beatingtheblankpage-blog

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 52. Saying Goodbye

Here we are at the last week of this 52 challenge. In this story, a character is saying goodbye to their pride. Thank you for reading and I hope to keep this up in some shape or form in the year to come. The sound of knocking resounded clearly through the house. Verity swore under her breath as she pulled on her night robe and rushed down to front door. She readied her best angry statements and swung the door open. Charis fell through, clutching at Verity’s robe as she fell to her knees in front of her. It was raining outside and she was soaked to the skin. Verity pushed her off. ‘What are you doing here?’ Charis was sobbing, her eyes dark and cheeks stained with mascara. Her sentences were broken up by her heaving gasps for breath. ‘I needed to come here. I needed to - ‘ Verity got to her feet and scowled down at the wet mess in front of her. ‘Seriously, what are you doing here?’ Charis shuffled forward on her knees. ‘You were right. And I never listened. A-and I’m sorry.’ Verity pointed to the door. ‘You need to go.’ Charis fell forward, sobbing harder. ‘Please… I’m sorry.’ Verity crouched down. ‘You’re about five years too late. Now you have to leave.’ Charis lay on the ground, shaking her head. ‘Please, I want to – ‘ Verity stood back up. ‘What? What do you want, Charis?’ Verity took another step back. ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t care about what you want.’ ‘I want to give you the money.’ ‘What money? You think you can just throw money at me and we’ll be friends again?’ ‘No.’ Charis was on her knees again. ‘It’s your money. It was yours all along.’ Verity swept forward, pointing a finger between Charis’ eyes. ‘You think I care about the money?’ Charis fell back. ‘No. I didn’t think -‘ ‘That’s right.’ All the confusion and the hurt had swept to the forefront of Verity’s mind. ‘You don’t think. Unless the thinking involves screwing over your friends for your own gain.’ ‘You’re right.’ Charis was shaking. ‘I was so wrong. I didn’t realise until it was too late.’ ‘You’re right about that.’ Verity stepped around Charis and placed a hand on her front door. ‘It’s too late and you need to go.’ Charis collapsed again on the floor. ‘Please…’ Verity stood for a moment at the door, watching her once friend lie on her carpet, soaking it in rain and tears. Charis lay on her side, clutching her stomach and writhing. ‘What happened?’ Verity closed the door and walked around Charis, reaching down to lift her up. ‘There was a girl. A young girl.’ Charis shook her head. Verity steered Charis to a chair and lowered her gently into it, where Charis started to spill down onto the floor as she tried to keep telling her story. ‘She was an artist. A painter and she liked to draw. All she did was draw, but not just draw, she made the most amazing pictures… And she had this amazing family, and I’ve never – ‘ ‘She was sick wasn’t she?’ Verity said, crossing her arms. ‘I didn’t know. They didn’t tell me.’ Charis was staring down at her hands. ‘And when I found out, it was too late.’ Charis leaned her head back and looked up at the high ceiling above them. ‘Our treatment could have saved them, but they couldn’t get the money together for it. And even if they had…’ ‘And this made you think you could just come here and – ‘ ‘I didn’t come here expecting that you would forgive me. I just wanted you to know I was sorry. And I didn’t realise how much I’d missed you, and I wish I’d realised sooner. I’m so stupid and… proud.’ Verity nodded. ‘Well, as much as I hope it’s made you feel better, it doesn’t change what you did.’ Charis leaned forward, reaching out to her friend. ‘I know that. I know I can’t change what I did, but I can change what I’m going to do. I’m leaving the project.’ Verity shook her head. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Charis nodded. ‘All it did was make me vicious and greedy.’ Verity scowled a little harder. ‘Your research didn’t do that. The money did.’ Charis nodded harder. ‘So I’ll leave it and I’ll… I’ll give the money to someone who needs it more.’ ‘You’re going to do charity work.’ Charis had lifted out of the chair and was shuffling towards Verity. ‘I need to remember why we starting developing the treatment in the first place.’ ‘And you’re going to do that by leaving your research behind?’ Charis froze. ‘You’re right.’ Verity sighed and shook her head. ‘You’re not thinking clearly.’ ‘No.’ Charis shook her head. ‘I’m thinking clearer than I have in a long time.’ Verity tried to push Charis back into the chair but the soaked woman pushed off her hands. ‘I’ll try to get out of the contract. Try to get out of all that legal stuff and just go back to what we did before. To work for the greater good.’ ‘The greater good?’ Verity pulled some hankies from her robe’s pocket and handed it to Charis to wipe her nose. ‘I don’t think they’ll just break a contract for the sake of the greater good.’ Charis flopped back into the chair. ‘Then what do I do?’ Verity stepped back and crossed her arms. ‘I don’t know.’ Charis’ lip started to wobble and she sunk back into the chair. She was still making puddles on the floor below her. Verity wanted to be angry at her, but at that point, as she looked at this woman who had once been her lab partner and best friend, she felt nothing but pity. All of her mistakes were coming back to bite her all at once. That’s what it looked like anyway. Verity pointed to her kitchen. ‘I’m going to need something to get me back to sleep. I can make something for you, if you want?’ Charis’ lip continued to wobble as she slowly leaned forward in her seat. Verity held out a hand and Charis hesitated before taking it. ‘And I’ll have to get you a towel.’ Verity glanced back at the chair, which was so soaked that there was a good chance that it was now completely ruined. ‘Thank you,’ Charis murmured as Verity steered her gently to the kitchen. ‘Don’t thank me. I’d have to be a monster to send you away the way that you are.’ Verity moved her over to one of the tall stools and Charis flopped onto the closest one. Verity watched her for a moment. ‘This doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you.’ Charis nodded. ‘I know.’ Verity walked to her fridge and opened it. ‘And I haven’t decided if I’m going to help you or not.’ Charis sighed. ‘I’ll understand if you-‘ ‘But I will.’ Verity turned, the light of the fridge fell around her in a pale halo. ‘For old time’s sake.’

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Week 51. Coming Home

This is just a continuation of the previous story. The man, previously unnamed, comes home. The door swung open in front of him, the keys still hanging from the lock. Eli stood for a moment on the door mat, his suitcase next to him. It didn’t feel like his home anymore. Without her, it felt hollow somehow. He shook his head, shaking loose those kinds of thoughts. She’d left him. She’d ran away. Somehow, he kept forgetting that. It didn’t stop him missing her though. He lifted his suitcase and stepped across the threshold. He was alone and yet there was an air of anticipation in the hallway, like the pictures on the walls were watching and waiting for something to happen. He wished he knew what they were waiting for. This should have been when he carried her through the door as husband and wife. He turned back to the open door and saw the curtains twitch in the house across the street. Eli stepped forward and close the door. With the door closed, the weight of the room seemed to increase, to press down on him as he stood. Had this been a few days ago, he may have started crying. It was still taking a great deal of strength not to break down again, but he fought against the urge. He looked to his left, to the pile of unwrapped presents that was waiting for the happy couple. He turned and walked into the dining room, looking up at all the items and wondering what he would have to do with all of them. Surely he wouldn’t be able to keep them. They all reminded him of her in some small way. Mostly because he’d opened them with her. Some of them had been added to the wedding list by her. Those would definitely have to go. Especially those hideous ornamental frogs. They were already sitting next to their little fireplace. He stood for a while, just letting his eyes scan over the different items: the crockery and cutlery, the slow cooker and rice cooker and the towels and the rolling pin set to name just a few. Why they needed a set of rolling pins, he would never know. He walked back out to the hallway, taking a moment to glance at the picture of them on their first holiday together. They’d “gone skiing” and spent most of the time in their chalet drinking hot chocolate and reading by the fire. She’d managed to catch a moment when they’d actually been out on the slopes, when they’d both fallen and couldn’t stop laughing. Rosy cheeks and snow crusted furry hats. Good times. Why couldn’t it have stayed that way? Something bubbled up in him. Eli reached up and ripped the picture off the wall, hurling it across the hallway. It smashed against the opposite wall, showering down in pieces of wood and glass. Eli stood panting, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. He stared down at the shards of their happy memory, and felt a rush unlike anything he’d felt before. He thought about grabbing another but he fought against that urge. He went to the kitchen and grabbed the brush and pan. He may have been hurting but that didn’t mean he had to be messy about it. As he went back into the hall to tidy up the glass and wood, the doorbell rang. He left the pan and brush next to the debris and answered the door. It was the first time he had been filled with dread when opening the door. He’d expected some simpering sympathiser but it wasn’t. Joe the postman handed him a parcel. ‘A late one from the looks of it, Eli.’ ‘Thanks.’ Eli wasn’t sure if Joe hadn’t heard what had happened or if he was just being very task oriented. As he watched the postman rifled through the envelopes and find the right ones, he guessed it was a combination of the two. ‘There ya go.’ Joe stood on the front step smiling, with a few envelopes in his hand. Joe smiled more than most people Eli knew. Eli envied him. ‘Thanks again, Joe.’ Eli took the envelopes and was about the close the door. Joe nodded at the suitcase in the hall. ‘You ain’t long back, eh?’ ‘Nope.’ Eli watched as Joe slowly realised where Eli had been and remembered why he wasn’t supposed to mention it. The postman’s smile slipped off his face and his eyes got wider. ‘Ah… I’m so sorry.’ Joe moved down from the step. ‘I forgot all about…’ He gestured vaguely, swatting the end of the sentence away before he could do any more damage. Eli shrugged. ‘It’s alright Joe. You’re a busy man.’ ‘I feel so bad.’ Joe moved from foot to foot like he was in desperate need of the toilet. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Eli leaned against the door and shook his head. ‘You’re kind of making it worse by apologising over and over again.’ Joe fidgeted with the strap of his postal bag and stared down at his feet, slowly backing away. ‘You’re right… I gotta go and… uh, deliver these.’ He turned and jogged down the path. Usually he would wave once he stepped out the garden gate, but he didn’t even look back at the house. Eli watched him go before closing the door and returning to the glass and wood on the floor. He swept it up carefully, making doubly sure that there were no slivers of glass left behind. He picked up the photo and stared at it again. It had been scraped by the broken glass, a long thin scratch down the middle of them, splitting the picture in two. Joe’s visit had left the anger to simmer and die down. Now he was left cold and alone, staring at a picture that just made him miss her more. She may have left but there was still a part of him that hoped she would come back. But what if she did? What if she appeared at the door? What would he do? He slipped the picture into his back trouser pocket and stood up with the fragments of frame all held on the pan in his hand. He walked to the kitchen and slid the pan’s contents into the bin. He stood at the marble topped island and pressed his palms into the cold stone. Through the window, the garden- once their garden- was coated in golden sunlight. The gazebo stood at the far end of the lawn, gleaming white with hands on its hips, watching the house with disapproval. Eli hung his head and sucked in a lung of air. He pulled the picture from his pocket and looked at it again. ‘Where did you go?’ He stared at her eyes, at the laughing crow’s feet, at the way she wrinkled her nose when she was laughing hard and the old ache he had tried to push down rushed back up. He folded the photo at the scratch so he was only looking at her. Like when they’d first met. The ache sat in his stomach and made him feel so heavy. He set the picture on the counter top and walked back out to his suitcase. He was reaching for the handle when the doorbell rang again. As he walked, he couldn’t help wondering if it was Joe back to apologise some more. He chuckled as he opened the door. He stopped when he saw who it was. David was frowning, like he usually did. He looked nothing like his sister. ‘Hello, Eli.’ Eli’s mouth was suddenly very dry and a chuckle was caught in his throat. ‘H-hi, David.’ David stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t want to be there, but he’d been sent. ‘I’m here to, uh, get some of Christina’s stuff.’ ‘Get her stuff?’ Eli pushed the door back. ‘Do you know where she is?’ David shrugged. ‘I’m just here to get some of her things.’ ‘You do know.’ Eli stepped over the jamb and grabbed David’s shoulders. ‘Tell me where she is.’ ‘She doesn’t want to see you, Eli.’ David brushed off Eli’s hands and pushed him towards the door. ‘I want to talk to her.’ Eli said, watching his brother-in-law climb the stairs to the bedrooms. David stopped midway up the stairs and turned. ‘She doesn’t want to talk to you.’ Eli clutched his stomach as the hurting tried to kick its way out. ‘Did she even say why she left me?’ David turned away and shook his head. ‘Not my place to say.’ Eli stayed in the hall, clutching his stomach and feeling his head start to swim again. He could hear David upstairs, pulling out drawers and moving around what was supposed to be their room. Still holding his midriff, Eli got his suitcase and brought it upstairs. David hadn’t made as much of a mess as it had sounded like. He’d managed to find a shoulder bag and was filling it up. Eli walked into the room and laid his suitcase on his side of the bed. ‘How is she?’ David paused and looked up at him. ‘She’s fine.’ ‘Good... I was worried about her.’ David stood with some of Christina’s t-shirts in his hands. ‘I didn’t really come here to talk.’ ‘Yeah I know.’ Eli unzipped the top flap, hesitating with a hand hovering over the contents. ‘I’m sorry that we didn’t get on better.’ David nodded. ‘You’re alright, Eli. But you did decide to marry my little sister.’ Eli lifted out his used clothes and threw them in a heap on the floor. ‘Yeah, well, that turned out well, didn’t it?’ David snorted, before glancing up at Eli. Eli still felt the ache lying down in his intestines as he continued to empty his bag. Zipping the bag shut, David slid the strap onto his shoulder and stepped back from the bed. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’ Eli stepped around the bed. ‘Thanks.’ They walked together down to the front door and David turned when he stepped outside. ‘I might be back for more. I’m not really sure what’s going to happen next.’ Eli nodded, slumped against the door for support. ‘That’ll do. I guess I’ll see you then. David turned to walk down the path and Eli was about to close the door when he heard David hiss loudly at someone. ‘I thought you were staying in the car… what do you mean you changed your mind? You can’t just- ‘ Eli clutched the door a little harder as Christina slipped past her brother and started to walk towards him. She stared down at the path and somehow looked smaller than Eli could remember. She stepped up onto the front step and lifted her eyes to meet his. The eye contact punched him in the heart. All words emptied out of his head and he stood with his mouth open, gazing at her. Like when they’d first met. She swallowed and took a little step forward. ‘Hi,’ she said. The word whirled around in Eli’s head, making him dizzy. ‘Hi.’ She took another little step forward. ‘Can we talk?’ All the events of the past few days were about to crash over him again, alone in Paris, finding her note on the empty bed, the tears and the pity and the aching that was still very much there. He held them back as best as he could, still holding onto the door for fear that the floor might disappear. ‘Yeah.’ He stepped back to let her in. ‘I think we need to.’

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 50. Loneliness

This one was interesting. I asked for songs that made people sad and tried to see what I could come up with. Below is the result. They all knew better than to stare at him as he walked into the dining room. Even if they knew better, they just couldn’t help themselves. Gregor had never seen a man look so broken. What should have been a sensitive topic and a sad story – definitely not a topic of gossip in the hotel -  had spread through the staff and the guests like wildfire. It was among the saddest stories that Gregor had heard so far that year. None of the other waiting staff wanted to serve his table. Gregor had drawn the short straw somehow. He waited for the broken man to sit down and to settle himself. Most people would have picked up the optional menu or eyed up the buffet, but this man sat staring at the empty chair across from him. He was wearing the same clothes from the day before and it looked like he had slept badly in them too. His eyes were puffy and dark and his hair stuck up in little spikes all over his head. What would have normally been a person sitting down and deciding what they wanted for breakfast was instead a man with hopelessness written all over his face. Gregor could have watched him for hours, but a nudge from one of his colleagues reminded him that he was there to wait on the guests, even the hopeless and broken ones. He winded his way through the tables, sharing glances with the guests who were also trying not to stare at the broken man. When he arrived at the table, he pulled his pencil pad from his apron pocket and wasn’t sure whether to smile or not. He thought it was better if he did. ‘Bon matin, monsieur, would you like anything from the optional menu this morning?’ The man blinked and turned his head to the menu standing on the table. He reminded Gregor of a turtle, slowly turning its neck back and forth as it decided what it was going to do next. Gregor waited and the broken man looked down at the empty saucer in front of him. After thinking for a little too long, he looked up at Gregor with bloodshot eyes. ‘I’ll just have a coffee please.’ Gregor stood with his pencil and pad, waiting for more. ‘Will that be all?’ ‘Um,’ The man looked at the menu and shook his head. ‘Make it the strongest coffee you have, please?’ ‘How strong would you like, monsieur?’ The man didn’t respond. Instead he looked up with his bloodshot eyes and pleaded. Gregor had never had someone plead with him with their eyes before. It made his stomach clench painfully. ‘I shall see how strong we can make it, monsieur.’ He tucked the pad and pencil back into his pocket and bowed as he backed away from the table. As he walked back to the little kitchen he caught little snippets of muttered conversations from the other tables. ‘Why is he still here?’ ‘I can’t believe she just left him like that.’ ‘Couldn’t even make it through the honeymoon…’ Gregor frowned and shook his head. People could be so cruel and indifferent. This poor man has gone through this and now all they want to do is stare. He stood in front of the coffee maker, wondering how strong was strong to a man who probably hadn’t slept very much the past few nights. He asked one of his colleagues, Juliet. She shrugged. He told her who it was for, and she was standing beside him almost instantly. ‘What did he say?’ ‘He just asked for coffee.’ ‘Really? Nothing else?’ Gregor shook his head and started making the strongest coffee he’d probably ever make. He wasn’t sure if there was a legal limit on caffeine content or not. ‘I’d imagine that if something like that had happened to me, I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.’ Juliet nodded. ‘I wouldn’t even be able to come down from breakfast.’ ‘It’s so sad, isn’t it?’ Juliet sniffed. ‘I’m trying not to think about it like that.’ Gregor wrinkled his nose at the strength of the coffee he was making, the fuming seeping up his nose and making his vision buzz. ‘How else do you think about it? His new wife leaves him and all she gave him was a note saying she was sorry.’ ‘A note? I heard it was a red rose.’ Gregor frowned and glanced over at Juliet. ‘Why the hell would she leave a red rose?’ She shrugged. ‘A symbol of their love?’ ‘She didn’t love him. She left him remember?’ Gregor turned away from the machine, cup and saucer in hand. ‘Maybe she was scared.’ ‘Then she was a coward and I pity the man.’ He made to make his way back to the broken man’s table. ‘I think everyone is pitying him,’ he heard Juliet mutter. Gregor frowned and tried to look as professional as he could as he walked past the other muttering guests. He set the coffee down and waited for a moment for the man to notice the cup that was in front of him. The man shuddered and started to reach for the handle. He stopped and looked up at Gregor. ‘Um, thank you?’ Gregory clasped his hands together and took a step back from the table. ‘Are you sure that there isn’t anything else I can get for you, sir?’ There was a moment of silence, where Gregor wrung his hands and the man’s hand stayed inches away from the handle. The man sighed and shook his head. His hand withdrew and he started to shake. Gregor watched him cry and felt the bottom of his stomach fall out. He knew that everyone in the restaurant was watching and could feel their eyes burning into the back of his neck. He made to pat the man on the shoulder but he doubted that that would have been any help. Gregor crouched down next to the man, shaking his head at the other staff who were approaching the table. ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ he murmured, trying to sound as sympathetic as he could. His hand was still inches away from the man’s shoulder. The man shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’ His words were distorted by his shuddering tears, forcing Gregor to concentrate extra hard. ‘I’m sorry for what happened,’ Gregor said, finally placing his hand gently on the man’s back. The man was shuddering as more and more tears came. Gregor had almost forgotten about the others who were trying and failing not to gather around the crying man. He glanced up at them and gestured for them to go. Some of them moved back to their seats or to serving tables. Others stayed watching with open mouths. The man was talking again, so Gregor turned his attention back to him. ‘Yesterday, I walked alone down the Champs d’Elysee. I thought I would be holding hands with her but…’ Gregor wanted to say something but he couldn’t think of anything. Instead he patted the man on the back. He didn’t know what else to do. The man sighed, the tears finally coming to an end. He wiped the wet from his cheeks and finally picked up the cup of coffee with a shaking hand. Those who were gawking at the spectacle, sensing that the spectacle was coming to an end, started to filter back to their seats. Gregor stood up and straightened out his apron. ‘If there is anything else that you might need, please let me know.’ The man gulped back his coffee in a way that made Gregor wince. He could smell the coffee where he was standing; It was almost on the verge of becoming a caffeine fog. The man slapped the cup back down on the table, and looked up at Gregor, his face crunched up by the intensity of the coffee. ‘Another one of those, please?’

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 49. A Party

This story starts at a party but it was suggested to me that the party wasn’t... well, you can read and find out. They called it a phone free gathering. The very thought of it sent a shiver down Iona’s spine. She still wasn’t sure why she’d come. There was a book at home that she could have been getting to know or countless cat pictures to laugh at on the internet. A room full of people was not on her list of favourite places to be. Donald was loving the conversations and, after a few attempts of trying to include Iona, had had to get used to the silent girl sticking close to him at every encounter he had as he moved around the room. He felt a little guilty at having brought her along but that guilt was soon covered up by the tiny snacks that were being brought round on trays. Give Donald a cheese and spicy chutney and he was a happy boy. Iona had read about the Fear Of Missing Out complex that people could develop, about the effects that social media had on the brain. She had always had an inkling that it was as bad as the articles said, and now she was really feeling it. She could still see the phone slipping down into the little pouch, the hands of the man who had taken it off her and placed it in its own specific slot. She’d thanked him – out of habit and definitely not out of sincerity – and had walked away unsure what to do with her hands. As Donald finished another conversation, she still stared down at her hands, wishing that the phone was there. ‘How’re you holding up?’ Donald muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Iona looked up from her hands and tried not to look too hopeless. ‘I’m about the same as the last time that you asked me. When are we going?’ ‘This whole thing would be so much easier for you if you just decided to talk to people.’ Iona looked around at all the people, and wished hard for them not to be there. ‘I talk to people.’ Donald snorted. ‘Prove it.’ Iona looked angrily at Donald’s shoulder. ‘I’m talking to you aren’t I?’ ‘I meant other people.’ Donald picked up a fish thing from one of the trays that swung past them on the arm of a waiter. Iona swept her gaze over the other guests. ‘But I don’t know any of them.’ Donald chewed on the fish snack and shrugged. ‘That’s the point. You’re supposed to meet new people.’ Iona sighed. ‘Alright.’ ‘You’re going to talk?’ ‘I’ll try, yeah.’ Donald was smiling, mostly because the cheese platter was coming their way. He started to follow the tray, and Iona kept in step beside him. Someone clapped a hand down on Donald’s shoulder. Donald nearly swore as the tray of cheese got further away, but he stopped himself when he saw who had stopped him. ‘Mister Bailey?’ Donald grabbed the man’s hand and shook it like he was trying to take his arm off. ‘It’s good to see you, sir.’ Mister Bailey smiled, and the woman on his arm did the same. There was something off about them, and Iona couldn’t help but stare at them, only dropping her gaze when they were smiling at her. ‘I’ve told you before Donald, call me Samuel. Are you both enjoying yourselves?’ Samuel and his wife wouldn’t stop staring at Iona. She wasn’t making eye contact, but years of practise let her know if people were looking at her without her looking at them. ‘Oh we are, sir. Most definitely.’ Donald’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head. Iona glanced up at him and wished that she hadn’t. The smile on his face was the most forced thing she had ever seen. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ Iona looked up at the hand that had been offered, and tried to act like Donald hadn’t just nudged her hard in the ribs. She took Mister Bailey’s hand and smiled. ‘Hi. I’m Iona.’ ‘That’s an unusual name.’ He kept smiling, even when he was speaking, like the smile was pasted onto his face. The same pasted smile hadn’t left his wife’s face either. Iona tried not to shudder. ‘Thank you,’ she said, before looking back down at her shoes. Donald stepped in. ‘Iona is a friend of mine.’ He placed a hand on the small of Iona’s back,  Iona, this is Mister and Missus Bailey. Mister Bailey is the head of Technoglobe, and our host tonight.’ Iona looked up and tried a smile. She wanted to say something but her brain wasn’t giving her any options. She could almost hear Donald rolling his eyes beside her before he tried to salvage the conversation. ‘Thank you so much for the invite, Mister Bailey. You have a lovely home.’ ‘Oh this old place?’ Samuel glanced up at the chandelier in the centre of the high ceiling. ‘It’s a start. It’s up to Clarisse to work some of her magic on the place. She’s phenomenal at interior design.’ They both laughed, and Clarisse batted her eyelashes and hit her husband lightly on the arm. ‘’E likes to embarrass me. I am not nearly as good as ‘e says I am.’ Donald leaned forward a little. ‘You’re being modest, Missus Bailey. The place looks stunning.’ Clarisse smiled and bowed a little. ‘Thank you, Donald.’ Iona watched as Samuel spotted someone over her shoulder and the pasted-on smile grew a little larger. Samuel turned his attention back to Donald and Iona. ‘It was a pleasure, but I’m afraid I’ve just seen an old friend.’ He thrust out a hand and Donald grabbed it as quickly as he could. Samuel offered the same hand to Iona and she hesitated before taking it. Samuel chuckled. ‘I don’t bite, you know.’ Iona couldn’t help but stare at the unsettling smile on his face as she took his hand. It took everything in her not to shudder. When they had walked off, Donald nudged her. ‘Good job, you said a grand total of three words.’ Iona shrugged and scowled up at him. ‘That’s good for me.’ Donald nodded. ‘That’s a good point.’ The cheesy bites swung past them and Donald grabbed a few cocktail sticks worth of cheddar off the tray. He pulled all of it off the cocktail sticks in one go and chewed with the most contented look on his face. ‘Alright,’ he said, once he’d swallowed, ‘You happy to go?’ ‘So happy.’ Iona could feel her heart flutter at the thought of going home. Donald steered her to the front door and they stood waiting as their phones were retrieved from their little pouches. Iona tried not to snatch hers back but she couldn’t help herself. She checked her screen. No messages or notifications. She’d been expecting there to be dozens. Her heart hurt a little. ‘Alright?’ Donald was pulling on his coat. ‘Yeah I’m fine. I was just expecting more on my phone.’ Iona turned to him as she slid her phone into her pocket. Donald chuckled as he looked up from his own phone. ‘Not as popular as you thought, huh?’ She crossed her arms and headed for the door. ‘Very funny.’ She stepped over the jamb and felt her phone buzz. She pulled it out and watched as the dozens she’d been expecting started to flash up on the screen. Donald stepped up behind her and watched as the buzzing kept going. ‘Must have been a signal blackspot or something?’ ‘Then why did your phone get messages?’ Donald shrugged. ‘Maybe mine’s just better?’ They started to walk to the stairs and Iona kept scrolling down through the different notifications. ‘Some of this stuff doesn’t even make sense. It’s all weird and scrambled up.’ Donald was a few steps in front of her. He looked over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. ‘I already told you. Your phone just sucks.’ ‘I think I might just not talk to you for the drive home.’ Donald turned and walked backwards, gesturing with his hands deep in his coat pockets. ‘If that’s what makes you happy.’ ‘Being home would make me happy.’ Iona had given up with the messages and slipped her phone back into her pocket. ‘Just take me home.’ Donald stopped walking and bowed deep at the waist. ‘No problem, m’lady.’ Iona woke up to the buzzing of her phone. She snatched it off her bedside cabinet and stared at the screen. The first thing she saw was the time, and after being furious about the time, she answered. The name on the screen was Donald. ‘What the hell, dude? Do you know what time it is?’ ‘Good morning, Iona.’ She froze. The voice on the other end of the phone wasn’t Donald’s. Not even close. She sat up. ‘Who is this?’ ‘That’s not important.’ ‘I think it is.’ ‘What’s important is what I’m about to tell you.’ She recognised the voice, though she wasn’t sure where from. She got out of bed and stood in her dark bedroom, feeling very alone, and for the first time in a long time, not liking it. ‘I’m listening.’ ‘We have Donald.’ Iona’s heart faltered and she sat back down on her bed. ‘What do you mean, you have him?’ ‘We have him tied to a chair and gagged.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘Do you really want to take that chance? Is Donald’s life worth so little to you?’ Iona’s mouth was dry and her heart pounding in her chest. She licked her lips and tried to stop her mind from running into a panic. ‘What do you want me to do?’ She could hear the smile on the stranger’s face when he spoke. ‘Good choice. I need you to get something for me.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘A laser disc.’ ‘What’s on it?’ ‘That isn’t important. There will be a bag waiting for you on the corner of Lynch Street and Second. The contents will come with instructions.’ ‘Hold on a second.’ Iona scrambled for a pen and paper. ‘What makes you think I can do this?’ ‘You don’t have a choice.’ The voice paused. ‘Good luck, Iona.’ Then she realised where she knew the voice from. ‘Mister Bailey?’ They hung up. Her mind was racing as she got changed to head out. Was Donald really in danger? Why had Mister Bailey kidnapped him? Why had he chosen her to steal whatever the disc was? The questions scrambled around her head and collided into each other. She pulled on a coat and was out the door, walking as quickly as she could without running. It was cold out, the kind of bitter coldness that stayed on your skin and stiffened your hair. She wished that she had remembered to grab a hat but it was too late now. There were hardly any cars on the road and she met no-one on the pavement. She got to the corner of Lynch and Second and didn’t know where to look. There was a pole for the traffic lights and a group of bins huddled together. She stood for a moment looking at the rubbish, hoping that she wouldn’t have to hoke through it. She nearly fell over when someone coughed behind her. She turned to face a small man with a feeble beard and a shoulder bag in his hands. ‘Iona?’ ‘Who are you?’ He shook his head and held out the bag. ‘Be careful with this. There’s some dangerous stuff in there.’ Iona took the bag off him and held it a foot away from herself. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ He shook his head. ‘I wish I was… good luck with whatever you’re doing.’ He turned on his heels and walked away as fast as he could without running. Iona crouched down, setting the bag on the ground as gently as she could. As she unzipped it, it’s contents tried to spill out onto the pavement. There were wires in there, and other things that Iona had never seen before. Nestled within was a folded piece of paper. She picked it up and read it, trying to fight back tears that welled more and more as she made her way down the page. She read it through twice before putting the page back into the bag and zipping it up. She was shaking, partly because of the cold, but mostly because of what she’d just read. She stood up and took her phone from her pocket. She thought about ringing someone, someone who might have been able to help. The police? The fire brigade? Her parents? Donald would have been her first choice, but the image of him tied to a chair made her want to be sick. Could they tell if she rang people? What had they done to her phone? She knew where to go and what she had to do but the thought of doing it made her want to go home and curl up in her bed. Her hands trembled and she felt a tear roll down her cheek. The world felt very far away from the corner of Lynch and Second. There was no more time to wait, no more time to waste. She swallowed down all the worries that were climbing up her throat, turned and walked away with the bag on her shoulder.

Iona sat on the side of her bed, covered in sweat and smelling of smoke. The only light was coming from the television in front of her. Her eyes ached but she didn’t want to close them. It was the morning and it felt like every channel was showing the same thing. A building with a smouldering hole in its side. She’d done that. She still wasn’t sure how. The shoulder bag was lying on the floor of her bedroom, still holding some of the wires. Extra parts, because whoever had organised this was thorough. From watching the news all morning, she’d gathered that she wasn’t alone. There were other disturbances that had taken place. Burning cars and government systems accessed and, as she had kept watching, more and more were being reported. The police were at a loss and Iona knew how they were feeling. Her phone was ringing. It was Donald again. Mister Bailey was the caller again. ‘Well done, Iona.’ ‘Please don’t tell me there’s more.’ She lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m afraid there is.’ Iona closed her eyes and pushed down the rising tingle of fear climbing up over her guts. ‘I want to talk to Donald.’ ‘That isn’t possible.’ ‘Please.’ ‘I’m sorry, Iona.’ Iona sat up and turned off the TV, plunging the room into darkness. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ There was no reply. All she could hear was shallow breathing. She stood up and walked over to her bedroom door. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ ‘That isn’t important.’ She hung up. She’d heard enough. She tossed her phone onto the bed, expecting it to start buzzing again, but it never came. Her head had started to pound and her eyes felt like they were covered in dust and grit. She peeled off her dirty clothes and left them in a pile on the floor before jumping in the shower. Standing under the stream of hot water did nothing to untie the knots in her stomach. As the steam started to fill the bathroom, the smell of smoke in her hair started to rise up into the air. She sank down to the floor and sat curled up in a ball. She rested her head on her knees and willed herself to wake up, but it never came. She was yanked from her stupor by a knock at the door. Wrapping herself up in a towel, she went to answer the door. There was no-one on the other side of the peep hole, so she swung the door open to see if they were walking away. There was no-one, just a small box on her welcome mat. Her head started to pound a little harder. Her ears were thumping with the rush of blood, her heart thudding into her ribs. She picked up the box and stood staring at it before she opened it. She stepped back inside, and closed the door. With a shaking hand, she slipped off the lid. It was a finger lying on a bed of cotton wool. She screamed as the box slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the ground. The finger was thrown across the floor and the note that was with it slid over the floorboards, coming to rest a few feet in front of her. She was too hungry to be sick, but that didn’t stop her from retching. Her mouth filled with bile and her knees started to shudder. She fell back, the back of her head slamming against her front door. Her vision was flooded with stars as she slid to the ground. Iona gasped for breath, her lungs shrunk by shock and fear. As the stars faded, and her apartment stopped swimming in front of her, she couldn’t help but stare at the finger on her floor. She eased herself up slowly, rubbing the back of her head, and reached for the note that had come with the finger. She sat on her knees as she turned the note over and read what was written. It’s rude to hang up.If she had been shaking before, now she was shuddering. She looked around herself, hoping that there were no cameras watching her. Could they do that? She turned the note over and there was another address and another instruction.Bring the disc to that address.She looked up from the note at the finger that was still on her floor. She shuffled on her knees towards it, looking down at the severed digit and wondering whether it was really Donald’s while trying not to throw up. She looked again at the note. All she had to do was deliver the disc. No more explosions. No more dust and smoke. No more phone calls? She headed to her room and got dressed. Her hands were still shaking and the back of her head still ached, and even though she had showered she could still smell smoke. Before she left, she picked up the box and its lid and scooped the finger back onto its bed of cotton. Placing it gently on her coffee table, she still wasn’t sure if it was Donald’s finger. Either way, someone had been hurt because of her. She had an address and she had the laser disc. Her stomach was still a tangle of anxiety and aching from the revealed contents of the box. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and she left her apartment. The taxi rolled away, leaving Iona standing in front of the massive warehouse. It was the kind of building that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, but the stacks of boxes out the front told a different story. It was eerily quiet, with the muffled roar of morning traffic in the distance and the gentle whisper of the water lapping against the pier to her right. It smelt of oil and salt. She walked towards the only door she could, a massive metal plate that had been given a handle and rollers for ease of opening. When she grabbed the door’s handle and pulled, she found out that the rollers didn’t really help at all. The door creaked and complained as it inched its way across, disturbing the quiet that the warehouse had been wearing. A flock of mangy pigeons burst up from behind a nearby box stack.  She stopped after dragging the door about a foot, slipping through the gap she’d made and stepping into the warehouse before she could have a chance to think and doubt herself. The pale morning sunlight cut through gaps in the warehouse’s roof, creating slices of light in the darkness in front of her. The illuminated patches were lost behind even more stacks of boxes. There was a wall of boxes that steered Iona to the right. As she walked, she couldn’t help but imagine every warehouse she had ever seen on television, the rows of boxes as far as the eye could see. Even though she knew the warehouse wasn’t that big, she still felt very small. Clutching the laser disc in her pocket reminded her why she was there and pushed her forwards. She pulled her phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight, lighting her path. As she passed boxes, she saw the different stamps and labels, and in some places the scratched names of slacking dockworkers. She kept walking and the boxes continued to tell her where to go. The quiet inside the warehouse was so much heavier than the one outside, pushing down on Iona’s shoulders and wrapping around her ribcage. Her breathing came sharp and shallow, her heartbeat hard and heavy. She took a left, her path spread out and Iona stopped to look at the open space in front of her. At its centre, a fat bulb hung from a wire, illuminating a circle of light at its centre. In the circle of light, was a chair, and on that chair, someone bound with a bag over their head.  Any doubt was tossed aside as Iona started to run. It could have been anyone in that chair, but she knew it was Donald. Her running footsteps bounced off the boxes, and the heavy quiet couldn’t slow her down. She rushed into the light, pulling the bag off the person’s head as quickly as she could. Mister Bailey stared back, duct tape plastered across his mouth. His eyes were wide and pleading. A long thin scar crossed his left cheek and a black bruise hung under his right eye. He was shouting against the duct tape, the noise only a muffled yell. The words TOO EASY were written across his forehead. ‘What the… What are you doing here? Why are you tied up?’ She stepped forward, about to untie him but then she remembered. ‘You did this. This is all because of you. Why are you… I don’t-’ She froze when a third person stepped into a light. They wore a bike helmet and had a gun pointed at Samuel Bailey’s head. Mister Bailey’s eyes grew even wider and he started to struggle harder against his restraints. The gun was inches from his right temple. Tears were streaming down Samuel’s face. ‘Hold on.’ Iona pulled the laser disc from her pocket. ‘You want this, right? Here it is.’ She was about to walk forward, when the biker shook their head. ‘Stay where you are,’ they said, their voice garbled by electronic interference ‘Toss it here.’ She did and the biker caught it, slipping it into a little bag on their belt. They turned, placed the gun against the Mister Bailey’s temple and fired. Iona staggered back, her heart falling down into her shoes. She didn’t mean to catch the gun as it was thrown to her. It was still smoking when she looked down at it in her hands. When she looked up, the biker had gone. She lifted her phone, shining her light into the darkness. The biker was running. Iona didn’t have to think too hard. She lifted the gun and fired. She watched as the biker stumbled and swore, their garbled voice squawking as they fell on one knee. Now Iona was running. She was trembling and her heart was hammering in her chest again. The gun in one hand and her phone in the other, she wasn’t as afraid as she was angry. She raised the gun again as she got closer to the biker, who was still struggling to get to their feet.  ‘Stay where you are.’ She stood behind them, the barrel of her little pistol pointed at the back of their helmet. ‘Please.’ She snorted. ‘You don’t get to beg. You just killed a man.’ ‘But it won’t be my fingerprints they find.’ Her arm dropped. She looked down at the gun, at her hand holding it. The biker was wearing gloves. They were right. ‘You set me up.’ The biker nodded. ‘Yes.’ A new flash of rage. She was growing tired of this. She lifted the gun again and pointed it once more at the biker’s helmet. ‘And what’s to stop me from killing you too?’ The biker sighed, a strange crackling sound with their voice distortions. ‘You won’t.’ ‘I used explosives last night. Apparently, I’m trying all kinds of new things.’ She cocked the trigger and pushed it hard into the helmet. ‘You won’t kill me.’  ‘Iona?’ A light flashed up into Iona’s eyes, someone swinging a flashlight in her face. She knew their voice, and hearing it brought both relief and fear. Donald stood in front of them with flashlight in hand. ‘Iona? what are you doing?’ ‘I…’ She kept the gun against the biker’s helmet. She wasn’t letting a murderer get away. ‘He just killed a man. Mister Bailey. He killed Mister Bailey.’ ‘She’s lying.’ The biker’s voice was strained. Behind the electronic distortion, he could have been crying. Donald took a step forward. ‘So you were going to just shoot him?’ ‘No.’ Iona glanced down at the biker, then back at Donald. Her heart was still bouncing against her ribs. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’ ‘You need to drop the gun.’ She pushed the barrel a little harder into the biker’s helmet. ‘I can’t.’ ‘You need to.’  A tear rolled down Iona’s cheek. ‘I thought you were in danger.’ ‘And now you know I’m not.’ Donald started to walk towards her. ‘Please stop.’ She’d started to shake again. The adrenaline in her blood was barrelling through her veins, and it was starting to hurt. ‘You’re not a killer, Iona.’ Donald was reaching for the gun. Another tear, and then another. ‘They’re trying to frame me.’ ‘I know.’ Donald pried her fingers off the gun and took it in his own hand. He pushed the biker’s shoulder. ‘Get up and go. Now.’  ‘What are you doing?’ Iona jumped forward but was blocked by Donald’s arm. The biker scrambled to their feet. They turned to look at Iona and Donald before laughing, a warped crackle of static and spiky cadences. Then they limped away, and Iona stared at Donald through her tears. ‘I don’t understand.’ Donald shrugged. ‘You’re not a killer, Iona.’ ‘Not that. I thought you were tied up somewhere.’ Donald shook his head. ‘I have to go.’ ‘I’m coming.’ Donald lifted the gun and pointed it at his friend. ‘I’m afraid you can’t.’ Iona clenched her fists and was about to step forward when Donald shook his head. ‘Stay where you are, Iona.’ He started to back away, moving the way that the biker had gone. ‘You have to stay here.’ ‘Why?’ Iona was rooted to the spot. She could hear the very distant sound of sirens. Donald shook his head, his head turning at the sirens. ‘It’s what they want.’ ‘Who are they?’ ‘I don’t know but… they have my family.’  ‘They told me they had you, and that was a lie.’ ‘I… I can’t take that chance.’ Donald dropped the gun. ‘I’m sorry, Iona.’ He slipped behind the box and Iona was alone again. She heard the sound of a metal door being slid shut. She had always liked being alone before now, but this was a new kind of loneliness, the kind that ached in her bones and in her blood and down to her very core. She sank down to the ground, curling herself up into a ball. She listened as the sirens got louder. She closed her eyes and hoped that this was all just a terrible dream, but the waking never came.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 48. Women only.

This one required that the characters were women. So I thought I would try to create a scene that satisfied the Bechdel Test. This is another of my stories from this year to which I’m not sure that I did justice. These characters could easily become part of a much bigger story, and I may just decide to pick up their stories at some stage. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. The bauble smashed against the wall, exploding into millions of tiny little pieces and showering down onto the wooden floor. Sophie jerked up from the tinsel she’d been untangling, looking at the glittering dust on the floor. ‘Why the hell did you do that?’ She looked wide-eyed at Roxanne, who was reaching for another bauble. Roxanne smiled and shrugged. Sophie hadn’t seen her smile like that in some time. It was the stupid smile of a kid who’d just discovered fireworks. ‘Is this one of those I’m-upset-so-I-want-to-break-things things?’ Roxanne nodded and reached for the box she’d taken the first bauble from. Sophie pulled the box away from her. ‘Well, if you’re going to keep this up…’ She grabbed another box and handed it over. ‘Use the old ones.’ Roxanne took the box and ripped it open. She paused for a moment with a bauble in each hand, before launching them at the same part of wall as the first one. Sophie went back to the tinsel. She didn’t look up at the sound of shattering baubles. She knew by now that it was better just to let Roxanne get it out of her system. ‘You’re tidying it up too,’ she said as she pulled apart a large tangled knot. ‘That’s fine.’ Roxanne was grinning. The box was nearly empty but at least she was happy enough to talk. ‘Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?’ Sophie separated one string of golden tinsel from a string of red. ‘Almost.’ Roxanne hurled another two at the wall. The bauble-dust pile on the floor was becoming quite impressive. She reached for the last and threw it in a high arc so that the bauble hit the wall quite low, smashing just over the pile making it burst out into a splash of glittering dust. Roxanne sat back on her heels, looking very pleased with herself, dusting her hands off and chuckling. Sophie had finished laying out the untangled tinsels and was now staring up at the tree. ‘Now?’ Roxanne pushed the empty box aside and moved herself so her legs were flat out on the thick shag rug below her. She lay back, staring up at the twisting light fixture on the roof. ‘I’ve been thinking…’ Sophie knew that with Roxanne, thinking could go one of two ways, it gave her an idea for something to do, or it made her think too many of the bad kind of thoughts and, like tonight, end up throwing something at the wall. Sophie draped some gold over the lower branches of the tree. ‘Okay? About what?’ ‘Life.’ Sophie’s stomach clenched a little. She tried not to show it as she adjusted the same piece of tinsel. ‘What about it?’ Roxanne sighed, still staring at the ceiling and being no help at all in the decoration of the tree. ‘I just can’t help feeling like I’ve done nothing with mine.’ Sophie picked up another string of red and stopped for a moment with the tinsel wrapped through the fingers in her left hand. ‘Well, I think we both know that that isn’t true.’ Roxanne sat up, her hands in the air. ‘Do we? Do we know though? Look at me. Just look at me and tell me what I’ve done.’ Sophie paused as she was getting to her feet, the tinsel still in her hands. She knew that taking too long to answer would only make Roxanne worse. ‘Well, what about that thing you published?’ ‘That thing? The novella, you mean? What did that amount to? Nothing.’ Sophie could see that Roxanne was eyeing up other boxes, looking for something else to throw. Sophie stepped around the tree, hoping to make a shield between her friend and the potentially depleting Christmas decorations. ‘You do remember being nominated for an award for the novella, don’t you? What was the novella called again?’ “A Crab On Its Back. And I didn’t win.’ Roxanne collapsed back down, unable to reach any of the other boxes past Sophie. Sophie wrapped up the branches at the top of the tree and stood back with her hands on her hips, admiring what she had achieved with just the two pieces of tinsel. Then she remembered all the other pieces she had to put on and doubted that Roxanne would be helping her tonight. She turned to look at her friend on the floor. ‘It may not have won, but it’s still more than most people can say they’ve done.’ Roxanne laughed. ‘Are you serious? We know doctors and teachers and lawyers. All of them going out and living lives and going on holidays and-‘ ‘Is this because you weren’t able to afford to go on holiday this year?’ Roxanne scrambled to her feet. ‘I work in a book store. I don’t even work all that often. I have so much free time, and what do I do with it? I waste it.’ ‘You started knitting that blanket,’ Sophie said, pointing at the pile of wool and needles at the end of their sofa. Roxanne snorted and pointed at the half-finished blanket. ‘I started it but never finished it. That’s what I do. I start things and don’t finish them.’ ‘You finished the novella.’ Roxanne shook her head. ‘That was a one-time thing, an anomaly. A below average novella. I’ll never do better than that.’ Sophie had never been more aware of the throwability of a Christmas Tree than in that moment. She was trying to make herself as large as she could, but when you were five foot five, that could be quite a challenge. ‘You can’t say you won’t do better.’ ‘And you can’t say that I will.’ Roxanne stepped towards the tree and Sophie tried to make herself as big as possible. Roxanne hunched her back and her head dropped. ‘I guess I’m just afraid that this is all that I’ll ever be.’ She started to sniffle. Sophie stepped towards her and placed a hand on each shoulder. ‘Do you remember the first time we met?’ Roxanne looked up and frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ ‘You gave me a sketch that you’d drawn of my face because you liked the way I looked.’ ‘So?’ Roxanne wiped a tear from her cheek. Sophie moved a little closer. ‘And do you remember the time that you bought a melodica, just on a whim, and decided that you would play me it for my birthday?’ ‘I remember it was awful.’ The corner of Roxanne’s mouth lifted up into the beginning of a smile. ‘And what about the time you learned everything you could about the art in the local museum and became a tour guide, just because you wanted to.’ ‘I know what you’re trying to do, y’know.’ Roxanne crossed her arms and tried to wipe the little smile off her face. She couldn’t. ‘Or the time that you learned conversational dutch, because you liked the way it sounded.’ Sophie pulled Roxanne into a hug and squeezed her tight. When she spoke, Roxanne’s voice was muffled by Sophie’s shoulder. ‘Seriously, I know-‘ Sophie shook her head, laughing. ‘I don’t think you do. You’re my best friend, and I’ve been more and more convinced over all the years that I’ve known you that you will never be normal.’ Sophie pushed back from the hug, her hands still on Roxanne’s shoulders. ‘And that’s why I know you’ve got something big ahead of you. You might not think so now, but someday, everyone will know who you are.’ Sophie turned her attention back to the tree. ‘Now, after you’ve finished cleaning up the bauble dust, come here and help me decorate this thing, otherwise I’ll be here all night.’ Roxanne stood for a moment, her toes sunk deep in the shag rug, and her head still very much back in the hug that had just finished. She watched her friend sorting through the decorations and couldn’t help but smile. She twirled on the spot, a smile glowing on her face, and, once the twirling had stopped, walked off to find the brush and pan.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 47. A Return

In this one I return to the story line from a previous week. Simon and his magic yellow raincoat. Simon stood at the door, hoping that Cathy hadn’t had the locks changed. He was still wearing the yellow coat and he knew that he was the strange smell that kept crawling across his face. The keys turned over in his hand as he breathed slowly, trying not to panic at the thought of the conversation he was about to have. Guilt had knotted his stomach and his tongue seemed a little thicker and in the way than usual. He looked down at the little puddles that were gathering around his feet. Somehow water was still dripping off the old coat, almost like it didn’t want to leave the sea behind. He separated the door key from the rest of the bunch and reached for the lock. The door swung open. Kathy was standing there, wrapped up in a big coat, a scarf and mittens. She froze when she saw Simon. She didn’t react at first, just stared at him with her mouth caught at the beginning of a sentence. ‘Hi.’ It was the best that Simon could do. ‘I’m late,’ she said, stepping past him and closing the door behind her. ‘Hold on.’ Simon reached for her hand. She jerked it away, the initial shock of seeing him now giving way to the rage that quivered in her eyes. ‘I’m. Late.’ She shoved her keys into her handbag, pushed the strap up higher on her shoulder and started to walk towards the stairs. Simon stood in his little halo of puddles, flummoxed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the words clumsily forming in his head. She stopped and spun around. Her handbag slipped off her shoulder and thumped to the ground. Simon nearly fell backwards as she marched back towards him. ‘You’re sorry? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? Do you have any idea how many situations I imagined you in? How many ways I thought you’d died?’ Kathy was a foot shorter than Simon, but as she stood there, jabbing her finger into his chest, she seemed to tower over him. ‘I w-was only gone two weeks.’ Simon didn’t know where to look. He couldn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t look down at the finger jabbing into his ribs, past the finger at his knees knocking, or even at the puddles on the floor. He’d never would have guessed that puddles would make him feel guilty. ‘Only two weeks?’ Her finger was joined with its brothers and sisters as Kathy punched Simon hard in the shoulder. He stumbled back and she followed him. She was shouting now, almost hysterical, which was understandable, as far as Simon was concerned. ‘You were gone fourteen days. You left after you started telling me that you talk to sea creatures and that your Grampa had a different life under the sea, and that this…’ She grabbed the collar of the yellow raincoat, shaking Simon so that his guilt and regret rattled around in his head. ‘This damn coat was magic? As far as I was concerned, you’d lost it, and then I’d lost you.’ She let go of the coat’s collar and Simon crumpled to the ground like a wet paper bag. He didn’t try to get to his feet. He felt like the floor might’ve been the best place for him right then. ‘I don’t know how to make it up to you…’ Kathy laughed, rolling her eyes at the ceiling, throwing her hands in the air as her laughter turned to exasperation. ‘Make it up to me? Are you serious? Why would you even think that coming here was a good idea?’ ‘I wanted to see you.’ He sat back against the door frame he’d collapsed next to, the door frame to the home he hadn’t seen in two weeks. Kathy wiped the tears angrily from her cheeks. ‘I thought I wanted to see you too, but right now, I think I need you to go.’ Simon started getting to his feet, his knees still shaking. ‘Where do you want me to go?’ Kathy shrugged. ‘I don’t know, and right now I don’t really care. Just go somewhere and…’ ‘Think about what I did?’ Simon was on his feet, looking down at the keys in his hands, the keys to somewhere that he didn’t think he could call his home anymore. Kathy sighed and walked back to pick up her handbag which had been thrown on the floor. ‘Two weeks ago, that would have been cute. I would have laughed, and we would have gone on with whatever we were doing, but now…’ ‘Things aren’t different. I still need-‘ ‘No.’ Kathy had slipped the strap of her handbag up onto her shoulder and stood shaking her head. ‘You don’t get to say that you need me. Even if it is true. You don’t get to pretend that you didn’t make me lose sleep and lose my appetite and lose hope, that you didn’t disrupt my life by leaving a huge hole in it and then coming back like nothing happened. You might need me, but I don’t need you. I just need you to go.’ ‘Kathy, please.’ ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’ She turned and started to walk towards the stairwell. She stopped at the first step and turned back to look at him. ‘Do your parents know you’re back?’ Simon shook his head. Any words that he wanted to say seemed pointless. He knew she didn’t want to hear anything that he had to say. She just wanted to go. She had said she was late and now she was later because of him. What had he been expecting? For her to throw her arms around him? For a rain of kisses on his face? He wanted to hit himself in the face, but as she walked down the stairs away from him, the ache he was feeling would have drowned out any punches he could have hit himself with. He looked down at himself, down at the keys in his hand and the coat on his back and the puddles that were still forming around his feet. How much of the ocean had the coat brought along with it? He turned the keys over in his hands, a part of him still wanting to try the lock. An even smaller part of him thought it would be a good idea to go inside and surprise Kathy later. That part was squashed quickly, and the reality of what had just happened slithered across Simon’s skin and over his conscience. He gripped the key to his apartment, their apartment, and he started to slide it through the metal loop holding the keys together. He slipped the rest of the keys into his front pocket and looked at the lonely key in his hand. He could still remember moving into the apartment. Their first meal of burnt pizza because he’d tried to be spontaneous and didn’t know how to work the oven. The time that Kathy had tried to grow herbs on their windowsill and had ended up attracting the neighbourhood’s pigeons. He looked at the door, at the way that the five was a little wonky, leaning towards the six as though it was telling it a secret. Simon turned and started to walk to the stairs, a trail of little puddles following him. He placed a hand on the top of handrail. Looking down the steps, he could still remember finding her asleep after a very long and busy shift. He started to climb down the steps, running his hand along the score on the wall from when they’d tried to carry up her uncle Gavin’s old sofa. Simon could still hear her shouting ‘pivot’ and could still feel the ache of the pain in his sides from laughing. He stopped on the bottom step and looked back up the stairs. He hoped he’d be back soon, but he knew that that probably wasn’t going to happen. Simon walked to their little grey post box and slipped his key inside. As he listened to it clatter down inside the box, he winced and clutched his chest. ‘What happened?’ Morgana appeared behind him. Any other time, he would have fallen forward from the shock, but as she spoke, her words were like nails on a blackboard, scraping against the hurt he was feeling. He closed his eyes and squeezed them tight, clenching his jaw. Simon turned to look at his cousin, reluctantly opening his eyes and shaking his head. ‘We can’t stay here.’ The words were just more nails raking down his hollow insides. Morgana frowned. ‘But you said-‘ ‘I know what I said.’ Simon ran his fingers through his hair and feeling suddenly very tired. ‘I was wrong.’ Morgana took a step back and folded her arms. ‘Where do we go then?’ Simon looked at the ceiling, at the cracked faded plaster and the pale tubes of light that stung his eyes. He shrugged, looking down at his cousin. ‘It looks like you’ll get to meet your auntie after all.’

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 46. Third Person

This one was simply to be in the third person. I took it a step further by playing around with the idea a character being aware of the narrative.  I hope you enjoy.

It was a morning like any other. Fergus opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He frowned and turned his head from side to side, looking to see if there was anyone else in the room. As expected, it was just him and Lydia, who nudged him gently in the ribs. ‘You have to get up for work,’ she said, as she stopped the alarm on her phone. ‘Can you heard that?’ Fergus sat up. ‘What?’ Lydia turned over and was already falling asleep again. ‘That voice… you can’t hear it?’ He rammed a finger in one ear and wiggled it around, then did the same for the other ear. It didn’t do anything to stop it. ‘There’s a voice that’s describing what’s happening.’ He turned to look at the already sleeping Lydia. ‘You can’t hear that?’ ‘I can hear you, and I have at least ten more minutes in bed, so please go get breakfast.’ She rolled over, wrapping herself up in the duvet. Fergus stared up at the ceiling, checking to see if there were speakers. There was no way that this wasn’t a joke, he thought. ‘How does it know what I’m thinking?’ He got to his feet, sliding them into his slippers and walking downstairs. In the kitchen, he yelped. He’d been certain that it had stopped, but there it was again. He clutched his chest as he glared at the ceiling, expecting there to be cameras, but there were none. He picked his cereal for the day and grabbed a bowl, angrily muttering to himself that this was a terrible joke if it was one. ‘Stop telling me what’s happening,’ he seethed, as he sat at the table eating his cereal. He had thought about putting on the TV but the voice would have only distracted him from the news. He downed a glass of fresh juice, with extra juicy bits and nearly threw the glass across the room. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted at no-one. ‘Leave me alone.’ For a second he thought that it had gone, but it hadn’t. He sighed and shook his head. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going anywhere soon. He headed upstairs to get ready for work.

‘So you just started hearing a voice this morning?’ Sydney stood with her hands holding up Olly’s chubby little body. He was almost a year old and he was looking around like everything was strange and disturbing. Fergus knew the feeling. ‘Yeah, and it’s just started up again.’ Fergus’ hands curled into fists, then uncurled and hung at his side. Sydney frowned as Olly danced about in her steady hands. ‘Are you stressed? Could be stress induced hallucinations.’ Sydney liked to read. She read a lot, which was hard when she had the baby to look after. Somehow she managed. ‘It’s really annoying. Like it just keeps saying stuff and no one else can hear it.’ Fergus was glancing again at the ceiling, then down at the floor, then at his sister. ‘It keeps telling me what I’m doing, and I really don’t like it.’ Sydney carefully lowered Olly down onto the kitchen bench. ‘I’m worried about you, Fergus.’ Olly swung his arms around as he excitedly discovered sitting down. His pudgy little fist slapped into the baby bottle sitting next to him. It toppled over the edge, Fergus catching it before it fell to the floor. ‘Nice catch,’ Sydney said as Fergus placed the bottle out of range of Olly’s swing. Fergus looked down at his hands. ‘The voice told me…’ ‘The voice told you to catch that?’ Sydney raised her eyebrows and looked at her little brother like only older sisters can. ‘Fergus, you did that by yourself. This voice thing is… your brain trying to tell you that you’re stressed and need a break.’ ‘Stressed from what?’ Fergus gestured at all around him. ‘I’m in a job that lets me go and see my big sister so she can tell me I’m going crazy and hearing things. How could I be stressed?’ Sydney shrugged, lifting Olly up into the crook of her left arm. ‘I don’t know, Fergus. There must be some underlying issue here. Something that you haven’t faced or resolved. Are you troubled?’ Fergus crossed his arms. ‘Yes, with an annoying auditory hallucination and an irritating sister.’ ‘This could be serious, Fergus.’ Sydney walked over to the cupboard and opened the door, revealing all the flavours she had for Olly to enjoy. ‘You could be having a nervous breakdown.’ She leaned in close to Olly and jiggled his little belly. ‘Yes, Olly Wolly’, she said in that annoying voice that all parents of babies do. ‘Uncle Fergus could be having a nervous breakdown.’ Fergus shook his head. ‘If I am, should you be joking about it?’ Sydney looked at her little brother and cocked an eyebrow. ‘I could cry instead if you like, but that will only set Olly off.’

Fergus clutched his head. ‘It’s back,’ he groaned, his head down between his legs as he sat in the front passenger seat. Lydia was driving and glancing over at him as he kept trying to curl into a tighter and tighter ball. ‘I’m driving as fast as I can,’ she said, jerking her wheel to the right as someone pulled out unexpectedly in front of her. ‘I really hope this works,’ Luke said, his voice muffled by his arms wrapped around his head. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of this. ‘I hope it works too.’ She placed a hand on his back and gently moved it up and down. She only took it away to jerk the steering wheel again as another driver pulled out in front of her. ‘What’s wrong with people tonight,’ she muttered. ‘Have they forgotten how to drive or something?’ Underneath the sound of engine, Fergus could hear a faint rattling, so slight that it was barely there. As he sat curled up in the seat, it seemed to get louder. The car swayed again, and the rattled juddered and grew more violent before returning to its previous rhythm. ‘Maybe you should slow down,’ Luke said, lifting his head out of his arms and sitting back in the seat, suddenly very aware of the rattling as it seemed to climb up his side of the car. ‘What?’ Lydia didn’t look away from the road, though she did turn her head slightly at the horn that was blared as she drove past. ‘I thought you wanted to get to the hospital ASAP.’ Fergus gripped the handle of the car door and tried to slow the hammering in his chest. ‘I just think you need to slow down. Something doesn’t feel right.’ Lydia jerked once more, and the rattle -which was now up next to Fergus’ ear- crunched and continued to crunch, sounding like someone running on gravel. ‘Can’t you hear that?’ Fergus let go of the handle and leaned away from the door. ‘Hear what?’  Lydia glanced over at him. The crunching was now as loud as the engine. ‘The voice? We both already kn- ‘ ‘No, the grinding?’ ‘The what?’ ‘The- The car was in front of them before Fergus could do anything. He reached as quickly as he could for the steering wheel but there was nowhere to go. He tried to turn it, so that his side of the car would take the blow, but Lydia was gripping the wheel and wouldn’t let it turn. He looked at her face, at the frozen shock in her eyes and the world started to turn. The grinding was all around him and glass flew through the air.

He woke up in a hospital bed. His head was wrapped in bandages and wires were pushed into his skin. His face felt strangely stiff and when he lifted his hands to touch it, he found that his hands too were wrapped up. He tried to sit up but his back ached. He lay in the bed trying to piece together what happened, but there was only darkness. He knew there was something, something that was just out of his reach, his fingertips grazing against it. Then it fell into his stomach. Lydia. He lurched forward, ignoring the pain that shrieked down his back. The wires yanked free from his skin and his feet slapped against the cold tiled floor. His balance rushed to his head as he staggered on his first step. Nurses were rushing forward, trying to tell him to get back into bed. Sydney had rushed into the room. Where was Olly? No. Lydia. Fergus pushed the nurses aside. ‘Shut up,’ he hissed, and they started to back away. ‘No, not you…’ He pointed a finger at the ceiling. Sydney’s eyes were wide, her hands shaking. Fergus had never seen them shake before. ‘I’m okay, Syd.’ His hands dropped down and he was on the verge of falling over. ‘Where is she?’ Sydney walked forward and placed a hand on her brother’s arm. ‘I think you need to rest.’ Fergus shook his head. ‘Where is she?’ Sydney looked at the floor, before turning her eyes back to Fergus’ face. She swallowed before speaking. ‘I really think you should rest before seeing her.’ ‘Where is she?’ Fergus pushed past Sydney and pointed at one of the nurses. ‘Where’s Lydia?’ At first, she didn’t move, but after a moment, the nurse lifted her arm and pointed a shaking finger at a door to Fergus’s left. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered and padded over to the door. He opened it slowly and stepped inside. Lydia lay in the bed, her eyes closed and her chest slowly rising and falling. There were all kinds of machines around her. ‘She’s in a coma.’ Sydney said, stepping up behind Fergus as he stood at the bottom of Lydia’s bed. Fergus could feel the warm tears rolling down his cheek and didn’t care. ‘They had to put her into it so that she could recover from her injuries.’ ‘This is my fault.’ The words were like acid in Fergus’ mouth. He hated them. He hated himself. His hands were balled into fists and he turned his head back to look at the ceiling. ‘Shut up,’ he shouted. He was close to screaming, yelling at the ceiling as if there was someone up there playing a hideously cruel prank. Sydney gently grabbed his shoulder. ‘There are people sleeping, Fergus.’ Fergus staggered forward, falling on his knees next to Lydia’s bed. ‘If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have been in that car.’ Sydney had moved again to stand next to her brother. ‘The voices?’ Fergus nodded. ‘Just one voice. One annoying voice that doesn’t know when to stop.’ He pressed his face down into the smoot linen, hoping that somehow the voice would get the message but it didn’t. ‘I just want it to stop.’ Fergus ached, every bit of his body had a little pocket of pain that contorted and twisted as he knelt next to her bed, weeping into the linen. And there was a deeper pain, something dark and swirling and the centre of his being that ached in a way that hung on every thought, on every word, on every aspect of his surroundings. He was just pain. The tears that fell from his cheeks were pain. The feel of the cold tiles on his knees were pain. The bandages on his hands were pain. He could feel Sydney trying to get him on his feet again. He let her. She lifted him, holding him by arms under his armpits and led him carefully to his bed. They pulled the covers over him, and he stared at the ceiling. The thought of sleep seemed almost alien, beyond anything that he would have considered doing. Now that his eyes were open and he could feel the pain moving over his bones, he didn’t deserve rest. ‘Is she going to die?’ Fergus didn’t even realise he was asking the question until it was said. There was no reply. No answer to the question. Sydney pulled back and her shadow on the edge of Fergus’ vision became smaller. Her hand touched his and then was gone. ‘Just go to sleep, Fergus.’ And even though he didn’t want to, he did.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 45. An Argument

Better late than never! The idea for this one came from my mother. I hope you enjoy. He slammed his fork down on the table. ‘You want what?’ Paul pushed back his chair and got to his feet. Geoffrey, Paul’s older brother, was a few inches shorter than his brother. As Paul marched around the table towards him, it felt like those inches were miles. He stumbled back when Paul walked right up to him. ‘I-uh…’ Geoffrey had started to shake. Paul looked him up and down with disgust. As they stood beside each other, their differences were clear to the rest of Paul’s family. Paul was muscular and strong, with work roughed hands and sun blushed cheeks. Geoffrey was thin, like a load of bones stuffed into a mediocre suit. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and still had only managed a few patchy bits of hair on his chin. Geoffrey gasped like a fish before being able to repeat what he said. ‘I want my share of the farm.’ Paul was visibly shaking. They both were, but for very different reasons. ‘Your share?’ Paul raised his right hand, his finger pointing at Geoffrey’s Adam’s apple. ‘You think you…’ His hand curled into a fist just inches below his brother’s chin. ‘Legally, I own half of the farm.’ Geoffrey took another step back, his eyes fixed on the fist inches from his face. Paul lowered his fist. He leaned in a little closer to his older brother. ‘Legally? You learn a new word?’ Geoffrey stepped back into the door behind him, the wood pressed up against his back. He’d never felt more like he was in between a rock and a hard place. ‘I know what I’m entitled to.’ The veins in Paul’s neck bulged. ‘Entitled? How could you know? You weren’t even there when we wrote up their wills.’ There was a cough from the table. Paul turned and saw Barbara standing up from the table. ‘I think that the boys can go and do their homework now.’ Teddy and Carl groaned. They had been watching the exchange, waiting for their dad to knock out Uncle Geoff. They had heard stories of how their father used to be quite the boxer in his youth. Hopefully he would revisit his younger years. ‘Do we have to?’ Teddy, the younger, asked, turning around to show his mum his particularly large and watery eyes. She was having none of it. She walked around the table and pulled out their chairs. ‘Yes. You’re going now.’ She glanced up at Paul and scowled. Paul took a step back from his brother and tried to slow his breathing. The veins were starting to sink down into his neck again. Barbara herded the boys out of the room, leaving Geoffrey and Paul alone. Paul walked back to his half-finished dinner and sat back down. ‘You have some nerve.’ He stabbed a piece of steak and shoved it in his mouth. Geoffrey walked over to the table but didn’t sit down. He stood with a hand resting on the top of a chair back. He looked like he was prepared to run if he had to. ‘I know this isn’t easy b- ‘ ‘Easy?’ Paul slammed his fork down again. ‘This isn’t easy? I’ll tell you what isn’t easy. Losing both your parents at the same time, and having to explain to others that you don’t know why your brother isn’t there to support you.’ Geoffrey loosened the tie around his neck. ‘I was- ‘ ‘Don’t you dare say you were busy.’ Paul’s hands were balled into fists on the table. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word. You never worked a day in your life.’ ‘I’ve worked- ‘ ‘I mean really worked.’ Paul raised his hands, showed Geoffrey the collection of scars on them. ‘Dad and I worked together for years. He showed me what it meant to work for your family. And where were you? Off exploring some new idea of yours, some project that you were so close to perfecting. Only showing up when you had no money and sleeping in your old room before disappearing days later without even a goodbye.’ Geoffrey leaned his forearms on the back of a chair and bowed his head. ‘I’ve made mistakes.’ ‘And you think I’ll just forgive you?’ Paul picked up his fork again and put some more steak in his mouth. Geoffrey sighed. ‘I didn’t think you would.’ The door that Barbara and the boys had left through clicked shut, and both men knew that Barbara had been standing at the door, listening. They both also realised that it was now just the two of them in the room together. It had been years. Paul sat back in his chair. ‘What are you doing here, Geoffrey?’ Geoffrey lifted his head and looked at his brother. ‘I already told you, I’m here to… ‘ Paul sat forward, staring hard at Geoffrey. ‘Why are you here?’ They stared at each other for a moment and neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither wanted to be there. Geoffrey shrugged and looked away first, pulling off his tie. ‘Now that I’m here, I’m not sure.’ Paul rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye and sighed. ‘Do you have anywhere to stay?’ Geoffrey nodded as he stuffed his tie into his suit pocket. ‘Remember Kathryn?’ ‘The girl you were engaged to?’ Geoffrey paused in scratching his cheek and stared at the wall in front of him with wide eyes. ‘Was I? I forgot all about that.’ ‘Has she?’ Geoffrey swallowed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ Paul smiled and couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle. ‘I think you might be better staying here tonight.’ Geoffrey slumped further down over the chair back. ‘All my stuff is there…’ Paul stabbed another piece of steak and paused before putting it in his mouth. ‘You need money, don’t you?’ Geoffrey pulled out the chair he’d been leaning on and sat down. ‘It’s different this time.’ His younger brother sighed as he chewed the steak. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m listening.’ Geoffrey glanced down at Paul’s plate. ‘There wouldn’t be any food left over?’ ‘Are you kidding me?’ Paul got up and walked over to the pots on the hob. ‘Some potatoes. No steak unfortunately.’ ‘Could I get some potatoes? Haven’t eaten anything in a while.’ Geoffrey rubbed his stomach and leaned back in his chair. ‘What happened to your last slave?’ Paul scooped out some potato, walked back to the table and placed the plate in front of his brother. ‘Can these be heated up or…’ Geoffrey tailed off when he saw the look on his Paul’s face. ‘Never mind. Cold is nice.’ He grabbed the ketchup bottle and emptied some over the potatoes. ‘Geoff, tell me why you’re here.’ Geoffrey paused, his left cheek filled with potato. ‘Sorry, I’m hungry.’ Paul reached across and slid Geoffrey’s plate away from him. ‘Talk.’ Geoffrey chewed slowly, staring at the wall. ‘I don’t know where to start.’ ‘Where were you? When I was laying their bodies to rest.’ The old pain in Paul’s chest returned, nestled in tightly between his heart and his left lung. There used to be tears with it, but his eyes were dry, staring hard at the dark wood of the table. ‘I hate that I wasn’t there. I wanted to be.’ ‘All you had to do was fly here.’ Paul lifted his eyes and watched his older brother. ‘All you had to do was make it here.’ ‘It wasn’t that easy.’ ‘What made it difficult? Did you have no money then too?’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘What are you not telling me?’ Paul wanted to grab his brother again. He wanted to shake the answer out of him. As he watched him, he realised that that wasn’t the solution. Geoffrey sighed. ‘I was over in England, moving around near the border with Scotland. I had my latest venture, a revolutionary…’ He glanced at his brother, who was pushing the heel of his hand into his eye again. Geoffrey rushed into the next sentence. ‘It wasn’t going well and I was having money troubles. On top of that, I’d gotten involved in a poker game and, well, my pride had got the better of me.’ Geoffrey glanced down at the plate of potatoes, but his appetite had nearly vanished. ‘It was stupid, I know, but I got money from a loan shark.’ Paul groaned, shifting in his chair. ‘How much?’ ‘Too much.’ Geoffrey slid the plate of potatoes over to himself and started to stir it with his fork. ‘It happened the same day mum and dad died.’ Paul pointed a finger at his brother. ‘When I rang you to tell them you were dead, you were out of breath. You told me you’d been running.’ ‘I had. I owed money to the wrong people.’ Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Why does it feel like that isn’t the end of this story?’ ‘The day that mum and dad died, the day I borrowed money from the loan shark, something else happened.’ Geoffrey set down his fork on the edge of his plate and ran his hand through his hair. ‘I found out I’m a father.’ Paul opened his eyes as his hand fell to his side. He sat back in his chair, his mouth hanging open. ‘You’re a father?’ Geoffrey nodded, smiling. ‘I have a son, called Charlie.’ The pain in Paul’s chest, the one that was scrunched up and wedged between his heart and his left lung, had started to throb gently. ‘How old is he?’ ‘He’s ten. Almost eleven, I think.’ ‘How did you not know?’ Geoffrey’s shoulder slumped. ‘I had been with his mother more than twelve years ago. I hadn’t seen her in all that time. She’s got some kind of illness, and Charlie wanted to meet his no-good deadbeat father.’ Paul scratched his head. The pain in his chest had started to crumble, floating down and fluttering into his stomach. ‘What does he look like?’ ‘Like the spitting image of dad in those old pictures he used to show us.’ Paul swallowed down the lump in his throat that had started to form around his next question. ‘And where is he?’ Geoffrey didn’t answer at first. He stared hard at the potatoes in front of him. He was shaking again, his eyes glistening as tears started to roll down his cheek. Paul leaned forward. He placed a hand on Geoffrey’s forearm. ‘Where’s Charlie, Geoff?’ Geoffrey swiped away the tears from his cheeks and leaned back in his chair. ‘Y’know how I owed money to some bad people? It turns out the loan shark was worse.’ Paul leaned forward a little more. ‘Where’s your son?’ ‘We made it here, got the first plane to Aldergrove, but it turns out the guy had friends here too.’ ‘Where’s- ‘ ‘They took him. Called him collateral, and that I had to repay in five days or Charlie would be dead.’ ‘They took him?’ Paul was frozen as Geoffrey slumped forward, pushing his face into his arms as he sobbed into the wood of the table. Paul got up from his chair, moved to stand next to his older brother and tried to comfort him as best as he could. Barbara rushed into the room, and froze when she saw the two of them. She asked Paul a question with her eyes. He replied with a shake of the head. I’ll tell you later, it said. ‘Geoffrey,’ Paul said, his arm over his brother’s shaking shoulders. ‘We’ll sort this out in the morning. You need some rest.’ ‘No rest,’ Geoffrey moaned, his face still nestled in the sleeves of his suit. ‘I need to get him back.’ ‘And we will,’ Paul pulled him gently to his feet, ignoring the snot and messy tears on Geoffrey’s face. ‘But in the morning.’ He looked at his wife and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is the guest room okay to use?’ Barbara frowned and crossed her arms. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have him here, she said. Paul shrugged as he helped his crumpling brother walk around the table. He’s my brother, he said.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 44. Someone running

I had a bit of fun with this one! The Chosen One ran as fast as he could. Even with his unnatural speed, his equally unnatural pursuers weren’t giving up. The swarmlings spilled over walls and around bushes, crumpling over each other as they rushed after the guy with the big pointy sword. Trying to describe a swarmling was something of a challenge. They looked a little like someone had tried to make a snowman out of burnt bin liners and had given up after trying to roll the first ball. You very rarely saw a single swarmling, if ever at all. Some people say it’s never happened. What they lacked in strength of any kind, they made up for with numbers. Plenty of numbers. Lewis Farthsbrough, the aforementioned Chosen One, kept running. He could feel the sword in his hand trying to get him to turn. From Lewis’ experience so far, magic swords, even the slightly enchanted ones, had a funny habit of doing that. They had their own kind of inanimate object blood lust. Lewis had the swarmlings and the sword to contend with as he kept running. As he ran past houses he could hear the mild chaos behind him as the swarmlings scruffed up the landscape on their way through, damaging paintwork and untidying front lawns. Lewis tried to remember how many End-of-the-worlds this was now. He was pretty sure it was his thirteenth. Thirteen. Nice and unlucky. ‘Lew.’ Lily’s voice squawked through the headset that Lewis was wearing. Lily was a genius. She had helped Lewis time and time again in solving the many problems that stopping the end of the world brought. She was kind of like Lewis’ Alfred, although she would probably knock anyone out who told her that. Knowing Lily’s tendency to knock out people made Lewis thankful for his unnatural strength. ‘I’m a little busy, Lily.’ Lewis slowed down to a jog. The sword was tugging at him and as he approached a crossroads, Lewis decided that he’d had enough of running. It was one of those things that Lewis had learn to accept as inevitable in his task as the Chosen One. Every bad thing, even if only a little bad, that crossed his path didn’t seem to understand that there was any kind of alternative to fighting. Swarmlings were the worst. Every swarmling seemed intent on leaping straight at anything sharp or pointy. The tide of black rushed towards him. ‘Chosen One! Kill,’ it cried. Swarmlings even spoke in one voice, using phrases that if misunderstood could have easily sounded a little suicidal. Lewis’ sword was humming in his hand. The first swing of the blade took out dozens. Even in death, swarmlings managed to go together. They groaned together as their kin died, and then went back to jumping in the way of Lewis’ metal edge. Lewis hated this part. He hated fighting. If he had had a choice, he would have just kept running, but he knew that it would have happened sooner or later. As they died, they broke apart, shrivelling up and turning into black flakes that looked like ashes. The air was slowly filling up with swarmling ash, and the tide was still coming. ‘Lew.’ Lily sounded a little more angry than usual. She didn’t like being cut off, even if the person cutting her off was in mortal danger. ‘What is it, Lily?’ Lewis swung the sword, and dozens more swarmlings turned to ash. He stood in the centre of a circle of heaped up swarmling remains, until a strong wind came and blew it all away. The ash lifted up and splashed over Lewis’ face. He gagged as a particularly large flake rushed into his mouth. ‘I’m going to wait until you’re listening.’ Lewis could have sworn that he heard Lily’s knuckles cracking as her hand curled into a fist on the other end of the line. ‘Sorry,’ Lewis croaked, the taste of dead swarmling still very strong on his tongue. He really wished he had some chewing gum. ‘What is it?’ ‘The alignment is ten minutes away.’ ‘You waited to tell me that?’ ‘You said you were busy.’ ‘That’s fair.’ Lewis turned towards the swirling vortex that was swirling over the town centre of Peril’s Creek. ‘I’m guessing it’s over the happiness monument?’ ‘Like always.’ Peril’s Creek wasn’t situated on a hell mouth or anything like that. It wasn’t even at the convergence of ley lines. Not quite, anyway. Cornelius, the butcher/Expert on the Ways of the Fae had explained that the town was surrounded by what the experts called Ley Line tangles. The ley lines nearly met but not quite and somehow, that made things much worse. ‘Thirteen.’ Lewis started to run towards the swirling thing. He wished he had a chosen-one-mobile but his car had been destroyed four apocalypses ago. ‘I’ve saved the world twelve times before this.’ ‘You’ve saved the world?’ Lily always got cranky when she was stressed and nothing made her more stressed than the end of the world. Lewis considered rolling his eyes but he had a funny feeling that Lily would hear that too. ‘We’ve saved the world.’ ‘That’s what I thought.’ Static was starting to creep into the headset channel. ‘I’m starting to lose you, so I’m guessing you’re going to have to go this alone. Got the Amulet of Pkan?’ Lewis reached into his big black coat and gripped the large ancient bling in his hand. It looked like a cabbage if the cabbage was made of metal snakes. ‘Got it. All I have to do is shove it into her chest, right?’ ‘That’s the plan. And don’t let her chest intimidate you,’ Lily said, sniggering. The signal was worse. Her cruel laughter was broken up by a flurry of crackles. ‘Do you really want that to be the last thing you say to me before I go into this?’ ‘Break a leg, chosen one. Hopefully not yours.’ ‘So sweet. I think you’re getting soft, Lily.’ ‘Just stop the big swirly tornado of death, please?’ Lewis stopped running, standing in the main street of Peril’s Creek, feeling a little like a cowboy in a really strange western. The shops were empty, some with their doors still lying open. Newspapers and other rubbish were being blown along by the wind and a pack of dogs, some with leashes still attached to their collars, ran past Lewis away from the vortex of certain death. The sky was flickering with potent rage and forks of lightning whipped down, splitting concrete, setting trees on fire and singing the grass of the central market square. At the very centre of that was the monument of people looking happy and making general merriment. At that present moment in time, it was leaking all kinds of foul looking smoke that rose up into the funnel of evil that was disrupting the local weather system. It was strange that the residents of Peril’s Creek had forgotten so many times that they had had to evacuate their homes because of bizarre and life threatening events. It was like they forgot about it almost as soon as it was over. Lewis didn’t get to forget. In front of the monument, his target was pacing back and forth. Anthrasha, the Bringer of the Soul Harvest, Forsaken of the Fae, Brandisher of the Asp of Mashtraka. Lewis gripped the sword a little tighter. It had been tugging him in her direction since it had dealt with the swarmlings. If he let go, Lewis guessed that the sword would have flown through the air and tried to fight her itself. As he strolled towards her, hand firmly holding the sword by his side, he ran through some of the important points that Lily had told him. Anthrasha, hates men, and women. She didn’t care much for mortals in general. Not only did she want to destroy Earth, but the Underearth, where all the big-bad-and-uglies lived. While most of her kin weren’t too fussed on the second part, the first was on their agendas too, so they hadn’t tried to stop her. The Fae were like that. My enemy’s enemy is my friend, even if they’re also my enemy. She was scantily clad as Fae-maidens generally were, scarily beautiful rags clinging to all the right places. She wore the Asp of Mashtraka on her left arm, the weird writhing thing wrapping the whole way from her wrist to her shoulder. As she strolled she casually tossed out the snakes that the Asp regurgitated. They generally slithered away looking for their first meal. It looked like Peril’s Creek would have a snake problem for a while. None of the snakes bothered to come near Lewis, instead slithering around him as though he wasn’t there. Anthrasha was possibly eight feet tall, and it already felt to Lewis that she was towering over him. Her hair floated and bounced around her face and her face glowed with the typical hatred of someone that was trying to end human life. Lewis had seen it before. She stopped pacing when she spotted Lewis walking towards her. ‘You fool,’ she said, pointing at him. ‘Do you walk so willingly to your doom? Do you not know of the pain and terrible suffering that I will rain down on this world?’ ‘I’m aware of your work, yeah.’ Lewis lifted the sword from his side, which was shuddering against his fingers. He pointed the tip at her and she seemed to swell to twice her size. Lewis quickly realised that she had actually grown to sixteen feet and was much more muscular now than he had remembered. She was still beautiful but in a wet yourself kind of a way. ‘Again I deign you to be a fool.’ Her voice filled every nook and cranny of the slowly deteriorating central market place. It crowded around Lewis and made him sweat a little. ‘Listen, lady.’ Lewis took a step forward. ‘I’m going to have to cut the insults short and cut to the chase.’ He crouched down and got ready for a giant muscular fist to come down on his face. ‘I’m the guy who’s here to end this.’ He pulled the Amulet of Pkan from his pocket. ‘And I don’t plan on fighting for too long.’ ‘You do not dictate wh- ‘ ‘Do you know how many times I’ve heard this speech?’ Lewis took another step forward and tucked the amulet in under his armpit. ‘Far too many times, that’s how many times.’ Anthrasha crouched down towards him. ‘I will make sure that your death is slow and luxuriantly torturous.’ Lewis sighed. ‘I can’t say that I promise the same thing.’ The giant fae lifted an arm above her head and brought down to the ground with the force of a wrecking ball. It whistled past Lewis as he leapt out of the way, rolling across the grass and getting to his feet in one fluid motion. He was running now, very aware of the lady creature trying to turn him into Chosen One jam. It had become sort of a habit for Lewis to switch off and let his instincts take over in this kind of life threatening scenario. They were very useful, those instincts of his, the memories of the Chosen Ones that came before him, all stored away in a very dark and mysterious part of his brain. While Lewis would have been happy enough to accept that every bone in his body was going to be broken, the instincts were very much against it. Another giant fist rocketed in front of Lewis face, and he was forced to limbo at high speeds. ‘Face me, coward.’ Anthrasha had started to unleash a torrent of snakes from the Asp. They all seemed very intent of getting away from anywhere that was near the giant scary lady trying to smoosh anything that moved. ‘Fine,’ Lewis shouted. He turned sharply and was running towards her. She lifted a foot and swung it forward, while Lewis did the same with his sword. The sword won. Anthrasha shrieked as her giant calf became half a giant calf, and one quarter of her left leg fell onto the grass, still trying its best to kick Lewis. The giant fae, still shrieking and cursing Lewis with all the colours of the rainbow, started to sway, her arms wind milling as she tried to get her balance. Lewis darted forward, ducking under her giant limb and pulling the Amulet from the armpit that it somehow hadn’t fallen from. He kept running, hoisting the amulet up to his cheek like he was about to throw shotput. The other giant limb caught him on the side of the head. He lifted off the ground. He could almost hear his instincts running around inside his head, falling over like they were the crew of the Star Trek Enterprise. The sword slipped from his right hand and the metal cabbage fell from his left. Behind the stars that were flashing in Lewis’ vision, he could see the ground rushing up to meet him. His instincts tripped up and tumbled into the darkness when the earth hit him. His ears were ringing and the central market place spun in front of his eyes. It wasn’t the first time that he’d been hit by a giant fae lady. It was the first time that the fae lady had been spewing snakes though. It still hurt all the same. Lewis pushed himself up, thankful that there wasn’t the far too familiar pain of broken ribs. He looked up and his eyes met with Anthrasha’s. She’d found her balance and his sword. ‘Fool,’ she said, hopping forward with the sword above her head. The first arrow made her stop in her tracks. She stared down at it sticking out of her shoulder and her mouth hung open. The second arrow made her cross-eyed and fall over. The ground shuddered and Lewis froze, waiting for a third arrow to hit him, but it never came. He would have caught it out of the air anyway. A hooded archer walked past him, not even looking at him. She picked up the Amulet on her way past and walked towards Anthrasha, who had gotten over the initial shock of the arrow in between her eyes and was now thrashing around like an infant. The unnamed archer pulled another arrow from her quiver and pinned Anthrasha’s arm down with an arrow to the wrist. The archer pulled back her hood and revealed a thick braid of brown hair. She glanced over her shoulder at Lewis. ‘You okay?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She held out the Amulet and shoved it into Anthrasha’s chest. The giant fae started to shrink like a balloon, her terrifying beauty and muscles making way for wrinkles and saggy skin. She let out a burbling wail before folding away and disappearing inside the metal cabbage. The giant vortex of death sucked down into the monument. The town still looked burned and broken and the sky was still holding on to the thunder and lightning for a little while. Lewis got to his feet and watched as the archer, who still hadn’t introduced herself, walked over to the Asp and picked it up with the caution of someone picking up a real snake. ‘Who are you?’ Lewis didn’t like not knowing. As much as he didn’t like fighting, he recognised the value of allies. She turned to look at him, walking towards him with the Amulet, Asp and his sword carried in the bend of her arm. ‘You first.’ Lewis held out a hand. ‘Lewis Farthsbrough.’ She took his hand and squeezed a little harder than Lewis had been expecting. ‘Cleo.’ The handshake carried on a little longer than it probably should have. It felt to Lewis that they were on the verge of trying out each other’s abilities, or at least Cleo wanted to see what he could do. He didn’t want to have to do any if he could help it. ‘You don’t have a surname?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh right.’ The handshake had stopped but their hands were still clasped. Lewis’ instincts had managed to gather themselves back together and were screaming that this girl was about to do something that would be very painful for him. ‘I’m the Chosen One,’ Lewis blurted out. Something about those words usually made people think twice about what they were thinking of doing. Cleo smiled. ‘Me too.’ And she pounced.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 43. Creepy

This one was supposed to be creepy. You be the judge. ‘I looked at my reflection today, and it wasn’t me looking back.’ Grace knew she shouldn’t have laughed, but sometimes the things that Toby said were so weird that she couldn’t help herself. She stopped when she saw the look on his face. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’ He sighed. ‘I mean what I say. The person looking at me wasn’t me. They weren’t even moving like me.’ Grace shook her head and picked up her cup of coffee. ‘Have you been having many late nights?’ Toby leaned forward, his teeth clenched. ‘It’s not sleep deprivation.’ Grace frowned and pursed her lips as she placed the cup back on the little table between them. ‘Are you taking any new medication?’ Toby leaned back, bend his head back to look at the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. ‘I know it sounds crazy but I’m not kidding.’ He swung forward, his eyes wide and bloodshot. ‘I think I’m being followed.’ Grace tutted. ‘By who? Your shadow?’ Toby blinked. His eyes flickered down to the floor, then back up at his friend. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. ‘Sometimes I forget how much of a bitch you can be.’ Grace smiled. ‘Sorry, Tobe, but I just think you need to get more sleep.’ Toby pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He looked tired. Grace knew that she was right. She clapped her hands together, rubbing them together with excitement. ‘Okay, next order of business is the surprise party for Marcy. What are you wearing?’ Grace hammered on the front door of Toby’s apartment. She leaned up against it and shouted into the wood. ‘Toby, if you’re in there, you better come out now. I’ve tried to call you fifty times now.’ She froze. Toby’s elderly neighbour, Mrs Baldinski, had opened her door. The old lady looked at her, then at the door. ‘I don’t think he’s in there, sweetheart. I haven’t heard any life in there for two days now.’ ‘Two days?’ A lump had dropped down in Grace’s stomach. Her heart started to hammer and her head started to run from conclusion to conclusion. Mrs Baldinski scratched the hairs on her chin. ‘Last noise from him was shouting and things being broken.’ ‘Toby…’ Grace turned back to the door, placed her hand on the wood, hoping by some chance that it would swing open. No such luck. ‘I have a key for his apartment if you need it.’ The old woman started to search in the pockets of her fluffy green dressing gown. ‘You have a…’ Grace stopped herself from asking, and took the key when Mrs Baldinski fished it out from the contents of her pockets. Grace unlocked the door and stepped inside Toby’s apartment. The place was a mess. Things had been thrown across the living room. The large mirror above the television was shattered, and the television’s screen had been smashed in. The curtains were drawn over the balcony doors and the room was in almost complete darkness. She reached for the light switch and sparks burst down from the ceiling. The fittings had been ripped out. ‘What happened?’ She whispered the words, though she knew and felt that she was very alone in there. She had closed the door behind her before Mrs Baldinski could shuffle in behind her. Her heart and stomach leapt inside her when she saw the red on the carpet. She rushed forward, falling forward on all fours as she clambered over the wreckage to the red stains. If it was blood, if this was where Toby had died, she didn’t know what she would do. Tears were starting to form in the corners of her eyes. Her hand rested on the wine glass and she couldn’t help but let out a giggle. The glass lay next to the splashed red wine. It wasn’t blood. She sat back on her heels and looked around at the wreckage. What made Toby do this to his apartment? Where was he? She got to her feet, and turned just as she saw something in the corner of her eye. The smashed mirror was now just a jagged web of pieces, each one of them reflecting her eye. She took a step forward, and some of the eyes disappeared, slipping off the edge of their jagged piece. Others stayed, staring. There was more red on the mirror’s pieces. She leaned forward, trying to see if the wine had made it up there. No. This was blood. Toby had cut himself smashing the mirror. She leaned in closer and the eyes kept staring. She hadn’t realised how pale her eyes were, how intense her gaze was. She could see every little facet of her eye, shown to her dozens of times from each of the pieces. The thump from the cupboard made Grace spin on her heels. She staggered, grabbing at the television beside her, slicing her thumb open on the broken screen. Grace screamed, clutching at her hand as blood started to blossom up from the cut. ‘Who’s that?’ The muffled voice came from the cupboard. Grace rushed over to it, pulling at the handle. It was locked. ‘Toby?’ Grace said, blood still dripping from the cut. ‘Grace?’ Another thump. Toby was trying to get out of the cupboard. ‘Did someone put you in a locked cupboard?’ The key was lying a foot from the cupboard door. Grace reached down, picked it up and released her friend. After Toby stood up painfully, he looked around the room as though expecting someone else to be there. He glanced at the mirror, then at Grace. ‘How did you get in here?’ Grace pointed at the front door. ‘Mrs Baldinski had a spare key.’ Toby sighed. ‘I thought they were kidding when they told me she kept spares like that.’ ‘Creepy.’ Grace smiled and placed a hand on Toby’s arm. Her friend was sweaty and pale and there were cuts all over his hands. ‘What happened, Toby?’ Toby stepped back and stared at the floor. ‘You have to go.’ ‘What’s going on?’ Toby started to shake. ‘I told you you need to go. Before it comes back.’ ‘What are you- ‘ ‘Go!’ Toby grabbed her arms and steered to the door. She turned to shout at him, but he slammed the door in her face. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, her hands curled into tight little fists. She was shaking and she wanted to punch Toby in the face so much. Behind her, Mrs Baldinski was still standing in her doorway. ‘I’m going to need that spare back now.’ Grace was still dripping blood. She walked home trying to figure out what had just happened. She stared at her feet, lifting her eyes every so often to look at her reflection in the windows of parked cars as she passed them. She’d never seen Toby that scared before. She’d seen him when he was anxious about meeting new people or nervous before a big job interview, but whatever that had been, that was new. He was terrified. She walked through the lobby of her apartment building and got into the lift. She didn’t make any eye contact with anyone. She kept staring at her feet. Once she was alone in the lift, she leaned against the railing and rested the back of her head on the cool smooth mirror behind her. On either side, reflections of her went on until they were points in the distance. Grace turned her head and looked at herself, then turned and looked at the other reflection. She stepped away from the railing, and stepped up to the mirror on her left. She’d wrapped her thumb up in a tissue that she’d found in her handbag. Grace lifted her hand and looked at the blood-soaked bandage. She looked up at her reflection and smiled. Behind her, down the line of mirror images, something moved, tilted out from the row of Graces, something dark. Grace jumped back, slamming against the mirror behind her. A web of cracks stemmed out from where she had landed. The back of her head was hot and prickling. She reached up her hand to her head and brought it away covered in blood. She staggered to her feet and looked at the cracks. Her reflection was a fractured mess among the lines and intersections, and even with them distorting the image, she could see something moving up through the staggered rows of Graces. She stood frozen, watching as her reflections collapsed one by one. Each Grace fell, clutching at her throat with red stained hands. Grace stepped towards the cracked mirror, feeling a slight twang of pain each time a reflection fell. It was a deep kind of pain that pushed forward. She couldn’t do anything but watch and hurt. She reached forward and placed her hand on the centre of the web of cracks. The light flickered above her, and she could feel that the lift had stopped moving. A jagged hand curled up from the jagged pieces, wrapping around her fingers. It jerked forward, pulling her arm forward into a thick writhing blackness that was swimming within the mirror. Grace was pulled forward, her cheek slamming against the broken mirror, little lines slicing open on her skin. The arm that had been pulled through into the blackness was prickling. Grace could feel something cold, sharp and metal being placed on her wrist. The light was still flickering and Grace was being further and further into the blackness. Her head was filled with an explosion of pain. Metal slid through her wrist, shattering the bones. She couldn’t see it but she could feel it. The light went out completely. The darkness started to crawl up over her skin, thousands of little pin pricks climbing over her. Another chunk of her arm was lopped off, a new explosion of pain rushed through her. She could feel teeth sinking into her skin. The edge of her vision was starting to crackle with white hot pain. The blackness had crawled up over her shoulder and was slowly wrapping itself around her neck. It spilled into her mouth, tasting like smoke and blood. The black thing was on top of her, a long bloodied knife in one hand. It raised the blade above its head, and swung down at her heart. The lift pinged and Grace sucked in a lung of air. She fell forward screaming, collapsing through the opening doors and scrambled away from the lift. She turned, looking into it. There was no one standing with a knife and the mirror was in one piece. She couldn’t help but laugh as she got to her feet. She’d fallen asleep. Maybe she was the one who needed to go to bed. She was still shaking, clutching her hand as though she was afraid that it was going to be lopped off again. She wanted to go and curl up under a blanket and squeeze that terrible nightmare out of her head. No. There was too much to be done. Marcy’s party was tonight. Grace turned and walked down to her apartment, focussing her mind on getting ready for tonight. Every conversation she had that night was about the plaster on her thumb. She’d made up some story about cutting vegetables just so she didn’t have to think too much about finding Toby cowering inside a cupboard in his ransacked apartment. She couldn’t believe it when she saw him walking towards him. His hair was slicked back and it looked like he was wearing new glasses. She’d never seen him look so confident before. ‘Hey Grace,’ he said, smiling. ‘Great party.’ Grace punched him on the shoulder, which felt a lot more solid than she remembered. ‘You were meant to help me,’ she cried. ‘And you think you can just come up to me like that after you shoved me out of your apartment?’ Toby had stopped smiling when Grace had punched him, the smile falling off his face and anger flickering in his eyes. He glanced around at the other party goers, and the smile returned. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What are you talking about, Grace?’ He chuckled and reached for the closest bottle. Grace slapped his wrist. ‘And we both know that you don’t drink. Because of all your medication.’ Toby took a step towards her. The smile had fallen away again and this time the anger wasn’t flickering away. He towered over her and pointed a finger at her throat. She’d never noticed before just how pale and cold his eyes were. ‘I need you to stop hitting me, and I need you to stop telling me what I can and cannot do.’ Grace’s heart had leapt up into her mouth. She clutched the edge of the table and tried to steady herself. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,’ she muttered. Toby reached forward and picked up the bottle he’d gone for originally. ‘You too,’ he said, and walked off, the bottle in his hand. Grace shook her head, and threw back her drink. She wandered back through the party, feeling lost without Toby at her side. He was away being an idiot somewhere else. Grace didn’t know what had gotten into him. At least he wasn’t a trembling maniac anymore. She was walking past the bathroom when a hand reached out and grabbed her. The door slammed behind her and she was pushed down onto the toilet. Toby the trembling maniac was standing in front of her, shuddering and wringing his hands. There was blood running down the side of his face. ‘What the- ‘ Toby cut her off, shaking his head. ‘You’ve seen me already, I know, but that wasn’t me. It was- ‘ Someone rattled the bathroom door.  ‘What happened to your face?’ Grace stood up, placing a hand on the side of Toby’s face. His skin was slick with sweat. ‘How did you cut your thumb?’ Toby grabbed her other hand. ‘At your apartment, on the broken TV.’ Toby slid down onto the side of the bath. ‘That means it’s probably coming after you too.’ ‘What is?’ Toby shook his head. He froze when the bulb flickered. Grace turned to the mirror and leaned in close to her reflection. It smiled. Grace screamed, Toby catching her before she fell back into the bath. ‘What did you do to me?’ Grace slapped at Toby as she cried. ‘I’m sorry.’ Toby’s head sank down to his chest. He looked so tired. The light bulb flickered again, and in that moment of darkness, a third person appeared in front of the door. Grace sat up, looking at the other Toby. The other Toby smiled. Toby got to his feet, his knees knocking. ‘Please just leave her.’ The other Toby reached forward, grasping his shaking counterpart’s arms and hurling him towards the mirror. It didn’t shatter. It didn’t ripple. Toby slammed against it, and slowly started to sink into it. Dozens of little arms started to reach out and pull him in, their fingers trailing bloody lines across Toby’s skin. Toby stopped struggling, and the last thing that Grace saw of him was his cold apathetic face. Grace was left alone with the man who looked just like her best friend. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. He stepped towards her, still smiling. ‘You don’t have to.’ She wished she wasn’t crying, but she couldn’t stop. She wanted to stand up and push him aside and run out of there, but somehow she knew that she couldn’t get away. He gripped her arm and lifted her and she was thrown just like Toby had been. She didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know how it would feel. It began as a soft prickling that across her back and the back of her head. Something tugged on her hair and her clothes. It was cold, like frigid water, spreading up over her. She stared forward and the other Toby was joined by someone else who tucked her arm behind his back. Another Grace smiled at her. Grace was certain that she hadn’t always looked that cruel. The tingling had grown into jabbing spikes. It had crawled up over her skin and only her face could feel the warmth of the bathroom. The tingling passed over her face and she watched as the two left. She wasn’t anywhere, a reflection of her world or anything like that. She was alone. She slammed her fist against the mirror in front of her, but it didn’t budge or break. She had expected Toby to be here when she came through but he wasn’t. She was alone.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 42. Something Yellow

This story features a yellow raincoat that does special things. Simon stared into the giant creature’s slowly closing eye. ‘What did you say?’ he whispered. ‘Help…’ He watched as it sucked in some air. ‘Me…’ Simon looked around at the other volunteers who were still throwing water over the whale that had washed up onto the beach. He stepped forward, his own bucket in hand. ‘We’re trying.’ He rested a hand on the whale’s skin. ‘Yo,’ someone shouted behind him. ‘Raincoat! You can mind meld with this guy another time. Get your bucket and keep soaking.’ Simon turned to look at Drew, the dreadlocked leader of the volunteers. ‘Sorry,’ Simon cried before stooping down and throwing more water over the giant sea creature. As he scooped, he spoke to it as quietly as he could manage. ‘Why did you beach yourself?’ ‘Water…’ Each word was a painful wheeze. It brought tears to Simon’s eyes. ‘Water is…poison.’ Simon threw another bucket over the creature. Other volunteers had arrived with big shovels and were now trying to scrape away sand in a bid to get the whale back in the water. ‘Were you trying to get away from the poison?’ ‘Yes…’ Simon stopped again. He couldn’t quite shake the enormity of the sadness in that single syllable. It rested on his shoulders and made it hard for Simon to move. ‘I’m not telling you again, Raincoat. Either you keep chucking water or you let someone in who will.’ ‘We can’t send her back.’ Simon turned to look at Drew, who was brandishing a shovel like some kind of maniac. He stopped and pointed at the whale. ‘We can’t send her back? What the hell is wrong with you, man? The sea is her home.’ ‘She beached herself for a reason.’ Simon stepped back as another reason pushed past him to start throwing water over the whale. Drew shook his head and went back to shovelling away sand. Simon walked over to him and grabbed him by the arm. ‘The water’s poison.’ Drew shirked Simon’s hand off his arm. ‘Did you get all that from the mind meld?’ ‘I’m telling you. Get her back in the water and she’ll just beach herself again.’ Drew turned, the shovel across his chest. ‘And we’ll be here to put her back in.’ He bared his teeth before turning back to the whale. ‘If you aren’t going to help, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.’ Simon turned to look at the whale. She was staring at him, each blink seeming to get slower and slower. She was still pleading, each word more and more difficult, and barely audible under the grunts of the volunteers and the squawks of the impatient seagulls above. ‘Help...’ Its moans lingered in Simon’s ears and made him feel like he was being crushed. ‘I can’t.’ Simon turned away, unable to look at the creature anymore. Drew placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder and squeezed a little too hard. ‘Either you leave or I make you leave.’ ‘No….’ The whale’s moan rose up above the crowd of volunteers before winding down into a rattle. Simon started to walk away from the volunteers. As he walked, he could hear them shouting, the clanging of shovels as they started to work harder. Simon knew it was dead. Somehow he felt responsible. What could he have done? The question haunted him as he walked. He stopped when another question nudged itself into the front of his head. How had he been able to understand it? He pulled his grampa’s yellow raincoat tighter around himself as a cruel wind blew in from the ocean. Simon stopped, looking down at the coat. ‘No way,’ Simon muttered. The whale behind him, and the answer to his questions in front of him, he started to run.  Kathy came in through the door to the apartment to find Simon, still wearing the yellow raincoat, staring at the little fish tank. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Simon looked up from the tank slowly. He looked dazed, as though you could have told him anything and he would have been surprised. ‘We need a bigger tank.’ Kathy paused while shrugging off her coat. ‘A bigger tank?’ Simon looked back down at the tank. ‘Yeah. This one is too small.’ ‘Oh?’ She kicked off her shoes and walked over to sit next to him. ‘Did the fish tell you that?’ Simon laughed, a noise that barely resembled a laugh and was more like air escaping a bagpipe. ‘They did actually. Morty is the most talkative of the lot.’ ‘Morty? We didn’t call any of them Morty.’ She sat down next to him, grabbing the remote for the television and turning it on. Simon pointed at the large golden fish that was swimming nearest to him. ‘Yeah, they don’t really go by the names we gave them. They didn’t even know we’d named them.’ ‘Mmhmm.’ Kathy was flicking through the channels, trying to find something worthwhile to watch. ‘And what else has Morty had to say?’ ‘He’s had quite a lot to say actually.’ Simon leaned in a little closer to the glass. ‘It’s been hard to talk to any of the others.’ Kathy sighed. ‘I know I should have asked when I came in, but I feel like now is a good time to ask why it doesn’t sound like you’re kidding?’ Simon sat back and tugged at the raincoat. ‘It’s the coat, Kath. The coat lets me talk to fish. Well, I talked to a whale earlier.’ Kathy sighed, set the remote down on the arm of the sofa and turned to look at Simon. ‘You talked to a whale.’ ‘Yeah. Y’know the one that beached itself?’ ‘The one on the news?’ ‘Yeah that one. It asked me for my help.’ Kathy rubbed her neck. ‘Didn’t it die?’ Simon slumped forward. ‘I didn’t do a great job.’ Kathy turned herself towards Simon. ‘I’m going to ask again, why doesn’t it sound like you’re kidding?’ ‘I’m not.’ Kathy sucked in air through her teeth. ‘Okay, what happened?’ ‘I told you, the whale- ‘ Kathy shook her head. ‘No I mean, something happened that you’re trying to avoid.’ Steve sat back on the sofa, still staring at the fish tank. ‘I’m not avoiding anything.’ ‘Is it because the whale died? You couldn’t save it?’ Steve sighed and closed his eyes. ‘You don’t believe me.’ Kathy placed her hand on Simon’s. ‘I’ve just come home from a hellish shift in the hospital, and my boyfriend is telling me that he can talk to fish. And whales.’ Steve nodded. ‘I can see how that might be a little distressing.’ ‘You can tell me if something is bothering you.’ Simon turned over his hand and wrapped his fingers around Kathy’s hand. ‘I could, but I don’t think you’ll believe me.’ Simon stood up from the sofa and started to walk for the door. Kathy jumped up behind him. ‘Where are you going?’ She rushed after him and grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him around. Simon couldn’t help but smile. She always looked after him. It was a quality she couldn’t turn off, even when she wasn’t at work. He pulled her closer and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I just need to go and clear my head.’ She pulled him into a hug. ‘Don’t be too long.’ ‘I won’t.’ Simon rested his chin on the top of her head. ‘I love you.’ ‘I love you too.’  He wasn’t sure how he got there. He hadn’t been paying much attention to where his feet had been taking him. All he knew was that he was standing on top of a rock, staring down at the sea gently lapping against the limpet covered stone. he clutched the yellow material in his right hand and stared at it. It looked just like any other rain coat, albeit old and cracking in places. It didn’t seem in anyway special or fantastic, and yet… Simon turned his head to look at a little grey crab that was standing to his left, its claws raised above its head. Simon smiled. ‘Hey, how’s it going?’ The crab lowered its claws and shrugged. ‘Same old.’ It scuttled away and Simon turned back to the water in front of him. He had never really been one for thinking too much about destiny or fate, or how the world turns and things happen, how events take place and how people don’t have much say in most of them. As he stood on that rock, looking down at the water, he felt like he was at the centre of something that was unfolding, like a flower or an anemone.  He jumped back as a hand reached up out of the water and gripped onto the rock in front of him. The hand was pale, with a hint of green at its finger tips. The hand was followed by an arm, which was followed a shoulder, and the first hand was soon joined by a second as a person, wearing a soaking white dress, pulled themselves from the water.  After the initial shock had crackled away, Simon jumped forward, grabbing one of the hands and helping the person out of the water. He pulled them up onto the rock and when they turned over and Simon could see quite plainly that they were a she, he turned away. The vaguely green woman lay on the rock, panting and staring up at the grey sky above, unaware that the dress did little to nothing to cover her up. Her turquoise eyes slowly turned to look at Simon. ‘I em looking for the grendson of Mervyn Meckle.’ She had an accent unlike anything that Simon had heard before. Simon crouched down next to her. He glanced at her hands and then at her feet. Her toes were webbed and a little elongated. Her hands had a hint of webbing between each finger.  ‘Who are you?’ Simon turned back to look at her face, careful not to look at anything between her feet and her chin. ‘I em Mervyn Meckle’s grenddaughter.’ She blinked slowly as she looked at him, then she looked back up at the sky. Simon shook his head as he kept watching her. His heart was hammering in his chest. ‘Grampa Mervyn didn’t have any other grandchildren.’ Her eyes shifted to look back at him. She smiled. ‘Er you Simon Meckle?’ Simon moved a little closer to her. She was starting to shiver. ‘I am. Who are you?’ She smiled a little wider and her eyes sparkled. ‘I em the cousin you didn’t know you hed.’

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 41. At a dining table

The title already gave it away. Eustace Habbernathy folded his newspaper in half and set it next to his place mat. He glanced at his golden watch and frowned. ‘I wonder what’s wrong with Matilda.’ He checked his watch again. ‘She’s very rarely late.’ His children, Bumper and Vinaigrette didn’t respond. Up until now they’d been staring very hard at their dessert spoons. They both nearly fell out of their seats when their father spook to them. The table shook, Bumper grunted and then he smiled and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, father. Maybe she’s gone home sick.’ Eustace glanced at the little white door to the kitchen. ‘She would have told me if she was going home. She usually arranges something for us.’ ‘Maybe she didn’t this time,’ Vinaigrette chimed in. She glanced at her brother, then back at the dessert spoon. Eustace drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Is there something the matter with you two? You’re acting very peculiar.’ This was unusually astute for Eustace, who had, purposefully or by accident, taken little notice of his children’s temperaments until now. They both shook their heads. Bumper looked a little green. Vinaigrette’s lower lip was wobbling. Eustace sighed and sat back in his chair. He’d never had to talk to his children about their problems. That was what the maid and manservants were for. Mostly Eustace just bought them new things when they seemed upset. His growling stomach made it hard to concentrate. ‘Perhaps we should order some Chinese?’ Vinaigrette burst into tears. ‘Okay, not Chinese.’ Eustace reacted to the tears the same way that he always had, with great unease and a strong desire to run away. He got to his feet as calmly as the tear induced nausea would allow and walked over to the sideboard, pulling one of the menus from a drawer. ‘She’s dead,’ Bumper cried. Eustace looked up from the Luigi’s menu. ‘Who’s dead?’ ‘Matilda.’ Bumper had turned a much viler shade of green and Vinaigrette was sobbing with her head on her arms, slumped over the table. The menus slipped from Eustace’s hands. ‘Matilda’s dead?’ Bumper nodded. Vinaigrette continued to wail into the table. Eustace walked back to the table, shuffling his feet like he’d almost forgotten how to walk. His mouth was hanging open, much like his son’s. He fell into his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘What happened?’ ‘It’s not our fault, daddy,’ Vinaigrette squawked. ‘She didn’t give us any other choice.’ ‘You both had better start explaining yourselves very quickly.’ Eustace didn’t know what to feel. There was a little bit of anger and sadness and grief and underneath it all, his hunger was trying to dictate how he was feeling. ‘She was going to kill you, daddy. We heard her talking on the phone about it.’ Vinaigrette’s face was broken up by two black streaks down her cheeks. ‘She was going to poison the salt and then she was going to run off with all the family jewels.’ ‘Poison the salt?’ If there was one thing that Matilda knew, it was that Eustace loved his salt. If her poison hadn’t killed him, the salt itself would have done the job eventually. Bumper sat forward nodding. ‘Yes, she had it all planned. She was going to do it tonight and then she was going to make it look like you’d had a heart attack or something.’ Eustace rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘What did you do to her?’ Bumper winced a little as he searched for the words. Bumper rarely had trouble with his words. Eustace closed his eyes against the latest wave of nausea. Bumper eventually found the words, and he spoke as though they were all trying to get out at once. ‘Weconfrontedherbutwedidn’tactuallydoanythingtohersheslippedandfellandstoppedbreathing.’ Eustace sat back in his chair, gripping the table in front of him with white knuckles. ‘What?’ ‘She fell and hit her head off the kitchen bench,’ Vinaigrette said. ‘And you didn’t think to call an ambulance? Or the police? Or someone to deal with the dead body in our house?’ Eustace’s hunger was steering him towards rage. Little flames of anger lapped at the bottom of his empty stomach, boiling up the acid inside. ‘We were going to, but then Roberto came in.’ Bumper was fidgeting with his hands. ‘Roberto?’ Eustace threw his hands into the air. ‘Why did that stop you?’ ‘He came in and started shouting in Spanish,’ Bumper said. Vinaigrette sat forward, nodding. ‘We didn’t know all that he was saying, but he was definitely saying that we killed her.’ Bumper was nodding along with her. ‘Yeah, definitely saying that we killed her.’ Eustace had a terrible feeling about where this was going. He would have given anything for some food. ‘What did you do to Roberto?’ Bumper licked his lips and smiled a nervous smile. ‘We gagged him and tied him to a chair.’ Eustace slapped a palm against his forehead. ‘Lord almighty, why was I blessed with such stupid children?’ He stood up, shoving back his chair, almost knocking it over. ‘Are they both still in the kitchen?’ Bumper and Vinaigrette nodded together. Eustace marched towards the door to the kitchen. ‘Wait,’ Bumper cried. ‘What are you going to do?’ He had jumped to his feet, while Vinaigrette remained sitting trying to manage the wobble that had stayed on her lower lip. ‘I’m going to have to sort this all out.’ Eustace shoved the door open and marched into the kitchen. Bumper followed in behind him. Matilda was still lying on the floor, prostrate with her neck at an unpleasant angle. Her eyes were still open, her face frozen in a state of mild surprise. Behind her at the far end of the kitchen, next to the large black oven, Roberto was bound and gagged. ‘You didn’t even pick her up? Try to move the body?’ Eustace stood over the body of his former cook. ‘We didn’t want to move her in case it made things worse,’ Bumper replied. ‘Worse?’ Eustace turned to his son and showered him in an angry spray of spittle. ‘She’s dead? What could be worse than her being dead?’ Bumper stepped back from his father, trembling. ‘We didn’t want our fingerprints on her.’ ‘Fingerprints,’ Eustace murmured. He had never wanted to hit his son before. Of course, Bumper had never been involved in the death of a staff member before. Vinaigrette had crept in through the door and was standing behind her brother. ‘In case people thought we had killed her,’ she squeaked. She was still crying. Eustace thought that she had a damn good reason to cry. ‘But you didn’t.’ Eustace stepped past Matilda’s body and walked over Roberto, who had started to struggle against his bonds. As Eustace walked over to him, he started to rock back and forth on his chair. He was screaming against the rag that had been shoved in his mouth. Eustace grabbed Roberto by the knee and push the chair back down onto all four legs. ‘Roberto,’ Eustace said slowly, ‘I need you to calm down.’ Roberto didn’t. If anything, he got worse. Eustace sighed and turned to his daughter. ‘Vinny, could you tell him in Spanish to calm down?’ Vinaigrette nodded and stepped forward, saying a sentence in Spanish. Roberto stopped struggling but his panic had been replaced with utter confusion. Eustace looked at Vinaigrette. ‘What did you say to him?’ Vinaigrette shook her head. ‘I thought I told him to calm down. Though I may have asked if he had any squid.’ ‘What did you ask that for?’ Vinaigrette shrunk in front of her father’s anger. ‘My pronunciation isn’t very good sometimes.’ Eustace sighed. He reached forward and pulled the gag from Roberto’s mouth. At once, the little Spaniard started to yell out things that Eustace didn’t understand. He clamped his hand over Roberto’s mouth. Eustace tried to speak as gently as the anger in his belly would allow. ‘Roberto. I need you to calmo.’ ‘Calma,’ Vinaigrette said. ‘Calma,’ Eustace repeated through his teeth. Roberto stopped trying to shout against Eustace’s hand. His eyes stopped bulging out of his head and he stopped straining against the ropes around his wrists. Eustace pulled out his cheque book and a pen from his pocket, rested it on his knee, and wrote a figure on the paper. He lifted the little book and showed it to Roberto, whose eyes started to bulge again. ‘Comprende?’ Eustace took away his hand from Roberto’s mouth. Roberto looked past Eustace at the body on the ground, then back at his employer. ‘Yes, Meester ‘Abernathy.’ ‘Good.’ Eustace pulled the ropes from Roberto’s wrists and ankles. Once Roberto was free, Eustace stood up and turned to look at his children. ‘How much-‘ Bumper began to speak but Eustace held up a hand, cutting the sentence short. ‘That’s between me and Roberto.’ ‘What now?’ Vinaigrette was still shaking, holding onto her brother’s arm. Eustace pointed at her. ‘You’re going to call the authorities, tell them that Matilda has died.’ He walked towards the kitchen door. ‘Is that it?’ Bumper asked. Eustace turned in the doorway. ‘No. I’m going to order a Chinese.’

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 40. Animals

Why not have a nice wee story about animals who carry swords and old fashioned guns and are mostly crooks except for the protagonist. Also I had some fun with footnotes.

The moon was fat and round in the sky. The forest slept, almost perfectly silent except for the distant cries of the starwhals swimming through the night sky. Pug set down his cards and scowled at his brother. ‘I’m starting to think you’re cheating.’ Dug stared at his brother and raised an eyebrow. ‘You do know we’re criminals, right?’ Pug shook his head. ‘I know but can’t you even manage an honest game of Go Fish?’ Dug reached across their table, made of a worn out old barrel, and grabbed Pug by the collar of his tunic. ‘We’re guarding the front door to a castle harbouring a kidnapped prince. So no I won’t play an honest game of Go Fish.’ They both turned and looked up at the great mass of black stone that was Castle Deathtoallwhoenter. It was so jagged and pointy that it seemed a miracle that it was built at all. It was said that the designer died of paper cuts when drawing the plans for it, it was that sharp. Pug blinked, and looked down at the cards in his hand. He knew that his brother was right. They were bad, and bad guys break all the rules that they can. He looked at the five Aces in his hand1 and tried to figure out how to cheat. ‘Wait. Did you hear that?’ Dug jumped to his feet. His ears turned back and forth as he slowly walked forward and peered into the shadows of the trees. Pug got to his feet, his knees creaking. He’d been sitting for too long. Standing guard had involved a lot more sitting than he had expected. ‘Stop moving, I’m trying to- ‘ There was a soft thud, then Dug was falling backwards like a tree. Pug rushed forward, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. ‘Dug, what are you doing? If they find you sleeping, they’ll whip us both.’ A shadow loomed over Pug and his brother, and Pug turned to look at the big shadow that was looking back at him. ‘Who are you?’ Pug said, squinting at the dark shape in front of him. The shadow leaned forward, showing its whiskers and thick grey fur. ‘Night night,’ the shadow said. There was a second thud, more paw sounding than the first, and Pug was soon lying next to Dug and the two were tied up and gagged. Angelica Chevrotain clapped the dirt from her hands. ‘Good job, Percy,’ she said. The big cat beamed down at her. Angelica reached down and pulled out a big grey key which was almost as pointy as the castle it allowed admission to. ‘You stay here,’ Angelica said, holding the key very carefully. ‘And if there’s trouble that’s too much to handle, I want you to run away as fast as you can.’ The big cat shook his head ‘I won’t run away. I will sing.’ Angelica pointing at him, being as stern as she could with the cat that had never stopped being a kitten. ‘You run. I don’t want you getting hurt.’ Percy very rarely got hurt, but the Castle was renowned for the hurt that it caused to all who entered and he was under Angelica’s care. As the big cat walked over to the abandoned card game and started his own, Angelica walked to the door and tried to open it as carefully as she could, which was standard practice when a door was as razor sharp as this one. She closed the door carefully behind her and surveyed the grand entrance hall before her. For a den of thieves, the castle was really very well furnished. From the ornate paintings and tapestries on the walls and the suits of armour and chaise longs that lined the walls, it was quite elegant, if you ignored the thick dust that covered everything. Somehow dusting was always a task shirked by criminals. Up above, there were three chandeliers, covered in candles that were squat and slowly dripping their way out of their holders. The light they threw down at the hall below was muted and lacked any kind of warmth. The walls inside were considerably smoother, because even people who do bad things don’t like being around pointy things all the time. Angelica stayed close to the wall of the hall as she skirted her way around to the first of three passageways that ran away from the great room. She didn’t have a map, and was depending very much on her instinct which had helped her so much in the past. She peeked around the entrance to the first passageway, squinting down into the semi-darkness. Stairs, her head told her, look for stairs, because they wouldn’t keep the prince in the dungeon. Or would they? A second train of thought chimed in. What if they knew I would look for him at the top and they put him in a dark hole in the ground. Then she remembered she was dealing with the standard criminal and there work ethic was based on do first, think about way, way, way later. The second thought shut up and she returned to her first. Stairs. She turned and froze. A guard stood in front of her, peering at her as though he wasn’t sure that she was there. His little eyes made Angelica think that perhaps he could barely see at all. ‘Who are you?’ the guard said. The young knight tried to make herself look as big as possible. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’ ‘Me?’ The mole said, placing his hand on his armour plated chest. ‘I’m Gunther.’ ‘Well, Gunther,’ Angelica said, gripping the hilt of her rapier. ‘What are you doing so far from your patrol line?’ ‘I’m not on patrol,’ Gunther said. ‘I’m the stable boy.’ Angelica’s hand dropped. ‘Then why are you wearing armour?’ ‘Bodge likes horses that kick a lot.’ He rubbed his stomach in a way that told Angelica that he knew this fact all too well. ‘Plus the stables are pointy as no-one’s business.’ ‘Well that makes perfect sense.’ ‘You never told me who you are.’ Gunther stared blearily down at her. ‘Me? I’m uh… I’m the new cleaner.’ ‘Cleaner? A bit late to be cleaning, isn’t it?’ Angelica tilted her head. ‘A bit late to be heading to the stables, isn’t it?’ Gunther sighed. ‘Fine. There’s a party down in the basement. Ol’ Butcher is three years without cutting off one of his own fingers.’ ‘Ah.’ Angelica glanced down the passageway. She could hear the distant sound of cheering and merrymaking. ‘Well, I don’t think I was invited.’ ‘That’s too bad.’ Gunther stepped around her and made his way down the passageway. He stopped, and turned. ‘Hold on, you never told me your name.’ He squinted down at where Angelica had been standing, but, as far as he could see, she was gone. ‘Rude,’ he muttered as he turned and continued down the passage to the party. Angelica stopped at the second passage, hoping from some kind of clue. This passage was dark as the first. Even Angelica’s large eyes couldn’t make out the other end. Her gaze fell upon the wall just to her left. A massive portrait hung there. Bodge Delamiel glared down at her, resplendent in a long flowing robe of black and white, his left foot resting on the head of the king, which was surrounded in a puddle of blood. ‘Oh chestnut…’ Angelica covered her mouth as she swore, looking away from the painting. It was treason hanging on a stone wall. ‘I’m going to get him,’ she promised herself out loud, pulling her rapier from its sheath and cutting three long lines through the canvas. She turned at the sound of approaching chatter to see the glow of a torch bobbing towards her from the third passage. Three guards stepped out of the gloom, the scrawnier of the three turned to his companions. ‘I don’t know why he keeps putting me on these night shifts. I can’t sleep when there’s light out.’ One of his friends wrinkled his flat snout and grunted. ‘Maybe it has something to do with you trying to stab him last month.’ The first guard scratched behind his ragged ear. ‘He was trying to make me work on my birthday.’ As he kept up his moaning, Angelica dived behind a nearby suit of armour, making doubly sure that she was hidden and that she could see them while they couldn’t see her. ‘Far as I can see,’ said the second guard, ‘You keep bringing it on yourself, idiot.’ The first harrumphed and his friends let out an unpleasant burst of cackling and squealing laughter. ‘Wait.’ The last of the trio spoke for the first time, grabbing the other two by the shoulder. ‘Look.’ He pointed at the ruined portrait. He crouched down as the other two rushed forward. ‘Bodge is going to go crazy when he sees this.’ ‘What about we get some glue and- ‘ ‘Glue? I think he’s going to notice three massive slices in his favourite portrait.’ ‘Not if we- ‘ There bickering was cut short by a snarling shush from the third guard. He was crouching low on all fours, his ears turning this way and that, sniffing the air carefully. ‘They’re still here,’ he growled. Angelica heard the rasp of metal being drawn and her heart started to hammer in her chest. Her hand fell on the hilt of her rapier but she knew that her chances weren’t so good. They were all at least twice her size, maybe even bigger. She hated the thought of running but she was here to find the prince, not to singlehandedly bring down Bodge’s small army of wrongdoers. The sniffing was getting closer and she could hear the first two’s attempt at quiet footsteps. ‘Smells like… a mouse deer.’ The third guard chuckled and licked his pointed canines. ‘I ain’t et one of them before.’ The run option was looking more and more like the only option. ‘Chevrotain,’ Angelica cried, pushing all her weight against the armour. ‘Not a mouse deer.’ The armour fell on the third guard and the other two stood in disbelief. Angelica didn’t wait and sprinted as fast as her little legs would take her to the third passage, her only option left. Behind her she could hear the barked orders, and armour being shoved off a very angry canid. She paused for a moment as she came upon a smaller corridor to her left. Her brain was rushing back and forth in her head, hammered about by the blood rumbling in her ears. Go straight, they would see where she was running. Turn left, they might just lose her. She turned, rushing for the first door she could find. She wrenched it open. It creaked in protest. She closed the door as carefully as she could, wincing at the creaking groan as it closed. With her ear pressed against the prickly wood, she could hear her pursuers outside. ‘I heard a door creaking down here,’ one cried, snuffling in panic. ‘Which one do we search?’ ‘All of ‘em.’ The snarl was definitely the snarl of an angry jackal. Angelica gripped the hilt of her rapier. Their shuffling footsteps got closer. ‘Can you smell her?’ Another growl. ‘I can’t tell where she is. This place stinks of… him. They were standing outside the door. ‘You don’t think she went in there, did she?’ There was a moment of silence. ‘If she did, he can deal with her.’ She stayed at the door, listening as they opened the other doors, searching by throwing things around and cursing her with ear curling curses as they left without finding her. The jackal spoke. ‘We need to spread the word. There’s a mouse deer sneaking ‘round the castle.’ ‘Chevrotain,’ Angelica whispered, turning from the door to have a proper look at the room she’d been hiding in. A high window illuminated a patch in the centre of the room with moonlight. Within that patch, there was a chair and on that chair, there was a rabbit, bound by the ankles to the chair’s legs. He was reaching out to Angelica. ‘Help.’ His voice was as cracked as his lips. Half of the floor was water and the rabbit’s chair was perched on the edge. Angelica rushed forward, pulling him as he quickly as she could away from the water and starting to untie the rope around his ankles. ‘What have they been doing to you?’ As she loosened the rope and was able to get a closer to look at him, she could see the strange angles that his fingers pointed at, each one of them broken. Even still, he tried to get to his feet, but could only collapse back onto the chair. He shook his head and pointed as best as he could at the water. ‘The water?’ Angelica move towards the water’s edge, trying to see into its murky depths. ‘Run,’ the rabbit wheezed. A head popped up from the water, a pale shiny head with an unhappy look on its face. ‘Who are you?’ the head asked. Angelica stepped back for fear that the head would be followed by a body that, if the head was anything to go by, she would have preferred not to see. ‘I, uh, I’m the cleaner.’ Angelica smiled and pretended to sweep with no broom. The head’s frown deepened. ‘I haven’t had a cleaner in here before.’ ‘Run,’ the rabbit pleaded with what little energy he had left. ‘That would explain all the dust,’ Angelica said, stepping forward as the head was looking at her. ‘Y’know what?’ The head said, looking around. ‘It is dusty in here. Why haven’t I had a cleaner in her sooner.’ Angelica shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ If he is just a head, they could walk out of there no problem. ‘Well, that’s just not good enough.’ He glanced down at the water he bobbed in. ‘And I think my water could do with replacing.’ ‘I’m afraid water replacement isn’t in my list of tasks to do,’ Angelica said, starting to slowly creep back to the rabbit, easing him up from his chair as quickly as she could. ‘Typical,’ the head muttered. ‘What are you doing with him?’ ‘Um,’ Angelica looked at the rabbit, then back at the head. ‘I need to clean his chair.’ ‘No.’ The head splashed in the water as it shook back and forth. ‘He doesn’t get a cleaning.’ ‘Oh?’ Angelica froze. She could feel the rabbit shuddering beside her as she held him up from collapsing. ‘Why not?’ ‘He’s being tortured.’ ‘Please,’ the rabbit groaned. Angelica moved slowly towards the door. ‘Tortured? By who?’ The head puffed itself up as much as a head could. ‘By me.’ Angelica wanted to laugh but the frowning head in front of her and the trembling rabbit next to her told him that he wasn’t joking. ‘You’re torturing him.’ ‘The head shrugged like only a head could. ‘It’s a pretty rubbish job, but someone has to do it.’ The rabbit was pleading with his eyes for them to go. The head was still talking. ‘And the worst thing is I’m pretty much stuck here till the day I die. It’s not like I can get up and walk out of the water.’ She could feel his words already getting to her, itching at the edge of her min, eating up her will to go on. ‘And even if I could, there’s not much call for torturers anywhere else. Every castle’s torturing position is probably already filled and I doubt they’d be willing to put in a pool for me.’ ‘You complain people to death.’ The penny dropped and landed solidly in the pit of Angelica’s stomach. ‘Slow death,’ the rabbit groaned. The head nearly lifted out of the water with pride. ‘I’m an expert, but I think this the only place to use it, which brings me back to my future unemployment.’ As the torturing head had been talking, Angelica had slowly made her way to the door, concentrating on keeping the rabbit on his feet and the head’s words from having too much of an effect on her. She reached for a handle and found only flat prickly wood. ‘Trying to go somewhere?’ The head was smiling, a strange thing to see on the head’s face. ‘I need to get my cleaning supplies… outside the door.’ ‘You can drop the cleaner ruse, my dear.’ The head sniggered. ‘I may live in a hole in the ground, but I know a liar when I hear one.’ Angelica pulled her rapier free. It seemed pretty pointless after she’d done it, but her weapon was the one thing she could always trust. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ the head chuckled. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ Angelica looked at the rabbit, tears rolling down his cheeks The door swung open, a large white dog standing with a clay bowl of something indescribable and pasty in his big paws. ‘Oo’s ‘ungry for gruel?’ He asked as he strode into the room. He spun on the spot when the door creaked shut behind him. ‘Not again…’ The bowl fell from his hands as he rushed forward and started hammering on the door.  Outside in the corridor, Angelica was trying to make rabbit move as fast as he could go. ‘I can’t take you outside,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry but I’m here to rescue the prince.’ The rabbit nodded, then pushed her away. ‘You go. I’ll be alright.’ They stood for a moment. The rabbit looked like he was on the verge of collapsing. ‘If you make it outside, try to find my friend Percy. He’ll look after you.’ The rabbit smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Angelica turned and ran, the stairs in front of her getting closer. She bounded up the stairwell, two steps at a time. She expected to meet someone as she climbed up the levels of the castle but she didn’t.  The stairs stopped, she was at the top and she knew that her luck was too good to be true. There was only one door, at the end of short corridor, a slab of wood, studded together with black metal bolts. It looked like the kind of door that you had to ask its permission before opening it. As she strode down the corridor, a little cauldron of righteous anger and nerves bubbled where Angelica’s stomach should have been. Her little legs marched her across the uneven stone slabs and her big angry eyes were focussed on the door in front of her. She had come here to save the prince, and that was what she was going to do. She didn’t see what knocked her sideways. She only knew that it was long and thin and stronger than it should have been. ‘Not so fast, sweet little deer thing.’ The voice purred from the shadows above Angelica, each syllable threatening to pounce. ‘I think she’s going to fight us, Dixie.’ A second voice rumbled from another shadowy corner.2 ‘You might be right, Dyson.’ The voice above sniggered. ‘Do you want to go first?’ ‘Be my guest, compadre.’ The thing above dropped down, landing between Angelica and the door. It was as pointed and sharp as the castle itself. It took Angelica a moment to figure out where its face was among the tangle of what were either arms or legs. Glittering eyes leered back at her. ‘The little deer thing’s afraid,’ it jeered. Angelica whipped out her rapier and rushed forward. She swiped down towards the nearest limb and shuddered back as the metal hit against a hard armoured shell. ‘Your metal ain’t no good here.’ The thing rose up above her. ‘I got skin that can’t be cut.’ It had a flat body, every inch plated with the same armour that covered its limbs. At one end, a tiny cruel face, at the other, a bulbous tail that ended in a long thin whip that made her rapier look like a toothpick. She glanced at the shadowy corner, wondering what creature could be friends with this thing. She was knocked back once more by one of the creature’s blows, landing on her back, forcing all of the air out of her lungs. ‘Run away, little deer thing,’ the creature crowed. ‘You ain’t gettin’ in there.’ Angelica got to her feet, her rapier held out pointlessly as the creature rocked back and forth. It was humming to itself, making a sound like a chorus of nervous violinists. Her heart hammered in her ears, making it quite hard to hear what she was thinking. She slowed her breathing, took a step back and she cleared her head as quickly as she could. How do you fight a thing that’s completely covered in armour? Every suit of armour has a weakness. She searched the tangle of limbs for some sign of a weak spot. Finally, she looked at the creature’s face, stared at its glittering eyes. Of course. When she’d been training in combat, her old teacher Master Vance had often told her the same things. If a monster has eyes, go for them first. She could feel herself coiling as the plan started to sink in. Her muscles were ready, her brain focused. She pranced forward, ready for the first limb to swing at her. She ducked under a second, grabbed onto a third and swung herself up and she turned in the air. Another limb swung past her, but it missed. Her foot planted on the creature’s chest and her rapier plunged into the creature’s left eye. She couldn’t miss the next blow as it struck her across the chest, throwing her back. The creature was shrieking, a mass of writhing appendages swinging around, cracking against the walls and floor, cracking stones with some of its blows. Its fat lump of a tail slapped against the ground, the long whip clipping against the door, leaving long thin cuts in the wood. Angelica’s rapier was still pushed hilt deep into the creature’s eyeball. Black blood oozed down its face. A green liquid gushed from between the plates on the creature’s chest and the air was thick with a horrible acrid smell. After much shrieking and thrashing, the creature collapsed and grew still. Angelica was still on her back. She ached, and part of her didn’t want to get up. She lifted her head to see the second creature move forward and kneel next to its dead friend. ‘She’s quicker than she looks, Dixie my friend.’ It got to its feet and turned to look at Angelica. While Dixie had been sharp and thin, the second creature looked solid and scaly. Its face was covered in peach scales and framed with a ridge of off-white horns. Its eyes were a vibrant yellowy green. Angelica wanted to move as it strode towards her, but her limbs felt heavy. The creature came to stand over her, and she was trying as hard as she could to get her body to move, but it just didn’t want to. It smiled, showing rows of jagged teeth. ‘Did he hit you too hard, little deer thing?’ It lifted a fist above its head and brought it down hard on Angelica’s chest. What little air there was in her lungs was pushed out in a shrill cry. Stars flashed before Angelica’s eyes and breathing had become so difficult that she was sure that she had more than one broken rib. Another blow, another shrill shriek. The blood that hammered in her ears was starting to slow and she could feel the edges of herself starting to fade. Her vision was starting to swim. She lifted her head as high as she could and gazed at the rapier that stood up over the Dixie’s corpse. Another punch to the chest forced her head back. She doubted that the sword would have been much help anyway. She could hear singing. As her little world got smaller and darker, there was music in the distance, music that seemed to get louder and closer with each blow. I told him no singing, she thought, and she couldn’t help but smile. The creature’s fist dropped to its side and it cocked its head. ‘You smile?’ Angelica gazed up at her scaly attacker and smiled a little bigger. ‘I’m sorry.’ The stone wall was no match for the starwhals horn, the massive twisted cone smashing through the rock, its point sinking into the scaly creature’s chest as it stood wide eyed. Angelica’s attacker was lifted off the ground as the starwhal kept gliding forward, flying through the castle as only a starwhal could. Chunks of stone showered down over Angelica but somehow she didn’t get covered in rubble. When the horn’s point met with the door, the creature was pinned against the wood as the horn sunk into it. The starwhal twisted its head and the door was ripped from its place. The great creature rose and swam off into the night sky. Percy jumped down from its massive back and crouched down next to Angelica. ‘I’m sorry, Angie,’ the big cat said, twisting his fingers around a long piece of grey fur. ‘I know you said no singing, but I couldn’t help myself.’ Angelica lifted her head again. ‘The prince is down there.’ Percy nodded, and picked up his little friend. As they passed the Dixie’s body, Percy pulled the rapier free and held it carefully between his thumb and first finger. He stepped through the hole where the door had been and they found themselves in another dark room. In the opposite wall, there was a giant stain glass window, which caught the moon’s light and made strange pale patterns on the room’s carpeted floors. To their right, there was a bed, and on that bed, someone was sleeping. Percy was about to step forward when Angelica placed a hand on his chest. ‘Wait. How are they still asleep? A starwhal just smashed through here.’ The occupant of the bed started to laugh. He sat up, turned to look at them, and lifted a pistol. Bodge smiled before speaking. ‘I’m afraid your prince is in another castle.’ He kept smiling as he pulled the trigger. Angelica felt Percy’s arms drop, and she was falling as he fell. Her big friend fell backwards, keeling over as she fell straight down, bracing herself as best as she could. She hit the floor, the back of her head hitting the thin carpet and the stone beneath it sending a flurry of white hot stars through her head. As the stars settled, she lifted her hand to see the blood that had splashed across her fingers. To her left, Percy was lying perfectly still. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. There was a tear that had crawled down through the fur on his cheek. Angelica could hear the soft measured footsteps of Bodge Delamiel as he strolled over to look at what he had done. She watched him stand over Percy, slowly reloading his flintlock pistol. In the coloured light cast off from the stain glass, his expression was cold and calculating. He studied the body, before turning and walking over to Angelica. ‘It’s a pity that your friend had to die.’ A kindling of fire rippled up through Angelica’s stomach. ‘He didn’t have to die. You killed him.’ ‘And I could kill you too.’ He got down on one knee and pointed the pistol at Angelica’s face. She closed her eyes. As far as she could tell, there was no real way to get ready for dying. The moments before couldn’t prepare yourself for the great beyond. She held her breath and curled her hands into fists. ‘I’m not going to though.’ She could hear Bodge standing up again. ‘I believe you’ve already met my torture expert.’ ‘You won’t break me,’ Angelica said through clenched teeth. ‘You’d be surprised how many people have said that.’ Somewhere out of sight, Bodge laughed. ‘Can you tell me one thing?’ She tried to lift her head. Her lungs were burning more and more with each breath. ‘The prince is somewhere else, and he’s safe, until I decide that he won’t be.’ Angelica pushed herself up a bit further. ‘Then I’ll find him.’ Bodge stood in front of her. ‘If you say so.’ He pulled back a foot. Angelica closed her eyes. The kick threw back her head and for the second time a flurry of stars rushed up through her mind. And Angelica was floating, with nothing around her for miles. All was black. She would have floated away entirely, lost in the black ocean, but she was anchored by one thought. No matter what happened, she would find him. She would find the prince.

   1. When a deck of cards goes into the castle, what begins as fifty-two cards with four suits of thirteen tends to transform gradually through the rampant cheating that was encouraged by criminal peer pressure. If left long enough, a deck of cards could be replaced entirely by another that happened to feature a lot of aces and face cards. Poker wasn’t much fun in Castle Deathtoallwhoenter. After a while, neither was cheating.

2. It was a fact, not widely disputed, that Castle Deathtoallwhoenter had a higher number of shadowy corners than anywhere else in the country. Shadows in the castle seemed to like corners the most for gathering in.

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 39. Competition

This one was a lot of fun to come up with. I wanted the most absurd competition I could get. It turn out that its set in a world where cheese rolling is a worldwide phenomenon. Also there's kidnap/possible murder.

The press was having a field day. There were cheese puns on every local front page. Inspector Harry Lynch walked down to the interview rooms. Ainsley, the newest recruit who was still eager and green behind the ear, popped up at Lynch’s shoulder. ‘Can I sit on these, sir?’ Harry didn’t even turn to look at him. ‘Not how I do things, junior.’ ‘Oh.’ Ainsley deflated a little, holding out the coffee that Lynch had ordered on his way out of the main office. Lynch took it as he walked, stopping at the end of a short corridor. Four black doors lined the walls, two to his left and two to his right. ‘Eeny meeny miny mo,’ Lynch muttered. With folders under his left arm and a coffee in his right hand, he stepped towards the first door on the left and shuffled his way into the room. Ainsley’s eager face was the last thing he saw before the door snapped shut. Room one was the wife. Karen Manson, 43, wishes she were 30. According to what Lynch had skimmed over, she’d got tired of her husbands “late nights” and they were on their way to going their separate ways. Lynch set his coffee on the interview room table, then the folders, and pulled out the stiff plastic chair. As he sat down, he allowed a smile to spread across his face. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Manson.’ She was shivering, mascara’d eyes puffy and red, a pink handkerchief clenched in her hands. ‘That’s okay,’ she croaked. Harry gestured at his coffee. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea? Or maybe water?’ She glanced at the mug, then back at the inspector. ‘Would it be too much to ask for herbal tea? I have bags I keep in my handbag.’ She picked up her briefcase of a handbag and started to fish out the bags. Harry barked Ainsley’s name and the young recruit poked his head in through the door, his face alight with hope. That hope disappeared when he was handed herbal tea bags. The door clicked behind him as he went to get it made. ‘Now.’ Harry clasped his hands together and set them on the table in front of him. ‘How are you, Mrs Manson?’ Mrs Manson scowled, bristling visibly. ‘What kind of a question is that?’ My husband is missing and he could be…. Could be….’ She choked on the end of her sentence, and shoved the handkerchief into her face as new tears started to roll. ‘My apologies.’ Harry reached over and pulled out Mrs Karen Manson’s folder from the pile of four. At this point, Ainsley came in with the herbal tea and quickly exited. Once she had calmed down, Harry tried again. ‘I understand that you are very distressed by the recent events, but my job is to try and get to the bottom of things, and that will require me asking some difficult questions. Her face threatened to crumple into tears again, but she sniffed them back and nodded. ‘According to the information that I have here, you and your husband were going through… legal proceedings.’ ‘Divorce,’ She said, hiccupping. ‘We were going to be divorced.’ ‘I imagine that puts quite a strain on the relationship.’ Mrs Manson frowned. ‘Francis had already put a strain on our relationship with his… his goings-on into the small hours.’ Harry nodded sympathetically. It was an action that he’d practiced in the mirror quite a bit. ‘So things were difficult at home?’ Karen stiffened her upper lip. ‘Yes, but we were trying our best to go about it in as civilised a manner as possible.’ Harry smiled. ‘The plates were too expensive to throw at the walls?’ Mrs Manson sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘Even that didn’t stop me throwing them.’ ‘Had you and your husband had a fight like that recently?’ Mrs Manson pouted, her hands ready to leap up and cover her face in the tear-dampened handkerchief. ‘No one knows this, but Francis moved out of the house two weeks ago.’ ‘Moved out of his…’ Harry rifled through the pages of her folder. ‘… mansion at Cheddar Gorge?’ ‘Yes.’ Mrs Manson sniffed. ‘He may have acted like a teenager sometimes, but he was surprisingly mature in his decision.’ ‘So that explains why he disappeared from the Wainsley Hotel.’ ‘Yes.’ She picked up her herbal tea and sipped it. ‘And what were you doing that night?’ ‘I was being kept company by a full bodied Frenchman.’ She smiled at Harry’s cocked eyebrow. ‘I was finishing a bottle of red wine, eating a full tray of whatever chocolate I could find and watching a marathon of Midsomer Murders.’ ‘You like that kind of thing?’ ‘Wine has become a necessity for me recently.’ She took another sip. ‘I meant-‘ ‘I know what you meant.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Sometimes there’s nothing else on.’ She folded her arms. ‘I wasn’t looking for tips, if that’s what you mean.’ ‘With the divorce, you were due to get half of everything that Francis owned. His disappearance could mean that you get everything.’ ‘You think I did this?’ Mrs Manson had stopped shivering. She sat stiff and irate, staring wide eyed at the inspector. Lynch was suddenly very aware of the cup of hot liquid in her hand. He couldn’t help but wilt a little. ‘I have to look at all the possible angles.’ ‘I may be divorcing my husband, but that doesn’t mean I hate him. There’s still a part of him I love.’ She snorted. ‘That’s also why I drink.’ ‘Would you know anything about the piece of cheese that was found in your husband’s hotel room. She looked up from her herbal tea. ‘Cheese is just cheese to me,’ She said, shrugging. ‘Even black cheese?’ She looked at the inspector, sighing and shaking her head. ‘Sounds like it’s a bit past its sell by date to me.’ Harry finished his coffee and pulled the folders over in front of himself. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mrs Manson.’ ‘Do I have to stay here much longer?’ She held her herbal tea in her hands. She’d started to shiver again. ‘Hopefully not too much longer,’ Harry said as he stood up from his chair. ‘If you need anything, I’m sure Ainsley will be willing to help.’ He left the room, setting Mrs Manson’s folder on a small metal cupboard that sat out in the corridor. He held the other three in his right hand like a poker hand. Who next? How about the brother? Harry crossed the corridor and entered the room. He was met almost immediately by questions from Mark Manson, a thin pale stick of a man whose eyes were glowering and surrounded by the strain of sleeplessness. ‘Why am I being kept here? Surely, you can’t think I did anything to my brother?’ The inspector walked over to the table and set down his folder.  ‘Mr Manson, if you stay calm, this will be over before you know it.’ ‘It shouldn’t even be taking place. I have done nothing wrong.’ Harry sat down across from the little man. ‘Then all you need to do is prove to me that that is the case.’ Mark sighed. ‘Fine.’ ‘Just for the sake of completeness, can you confirm that you’re Mark Manson, number two cheese roller in the world, and former partner of Fromagique?’ Mark sighed again and nodded. His hands were clenched into fists and Harry could hear Mr Manson’s teeth grinding. Harry continued. ‘Your older brother is Francis Manson, number one and he was your business partner, until you decided to step back a few months ago?’ Mark nodded. ‘Can you get to the point please?’ ‘Where were you last night when your brother appears to have disappeared, around 6 o’clock at night?’ ‘I was out for a run.’ Mark sat back, lolling one arm over the back of the plastic seat. ‘I have an app that records my route. I can give that to you if you wish?’ ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your brother?’ Mark smiled. ‘How many interview rooms do you have?’ ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to kill your brother?’ Mark smiled a little wider. ‘I’ll refer you to my previous answer.’ Harry flipped open Mr Manson’s folder. ‘Why did you leave Fromagique?’ Mark waved his hand vaguely. ‘A difference in economical opinion. I had suggested that we branch out but Francis was adamant that we stay true to our cheese roots. Saying it out loud makes it all the more ludicrous.’ ‘You didn’t consider just stepping back? Letting your brother continue and you could reap the benefits?’ ‘I wanted to try my own thing.’ ‘And how’s that going?’ Mark stared pointedly at the inspector, who proceeded to ask more questions. ‘I read somewhere that you have a nickname in the cheese rolling community?’ Mark jumped to his feet and his chair clattered to the floor. ‘What does that have to do with this?’ ‘With your response just now? I’d say that I just struck a nerve.’ ‘That doesn’t mean anything.’ Harry flipped over a page, then glanced up at Mark. ‘Milton the Stilton? What does that even mean?’ ‘Don’t say those words again?’ ‘They make you angry don’t they?’ ‘They told me I stunk, that I would never be as good as my brother.’ ‘And that understandably left you a little… cheesed off.’ Mark sat back down. ‘Part of me is growing to hate the stuff.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Cheese scented perfumes? What the hell is wrong with the people who buy that?’ Harry smiled. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ The inspector picked up the main folder and pulled out the photo of the dark mystery cheese. He set it on the table. ‘Do you recognise this?’ Mark sat forward, pulling the photo towards him. He sucked in a lung of air between his teeth. ‘He did it. He actually did it.’ ‘Who did what, Mr Mason? What are we looking at?’ Mark looked up, his eyes emptied of anger and replaced with liquid awe. ‘Le Fromage Noir.’ ‘The what?’ ‘Le Fromage Noir.’ Mark shook his head and smiled. ‘The ultimate in rolling cheeses, cheese meets a tire, rubber meets milk. Nothing can slow it down. But… they’ve never been able to make it before…’ The little man sat back in his chair, still smiling. ‘The bastard must have got it right.’ ‘Would there be people who would want to hurt Francis over this?’ Mark shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised what cheese can make people do.’ Inspector Lynch blinked. He’d never had a kidnapping where the motive may have been cheese before. ‘How likely is it that my brother is alive?’ Mark watched the inspector. He wasn’t angry anymore. He was slumped with tiredness. ‘I can’t honestly say,’ Harry replied, slipping the Fromage Noir photo back into the folder. ‘I may not like him, but he’s still my brother. And blood is thicker than fondue.’ He chuckled at his own joke then stared down at his hands. ‘I didn’t do anything to him. I hope you know that’s true.’ Harry got to his feet. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Mr Mason.’ ‘How much longer do I have to wait?’ Mark was nearly on his feet again, the anger flickering in his eyes again. ‘Not much longer.’ Harry closed the door behind himself. Two down, two more to go. The question wasn’t who did he want to see next but who did he want to keep to the end. Six of one. Ainsley still sat outside, his legs bouncing with nerves. He jumped up when Harry came out. ‘Can I even sit in with the last two interviews?’ Harry glanced down at the two remaining suspects’ folders. He couldn’t help but grin. ‘Sure, kid. You can sit in on the next one.’ Harry walked over to door number three and let Ainsley in before him. Belle (no surname), born Litania Anchovic, sat at the table with legs crossed and cheeks rouged. Harry tried not to laugh when he heard Ainsley gulp. It was understandable. This was a woman who knew she was attractive and had weaponized this quality to a deadly level. If she wanted to, she could destroy any man in a heartbeat, and she knew it. As the two men sat down, she glanced at Ainsley and smiled. ‘You don’t need to look so scared, little one.’ Her thick Russian accent was quite pleasing to the ears. Ainsley gulped again and looked like he was about to ask to leave. ‘Do you know why you’re here, Miss Anchovic?’ ‘My name is Belle, only Belle.’ ‘Do you know why you’re here?’ She sat up straight in her seat, uncrossed her legs then crossed them over. Ainsley was on the verge of falling out of his seat. Harry expected her to ask him a question about cocaine. ‘Francis has gone missing.’ ‘From the Wainsley Hotel.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t have anything to do with this.’ Harry nodded. ‘So I keep being told.’ He flipped open Belle’s folder and pulled out the photo of the business card found on the hotel bedside cabinet. He slid it across the table. ‘This is your business card, yes?’ ‘Yes.’ She said, barely looking at the card. He pulled out a second photograph and set it next to the first. ‘Do you always kiss the back of your business cards?’ She smiled. ‘Do you want one?’ Ainsley was going faintly purple.  Harry sat back in his chair. ‘Were you having an affair with Francis Manson?’  She frowned and puffed out her chest. ‘I do not like your question.’ Ainsley stifled a gulping gasp. Harry didn’t blink. ‘Were you or weren’t you.’ Belle shrugged. ‘We were… involved.’ ‘Physically?’ ‘Yes.’ Belle adjusted her neckline and sucked in a deep breath. ‘There was something about him that I really liked. It wasn’t about the cheese, or the money. It was…’ ‘Love?’ Harry glanced at Ainsley, who was leaning forward with one finger pointing at the ceiling. Belle nodded slowly, staring at the young recruit. ‘Yes. Let us call it that.’ ‘Did you see Mr Manson yesterday?’ ‘No. We were both busy. He rang me that evening though. About four, I think.’ ‘And did he sound upset or afraid at all?’ She shook her head, her ear rings jangling. ‘No. If anything he sounded excited. He told me he had something that he wanted to show me.’ ‘Did you arrange to meet anywhere?’ ‘He was going to come to my apartment that night.’ ‘And he didn’t show.’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘Did you speak with him any other times?’ ‘No. I tried ringing him, but he didn’t pick up.’ Harry leaned back in his chair and watched her carefully. ‘If I said Le Fromage Noir, would that mean anything to you?’ She frowned. ‘French for black cheese. What does that mean?’ Harry shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’re not involved in whatever it is.’ ‘What is it?’ Harry picked up his folders. ‘It’s nothing to get too worried about.’ He got up from his seat. ‘Thank you, Miss Belle.’ Ainsley followed him out of the room. The recruit was sweating. ‘Why black cheese?’ Harry said to the wall opposite him. ‘Is it for the rolling?’ Ainsley croaked recovering his composure. Inspector glanced over at the door to Mark Manson’s interview room. ‘But why would someone get kidnapped for it?’ Harry squeezed his eyes shut. One more to go. Derek Clapton, the bad boy of the rolling world. This was going to be good. Harry walked into the room and Ainsley followed, the recruit’s new order being to not act like an idiot in front of the suspect. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ Harry said, as he sat down. ‘Sorry, guv.’ Derek Clapton had stretched out across the opposite side out of the table. His hands were behind his head and his fee were propped up on the corner of the table. He wore a leather jacket, torn jeans and a shaggy head of hair. He lifted the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out on the table. Harry clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him. ‘Congratulations on your recent string of wins.’ Derek smiled. ‘It’s just rollin’ cheese, innit.’ Harry nodded. ‘And I hear you’re climbing the ranks faster than anyone in cheese rolling history.’ ‘They say I’ve got a knack for it.’ He winked. Harry felt a flutter of anger, but pushed it back down. He didn’t trust people who wink. He flipped open Clapton’s folder and pulled out the clipping of a last week’s newspaper. ‘From what I gather, you also have a knack for rubbing the people up the wrong way, like our missing Mr Manson.’ Derek didn’t react. He blinked slowly and glanced over at Ainsley. ‘Y’just here to watch, mate?’ Ainsley looked at Harry then back at Derek. He nodded. ‘Don’t allow you to speak, do they?’ Ainsley shook his head. Derek chuckled. ‘Is that no, they don’t let me speak, or no, I can speak if I want to.’ ‘The second one,’ Ainsley squeaked, trying hard not to look at Harry, who was wishing that he didn’t have to look at Ainsley at all. Harry clicked his fingers. ‘You and Francis Manson had a run in last week.’ Derek sat up and set his elbows on the table, resting his head on his curled hands. ‘You seem to know this story better than I do.’ ‘What did he mean by you being an “impure disgrace”?’ Derek tutted. ‘Bunch of nutters, think that rollin’ cheeses should be made as pure as possible. The purer the cheese, the truer the roll. Crazy idiots. It’s just cheese. It’s not a religion.’ Harry pointed at the article he’d laid out on the table. ‘It says here that you suggested that you wanted to “meet with Manson to beat seven colours of curd out of him”?’ ‘Yeah, well we’ve all said something stupid when we’re angry, haven’t we?’ ‘There are some who would say that constitutes a threat.’ ‘A little sensitive, aren’t they?’ Harry leaned forward. ‘Manson’s missing.’ Derek mimicked the inspector, leaning forward in his seat. ‘Has he?’ ‘From his hotel room last night.’ ‘What was he staying in a hotel for?’ Harry shook his head. ‘That’s beside the point.’ Derek snorted. ‘You think I took him? I took him so I could beat him up? I don’t snatch people and shove them in car boots. Not my style.’ ‘What were you doing last night?’ Derek sat back in his seat. ‘Practising.’ ‘For what?’ Derek pulled out a toothpick and slipped it into the corner of his mouth. ‘Freestyle rolling. It’s my thing at the minute. More technical than traditional rolling.’ ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ Derek smiled. ‘I have my own fans. The Clappers. They follow me most places. Ask any of them. There’s probably some outside the station by now.’ Harry looked down at the notes in front of him. ‘And if I said the words Le Fromage Noir?’ ‘I’d roll my eyes and say not you too.’ ‘And why would you say that?’ Derek pulled the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at Harry. ‘You sound like one of them. My old man was one of them. Was good friends with Manson too. Then he died.’ ‘Drove off a cliff. Police said he was intoxicated but my old man was more t-total than anyone I knew.’ ‘And you didn’t think that strange?’ Derek shrugged, running his hands through his hair. ‘Everyone has bad days.’ ‘And your father was trying to make this Fromage Noir?’ Derek nodded. ‘Yeah, turned him into a paranoid head case. Kept saying that they were going to get him.’ ‘Who?’ Derek threw his hands into the air. ‘I never asked him. I didn’t want to know what was going on in his head.’ Harry frowned. ‘Who do you think he meant?’ Derek sighed. ‘The purists. And I mean the Super Pures. A cheese conspiracy. Le Fromage Noir is the stuff of legend, and they want it to stay that way.’ ‘Why would they not want people to find Le Fromage Noir?’ Derek laughed. ‘Why should I know? As far as I’m concerned, it’s all a load of-‘ There was the sound of crunching glass and Derek’s eyes became distant and unfocussed. He slumped forward as a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. Harry had already dived towards Ainsley and pulled him down to the ground. Harry could hear shouting outside. ‘What’s going on, sir?’ Ainsley squawked. Harry had started to crawl towards the door. ‘I really don’t know.’ He reached up, grabbed the handle and urged Ainsley to go through. Out in the hall, they got to their feet and were met by one of the officers. ‘Sir, someone got into the evidence locker.’ ‘Let me guess: they took the cheese.’ ‘How did you-‘ Harry glanced at Ainsley who was visibly shaking. The inspector rubbed his chin. ‘I think there’s far more to this than we originally thought.’

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Week 38. A Myth

This is really more of a folk tale than a myth. It's from my fantasy western world, and I just like Elwyn.

Elwyn was born a boy like any other, the son of a Welshman named Brandon Hughes, who was himself very nearly a legend. It is said that Elwyn had the brightest, bluest eyes that had ever been seen by anyone and that his hair was so blonde that it may as well have been white. The boy grew up in Jericho, that sat between the toes of Wilson’s Hills. While his father was a bear of a man, with a chest like a barrel and a beard like a bushel, Elwyn grew to be a slim boy, slight and graceful. He was quick and keen in all that he did. His hair was still as fair and pale as it had been when he had been born. The boy became a young man and with that, he started work with his father in the mines. It was dangerous work, those pits of darkness, with the occasional piece of hope that was chipped from the stone. It was difficult work as well. Elwyn was not made for swinging a pick, and each day he came home aching and sore. He did not stop though, because his father had taught him that a man sticks to his task, and does not complain. But Brandon knew that the mines were not made for his son. He knew where Elwyn was meant to be. As he had grown up, Elwyn had been keen to do as much as he could of everything, and that included reading whatever book he could find and listening to anyone who was willing to teach him. It was the old cowhand William who had taught the young lad how to hunt and how to gather.  And Elwyn had drank in every word. When he wasn’t in the mines, he would leave early in the morning and come back in the evening, laden with berries and nuts and rabbits and squirrels and whatever else he had managed to get that day. It wasn’t long before Elwyn was out of the mines and out gathering and hunting every day, selling on what he had and bringing in money for his family. It was one day that he was out with his father and that terrible thing happened, that event that turned Elwyn from a boy into a thing of local legend. As he and his father looked out from the edge of a cliff above the forest near where they lived, Elwyn lost his footing and slipped. Brandon tried to catch his son, but it was too late. Elwyn fell to his death, or what should have been his death. As he fell, his body collided with a passing crow. Together the two fell and as they fell, something that goes beyond belief happened. The collision between bird and boy made the two one, and Elwyn was no longer human. While his eyes stayed that bright striking blue, his hair turned from nearly white to as black as black could be. Midnight curled over Elwyn’s head. His hair had changed, but it was his legs that had changed the most. In the collision, whatever gods or spirits had intervened had taken the bird and… well, he isn’t called Elwyn Crowtoes for nothing. From the waist down, he was like a bird. His thighs were covered in thick bristly plumage and his calves were thing and bonelike. His feet were claws and Elwyn was unlike anything that the world had seen before.

Elwyn stopped and stared into the flames. He chuckled and shook his head. ‘Every time I tell this story, I feel more and more like it didn’t happen to me. Then I look down.’ He flicked away a stone with one of his pearly black claws. Duke didn’t know how to respond. His mind still couldn’t comprehend the man that sat on the other side of the fire from him, the man that was both man and bird. Duke picked up a piece of the cooked rabbit Elwyn had given him and slipped it into his mouth, chewing it slowly. Elwyn was still staring at the fire, a gentle smile settling on his face. He looked up over the flames and gestured at Duke. ‘The thing is that that is all that people hear about me. How I fell off a cliff and ended up a bird man.’ He shook his head and pulled his feathery legs up to his chest. ‘They don’t have to hear about how my father carried me home with my legs the way they were and he hid me because he was afraid. They don’t have to hear how I was hidden away and people thought I was dead, that I escaped and I’ve been pretty much alone ever since.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I get the occasional lost traveller, or I meet people like you, but I think you’re the first who hasn’t ran away.’ ‘I didn’t have the strength to,’ Duke said, his voice haggard and dry. ‘I appreciate your honesty,’ Elwyn replied. He pulled a round red apply from his bag and bit into it. ‘Did you ever go back to your family?’ Elwyn snorted. ‘Why would I?’ ‘They’re your family.’ Duke pushed himself up a little and picked up another piece of rabbit. Elwyn had stopped smiling. He wasn’t staring into the flames anymore. He was staring at nothing, his eyes unfocussed and distant. ‘They were my family. The Elwyn they knew and loved died falling off a cliff.’ Duke rested his head back on the tree trunk behind him and looked up at the stars that peeped through the gaps in the branches above. ‘What else do people say about Elwyn Crowtoes.’ Elwyn smiled again and shook his head. ‘I’ve heard all kinds of stories about me, most of which I didn’t even know I’d done. In some stories, I can do magic. In others, I can turn entirely into a bird and can’t change entirely into a human because of a curse placed on me by a witch.’ Elwyn plucked a feather from his leg and held it like a quill. ‘They say that I write spells on leaves with magical ink and the trees learn how to talk, that I call out to young lovers and lead them away to a place that makes them go insane, and I drink up their tears, and that I can talk to spiders and that I’m scared of the moon.’ Duke pulled apart another piece of the rabbit and threw it in his mouth. ‘How much of that is true?’ Duke asked with his mouth still full. Elwyn stopped before taking another bite of apple and shook his head. ‘Not a word.’

[beatingtheblankpage-blog]

Week 37. A Secret

I’m late in getting these uploaded. Sorry! This is meant to be a continuation of week 36, or a prequel really. It’s meant to be about a secret.

The Diary of Felicity Grenwald

July 2, 1953

Mister Van Der Haus is dead. After a night of laughing and drunken singing, the morning has brought this terrible news. Camp is a good deal quieter, with people trying to keep themselves busy instead of thinking too much about the man’s death. He was the one who brought the group together, a man with an expansive wealth and a thirst for exploring the unknown. I suppose it was good that we found what we did before he died. Between his death and Sebastien’s sickly state, I’m feeling a great weight across me, a pressure in my temples and a knotting in my stomach that has stolen my appetite away. The rest of the group have tried to get me to eat, and I appreciate their kindness, but I cannot. I am sore afraid. With Mister Van Der Haus gone, I do not know how we will get home safely, and with Sebastien’s condition, I fear that he will not get home at all. I pray that that will not be the case.

After looking over Mister Van Der Haus’ body – a task I do not envy – Doctor Pennyweather has found it was poison. From a local plant that Mister Van Der Haus himself had warned us about. There is a murderer in our midst. If the camp was quiet before, there is a new kind of quiet that has descended, a blanket of dread that threatens to smother us. Jeremiah has taken charge of the group, and Monsieur Lapointe has decided that he is his right hand man. Their first task to complete: to find the murderer and deal with them in a way that I dread to think of.

I had retired to be with Sebastien, rather than sit and feel the oppressive atmosphere that huddled around the remains of the campfire. Whatever malady afflicted him had already done its worst. Doctor Pennyweather declared him to be on the mend. The fever, while still present, had dropped and he had started to talk in broken sentences. I am tentatively hopeful that I will not be a widow any time soon. He asked me what happened. Even in our tent, he could feel the unease that the whole group is feeling. I told him, and Sebastien swore in as many languages as he could manage without swearing in the queen’s tongue in front of his wife. The illness has not taken away my husband’s ridiculousness. I am glad of that. He was about to drift off to sleep when we heard shouting outside. Sebastien tried to sit up, to even get out of bed, but his spirit was the only willing part of him. He fell back into bed and I moved to the opening of our tent. I was met with Lovewell Fincher, the maid that Mister Van Der Haus had brought with him for the expedition. She shoved me back into the tent and clung to me, crying and whimpering words that I could not make out. Outside I could hear Jeremiah calling out for her to come outside. I tried to get Lovewell to tell me what had happened, but she could only shake her head and wipe the snot from her nose. I eased myself away from her and moved to the tent’s opening. The maid lay on the ground where I had laid her, quivering and weeping. I stepped out into the diluted light of the day, and saw Jeremiah Botham and Anton Lapointe standing before me. They demanded that I bring the maid out. I asked what was happening, to which Monsieur Lapointe held out a bundle of the plants that had poisoned Mister Van Der Haus. They had been found in Mrs Fincher’s little tent, hidden beneath her pillow. I asked what they planned to do with her. They told me what was necessary. From the looks in their eyes, I did not want to find out what that meant. The large machete that hung from Mister Botham’s belt made me tremble. I crossed my arms and told them that we were civilised and that we would not act like animals. That made something in Jeremiah waver. He was an Englishman after all, an unruly gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless. He agreed that nothing would be done to Lovewell, much to the dismay that was painted on Lapointe’s face. She came out of the tent quivering. She’s now confined to her tent, under guard. We can all hear her crying in there.

July 3, 1953

I never thought I would have to write about a death two days in a row. This expedition has turned from a dream to a nightmare. The gold and jewels that we gained seems like nothing to me now, nothing compared to the lives that have been lost. Lapointe was found with his throat cut, lying outside the maid’s tent. Again the guilty party is the crying maid who claims that she didn’t do it.  Any knives that had been in her tent had been taken from her, so that ruled her out at least. Jeremiah looked tired for the first time since we left for this trip. The doctor didn’t need to look at the body; the red on the frenchman’s chest and the bloody strap that ran from ear to ear made it more than evident what had happened. The image of Monsieur Lapointe staring up at the sky with scared frozen eyes will stay with me for much longer than I would prefer. I myself felt faint, and left to lie next to my half-sleeping husband, who I am thankful to say has improved immensely overnight. I cried and he tried to comfort me with an arm slick with sweat. I didn’t push him off, didn’t push him away. If anything I wanted to let him take me away from here.

When we left, there was a seasoned explorer, a pilot, a doctor and his assistant, a linguist and his wife, and the wealthy benefactor and his maidservant. We have no pilot and our enthusiasm for our discovery waned with Mister Van Der Haus’ death. There was someone in our midst who wanted more, and was not above murder to get it. I just want to go home. We should have packed up camping and been on our way, but the two deaths have slowed down any thought of that. Not to mention we have no one to fly our plane. The camp is stunned and afraid. Even the fearless Jeremiah Quartermane seems frightened. Sebastien has climbed out of bed and is walking, albeit with faltering steps. It is better than what he was. It’s something to be thankful for in the middle of all this. July 5, 1953 For the last day and a half, Jeremiah Sebastien and I have been fleeing for our lives. Most of the gold we had gathered was left behind. Now we only have handfuls, two small sacks half filled with treasure. I haven’t been able to write until now. I took my journal too. These events I feel need to be documented. On the night of the third, I had been woken from my slumber by a bloodied Jeremiah. His ear had been sliced away. He told us to grab what we could, that we needed to leave. Lovewell was dead. Jeremiah didn’t tell me until just hours ago. He hadn’t had a chance to before then. I suppose I hadn’t asked him as we had fled. There was only the three of us. We’ve made it back to civilization, a little village with proper beds and proper food. We couldn’t stop for too long. We had to keep going. Jeremiah had also taken the map that Mister Van Der Haus had used. Sebastien asked why he had taken it. So that others wouldn’t go looking for it and have to go through what we had. That made sense to me, but I had a fear addled mind. He said cut it up and that the pieces should be sent as far away from each other as possible. Sebastien suggested burning them instead. Jeremiah didn’t say what he thought of that suggestion.

I am glad that Sebastien had regained most of his strength. Had he not, I may not have been writing this. Jeremiah tried to kill me, came at with me with his machete. Were it not for Sebastien holding him back and throwing the fiend from our bedroom window, I would’ve been gone, reunited with Mister Van Der Haus and the others who have perished in this terrible ordeal. We don’t know if Jeremiah’s dead though. His body was gone when we left the inn in haste. We didn’t wait around to find out. It is just Sebastien and I, and the map. Sebastien suggested burning it again, but I think Jeremiah had a point. We might not be ready now, but someday mankind will be ready for our secret. Someday.

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Week 36. Part 2

And here’s the second part. Neil looked into his teacher’s eyes and didn’t like what he was seeing. Getting strangled by your history teacher wasn’t a bad way to go either, he thought. ‘How do you -‘ Neil didn’t see where Mr Seller pulled the knife from, but he knew that it was there when it was pressed up against his throat. ‘Did she put you up to this?’ If this was all a joke like Paddy had said, it was the most messed up prank in the history of pranks. ‘Who?’ Neil had never heard Mr Seller snarl before. He’d never seen him this angry. ‘My granny?’ Mr Seller pushed in a little closer, leaned a little harder on the knife. ‘I don’t care about her, he seethed. There were little bubbles in the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell me where you put the map.’ ‘How do you know about the map?’ ‘Don’t play with me, Neil. I will kill you.’ ‘If this is you trying to get me to buck up and study harder, I think it’s working.’ Mr Seller hissed and pushed Neil back towards the desks behind him. Neil fell back and before he could get back up, Mr Seller was on him, pointing the knife at his face. ‘Tell me.’ He looked manic, like he was on the verge of going berserk. Neil wondered if all teachers were this close to becoming knife wielding maniacs. ‘The knife in my face is making it hard for me to remember.’ The knife only got closer. Mr Seller smiled. ‘Unless you want the knife in your face to literally be in your face, tell me where the map is.’ Neil’s mind was racing. Was all this true after all? If it wasn’t a joke that meant that there was something bigger behind his parents’ death, behind his nana’s death too. This was insane and now he was smack bang in the middle of it all. He glanced past Mr Seller’s snarling face at the classroom door. He needed out of that room as fast as he could. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. ‘Hello, Mrs Pritchett.’ Mr Seller jumped back, trying to stuff the knife in the first available pocket. He turned to the door, gasping and spluttering, freezing when he saw no-one there. Neil planted both feet firmly on Mr Seller’s chest and pushed with all his strength. Neil’s kick sent his history teacher staggering back toward his desk. Mr Seller slammed against the wood, toppling back and pushing aside the piles of pages as he fell backwards and disappeared behind the desk, his legs in the air. Neil was running for the door. He threw it open and ran out into the corridor, sprinting down it before Mr Seller could get back to his feet. He ran down the history corridor, past the geography classrooms and took the stairs up to the first floor four steps at a time. He slammed open the doors to the art corridor and ran down the length of it, slowing down a little when one teacher shouted after him. When he found Paddy in the sixth form centre, Neil collapsed onto the ground and caught his breath. Paddy looked down at him with disgust. Paddy was a runner. He never fully comprehended the irony that he sold stationery but didn’t like to stay stationary. Neil found it funny anyway. ‘Mr Seller just tried to stab me in the face,’ Neil wheezed between laboured gasps. ‘Was your assignment that bad?’ Paddy said, finishing off the bag of baby carrots that he’d been eating. ‘He knew about the map and he wanted to know where it was.’ Paddy crumpled the bag up in his hand. ‘He knew about the map? Did you tell him where the map was?’ Neil shook his head. ‘I kicked him and he fell over his desk.’ Paddy laughed. ‘That’s probably going to affect your final grade, y’know.’ ‘My teacher just tried to stab me in the face.’ Neil climbed onto the end of a cushioned row of seats and curled up into a ball. ‘This is turning out to be a very unusual day.’ Paddy crouched down next to his best friend and placed a hand on Neil’s shoulder. ‘I doubt he’d know where the map is.’ ‘He could probably make a good guess of it.’ ‘I doubt it.’ Paddy stood up and tucked his thumbs in behind his school bag straps. ‘Even you didn’t know I had a safe in that room.’ Neil uncurled himself and sat up. ‘I think this is far more serious than we first thought.’ ‘I think I agree with you.’ Paddy pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘When school ends, we get the map, and we figure this out.’ Neil looked down at his hands. They were shaking. At least they weren’t covered in his blood. He looked up at Paddy. ‘Don’t you think we should go and tell someone that Mr Seller just threatened me with a knife?’ Paddy scratched the back of his head. ‘Normally, I would say yes, but this situation I think needs a little discretion. I know he just tried to stab you but I think this is something big and maybe the police would just…’ ‘Just what?’ Neil said, his hands curling into fists. ‘Muddy the water? I don’t think Mr Seller is going to run to anyone. I doubt he’s going to be here tomorrow. For all you know he’s ran off to try and find the map.’ ‘Could we just go and get the map now? It might make me feel a little better.’ His stomach was aching from fear and anger. He was still shaking. Paddy sighed and shrugged. ‘I’m already ahead of my study plan, so I guess I could give myself a little break.’ They headed down together, Neil hesitating at each corner in case Mr Seller was standing behind it with knife in hand. When they rounded the corner to Paddy’s shop, Paddy gasped and ran forward. The door had been kicked open, the wood splintered around the lock. Inside, the contents of the room had been thrown from each shelf and the desk had been thrown aside. ‘Nononononono,’ Paddy whined as he jumped over the spilled stationery to the safe in the back of the room, the door of which was hanging open. Neil followed him to the safe. Paddy sighed with relief and laughed. ‘They didn’t take any of my money.’ ‘And the map?’ Neil pushed Paddy aside and felt his stomach drop when he looked inside the safe and saw that the envelope wasn’t there. ‘They got the map.’ ‘No. They didn’t.’ Paddy shrugged off his school bag. ‘What are you talking about? You put it in your safe.’ Neil turned and watched Paddy reach into his school bag. ‘Actually, I didn’t.’ Paddy pulled out the envelope and the box and he reached them up to Neil. ‘What did you do that for?’ Neil grabbed the packages and held them close to his chest. ‘I had a feeling, which turned out to be right.’ Neil looked down at the packages in his arms then up at his best friend. ‘Anything could have happened to them.’ ‘But nothing did. I was very careful.’ Paddy stood up and pulled back on his school bag. ‘I suppose I should thank you then.’ They both turned to see Mr Seller standing in the doorway. A large dark bruise ran down the side of his face and his hair was a mess. He was covered in sweat and still had a crazy look in his eyes. He started to walking towards them. ‘I’ve been looking for you two,’ he said, stepping over the stationery on the floor. ‘Hoping that we could have a little chat.’ He slowly raised his knife up in front of him as he got closer. ‘We can have a chat if you put the knife away.’ Neil pushed himself back against the shelves behind him. There was nowhere else to go. Mr Seller was between them and the door. ‘Yes, please put the knife away, Mr Seller... Please?’ Paddy was trembling. Neil couldn’t take his eyes off the knife in Mr Seller’s hand but he heard the click of the safe being closed to his left. Mr Seller chuckled. ‘I must admit that I’m disappointed that you got involved, Mr Brown. This had nothing to do with you.’ ‘I’ll give you the map, just please don’t hurt us.’ Neil held out the packages. ‘What? No,’ Paddy cried, grabbing at Neil’s outstretched arm. Mr Seller laughed. ‘You’re making the smart decision, Mr Hoelscher. Now hand it over.’ Mr Seller kept chuckling as he reached out for the packages in Neil’s hands. His fingers were centimetres away from taking them. ‘Get away from them.’ Mr Seller turned. Someone stood in the door. Someone dressed all black, with their face covered in the shadow of a hood. ‘Who are you?’ the history teacher asked. The stranger flicked out her left arm. With a sharp crack, a black wire wrapped itself around Mr Seller’s neck. The knife fell from his hand, clattering onto the beige vinyl tiles of the floor. He scrambled with his fingers at the wire. With a jerking motion, she pulled him towards her. Neil and Paddy stood, watching through the doorway as they fought out in the corridor. Neil still had his hands outstretched with the packages resting on his hands. Paddy was still trembling. The fight had moved a little further down the corridor. They could hear the sounds of fighting, the thumps and groans as the two combatants threw each other around. Neil half expected to hear the shouts of someone who had come across the fight, but that never came. Instead there was the sound of glass shattering and the sound of someone screaming as they fell. The scream was cut short, and down in the school’s central courtyard people were shouting and shrieking. Neil and Paddy hadn’t moved throughout the fight. Neil dropped his arms, which were starting to ache and Paddy was opening up his safe again, and shoving paper money into his pockets. ‘What are you doing?’ Neil turned to watch him shoving the money into every available space. ‘We’re going to have to leave the country,’ Neil said, ‘and I’ve earned this.’ The stranger was standing again in the doorway. They were panting, clutching their upper left arm. ‘Thank you so much,’ Paddy cried, slamming the safe door shut. ‘Who are you?’ Neil took a step forward. He wasn’t afraid of this person. They’d just saved his life. The hood fell back and a pair of teary blue eyes was staring at Neil. ‘Hello Neil,’ she said. ‘Hold on.’ Paddy stepped up beside Neil and grabbed his arm. ‘You know her?’ Neil knew her. He knew her from pictures that he’d seen, videos at Nana Ben’s house. And even without those things, he knew who she was. He’d never forget those blue eyes. ‘Mum?’