A New way out

A New way out

by Rosemary Clarke

Alice looked once more at the bright shiny clean kitchen, longing now to see it once again covered with foodstuffs and thronged with people: the silence was painful.  Shaking herself she pushed to remember the sacrifice her daughter was making at the care home, staying in her own home to keep any disease from her children; the least she could do was look after the kids.
Jamie and Sarah were still asleep she'd imagine although since they had been delivered to her in their pyjamas, many tears from each of them as they were torn from their mother... their quietness now was cruel to witness.
Alice had never felt so powerless as she did now, but she must think how to be the clown, how to cheer two very hurt and unhappy children who worried daily about their mother, avidly watching each Covid19 programme and any medical website: the silence gave her food for thought..in the quiet she wondered what her mum would have done when she and her sister were children...cut out dolls were not what modern children would be interested in...then it hit her.
"Come on you two, up!  We're going to have some fun but you've got to help me first get everything together!"
They were both up and dressed already, looking at her blankly over their phones: Alice pretended bravado.
"Well come on!"
Sarah spoke first, the choke in her voice noticeable.
"Don't want to."
Alice touched the child's fragile shoulders feeling bones like a baby bird despite her ten years.
"Look, your mum wouldn't want you to be sad would she, so let's see what fun we can have eh? Then you can both tell her all about it."
"But there's no one to play with!". Said Jamie.
"Nonsense, there's me; we can have lots of fun!"
Both children looked puzzled.
"Come with me!"
In the loft, reached by pull-down ladder Alice had stored many things from her childhood and now, she felt, was the time to bring them out.
Alice opened crates and trunks filled with clothes and games and pastimes.  Jamie's face screwed up quizzically as he picked out some large rolled rectangles and circles cut from hessian sacks that had once been used for potatoes and other root vegetables.
"What's this for? How do you play this?"
"Rugs." She said proudly.
"What instead of carpet, were you that poor?"
Alice smiled.
"You hook wool into it and make rugs. Of course, you have to have two to make it thick enough to work on."
Sarah picked up a collage Alice had made at junior school.
"Can we do this?"

When their mother called that evening Jamie and Sarah excitedly babbled on about rag rugs, collages and the three of them throwing a ball to each other in the garden - Jamie could throw the farthest - away from each other.  Megan sighed happily as she gazed at them all from Sarah's mobile.
"Well, your day has been very eventful!"
"Are you okay mum?" Sarah asked.
"Fine, better now I know you're both happy and you know what, happiness is the thing that keeps the workers going; that's the best medicine you could give me."

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Symbiant (Part 1 of 2)

Symbiant (Part 1 of 2)

By Len Morgan

I looked up with a start, eased my wheelchair back, as my monitor alarm sounded.  The upper third of my screen flashing red, synchronizing with the main alarm in the control room.

"What's happening John?"  Nils, my fellow controller waddled over.  Breathless from the exertion. He gazed over my shoulder at the screen.

"Looks like another Shepherding unit has gone offline," I said.

        

"Mmm.  Nothing I can do to help there, I'll go kill the alarm."

I muted the monitor, and opened the map of our sector and located the unit in the upper left quadrant of the circular screen, twenty miles west of its last reported location.  It flashed twice more then it was gone.  I watched on helpless as the shoal it had been herding broke up.  Without a herding unit to keep them in line they form smaller shoals and head off in all directions.  It'll take days, maybe weeks to round them up, a good percentage will never be recovered.  The main alarm was silenced and Nils returned to his station. 

Nils shook his head, "What causes units to go offline like that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine chum. Most likely its processor is fried, like the other defective units we recovered two weeks back."

"It has to be hardware, stands to reason..."

"All I know is that’s the seventh unit lost in six months and all below 200 feet."

“A unit a month. It can't go on. At this rate, we'll have lost a third of our stock by years end."

"The General Manager thinks this one could push us into the red, and you know what that means…"

.-...-. 

Three weeks later we were down another unit.

"The Shoals spread all over the North Sea, Irish Sea and North Atlantic.  Bastards," Nils thumped his desk.  "All our species are of known genotype and can be identified to the shoal of origin."

"Huh! You know fish rustling's rife. There are plenty of hungry bellies in the third world.  What would happen if inspectors tried checking the fish on their plates?" 

"They'd be committing suicide," said Nils. "Then there's the black zones. Not regulated by the common fisheries policy 2078. Rustlers trawl those waters for wild and unaccompanied shoals."

"Despite the total collapse of wild fish populations in 2056, they still don't give a hoot for species husbandry."

  

The PA system interrupted their conversation:  'Mr. Sturroch the GM will be holding an emergency meeting in the main hall in 15 minutes.  Attendance is not optional.'

.-...-.

"You will all be aware of the setbacks we have encountered over the last year.  They have been costly and we are a small company in comparison to some of our competitors.  Obviously, we cannot sustain losses of this magnitude indefinitely.  Therefore the board of directors have decided that in the best interests of both shareholders and staff we need to take immediate action."  He paused and opened a document folder containing a single sheet of paper and started to read aloud.   "We have choices to make.  The official receiver can be called in to wind up the business, or we can try to sell it as a going concern to one of the larger offshore fisheries.  The latter may result in the continuation of our employment.  The board has decided to put it up to tender, in order to maximize the return of our shareholders' funds.  I'll hand you over to the Chairman Derek Wilberforce who wishes to say a few words about our accomplishments over the last half-century."

"Thank you for stating the position so succinctly Mr Sturroch,"

(Half-hearted applause.)

"As you will all be aware, we were the first company in the field.  If we hadn't taken steps to recreate and rebuilt fish stocks there would be no fish left in the sea and the world would be the poorer for it.  The cloning techniques we pioneered to restore stocks of cod, haddock, herring, and flatfish were initially illegal in Europe, but fortunately not in international waters.  At first, we tried to corral fish stocks.  That was abandoned in favour of herding with small manned submersible craft.  By 2085 automated submersibles replaced human fish-herders these proved to be a more cost-effective solution.  Then, three years ago, the failures began.  We Attempted to bridge the gap by recruiting human fish-herders once more.  Just a handful of recruits and returnees signed up.  We are not the only company in this situation but our position is dire.  There will be negotiations underway over the next month, and we will keep you informed of progress.  That’s all I have to say.  This concludes the meeting, thank you for attending."

.-...-.

Three weeks later, I arrived for my shift in a low state.  Staff morale, in general, was subzero.  We were all waiting for the axe to fall.  At any moment a receiver could be appointed to wind up our operation, and that would be that!

.-...-.

"John Whitely?"  The man standing by my terminal smiled.

"That's me," I said, a cold shard of fear spreading up my spine.

"Geoff Smythe," he offered his hand, so I took it by reflex.  "I'm the new GM.  Mr Sturroch has been reassigned. Come into my office John, we need to discuss your future."  He headed towards his office and I followed. His name was freshly painted on the door.  He collapsed into the ample chair behind his desk. "Nice to meet you, at last, I've heard a lot about you and read your company history. It's impressive!  So, I won't keep you in suspense, 'North Sea Fisheries' will become a subsidiary of 'Continental Shelf Fisheries' as of noon today.  We at CSF are not, as you might think, letting people go."  He paused to take out a pen and sheaf of papers from his desk.  "On the contrary, we intend to become the largest and most successful fisheries in the Northern Hemisphere but, we do have a problem."

"I see." Here it comes.

"Relatively speaking, we are newcomers to the industry.  We need experienced men like yourself to train new recruits.  It takes a certain kind of mind to be a good herder, as you know.  We need your skills and expertise to get our new approach technology online."

"Mmm..."

"Don't say anything yet John, let me tell you about your exciting new future.  You will be on the management team pay scale, then when we go live with the 'new approach' you'll be our wet manager, responsible for everything that takes place beneath the waves."

"But, I'm no manager."

"No matter, you'll receive all the training you need.  Now, do you have any questions?" 

"First thing, how many units will we be allocated, sir?"

"Just call me, Geoff management are on first name terms."

"Okay, Geoff.  How many and how soon?"  I warmed to his informal style.

"What do you need?"

"Three would be an ideal working team for this sector." I paused for thought.  "Five would enable us to round up the scattered strays before they're snapped up by rustlers.  Then the two extras could be used to bring back strays from other sectors.  Then when normal operations resume they'll provide backup for our maintenance program."

"You can have four units for this sector, but I believe two will be sufficient in normal circumstances."

"You asked me, and I told you what we need."

"Don't misunderstand me, you've never worked with units as efficient as these."

"I've not heard of any groundbreaking new developments.  If there had been, I would know.  It's my job to know," I said.

"So, what do you know about Crystal Minds?"

"CM's?  I thought they were a means of reducing prison populations by storing the felons mind in a cube while his body is borrowed by someone who needs it."

He nodded, "Well that's part of it.  But, most criminal minds are rehabilitated within three to six months; that's if they're capable of rehabilitation.  Yet they are sentenced to serve anything from three years to life."

"Then why are the sentences not set lower?" I asked.

"Because society's perception of justice is half a century out of date."

"So someone gets the use of a body for the period of their sentence?"

"You've got it John, and the re-educated CM's get to be gainfully employed for the balance of their incarceration."

"Your using felon CM's to run our units?"

"That's the plan.  Do you have any objections?"

 I thought for a while.  "Do they know what you're doing?"

"They can either remain under program control, running scenario's and simulations for the balance of their sentence, or they can volunteer for gainful employment as herders, strato pilots, or Air-Taxi jockeys." He reached for the intercom, "My usual Tina, and Strong black coffee for Mr Whitley." 

"You've done your homework."

"Thank you.  Actually, there are a thousand potential uses for CM minds, and they get paid the going rate for the job. Credits accrue in their personal accounts.  Volunteering provides them with funds and training for a career when they're returned to their bodies.  It's preferable to the boredom of perpetual simulation or inactivity." 

"Well, if they're volunteers..."

Geoff's assistant arrived with coffee and sandwiches. "Thanks, Tina."

"I had no idea CM's could be linked to machines or real-time systems. Other than humans of course.  That's a whole new concept."

"You know John, this is only the beginning.  Our techno's have even linked them to animals like horses, sheep, and dogs.  They've been existing in a whole range of symbiotic relationships.  They not only retain their humanity they lead full productive lives as symbiants."

"That's an impressive undertaking," his enthusiasm was infectious, and I was warming to the possibilities.

"I saw the holo-pic on your terminal John.  That's a great family you have there?"

I swallowed coffee and gazed out the window.  A strato-copter was being unloaded, "That holo was taken eight years ago, before my accident."

"What happened?"

"They left because they couldn't stand my mood swings any longer.  I don't blame them, I'm not proud of that period in my life.  It was eight years ago.  I'm over it now," I felt moisture on my cheeks and brushed it away.  It didn't help.

"I meant how did your accident happen."

"I was out in the duo-sub, with a trainee who couldn't cut it.  He lacked the required sensitivity and reaction speed required in fast-flowing currents.  Not everybody develops the subtlety and delicacy of touch, you know.   After months in rehab, I wound up in this damned chair, paralyzed from the waist down." Anger railed up inside me and I hammered the wheels on the chair in frustration.

"John, I never intended opening old wounds..."

"Worst thing was not being able to control a sub and do my job," I looked into his eyes.  "In my dreams I'm whole and back in the place where I belong, swimming free."  The tears came anew, "I do hate self-pity."

He looked straight back at me, "I'm sorry, I had no idea."

"No, Galicia and I were drifting apart long before the accident.  The final straw was when I alienated my son Josh in a self-pitying drunken rage; I don't drink anymore.  He's thirteen now, I still see him on school holidays.  It's being beached that hurts me most of all." 

"I can believe it," he said.

I nodded.  "Well, I guess that's life."  I wiped my eyes on my shirt cuff and smiled.  "So I guess you'll be withdrawing the job offer?"

"Not at all, we desperately need your expertise in the water," he said.

To be Continued/…

Copyright Len Morgan

THE SOLE SURVIVOR

THE SOLE SURVIVOR

By Janet Baldey 

     

The weather girl turned back to face the camera, her dimples deepening.  Keiron stared mesmerised as the swirl of her hair followed the toss of her head.  He was in love.  She had to be the most beautiful girl on the planet.

         “So, it’s good news for all you stargazers. It’s going to be a clear night. Ideal for comet watching.”

         Keiron glanced towards his father and his faced burned as his father winked, quickly, he smothered all thoughts of the girl.

         “Dad, can I watch? Please.”

         His father raised his eyebrows. “Don’t know lad. There’s school tomorrow. What would Mum say?”

         “She’d let me. There won’t be another comet passing so close in the whole of my life. All my mates will be watching.”

         He was stretching the truth a bit here, well aware of what his mother would really say.

         “Certainly not, Keiron.  How can you concentrate on your lessons if you’re only half awake?”

         In a way, he was glad Mum wasn’t around.  His father was always much easier to handle. Sure enough, Dad was settling himself in his armchair with a little grunt of comfort.

         “OK. Just this once, but if there’s a problem with you in the morning…..” He looked at Keiron over the top of his glasses and Kieron shook his head until his neck hurt.

         “No trouble, I promise. Are you going to watch it with me?”

         “Wouldn’t miss it, son. Don’t have to get up for work in the morning.”

         His father had taken a couple of weeks off while Keiron’s mum was away caring for his Gran. This was despite Keiron, and his sister Becky, vowing it wasn’t necessary. But, in a way, Kieron had been glad when his parents had over-ruled them. If anything went wrong, he would get the blame and Becky could be difficult. “A right little madam,” his mother sometimes called her.

         Later that evening, cameras panned over the night sky while the professor fronting the programme pointed out each glittering constellation, his face alight with enthusiasm.

         Keiron was entranced, wondering if it was cissy to find it beautiful, like stretched black velvet sprinkled with diamonds.  Then, he erupted, his voice cracking with excitement.

         “I see it Dad. Look.…”

A faint luminous smudge had appeared on the outer reaches of the screen and as they watched, it gradually grew brighter, increasing in size until they could clearly see its tail of phosphorescence.

         The astrophysicist’s voice hushed to a reverent whisper.

         “This comet probably originated in the Oort cloud and has been travelling for thousands of light-years to get here. It’s the size of a largish building and could do a lot of damage if it collided with earth.”  He chuckled, “but don’t worry, we’ve been tracking it for years and it will miss us by a country mile.”

         Keiron remembered feeling faintly disappointed. It would be well cool if he was wrong. Something to talk about at school, anyway.  At last, the comet dwindled and disappeared.

Keiron’s dad got up and stretched. “Well, that’s that. Switch off the box, there’s a good lad. I’m off to bed.”

         It had been one mad rush to get out of the house the following morning. For some reason, their alarm clocks had failed, and they’d overslept.  His Dad plugged in the electric kettle but it refused to work.  He frowned and tried the lights.

         “Probably a fuse.  I’ll sort it out when I get back. Come on….”

         Outside, it was dark and oppressive, the cloud seeming to press down on them like an assassin’s blanket. All the neighbouring houses were in darkness, their shapes insubstantial in the gloom. “Must be a power cut”, his father said.

         As they neared the school, groups of youths were trudging up the road. None looked happy and several were fiddling with their phones. Keiron fished for his in his pocket, but it was quite dead.

         The power cut wasn’t just local because the school was affected as well. The teachers made an effort to carry on, but they were just as bewildered as the kids.  Phones were out, power had failed, and no newspapers had arrived in the shops. Rumours began as a trickle and increased to a flood, bobbing with a mess of guesswork. A nuclear device had exploded, hackers had destroyed the internet, and maybe, just maybe, the professor had got it wrong and the comet had collided with Earth.  When Keiron heard this, he was plagued with guilt, after all, he’d more or less wished for it.

         That evening it started to rain. By morning, it was a deluge. A seemingly solid sheet of water fell from the heavens and swirled down the streets while the drains vomited up ugly yellow bubbles. Keiron’s dad made a valiant effort to drive them to school but rain had got into the engine and it wouldn’t start. He came back in soaked to the skin and streaked with dirt.

         “Bloody rain’s filthy,” he growled and went upstairs to wash in cold water.

         For the next two weeks it showed no sign of stopping, there was still no heating and no news, only conjecture.  Keiron spent the days reading and staring out of rain-washed windows. His father had started to prowl around the house. There’d been no word from Mum and his Gran’s house was near a river. His father was torn but, at last, he made up his mind.

         “I’m going to fetch them. It’s best if we’re all under one roof.”

         Just before he left, he leaned out of the car window. “Don’t leave the house. People are starting to panic and there might be gangs roaming around.” 

         Keiron put his arm around his shivering sister and watched their father drive away, neither of them realising they would never see him again.

         Time crawled.  Both were continuously on edge, waiting for the sound of their car. After many false alarms leading to bitter disappointment, they developed thick shells of stoicism.

There was a good stock of food in the freezer but it was quickly defrosting and there was no means of heating it.  Both got heartily sick of cold baked beans and once, Keiron disobeyed his father and struggled to the corner shop, only to find it closed, its shelves empty.

         Soon, the rain turned to snow. The flakes flying faster and faster until they merged into a solid wall, deadening all sight and sound of life. The temperature plummeted and the house felt like a ‘fridge.  Both piled on layers of clothing but even so, they shivered continuously. At night they crawled under a mound of blankets and lay quaking in each other’s arms. Each day grew colder than the last until it was torture getting out of bed. By then, their food was gone so they didn’t bother. Becky cried a lot so Keiron tried to cheer her up by telling stories but most of the time they slept, drifting in and out of their separate dreams.

         Once Keiron woke to find the room flooded with light and almost fell out of bed thinking it was sunshine. He crawled to the window only to be confronted by a gleaming sheet of ice. During the night, a blizzard must have swept over the house, walling them in.  Numbed, he stumbled back to bed only to find that at some unmeasured moment, Becky had left the world.  He lay down and cradled the cooling body of his sister, waiting to join her.

         The old man put down his pencil and drew his coat closer. A born writer, he’d never known Keiron and Becky.  But although they were purely figments of his imagination, he was sure they’d existed somewhere in the world. Billions had perished, and a couple of youngsters left alone, would have stood no chance.

Sealed in their house, the youngsters would never have known the truth. Earth had suffered a massive hammer blow from a rogue asteroid lurking in the shadow of the comet, unnoticed by the scientists. Nearing earth it had veered away on its own unstable trajectory and smashed into Northern China sending a huge column of dust and interstellar waste into the atmosphere where it lay like a dirty shroud, blocking every vestige of heat from the sun.  And that was all it took. 

The man supposed he’d been lucky if lucky was the word. His father, who people had called as survivalist freak, had built a house with a huge basement capable of withstanding any nuclear attack, fully equipped with enough oil, water and food to last a decade.  Somehow, they’d managed to subsist.  But his parents were now dead.  He was on his own and food was running out.

Pulling on all the clothes he possessed, he went outside. Blinking continuously to stop frost forming on his eyelashes, he scanned the bleak wasteland stretching to the far-away hills and wondered if he really was the sole survivor.

CopyrightJanet Baldey

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 6

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 6

CHAPTER 6

By Phillip Miller

Kaspersky stood behind the sorry figure that was inspector Moreau, staring intently at the back of his bloodied and bruised head. The half empty bottle of vodka in one hand, his other on his prisoner’s shoulder. Chris Flicka was carefully removing the lie detector leads. He was shaken and sweating profusely. Mika found pleasure in his fear. She was looking forward to this moment.  Time to clean up. She much preferred the old way’s, but orders were orders. Chris felt the change in the room when, after nearly two hours interrogation, he got the answer they wanted.

Mika liked to see men on their knees. She took great pride in her ability to administer pain, Just like her brother, Pepe. She was also a mistress of pleasure and knew how to get her man. Any man. Now it was time to have some fun. ‘The Colonel would be proud,’ she thought.

Chris packed his case while Mika walked over to the table and took a knotted wire with a hoop at each end and two glasses. She strolled over to Kaspersky and handed him the glasses which he promptly filled. Mika gave one to Chris, his hand shaking, who sank it immediately. The Russian Secret Service agents saluted. “Nazdorovie,” they said, before throwing the empty glasses at the wall.

Mika put her arm around Chris and kissed him aggressively, biting his lip before breaking away. “You belong to Russia now. Remember that. We have eyes and ears everywhere.”  

“Ok! Enough of this fucking shit!” slurred Kaspersky. “Get it done. I’m going outside for a cigarette. I’ll call that one-eyed freak from up there. Reception is crap in this hole. He can get Credi to bury the body.” Chris’s ears pricked up at the mere mention of that name.

Kaspersky staggered across and then tripped up the stairs, smashing his bottle on the concrete step. “Fuck!” he said, slinging the broken bottle to the floor. When he reached the top, he heard a beep on his phone and checked the message: “THE FLAMINGO IS DEAD!” He smiled to himself and forwarded the message to Colonel Yasseravitch.

Chris was starting to shake uncontrollably. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He knew he was in deep trouble the day he crossed Credi. He looked at Moreau, sat slumped and tied down. ‘How did this happen? Got to get out of here. I can’t let that psycho near me. If Mika tells him what I did to him, I’m dead. Got to get out now.

Sara sprang to mind and as Mika stood in front of the inspector, working out the best way to carve him up, Chris panicked, saw his chance and ran for the broken bottle. Mika turned slowly. Her favourite weapon hanging by her side.

“Now, now!  My little pet.” Striding menacingly. “You get good money for this dirty work. We can’t let you go Chris. We need your services for a few more assignments yet. You are ours. Put the weapon down.” 

Chris ran to the stairs but Mika was on him in a flash. He turned and shoved the jagged edge into her thigh. She screamed in anger and pain, but before he knew it, the wire was over his head. She pulled him to the floor and lay beneath him, with her legs wrapped around his waist. He clawed at the garrotte, frantically kicking away. His face turned purple as his life flashed before him

“Remember this move? Remember how you liked this one?  Pleasure and pain all at the same time,” she whispered as she pulled the wire tighter and tighter until her prey succumbed to the inevitable. She pushed him off her, bent down and kissed his forehead. “Shame,” she said. “I liked you.”

Kaspersky smiled to himself and headed over to the coal pile stacked under the corrugated roof of the barn opposite just as the heavens opened and unzipped his flies. No sooner had he relieved himself, he heard the sound of a car approaching over the gravel, it’s headlights on full beam. “They can’t be here already.” He lit up a cigarette, turned and put one hand up in front of his eyes. “Ok! Ok! Turn the fucking lights down.”  The engine revved up and then hurtled towards the outbuilding. The realization hit home, but it was too late. The impact knocked him onto the mound of coal. His old comrade turned off the lights and stepped out of the car, the full moon lighting up the terror on Kaspersky’s face as Peter Donyevsky straddled him.

“Go and see if Moreau is still alive.” He pointed Craig to the iron door.

“You bastard; traitor; you are dead; imperialist dream is dead. You are too late you shit.”

“I thought the bottle would kill you before anything else. Seems I was wrong. It’s gonna be me.”

He tossed a lump of coal in the air a few times before smashing it down hard into the mouth of Kaspersky, then another and another. He struggled for a moment but was far too inebriated to put up a defence. After delivering the final coup de grace, Donyevsky dragged him to the house and through the hallway, calling out for Craig to help, who hollered up from the basement, “Moreau is still alive. He’s still alive.” He cut through the plastic ties with a knife from the pouch he found on the table and jumped as a lifeless body tumbled down the stairs, followed by the steady plod of the Russian.

Craig left the inspector slumped over the old wooden bench then walked over to the garrotted body of Chris Flicka by the stairs, checking for vital signs before rifling through his clothing, looking for ID. 

“Come on. We don’t have much time,” said Peter, as he eased Moreau’s arm around his shoulder. “We have to get out of here.”

The inspector was a big man but between them they managed to get him up the stairs and out to Craig’s Toyota 4x4, laying him across the back seats.

Donyevsky opened the boot and took out a small jerry can as Craig was arranging the inspector into a more comfortable position.  After a lot of puffing and panting, Craig stood back from the large truck and tried to catch his breath. It didn’t take long to realise that he was alone. He didn’t hesitate; two seconds and he was in the driving seat, slamming into reverse and taking off.

Donyevsky emerged from the house just in time to catch the sight of the rear lights as the open backed vehicle wheel spun out of the old farm. He then took out a golden lighter with the initials MK inscribed on the lid, flicked it open and threw it inside the iron door, looked up and sighed, “It’s going to be a long night, I think.”

Forty minutes later Moreau was in an ICU. Craig was so tired he fell asleep in the waiting room. He woke up 3 hours later and sat staring at the floor. He hadn’t eaten for what seemed like days. His chest felt tight and he was feeling light-headed. Come on Moreau, what’s this all about?  Shit! There’s a bloody dead Russian in my bath. Got to get home.

Craig pulled up outside his flat and strode up the steps; the old security light flickering to life as he fumbled with the keys to his front door.  His mouth felt dry as he made his way up to the first floor. Something wasn’t right; the light in the bathroom was on. His heart was in his mouth as he slowly pushed open the door but was shocked to discover that Pepe Brown’s body was missing, and the room was spotless. A chill ran down his spine as he fell back into the hallway, his head spinning. Donyevsky! What if he comes back? Got to get out of here. Something caught his eye; a small silver object trapped between the gap between the skirting board and wooden floor. He took a pencil from a small stationary kit on the bookcase and flicked it out. It was a USB stick. But not his. He fired up his laptop and waited. Start-up seemed to take forever.  “That’s it. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said as he slid the memory stick home and tapped the e-drive. The screen was immediately filled with what looked like some kind of badge or emblem.

“Coat of Arms,” he whispered to himself. Google provided the answer: Imperial coat of Arms of Russia. Craig was out of his depth and he knew it; no way he could get into this. It was time to call in a favour. Only one person for the job; Kayse Matrix.

He logged into his TOR account and punched in some numbers; best way to get hold of her; the only way:

“KC, I need your help. Need your decoding skills.”

The message box remained empty for what seemed a lifetime before he got a response.

“Hello handsome. What’s up?”

“Need your help. I Need you to come over, now.”

“What you got?!”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Dead bodies and Russian spies. Really need your help.”

“Sounds dirty. You know where I am.”

“Thanks. 50 mins.”

It took slightly longer than normal before he arrived at the Archway; a small railway arch unit supplying techno gadgets and computer repairs. This was KC’s manor. She was probably one of the best hackers in the business. She and Craig went back a long way; anything needed cracking or hacking then she was your women.

KC was busy on her latest project when a small cam link popped up on a small monitor. She tapped on one of the keyboards and the glass door to the small outlet slid open. Craig walked inside and then stepped into a cleansing pod. KC had extreme OCD. She hated anything virus related; man made or natural. A light mist filled the pod and then the back screen slid open. Craig walked out of the pod and on to a bright blue anti-static mat, took a pair of latex gloves from a small stand to his right and then walked over to a bank of screens, monitors and hard drives.

KC sat tapping away on dual keyboards while observing the four screens in front of her.

“Christ! You look like Jabba the Hutt!” said Craig. KC swung round in the oversized converted armchair.

“You are no oil painting, lover boy! Good to see you.” She smiled as she took a large bite out of a cold pasty followed by half a dozen spiced pickled onions. “Give it to me,” she said as she chewed away, offering a glimpse of a rather large bolus.

“Here you go. Anything you can do to help would be greatly appreciated KC.”

“Let’s have a look.” The techno architect loaded the USB into an external hard drive. “Hmm! Russian for sure. Have to run it through my Syphon programme. Give me ten minutes. Make a coffee if you like. You look like you need one, or beer’s over there,” pointing to a large bright red American double fridge freezer.

“I need to crash here a few days or till this is sorted. I don’t feel too good. You got any paracetamol? My head is splitting.”

“Over by the Pod, on the wall.”

Craig made a coffee, took the painkillers and sat down on a large beanbag and thought about laying down for 10 minutes, his head still pounding.

KC’s fingers were working overtime. Craig could hear her muttering to herself, cursing every now and then. He looked over at the large leather sofa and the quilts and blankets draped over it.

“Do you ever leave this place?”

“No. not if I can help it.”

“What about food?”

“Deliveroo old friend. Best thing ever. I haven’t cooked a meal since Steve left me.”

“What happened?”

“He was messing around so I sort of erm! Well! Er!.....wait, here we go, here we go!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I’m in.”

Craig was up and by KC’s side in a flash.

“It’s Russian alright. Never seen coding like it. This could take some time. Get some kip. I’ll shout if, no, I’ll re-phrase that, when I break it.”

Craig collapsed onto the copious Bedouin like sleeping arrangement of mandala and bohemian cushions and floor pads. KC opened a drawer of a small cabinet under her desk and took out a large box of cup-cakes, swallowing one immediately, then another. She finished all six in a matter of minutes, washed them down with a bottle of Crabbies ginger ale, then got to work. She was used to tunnelling deep into the multi layers of the dark web, and beyond.

Craig was woken by an animalistic deep throated warbling and foul smell. He rubbed his eyes and aching back and turned to see KC slouched and fast asleep on the old sofa, emitting sounds and smells from the orifices of each end of her anatomy. He had a look of disgust on his face. The headache had vanished, but his hunger and thirst remained. Another journey to the fridge. A cold drink this time. He opted for a Coke before walking over to KC’S command centre but felt as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. He looked in a drawer beneath the desk and went for a dark bar of raisin and rum chocolate.

“Get your hands off that,” yawned KC.

Craig laughed. “just one square, Jesus! I’ll be doing you a favour.” Attempting to peel back the wrapper.

“One more move and you won’t leave here……ever,” said KC, as she struggled to sit upright.

“Bloody hell! Said Craig as he childishly threw the unopened bar back in the drawer.

“Did you find anything?”

“Not really. Nothing important.”

“Nothing important!” Craig looked expectantly over at KC who was reaching down for a pack of Wasabi flavoured crisps.

“Well, yeah! pretty damned important actually. White hot as a matter of fact,” she said as she crunched her way through a handful of the devilishly hot potato slices.

“Come on then, spit it out. Not literally of course,” said Craig, as he stepped back from the desk.

“First things first Craig can you sign that document my darling.” she pointed to a screen. “Just read it and sign the screen with your finger.”

“What is it?”

“If this crap hits the fan then I want to make sure that I’m safe.”

Craig read the document and signed it. KC was sitting upright now. “Throw me that keyboard.”

She punched away for a second and the printer sprang to life. Craig waited patiently for the printer to finish.

“I’ve got a copy filed away Craig. May need it in the future. If this stuff is for real then, well…….just read it my friend.”

The revitalised young officer took the file and immersed himself in it’s content. When he finished he just sat open-mouthed. KC threw him a bar of chocolate.

“You’re going to need all the energy you can muster.”  She took another large handful of crisps.

“My god! This goes all the way to the top. The Royal Family for Christ sake.

“I checked the military movements of the British Royal Navy. I even managed to hack into the Yanks OPRAH. This shit looks real. I also checked statistics of the worlds trading stocks over the last few months and the evidence is startling. It looks like the West is on the verge of attacking the East. All the pieces are in place. The first piece is Flamingo.” she looked over at Craig who sat with a look of utter despair.

“You are Flamingo Craig.”

Copyright Phillip Miller

VERONICA'S TEST

VERONICA'S TEST

By Bob French

The door slid open with a hiss and the young man stepped back to allow the pretty looking woman onto the bus.  She smiled her thanks at him and went to the back of the bus and sat down.  The traffic in and around Rayleigh was light and they had soon left suburbia behind them.

          As she glanced aimlessly out of the window at the beautiful Essex countryside, a feeling of apprehension crept over her as though she was being watched.  When her senses had reached a state where she was starting to feel uncomfortable, she stole a quick glance around the bus, only to catch a young man looking at her over his newspaper.  She briefly returned his gaze with a smile and felt herself blush.  Without thinking she quickly pretended to rummage through her handbag, only to find as she returned to the upright position that he was still looking at her.  

          The bus slowly pulled into Chelmsford Bus Station and he left the bus, but not before taking one last glance back at her.  She felt a smile creep across her face as their eyes met.  Then he was gone. 

          As the luxury coach twisted and turned its way through the countryside she felt pleased with herself that someone had actually noticed her.  Forty minutes later, the X30 pulled up outside the terminal at Stansted International Airport.  All of a sudden panic took hold of the travellers, followed by a mad rush to the front exit as though the rear of the bus had suddenly caught fire. 

          When her surroundings had fallen silent; she slowly got up, adjusted her skirt, picked up her red handbag and made her way forward.  The cool fresh air, which had a hint of aircraft fuel, rushed up at her as she carefully stepped off the coach.

Satisfied she had made it safely down the steps, she took a deep breath, adjusted the grip on her handbag and walked through the large glass doors into the vacuum of the main airport concourse; her high heels clicking as they made contact with the marble floor. This was a new venture for her in her quest to gain more confidence and overcome her shyness.  She had visited Lakeside and Blue-water, but was aware that people who frequented those places were more interested in shopping than people watching.  Standsted was the real test.  People with time on their hands, people watched.  If she could get through the first hour or so, then she knew she would be ready.

There was a queue at the Costa Coffee Bar, so continued to casually walk further along the arcade until she found what looked like the airport lounge.  It was quieter there and she could sit down and enjoy the view.  A waiter, a tall dark haired boy, who spoke with a heavy Italian accent approached her and asked if he could take her order.

“I think I will have a Latte please.”  She saw the expression change on his face, so coughed politely to clear her throat. “With a jam doughnut.”  He smiled and thanked her.  When he left, she made a mental note and reached into her handbag for her mouth spray.

It didn’t take long before she had joined the dozens of bored passengers, with time on their hands, to start to stare at passers-by. A couple of women walked by and she carefully analysed their clothes, then stole a quick smiled as she watched them disappear into the crowd, pleased that she had worn the right clothes.

A muffled roaring sound made her turn and stare out of the panoramic full-length windows at an aircraft taking off into the wide blue sky to some exotic and wonderful place she thought.  It held her imagination until the clunk of a china cup and saucer on the table brought her back from far away and she looked up at the young waiter.  She smiled at him, realising that he had doused himself with some aftershave and combed his hair.

“Three pounds fifty madam.”  He held her eye contact for a second too long, then she noticed, as he slid the bill across the table, that he had written his telephone number on the bottom of it.  Feeling herself blush again, she fumbled in her handbag; paid the young waiter and pocketed the receipt. Her confidence was getting stronger and it made her feel good.  The coffee was too hot and the jam doughnut stale, but after finishing it, she returned to watching the people walk aimlessly past the lounge

Just after mid-day she began to feel anxious.  She knew it would come sooner or later and her previous experiences had proven a little frightening.  After putting it off for ten minutes, she finally plucked up enough courage and made her way to the toilet.  If there was one thing she disliked; it was being confined in a small perfumed filled room with a group of load mouthed women all shouting at once. ‘Maybe it will be different at an airport,’ she thought but was instantly disappointed as she pushed the inner door open.  The smell nearly took her breath away as the mixture of body odour and perfume hit the back of her throat.  The women in there were all tussling for space in front of the large mirror.  No one noticed her as she quickly found a cubical and closed the door; carefully inspecting the toilet seat before making herself comfortable.  The screeching from the women continued until she heard the door swished, then silence, which was pleasing in a way.

Confident the toilet was empty, she made her way to the row of basins and began inspecting her clothing and adjusting her hair a little when she heard the door swish again.  Glancing at the mirror she saw a smartly suited young woman enter and quickly move towards the basins.  ‘Twenty fiveish, business exec,’ she thought. The young woman leant against the basin and hastily emptied the contents of her handbag onto the side of the basin. A quick glance at the various containers told her that this young woman shopped at the expensive end of the make-up market

“Off to somewhere nice?”  The question caught her off guard as the young exec brushed her cheeks with her rouge brush.

“No just seeing someone off.  What about you?”  She caught the look in the young girls face.  It was her eyes; they were sad. She didn’t speak for a few seconds, then turned and looked at her in the mirror.

“Monaco for a dirty weekend.”

“Oh, lucky you. I wish I was young again.”  The young exec turned, folded her arms and leant against the basins and studied the tiled floor.

“No, it’s not fun.  He’s married with three kids and a large house in Kingston.  I’m just his plaything.”  She leant across and put her hand on the young girl's sleeve and gently squeezed it.

“I’m sorry my dear.  Do you think he will ever leave his wife and family?”  The young exec gave a sigh.

“He keeps saying he will, but I don’t think it will ever come to that.”

“What’s your name dear?”

“Jillian, and yours?”

“Veronica.”  She paused for a second then turned to Jillian. “Then why not leave him.  You have your passport and a return ticket?”  Jillian looked up with a frown. “Simple really. Once you’ve got settled into your hotel, tell him that you are going out to get some fresh air; grab your suitcase, tell the reception that you are booking out and then go off and find another hotel and enjoy yourself.” She could see a faint smile creep across her face.

“Thanks, Veronica.  You’ve just opened my eyes.” Gave her a peck on the cheek, scooped up the discarded make-up containers into her handbag and made her way to the door, then turned.

“By the way, you’ve got lovely hair.” The door swished and she was gone. The toilet was silent again as she once again tried to inspect her make-up.  ‘Time to move on,’ she thought and calmly made her way back out into the brilliant sunlit concourse.

The Airport Bar was nearly empty as she swivelled onto the stool and leant back against it; carefully crossed her legs and staring out at the moving masses.  Suddenly someone caught her eye.  He was middle-aged, dark hair and deep brown eyes.  He looked out of place in his heavy black leather three quarter length coat.  She thought nothing of it and carried on observing the swarms that moved in all directions; some purposefully, other with no real place to go.  A leggy blond slid in next to her and ordered a Pink Dragon and turn to observe the crowds.

“Look at them; the world has gone mad.  Everyone rushing here or there.” She spoke with a hint of a German accent and took a nervous drink. The intruder’s approach threw Veronica for a second, then she thoughtfully nodded.

“Yes, everything is done at a rush these days. It’s a wonder they grow up properly at all.”  She nodded at a group of young school children being ushered through the busy crowds by their teacher; ‘probably off on an end of term school trip,’ she thought.

“Where you headed to?”  The blond had turned and was searching her face with her deep blue eyes. Quickly thinking she said;

“I just saw off my children on their school skiing holiday.” The blond held her gaze and nodded slowly.

“Can I ask you a question?”  The young blond leant forward and placed a hand gently on her thigh.  It made Veronica jump but she controlled her reactions quickly.

“What eye shadow do you use?” 

“Sorry.” She felt the fear drain within her and smiled. “Oh, yes…. It’s Blue Horizon.”  She paused to see if the blond knew the brand.  “By Max Factor.  It’s nothing special really. You can get in Boots.” The blond smiled, finished her drink and without another word stood, adjusted her short skirt and left.  When she turned back to the bar she made eye contact with the barman.  He could see the confused look on her face and came over.

“It’s alright Miss. She’s from the vice squad, just checking the area out.  Jimmy the DCI.”  He nodded over her shoulder to where the man in the black leather three quarter length coat stood.  “Is doing his rounds.”  She quickly glanced over her shoulder to see the leggy blond quickly say something to the man then walk away.  Their eyes met for a brief second, then he seem to lose interest in her and turn away. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.  ‘A prostitute,’ she thought; finished her drink, then got up and made her way back out into the main concourse.

The ride home was uneventful and when she reached Chelmsford, she had made her mind up.  She was going to do it, and got off the bus.  ‘Somerset is nice this time of the year,’ she thought and with that, started to walk towards the railway station and a new life.

That evening a Mrs Mildred Frampton from Rayleigh had called the police to complain that her husband had not come home from work.  It was noted that none of his clothes were missing and once the preliminaries had taken place the police started to ask around the local area only to discover that Mrs Frampton was an obnoxious, antagonising bully of a woman who degraded her quiet husband at every opportunity.  ‘No wonder he left her.’ seemed to be the standard reply to those being interviewed.

Later the same evening a pretty looking woman booked into the Chesterfield Arms in Taunton.  As she stood in front of the mirror in her room, she smiled at herself; dropped her red hand bag, kicked off her high heel shoes and pulled off her wig and rubbed the short light blond hair. She held her gaze for a minute then spoke quietly.

“Well Veronica, say good bye to David Frampton.”

Copyright Bob French