brother Ignatius did not look round as the reverend Father Abbot spoke.   He knew too well how the ancient man looked, dressed in the plain green-brown robes of an elder, his face burdened with the many responsibilities of the order of ‘The Chosen One’.   He absentmindedly stroked his salt and pepper whiskers, producing an abrasive sound, his ice-blue eyes, as always, would be bright and alert.   He was a man of contrasts, the Abbot of Samishaan.    He had spent more than half a century within those walls, he knew from personal experience how these things should unfold.   He rested his hands lightly on the young mans shoulders. 

 “We are duty-bound to monitor every new arrival, in case one of them is ‘The Chosen One’.   One day he will come,” said the Abbot with certain conviction, “sent to us by Geoffe the one true God, to arouse our awareness.  He will fire us with a sense of purpose, a beacon, to lead us on the great crusade.    It is said that he will be the physical manifestation of Geoffe himself, made flesh, in this mortal world.”   The Order of Samishaan was created in antiquity for the sole purpose of finding and elevating him to his rightful place of glory.”   Both raised their eyes reverently to a ten-foot marble figure set on a granite plinth six feet from the ground.

“You are right to be concerned with our vigilance Reverend father,” He replied.

“I had hoped that he would come in my lifetime” said the Abbot, “but I age fast now and become more certain, with each passing day, it is not to be.”

“Your faith is strong father; it may yet come to pass on your watch.”

The Abbot smiled wanly and patted the young man reassuringly on the head.

“Keep vigil brother Ignatius, make notes and learn.  In two weeks you will see him relive his life.   Revealing his guilty secrets, acting out his evil deeds, his whole sordid life history will unfurl before your eyes.   It is the nature of man to unburden himself and confess his sins.   All the many gifts and talents bestowed upon him by Geoffe will have been debased in the pursuit of his own selfish ends.   They always confess within the confines of the orb.   I certainly did, and so did you, and those who came before us.   Including those who reached absolution and returned to the world or travelled to a higher plane…”

“But, did any ever sit so?   Expectant as if knowing what is to come?   Look at him, look at his face; he is at peace almost as though he is in command of his fate.   He is different, he knows.”

The Abbot glanced down at the frosted globe and saw nothing.

“He cannot know; how could he?   Denied all contact with reality, deprived of his power to snoop in the minds of others, he languishes in a place of total darkness.   He experiences no sight, sound, or sense of touch; he is disembodied like smoke.   How could he know?”   The reverend father glanced down again and saw, for the first time, the face turned towards him and smiled, eyes bright and intelligent, returning his surprise with warmth and kindness.   He felt extreme discomfort excitement and fear.   From what he saw with his own eyes and from the reports he had received from the novice caring for his body, in the absence of spiritual presence, he hardly dared hope.   The image in the globe was a perfect though unflattering replica of the statue it was scarred but not unpleasantly so.    Unbeknown to Brother Ignatius, none had ever taken human form within the orb, usually, they simply remained insubstantial, a cloudy mist of swirling pastel smoke.

Whilst Brother Ignatius had been charged with the care, observation, and reporting of the insubstantial spirit part of the being, Sister Constance had been charged with looking after the empty vessel, keeping it fed, watered, exercised and healthy.   Administering to its every need was a demanding full-time job a great responsibility.

Father Abbot had chosen the two youngest of his charges to be the ‘witnesses’ precisely because neither had any prior experience of what to expect.   They were instructed to report everything, without exception, it would not occur to them that doing so might cast them in a bad light.

Initially, Sister Constance reported every triviality, every instance of incontinence, and her solution had been, to lead him to the latrine and enter his mind to set his functions in motion.   This worked fine for a while; then inevitably, one day, she became distracted, only to discover he'd evacuated his waste without her instruction.   On another occasion, she was forced to leave him when the time was near due.   On her return, she discovered he had not suffered a remission.   She experimented, by laying food and drink before him.   After several minutes, he proceeded to eat and drink unaided.   All this she duly reported assuming it to be normal.   He continued performing simple autonomic functions purely from instinct.  

She was unsure why she entered his mind, gazing at herself, through a man’s eyes, she assumed from simple curiosity, to gauge his reaction.  She saw her slim form jewel-bright green eyes a pleasant face, blond tresses peeking from beneath her snood.   She became deeply disturbed when she experienced, the male feelings of arousal; he desired her.   This she did not report for fear of rebuke and possible removal from her duties, as punishment for her sin.   She fled from his cell, guilty of encroaching; she was ashamed of herself and the way she had unwittingly manipulated him.   She had abused the trust of a helpless dependant creature.   She returned later, in control of her feelings, calmed sufficiently to carry out her duties, and time passed without incident.   But, on the point of leaving, she turned and appraised him for the first time as a woman does.   He was a handsome specimen, even the scars on his face were not off-putting.  She walked over to him, testing his musculature, feeling for excess fat and signs of overindulgence finding neither.   He was tall lean, and his body odour was both fresh and wholesome.   There must have been something in her eyes, a look?   He again became aroused by her closeness.   She looked up into his face.   His pupils were dilated and he exhibited other obvious signs of desire.   On impulse, she wrapped her arms around his near-naked form.   Exerting pressure on his shoulders with little persuasion his head came down to her level, and they kissed.

 (to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 LOST

By Rosemary Clarke

Lost in body, mind and soul
Lost, I haven't got a goal.
Others say 'it's that refrain'.
I'm just trying to stay sane.
I know purely how to give
Not how to take or how to live.
I must not give up this fight
Somehow, something must come right!
All the things I've had to bear
Feeling that there's no one there.
Now they're out it's really bad
Sleep forever make me glad
But I have to fight the fight
Knowing something must come right!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

A Waste of a Life.

 

Life Is For Living. 

By Jane Scoggins

   Maggie hated turning a corner and seeing someone sitting on a bit of cardboard huddled on the pavement with a paper cup in front of them waiting for passers-by to drop in a bit of change. She never knew what to do. Look for her purse somewhere in the bottom of her bag, or having being caught on the back foot, escape her own embarrassment and hurry past pretending she hadn’t noticed. Today that encounter unexpectantly happened on a nice street she often walked along near the town centre en route from the car park. Having never seen anyone there before it came as a big surprise to see a young man. Seconds later a man reached down and handed him a ‘burger. He had a dog, a small rough-haired terrier who looked hopefully when he smelled the meaty treat. Smiling his thanks to the benefactor the young man broke the burger and the bun in one slow careful tear making sure the soft stringy slice of cheese was also torn in half. He gave one half to the dog. Touched by this scene it replaced Maggie’s sense of discomfort. But then, emotion shifted again as a young woman looked his way as she passed by and gives a smirks. Such a contrast between them. Her, tripping confidently along in new white Converse trainers, and a baggy pale blue off the shoulder mohair sweater that looks expensive. He sees her smirk and a flicker of something like pain passes fleetingly across his pale features. Almost simultaneously he sees Maggie and averts his eyes. Seeing her standing there probably made him even more aware of his poor appearance as she is a smart middle aged woman. He wears a worn lightweight jacket with frayed cuffs over a grey sweatshirt. His tracky bottoms are stained. One of his black trainers has a rip down the side. He is probably about the same age and build as her son Billy, but does not look like him. Billy is blond, blue-eyed, and handsome like his father.  Maggie thinks of that young woman and her smirk. My daughter would never behave so unkindly she thinks to herself. Bev with her kind heart and common sense approach to life is a credit to her father and me. Always the child who brought home stray cats, and took a child with a grazed knee in the playground to the teacher for a plaster. Billy on the other had, with his carefree nature never seemed to notice what went on around him.  He just loved life, had lots of friends all the way through school and lived life to the full. Maggie felt blessed to have two children who had never given her or her husband any real worries. Billy had wanted to go to university but he wasn’t getting the grades he needed because he didn't study enough. His Dad and her had tried to talk to him and make him see sense but instead, he decided to get a job when he left the sixth form. He was happy earning his own money and being independent. And give him credit, he had worked hard, taken all the breaks offered and now worked in the city, in a well-paid job, and was almost there with a deposit for his own flat. Always smiling he coped with the hard work and pressure in order to get ahead.

   Looking again at that young man on the street she suddenly felt only intolerance towards him. Lazy good for nothing, probably on drugs or drink. In contrast to Billy she reflected on their different lives. She knew she should feel at least some compassion, but she couldn't.  She could only imagine that he had brought it on himself. A vague sense of recognition prompted her to look at him again. She was uncertain at first but then was sure it was Mark, a boy who had been at school with her Billy. She remembered him as a bright boy who sometimes came home with him after school and always stayed for tea. And what an appetite. The boys would play computer games in Billy’s room until she called them down. She liked to hear them laughing together. A clever boy he had definitely gone away to university. Look at him now. Thrown it all away. What a waste of an education, and a future. A fit of frustrated anger made her turn and hurry away. She sat in a cafe and drank a cappuccino to get over the shock of seeing him. She wondered if he and Billy had stayed in touch after school, and how long Mark had been on the streets. She would ask Billy when they next spoke.

Maggie finished her shopping and drove home still thinking of Mark and glad he hadn’t recognised her. She would not have known what to say. She thought of Billy and his good job, nice clothes, and expensive car, and was proud of his efforts to make his way in the world and be successful.

   When her phone rang one afternoon Maggie was in two minds as whether to answer it. It was an unidentified number and she had had an unsolicited call recently purporting to be from her bank telling her she was in danger of having her bank account hacked by thieves if she did not press 2 immediately and speak to the call handler who would be able to prevent the scam. So she ignored the call. A message left on her voicemail alerted her to a request to call a hospital staff nurse. Maggie returned the call. The Staff Nurse explained that Billy was in hospital and they had found her number under MUM on his mobile. She gave some details and Maggie confirmed she would contact her husband and they would drive the thirty miles to the London hospital straight away. John drove to London with Maggie by his side in the passenger seat, both feeling anxious. They were minutes too late. In the time it had taken to drive to the hospital Billy had died from an overdose of cocaine. Imprinted on Maggie's mind forever would be his pale face, remnants of a white crustiness around his lips, and the stains and smell of vomit on his expensive silk shirt.

   Six months later Maggie and John continued to feel the impact of Billy’s sudden and shocking death. They were horrified to discover that their beloved son had been a regular user of Cocaine, and had spent most of his savings to fuel his addiction and lifestyle. Maggie could not comprehend how a boy from a loving home and with a promising future could have turned to drugs and become an addict. This happened to other people’s sons and daughters. She thought of Mark and his situation on the street and again the memory of seeing him, and wondered if that was to be a waste of his life too. She wondered if his parents knew. She avoided the street she had last seen him. She could not face the burden of seeing more sadness or hopelessness. But one day she thought she saw him waiting at a bus stop in a different area of town. As she approached on the pavement he looked at her. Realising he recognised her and was about to greet her, she could not avoid him. This time however he was neat and tidy with decent clothes.

  ‘Hi Mrs Grant, remember me, Mark?  It's been a long time, although I did actually see you a few months ago and think you recognised me but just didn't want to speak to me because of the way I looked, and you know, on the street. I had all sorts of things happen when I was at Uni and dropped out.  I suffered from depression and ended up on the streets. But I am back on track now and have a job and somewhere to live. Life is good again. Glad I’ve seen you so you don't think I am some sort of wino or something like that. I used to love coming to your house after school and eating your amazing dinners. My mum was hopeless. I was always starving and you never minded me having seconds. Such good memories. Oh, here comes my bus. How is Billy and his city job? Would love to hear from him. Send him my best won’t you?’

  Before Maggie had time to respond, Mark had hopped onto the bus and was gone.

 

                                                                                                        Copyright Jane Scoggins