A Cheery Wave From Stranded Youngsters

This idea has been rattling around my head for years.  Like in many of my stories there's an element of autobiography.

The story is named after a track by Mogwai from their 'Young Team' album.  I thought the title was appropriate yet suitably enigmatic.

--

I eventually finished clearing out my late father's house last month.  The final room to be cleared was my old bedroom.  At the back of the walk-in closet, amongst the comics, school exercise books and forgotten toys,  I found a familiar green Clarks shoebox.  

Inside was my teenage diary.  I had kept it for three years while at secondary school, initially in a series of blue Challenge notebooks and then on an assortment of TDK D90 and D120 cassette tapes.  Beside the shoebox was my old tape recorder.  Despite languishing in a cupboard for a few decades, I was delighted to discover that the tape recorder still worked and the cassettes remained playable.  

My diary had started as a field record for school trip to Lundy Island, just off the Devon coast.  My biology teacher had expected jottings about petrels, kittiwakes and puffins; instead I produced a pastiche of Sue Townsend's 'The Diary Of Adrian Mole Aged 13 3/4'.   The teenage me was convinced that the future me would want to know all about the minutiae of his life.  Well yes, he was right, but more out of morbid curiosity than any desire for nostalgic genuflection.  Even so  I was pleasantly surprised by this diary; it was funny, embarrassing and occasionally quite poignant.   

The last two tapes were labelled  "June 1987 (1)" and "June 1987 (2)", the sticky labels written in tiny yet meticulously precise capital letters using a black biro.  

The first of the two tapes was the expected mix of ephemera about  the music I loved, the television shows I had seen and news about my family and friends.   I noticed that two things were uppermost in my mind.  Firstly I would pass my exams, do my 'A' Levels and then study either physics or chemistry at university.  Secondly I believed that my mother would make a full recovery after her upcoming operation.  Hearing my optimism about her prognosis was heart-breaking. 

Actually, there were three things.  I made quite a few references to an unsettled international situation.   I mentioned Libya, Iran and the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan.   It surprised me just how interested I had been in current affairs. 

-- 

Several times I had reminisced about childhood events, things I'd long forgotten.   In one diary entry, I had described a school visit to the Police Station in my home town of Basingstoke. The last stop on the tour had been a tiny room in the basement of the station containing a communications desk.  At this point the previously ebullient duty sergeant had become very subdued. He had lifted a telephone receiver and allowed each of us to listen in turn.  There was a plaintive and familiar noise with a rising and falling tone; to me it had sounded like an entrapped banshee pleading to be released.  

This was the Air Attack Warning.  

--

A couple of entries later I had described a realisation from when I was eleven.  Basingstoke was surrounded by military and civilian defence establishments.  To the west was the Greenham Common airbase where US Cruise missiles were installed.  To the north - the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment at Aldermaston.  To the east - Farnborough with its military airfield, the headquarters of British Aerospace and the officer training camp at Sandhurst.  On the coast to the south were several naval bases.    

I was an avid reader of comics at the time, in particular the science fiction anthology comic 2000AD.  One story described the effects of a nuclear blast in gruesome detail.  Using a map, a ruler and the knowledge about blast radii I had gleaned from this comic, I had discovered that just a single ICBM armed with a ten megaton warhead aimed at Basingstoke would obliterate or at least incapacitate all of the defence establishments surrounding the town.   

My family were living at Ground Zero.  That realisation had led to many sleepless nights. 

-- 

By the second tape, my diary entries had outlined a rapidly deepening international crisis.   

Relations between the US and the USSR had been tense again.  In Moscow, half a dozen US embassy staff were accused of spying and had been deported.  This had been followed by a tit-for-tat expulsion of Soviet diplomats from the US.  Several explosive devices had been discovered within  Camp David,  just before a meeting between President Reagan and the UN Secretary General, Javier Pérez de Cuéllar.   A Saudia passenger jet flying between Paris and Islamabad had been hijacked by a Mujahedeen cell.  This had been shot down in Afghani airspace by Soviet fighter planes.  Amongst the casualties had been several members of the French World Cup squad and a minor Saudi Royal.    

During a live address from the White House President Reagan had criticised the Soviet Politburo, echoing his 'Evil Empire' speech from four years earlier.  General Secretary Gorbachev had accused Reagan of 'inappropriate sabre rattling'.   

A large number of Soviet tanks had assembled on the Iranian-Afghan  border.  There had been reports of a NATO task force in the Gulf of Oman, poised to counter a potential incursion. 

-- 

I was puzzled by these diary entries.  They were from 1987; the era of Glasnost and Perestroika.  I could have sworn that the Cold War had begun to thaw by then.    

--  

In the 22nd June entry, I had said that my family had received their national emergency information leaflet.  It had re-iterated the information found in those bleakly matter-of-fact  'Protect And Survive' public information films, which were now repeated every night after the Watershed.     As instructed my family had created a fallout room and an inner refuge then stock-piled water, tinned food and other essentials within it.   

I had read the leaflet out loud in the diary.  Initially the advice seemed sensible.   After a short while this advice became chilling and oddly futile. 

I had described a fraught visit to an over-crowded supermarket.  Armed police in riot gear had been stationed there.  Angry, desperate people had begun fighting over tins of baked beans and packs of toilet roll.  The police had quickly broken things up using tear gas and rubber bullets. The supermarket was then closed and boarded up. 

There had been a special evening news bulletin on BBC1, half way through EastEnders.  The news reader, Sue Lawley, had explained that the UK was now in a state of national emergency.   

I had sounded so scared - so resigned - on the recording. 

-- 

My diary entry for the 24th June had consisted of a deep sigh followed by: 

"They've bombed Tehran.  It's gone." 

-- 

In the 25th June entry I had talked for a good ten minutes about a girl I fancied, someone I had known from school.  We had obtained summer jobs at the hospital together and I was hoping that our friendship would develop into something else.  I had sounded almost optimistic, a relief after the previous few entries. 

Then...  A distant background noise, plaintive and familiar; a rising and falling tone.  Immediately accompanied by panicked shouting, car horns, police sirens, doors slamming and the sound of frightened children.  

The muffled crackle of a microphone brushing against clothing.   

Now I had sounded confused and hysterical, asking again and again about the whereabouts of my family.   

Then I had begun to cry, to howl, to scream.   

About everything I had wanted to achieve, now denied. 

About my imminent demise. 

--  

The recording stopped abruptly.    

I had spooled on and pressed play a few times.  The rest of the cassette tape had been blank. 

-- 

Those last few diary entries...  They didn't match my recollection of that time at all.     

The summer of 1987 had been particularly memorable for me.    I can clearly remember the holiday job and flirting with that girl.  I can remember walking back home with her in the warm sunshine and kissing outside her parents' house.  I can remember celebrating our exam results together with two wine glasses and a bottle of Lambrusco in the Memorial Park.   I can remember losing my virginity to her while camping in the New Forest.  And I can remember the longing and regret I felt when her family moved away and we lost touch. 

So I've forced myself to listen to the recording again.     

This version of me - the one on the cassette tape - had experienced something profound and terrifying.   

Something real.  

Something final.   

Touch

Another story based on a song - this time it is Talking Heads' 'The Overload'.  

When writing their 'Remain In Light' album the band became aware of post punks Joy Division but had not heard any of their music.  Instead of using the power of Youtube or Spotify – it was 1979/1980 after all – they imagined what Joy Division sounded like based on a description in the music press and then wrote a song in that style.  They captured the spirit of the arch Mancunian miserablists even if the adopted musical style isn't quite the same.  The song is certainly a bleak and unsettling piece of music.  Certain phrases in the song - like 'a gentle collapsing' and 'the centre is missing' - have haunted me for years.

I started this story with the last two scenes clear in my head.  Unfortunately I struggled to get sufficient phlebotinum to hammer out a technological explanation for them.  I doubt that the PEP Therapy described in the story is feasible or even scientifically sensible.  As for the ending…  A fair amount of suspension of belief might be required if you are a molecular or quantum physicist or have knowledge of how medical nanotechnology will work.

I apologise in advance if this is the case.

                                                                                                                                              

Eighteen months ago:

The ENT Specialist sat down in front of us, placing my medical records on the desk in front of her.  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  Judging from her body language it was obvious that the news would not be good.  I tried to listen to what she had to say, but to me it her voice sounded just like a badly tuned radio; white noise interspersed with the occasional pertinent word.

Thyroid. Lymph nodes. Radiotherapy.  Inoperable. A year. Maybe.

Charlotte held my hand and squeezed it gently in reassurance.  I closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair and tried to shut out the inevitable news of my imminent demise.

Unexpectedly Charlotte then squeezed my hand - hard.  She was calling my name - 'Stephen!  Are you listening to what Dr Taylor is saying?  Isn't that great news?'

'...I'm sorry?  I don't understand.'  I responded.

Dr Taylor smiled.  'It's fine.  I'm used to this.  Many patients in your situation already suspect the worst and stop listening.  ...So I'll explain again.  As your wife already knows, I'm cautiously optimistic.'

I wasn't expecting that.  At all.

--

With conventional therapies my prognosis didn't look good - with a combined course of radiotherapy and chemotherapy I might have a year if was lucky.  Except Dr Taylor wasn't proposing that.  She was suggesting an alternative - a new treatment she called PEP Therapy.

She would examine the tumour with an ultrasonic collar.  Then, using a beam of electro-magnetic energy, the malignant cells would be 'touched' - so disrupting their molecular structure making them collapse in on themselves.  Apparently it was an application of  something called the 'Pauli Exclusion Principle'.  She explained a bit more about the procedure, but it seemed just a confused jumble of physics jargon and medical terms to me.

But I did understand this: if the procedure was successful the cancer would be gone - forever.  And if I followed Dr Taylor's post treatment advice to the letter I would live a long and healthy life – the treatment would have no impact on my longevity.

Well, it did seem too good to be true, ridiculous almost.  Even half an hour ago I had resigned myself to dying before my thirty-eighth birthday, to never seeing Amelia grow up.  But now I have the opportunity to live again. 

So I agreed to the procedure. 

--

Seventeen months ago:

It was a wet and dismal Monday morning in January when we returned to the clinic.  Christmas had been stressful to say the least.  Peculiar, almost.  On the one hand I was still in shock about the diagnosis.  Would I see another Christmas?  How would we explain to Amelia that Daddy may not be around for it?  And then...  What if this PEP Therapy succeeded?  How will that change things?  As a joke, Charlotte suggested trying for another child once I had recovered.  Or at least I think she was joking - sometimes it is hard to tell. 

As I said, it was a peculiar time. 

--

The procedure was not what I was expecting at all.  I had anticipated the whole operating theatre, surgical gowns, latex gloves, bright lights, general anaesthesia and crash cart-on-standby experience.  Instead, I was treated in a pastel walled room reminiscent of the maternity ward where Charlotte had had Amelia.

During the procedure I had to lie down on a comfortable leather couch with a plastic and metal collar around my neck.  Dr Taylor explained that the collar had two purposes; firstly, it was a 3D ultrasound scanner and secondly it used a strong electromagnetic field to prevent the tissues in my neck collapsing further.

Dr Taylor examined the ultrasound display, zapping the malignant cells using a stylus on a touchscreen.  Previous treatments had made me feel nauseous, but this was almost... pleasant.  Imagine someone pinging tiny elastic bands against your neck or perhaps tickling with a slightly scratchy feather.  I remarked that I was glad that the tumour wasn't behind my knees otherwise I would need a local anaesthetic to stop the giggling.  Dr Taylor and Charlotte both gave me an 'I can't believe you just said that' look.  Funny how they looked so alike when they did it.

Then there was the final stage.  To stabilise my neck following the treatment I had to be given an injection containing an initial population of nanobots.  These would multiply in number and then create an electromagnetic barrier surrounding the void left by the removed tissue. 

It took two hours to complete the treatment.  Dr Taylor removed the collar and smiled, satisfied that the procedure had been successful.

--

Following the treatment I would have to wear a monitor; this would monitor the nanobot population and ensure that their programming was up to date and correct.  It had a black resin case and an LCD display.  It looked exactly the same as a cheap digital watch I wore in school.

Dr Taylor told me that the number in the top left hand corner represented the number of nanobots in my body, measured in billions.  This value had to remain in the range 10 to 20.  

The top right of the display had a small icon.  If everything was okay the monitor would show a green tick.  If I needed a check-up, the monitor would show an exclamation mark on a yellow background. If there was ever a flashing 'E' on a red background I should contact A&E immediately.   

Dr Taylor then gave me a leaflet about post-treatment care, instructing me to read, understand and memorise every word.  She said all the information was important, but it effectively boiled down to one simple instruction.

Behave as though you have a pacemaker.

Whenever I saw warning signs for people fitted with pacemakers I had to assume that they also applied to me and then act accordingly. 

No exceptions.

--

Sixteen months ago:

After a month, the yellow exclamation mark appeared on the monitor indicating that I was due for my first post-treatment appointment.  Dr Taylor said there was no sign of malignant tissue and there was a good nanobot barrier between the removed tissue and the rest of my neck.  She was very pleased with my progress. 

Of course I had read the post-treatment leaflet. Many, many times.  It too encouraged me to imagine I had a pacemaker. To begin with I was particularly vigilant, always asking ahead if I was going anywhere unfamiliar.  If I saw a sign saying 'Please notify a member of staff if you are wearing a pacemaker' I was there, notifying.  I had that special credit card sized information card in my wallet warning all and sundry that at some point in the immediate past I had undergone PEP Therapy and I now had umpteen billion nanobots inside of me.  Some people were curious, most were indifferent.

After a while I stopped worrying. 

--

Six months ago:

This year Christmas was everything the previous Christmas had not been.   I understand now why my father said that he didn't really appreciate life until he nearly died after a motorbike accident.

I have had monthly check-ups following the treatment.  So far I've remained in remission.  I haven't felt so well in years.  Charlotte says that I'm looking younger and fitter too. 

The nanobot population on the monitor has remained at a steady 15, always accompanied by the green tick. 

--

Five months ago:

'Stephen?  Do you think Amelia would like a younger brother or sister?'

'You weren't joking, were you?'

Charlotte looked into my eyes, put her arms around my shoulders and smiled.

--

Four months ago:

Today was the first time I had to fly since the treatment.  Yesterday I was told I had a client meeting in Edinburgh at 9.30am.  So here I am, 5am in Heathrow Airport, wishing I was somewhere else.

Airports lull me into a floaty, half asleep state.  I know I need to get to a certain place by a certain time, but thanks to the muzak and the banal shopping mall ambiance I drift away, not really paying attention to anything around me.

I was approaching airport security in this absent minded state, just like the hundreds of times I did before the treatment.  Unfortunately...  I forgot to be aware of the pacemaker warning signs.  I forgot to mention to the security guards that I had a medical condition.   I placed my bag on the conveyor for the X-Ray machine, shuffled along to the body scanner and waited in line. The security officer motioned me forward and I walked through the scanner archway.  

And then I remembered.  

I suddenly felt very, very nauseous.  I reached out for the scanner archway and my hand sunk into it and then passed through.  I couldn't hold it, no matter how much I tried.  Then I made the mistake of looking down for a second and... the bottom half of my legs had melted into a sticky goo and I was gradually sinking into the carpet.  

Imagine if someone had melted one end of a candle then pushed the melted end onto a saucer.  That's exactly how I looked.

As I passed out I noticed the monitor said 45.  ...And there was an 'E', flashing angry and red.

--

When I came to I was laying on a couch in the first aid room.  My legs had returned and - apart from a lingering sense of slight nausea - I felt almost normal again.  There was a nurse and doctor present.  They had found the PEP Therapy information card in my wallet, thank God.

Unsurprisingly I didn't make it to my meeting.

--

Dr Taylor looked at me.  She had an odd expression on her face - a mixture of concern,  anger and, I guess, disappointment too. 

'Mr Peterson, let me explain what happened. The airport scanner disrupted the electromagnetic barrier created by your nanobots.  They multiplied three-fold in an attempt to counteract the disruption.  As soon as the scanner was turned off, your nanobot population stabilised and your body returned to normal.'

She lent forward.

'I hope you realise that this incident will have some impact on your recovery.  Fortunately it is unlikely that the cancer will return, but you have perturbed your nanobots and their programming.  All this will eventually correct itself, but for now you will be more sensitive to electromagnetic radiation.' 

I tried not to laugh at the idea of my nanobots being upset with me.  She noticed.

'Don't laugh - you were very fortunate.  This time... it’s just a friendly warning. Next time you might not be so lucky.'

She paused.

'Tell me; are you a sun-worshipper, Mr Peterson?'

I shook my head.

'Just as well.  Keep out of bright sunlight for a few months, Mr Peterson, and you'll be fine.'

--

Today:

Amelia was with her grandparents, so we decided to go for a day trip down to the New Forest.  We had a picnic, a blanket and each other. 

We walked for a couple of hours then found the perfect spot for lunch.  There was an oak tree, next to a stream.

We ate, chatted, cuddled and fell asleep.

--

I woke up on the picnic blanket.  The sun had moved from before; it was now shining directly upon us.  Charlotte was still lying beside me, sleeping.  I touched her hair.  It felt... different.  Somehow less solid than before.  My fingers touched her hair and passed through it at the same time.  The monitor said 17; the green tick remained.  I remembered thinking I was just imagining the whole hair thing.

--

'Charlotte?  Hey you, are you awake?'

She stirred then raised her head. 

'Hello...  Have we been asleep for a long time?'

'Not too long. About a couple of hours.'

She grinned.

'Have you given any more thought about Amelia's brother or sister-to-be?'

'Should I?'

'Well, it's a lovely day, there's no one around and...'

Charlotte kissed me then rolled me over onto my back.

--

While we made love I could sense Charlotte slowly moving lower and lower onto me.  I briefly looked up and realised with horror that the bottom of Charlotte's hips were a good centimetre inside mine.  Oddly my flesh didn't seem to impede her; her eyes were closed.  She hadn't noticed what was happening - yet.

I was reminded of something I learnt in Secondary School. In one of the books we were studying - I forget which - a character gets lost on a stretch of coastline and is led into some quicksand by an apparition.  The more the character struggled the deeper she sank.  There was a word for the behaviour of the water sodden sand...  

Liquefaction - yes, that's it. 

The number on the monitor was slowly increasing.  18, 19, 20...  At 21 the green tick changed into a flashing red 'E'.

Suddenly Charlotte opened her eyes and screamed.  She tried to push herself off me.  Her hips were entwined with mine, so she couldn't.  Thrashing with desperation, she lost her balance and fell on me head first with a wet squelch.  The number on the monitor jumped to 70 as she was gradually absorbed, flailing violently within my chest.   

Then she stopped moving.  The rest of her gradually disappeared inside of me, slowly, inexorably.

I realised that I had become quicksand.

--

The number on the monitor has been falling precipitously.  Ten seconds ago the number passed 15 - my 'normal' number.  My 'Green Tick, Everything Is Okay' number.

I know this is the end.  I did live longer than my initial prognosis suggested so perhaps I should be grateful.  And in a funny way I'm curious what is going to happen when there aren't any nanobots in my system.  If they were holding my neck up, what's going to happen when they are gone?  What will happen if there is nothing inside, no structure?

Well, I guess I'm going to find out soon.  The nearby grass, leaves and plants are slowly collapsing into me.  As they do, it's getting harder and harder to tell where I begin and where I end. 

Up above the clouds and sky are parting, leaving just the night sky.

Emily

Another Christmas tale - and a love story too.  There is a five letter word to describe Emily, but to state it would give the ending away.

I've noticed that a lot of my stories have an apocalyptic theme and/or feature someone meeting a sticky end.  I suppose it can't be helped for now - it was the PABC that encouraged me to start writing again after all.  I plan to rectify this situation in due course.

The world doesn't end in this tale - or at least not in the literal sense - but the protagonist might disagree.  

(Again...  Is this story auto-biographical?  In parts, yes.)

                                                                                                  

As a child I hated going to church.  Absolutely hated it.  I disliked getting up early on a Sunday morning and being frog marched into town with my parents, especially when it was cold and wet.  The awkwardness of having to parade out for Sunday School after the first hymn.  The incongruous jollity of the vicar when he tried to shoe-horn something funny into the sermon that he had heard on Radio 4 that morning. Not knowing what to do with my hands during prayers, or indeed what to pray about when we were supposed to pray for something of our own volition. And then there were the hymns.  Dreary dirges, every one.  Which was a pity, really.

Let me explain.

When I was in Junior School I had a young and enthusiastic form teacher called Miss Hadley.  I thought she was very pretty; she was petite, she wore her dark hair in a short bob and always wore dresses with a fine flowery print.  I remember once seeing her with wet hair when it rained during P.E. and being utterly transfixed by her (think Janet Leigh in That Scene in a certain Hitchcock movie).  Yes, I admit it - I loved her in that slightly confused, innocent and uncomprehending way that nine year old boys tend to love their female form teachers.  But the thing I liked most about her was the way that she played the piano during school assembly.  Most of the time she was like an over-excited labrador, playing as loudly as she could so that every child in the school hall could hear.  Occasionally she would play quieter, more subtle pieces and I loved to watch her delicate, slender fingers glide over the keyboard, showing that she had a musicianly skill and sense of expression in her playing that belied her usual sturm und drang.

This teacher always - always - played the happier, more modern tunes for the hymns during school assembly.  The ones that would make God Himself want to tap a dignified holy foot in time to the music.  All of this was completely lost on the vicar.  Every time he would announce hymn number 501 - 'O Jesus I Have Promised' - there was a ripple of anticipation in the congregation.  Would the tune be 'Hatherop Castle' (the one Miss Hadley played)?  Or boring, stentorian 'Wolvercote'?  It was 'Wolvercote'.  Every - single - time.  If I was God and 'Wolvercote' had been my worship music I would have made my displeasure very obvious.

I'm sorry. All this makes me sound ungrateful for the church upbringing my parents tried to give me.  I guess it didn't make much sense to the nine year old me.  A few years later, however, it did.  Perhaps not quite in the way that God might have intended.  Or maybe He did, I'm not sure.  ...But something changed and I suddenly wanted to go to church every Sunday, much to my parents' surprise.

Her name was Emily.

Remember what I said about my former teacher, Miss Hadley?  Emily looked like her, played the piano like her, wore the same kind of small floral print dresses as her... Unfortunately she was also completely oblivious of my presence.  I had known Emily since Infant School but I didn't really know her.  Small boys are highly suspicious of girls - or at least I was - so she didn't really register as being someone I wanted to get to know better until I was, well...  Fourteen, I guess.  Unfortunately (again) wanting to speak to someone so absolutely desperately and being able to string together any kind of coherent thought in her presence were two mutually exclusive concepts.  ...So every Sunday between the ages of fourteen and sixteen I would willingly go to church (because I knew she would be there), try to catch her eye across the congregation (and fail), shyly say 'Hello' to her if we met afterwards and then be angry with myself for the rest of the day for my complete inability to talk to the object of my affections.

As you can tell, I didn't particularly enjoy being a teenager.  And I am still ashamed that my near perfect teenage church attendance had nothing to do with wanting to be closer to God.

--

The years passed.  I never did manage to summon up the courage to ask Emily out.  She went to another college in the town for her 'A' Levels and we lost contact.  I went to University in another part of the country and overcame my teenage shyness around women (thank heavens).  When I returned to my home town during the holidays I used to visit the places of my childhood - a sort of morbid curiosity, I suppose.  I wanted to see if these places had changed.  I wanted to see if I still felt an affinity to where I grew up.

--

My parents' church always held an annual carol concert in the week before Christmas.  This was an opportunity to sing all the 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Nights' and 'O Come All Ye Faithfulls' interspersed with the traditional Bible readings from Luke and Matthew.  I really enjoyed singing these old traditional hymns - still do.  In my opinion it doesn't feel like Christmas until the Holly and the Ivy and King Wenceslas have had a proper airing.

So this is why I went to the annual carol concert the December before my finals.  There had been a couple of unexpected snowfalls in the week before, giving everything outside that chocolate box Dickensian feel.  Unfortunately the snow had frozen into ice; there had been an accident on the ring road that afternoon. I didn't feel safe driving so I walked into town instead.

I arrived a quarter of an hour early.  Even so the church was quite full so I had to sit upstairs in the gallery.  I was able to look down on the rest of the congregation and see some familiar faces from my childhood looking slightly older and greyer than before.  Then I heard a giggle and a familiar voice.  A voice that filled me with excitement and a peculiar, contradictory dread.

'Hello?  Is that really you?'

It was Emily.  She looked even more beautiful, even more desirable than I remembered - if that was possible.  Suddenly I was that tongue-tied fourteen year old again, incapable of talking to her.  She laughed then she held my hand.  It was colder that I expected, but she was still wearing her coat and it was cold outside so I thought nothing of it.  We smiled at each other and that angst - that fear that my love for her wouldn't be reciprocated - evaporated.

Like me she had come down from University and was revisiting old haunts.  I asked her the usual perfunctory stuff -  which university she was attending, what she was studying, how her parents were - and then she grinned at me.  It was a grin that I had seen many times at school, but she had never directed it at me before.  I could tell she was going to ask me something mischievous.

'All this stuff about University is a bit boring.  What I want to know is this...  You fancied me something rotten for years when we were at school together, yet you hardly said a word to me yet alone asked me out. Why was that?  And why didn't you pick up my incredibly unsubtle hints that I liked you too?  You were such a silly shy boy, weren't you?  Now shut up and sing - we can talk about this later.'

Well that told me, didn't it?  

The church organ had started playing.  So we sang.

--

Afterwards we went for a drink in a nearby pub and, as promised, we talked. At last, all that longing for Emily seemed worth it.  She was with me, talking and laughing with me, being the friends (and maybe lovers) that I had wanted us to be.  Five minutes before closing time, Emily said that she would need to leave soon - her parents were expecting her - so she scribbled a telephone number on a piece of paper and told me to call in the morning.

Then she kissed me goodnight.

--

I called the number in the morning.  A man answered it.  I asked for Emily and he said no-one with that name worked in the hospital mortuary.  I gave him a quick description of Emily and my name and number and asked him to call me if he heard anything from her.

I didn't hear back from him.  Perhaps it was foolish for me to think that I would.

--

There was an article in the local newspaper a couple of days later.  Two cars had been involved in the accident on the ring road.  The first - an SUV - had been driven by a man in his forties.  The second car - a Volvo estate - had been driven by a man in his late fifties.  There had been two passengers - his wife, also in her fifties, and their daughter who was in her early twenties.  The SUV had skidded on black ice and careered into the other car, killing the occupants instantly.

--

I never did see Emily again.  I miss her, even now.

Christmas, children, isn’t a date. It’s a state of mind

I wrote two tales for the Post Apocalyptic Book Club Christmas Short Story Competition.  The first was Tommo & The General; this is the second.  

The title is a quote by American educator Mary Ellen Chase.  The protagonist in this story - an actor called Nick - would probably agree with its sentiment.

                                                                                                

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick…

--

“Where’s Nick?  Has anyone seen Nick?”

“He must still be in his dressing room.  I’ll go and get him.”

The runner sprinted from the studio floor to the dressing room.  He knocked on the door – no response.  He carefully opened the door.  Sprawled across the dressing room table was a portly, white haired and bearded man in his late sixties, dressed in a Santa Claus costume.  He was in considerable pain; even with the stage makeup his skin looked almost yellow.

“Are you okay, Nick?”

“No…  Please, I need a doctor!”

--

"Here’s the next one."

“Who was he?"

“Don’t you remember?”

--

Holly:    “For the past thirty years my guest tonight has appeared on television and in the movies and he is known –and loved – by generations of children.   He has played many roles, but he is best known for playing Santa Claus.  For many he is that character.  Put your hands together, Ladies and Gentlemen, for Nicolas Christmas!”

Nick:    “Thanks for inviting me onto the show, Holly.”

Holly:   “You’re welcome.  So, Nicolas…  Or can I call you Nick? “

Nick:    “Yes, that’s fine.  I prefer it.”

Holly:   “So Nick, tell us about Santa Claus and how you came to play him.”

Nick:    “I’m sure you know, Holly…  I’ve told this story many, many times before.  Too many times, perhaps!  …But it helps people to understand why I have devoted myself to this role, why my portrayal is the one that people associate with the character.  I’m fortunate that I look a lot like an archetypal Santa.  There’s my stocky build, plus my Scandinavian ancestry, my cheerful demeanour, naturally white hair and bushy beard.  Then there is my name…  Nicolas was my maternal grandfather’s name.  And my surname, is… appropriately festive too, if sometimes... yes.   So I’m ideal Santa material.  …But it’s only when I put on that suit that I feel like I am him.  Suddenly I’m more…  I don’t know…  Jolly?  My grandfather was exactly the same.  One of my earliest memories was sitting on his knee wondering where he kept his reindeer.  I suppose it’s the family business.”

Holly:   “On the screen we have a photo of you and your grandfather at the start of your career, both dressed as Santa Claus.  Both of you looked very convincing!  So, when did you start working as a Santa?”

Nick:    “It started off small – local kids’ parties, school and church Christmas Fairs, seasonal work in department stores.  Then, some thirty-three years ago in a branch of Debenhams on a typically gloomy December afternoon, a young mum came in with her four year old son.  I gave them my usual jolly Santa, but there was something special there; a connection.  Yes, the child was initially shy but they usually are at first.  …And then suddenly he was smiling, laughing and hugging me.  His mother was in tears.   Later I found out why; the child and his father had been in a car accident the previous year and the father had been killed.  Since then the child had not talked, smiled, laughed or any of the things you would expect a four year old to do.  Somehow I had managed to bring joy back into the life of this little boy.  The mother called it a ‘Christmas Miracle.’ 

This incident reached the local news and I was suddenly in demand – I became the local ‘Go-To Santa’.  Then I met a young, beautiful and vivacious woman from a television production company and one thing led to another…  I was given a seasonal special and she became my wife.  Her name is Mary, though for obvious reasons I’ve always called her by her second name - Teresa.  That combination of her first name and my surname really is… too much.”

Holly:   “What happened next?”

Nick:    “Well, as you know, if anyone has needed a big jolly man with a beard in a red suit then I’ve been there.  There have been pantomimes, television shows, film contracts, charity events, merchandise deals and so on.  I’ve met politicians, royalty, the famous and infamous – everyone.   Of course I’m known for my Long John Silver and Shakespearian roles too, but it is Santa that I keep coming back to – he was my first role after all.   And Holly, I’ve never lost sight of what that role represents.  Yes, I’ve lived well, but most of the money I’ve put into a charitable trust to help the less fortunate.  I know all this makes me sound a bit sappy and mawkish but that’s who I am. I know I’ve been very fortunate.” 

Holly:   “I understand that you have some important news, Nick.”

Nick:    “Yes. I have.  As you know, I was ill while recording my televised Christmas message a couple of months ago.  I’ve tried to keep my health problems quiet but…. I guess I need to get them out in the open now.  You see, Holly…  I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  The prognosis isn’t good…  I have only a few months left.   …But I would like some good to come of my situation.   Please…  If you are watching this – on television, your mobile, online, wherever - I want you to help.   On the screen now there are contact details.  Use them – tell everyone you know about my campaign to find a cure, donate whatever you can.  I know it is already too late for me.  …But please - let us give some hope to others also facing an uncertain future.”

--

“Mr Christmas to see you, Dr. Frobisher.”

“Ah, yes…  Thank you Miss Wright.  Show him in, will you?”

--

Nick walked into Dr. Frobisher’s office.  Behind the leather desk stood a tall, thin and very well-dressed man in his mid-forties.  He was wearing a pin-striped suit with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his long nose.

”Ah yes, Mr. Christmas.  Take a seat, will you?  And how are you today?  I understand it’s been two years since your diagnosis.”

“Please… Call me Nick.  Well Doctor, I’m fine I guess…  I’ve kept busy, kept my mind off of things.  …Though I realise I’ve been very lucky; I wasn’t expecting to still be here.”

“Quite.  Yours is unfortunately a particularly unforgiving condition.  As you know Nick, there have been many advances in the field of cryopreservation over the past twenty years.  Even ten years ago a client who had undergone the process probably wouldn’t have made it out the other end with their mental faculties intact.  Nowadays a client at my clinic can be revived after several years without experiencing any major side effects.

Obviously it’s not a cure for your condition - it’s more a way of making you comfortable while you wait for one. 

Are you interested in finding out more?”

--

A bright light shone into Nick’s face.

"Mr. Christmas? “

"...Huh?"

"Are you awake, Mr. Christmas?"

"Yes, yes...  Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Frobisher.   Do you remember me?  Don’t worry if you can’t.  Disorientation is quite normal following revival."

“Yes…  Yes, now I remember you.  Hello again.”

“So, how do you feel?”

”Groggy...  Like I have been asleep for a long time.” 

"You have.  Eleven years to be precise."

"Dear God...  Really?  Oh, my head..."

"The revival process isn't exactly pleasant.  Drink this - you should start to feel better soon."

"Okay…  Wait... You've woken me up!  Did they find a cure? "

"All in good time...  For now have a drink, make yourself comfortable and try to rest.  I'll be back shortly; I'll answer any questions you might have then."

The bed was comfortable and Nick felt sleepy.  He closed his eyes...

--

Nick awoke on a gurney in a small empty hospital ward.  Everything there seemed scuffed and worn:  the tiles and the paintwork were cracked, the flickering strip lights were slightly discoloured and there was a strong smell of bleach that didn't quite disguise the odour of urine and vomit. 

He saw Frobisher sitting beside him in a red plastic chair, reading.  He didn’t seem the same confident, almost bullish man he remembered.  This Frobisher had a rough beard and smelt of stale sweat; his clothes had not been clean for some time.  He looked exhausted. 

“Doctor?”

“Ah yes, Mr Christmas.  Did you enjoy your nap? Be careful moving – you might feel a bit stiff for a day or so, but don’t worry you’ll be fine.  And I imagine your appetite must have returned by now so let’s get you something to eat.  Here, let’s get you into a wheelchair and we’ll go to the canteen. "

Nick shuffled to the edge of the bed then transferred into the wheelchair.  Frobisher wrapped a blanket around Nick’s shoulders, wheeled him out of the ward and into a small, grimy canteen.  Shortly some people arrived, shuffling slowly.  Most were dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns with plastic slippers; a smaller number wore white coats over crumpled jeans and sweat-shirts.  All looked thin-faced, grey skinned and tired.  Some were losing their hair; others had sores on their faces.  They sat down at the tables; Frobisher and Nick joined them.  A few minutes later a couple of white-coated men arrived from an adjacent room.  One was carrying white plastic dinner trays and a box of cutlery; the other a large dixie containing a grey, lumpy stew.  They served the food then sat down with the others.

Everyone ate in silence.

--

After the meal Frobisher showed Nick a small re-enforced glass window.  He cleaned it with the sleeve of his white coat. 

“Mr Christmas, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.  There isn't a cure for your condition.”

“So… why did you wake me up?”

“Please, look outside.  Tell me…  What can you see? “

Nick peered out.  Outside was a grey mist.  Immediately in front of him there were a couple of weatherworn bicycles, still padlocked to a rack.  Behind that he could make out a few stunted trees and the shadows of some nearby buildings.  There were street lights; none of them were illuminated.    

“It’s so gloomy - I can’t really see that much.  Is it evening?”

“No…  It’s about one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Really?  …I don’t understand.  What happened?”

“Six weeks ago there was a …brief nuclear exchange.  Everyone came to their senses and peace was declared almost immediately, but it was already too late.  The fallout fell, the skies darkened...  and it’s been like this since.  Fortunately we have our own generator and sufficient supplies for a few months, though the clinic really hasn’t been as much protection as we hoped and…”

Frobisher looked at the ground, took a deep breath then continued.   

“I’m sorry but we are dying, Mr Christmas - all of us.  Radiation poisoning, you see.  When we realised this we decided to revive our cryonic clients.  We thought, admittedly a bit selfishly, that they would like to spend the time they had left with us.  As expected, most of them opted for… a way out.  A few decided to remain and we were hoping that you would like to join us.  If you do stay you can change your mind at any time.“

“I see.”

Nick stared out of the window.

“What’s the date today, Doctor?”

“25^th December.”

Nick paused then smiled weakly.

“So let’s celebrate.  There is still time.”    

Well, I Guess It Is Something to Do

This Slightly Odd Tale is about petty office politics and unsportsmanlike behaviour.

If anyone ever asks me where I get my ideas...  Well, it's one of the many benefits of a cheese-rich diet.  

Probably more of a side effect than a benefit, admittedly.

                                                                                                                                      

As the Rider regained consciousness, he could hear voices.

'Is everything ready?'

'I think so.'

'Shhh!  He’s waking up. Go!'

'AHEM!  Bonjour, Maillot Jaune.  I trust you have rested well.'

The Rider slowly opened his eyes.  He was lying on a cold, hard bed in a simply furnished hospital room.  He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the overhead spotlight.

'Where am I?' he asked.

Next to his bed was an athletically built man in his early thirties wearing a black jersey, a white cap and fitted shorts.  He sported large sideburns.

‘You've have been asleep a long time.  Wake up and get changed into your Robes of Office, Maillot Jaune.  I shall return.'  Then someone outside the room hissed 'Allez maintenant!' and he bustled away.

At the foot of the bed lay a pair of Lycra shorts, a grey baseball cap and a tight-fitting yellow jersey.  The Rider stood up, coughed, and dressed himself.  He noticed that there was a plastic sports bottle filled with water beside his bed.  The Rider quenched his thirst, sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

A short while later the man returned accompanied by four severe-looking men.  They were also wearing cycling gear. 

'You shall follow us, Maillot Jaune.  Ralf, Florian, Karl, Wolfgang...  Begin.'

In unison, the men chanted 'Ah! HURRR!  Ah UR HURRR!' and then stiffly shuffled out of the room.  The Rider followed, uncertainly.  

--

The Rider was now inside a poorly maintained mini gymnasium.  At one end there was a ramshackle stage and at the other a worn pastel-coloured sofa.  The man with the sideburns bellowed 'Ah! HURRR!', then pointed at the sofa.  ‘Go!  Speak to Oh, Maillot Jaune’.

There was a slightly chubby African-American woman sitting there.  She waved at the Rider and beckoned him over.  ‘Sit by me, Maillot Jaune’ she instructed. 

At the other end of the room the chanters climbed onto the stage. They began to sing in a sonorous monotone while performing a slow, graceful dance.

L'enfer du Nord: Paris – Roubaix (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

La Cote d'Azur et Saint Tropez (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Les Alpes et les Pyrennees (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Derniere etape Champs-Elysees (Tour De France! Tour De France!)…

The Rider sat down on the sofa next to Oh.  Immediately the chanting stopped and the room went dark.  Suddenly the light from a single spotlight dazzled them.

‘Maillot Jaune, I expect you to tell the truth.’ stated Oh in a calm but firm voice.  ‘Did you ever take banned substances to enhance your cycling performance?’

The Rider looked at Oh, confused and horrified.  ‘Sorry?  What did you say?’ he replied.  ‘I don’t understand’.  The Rider could feel himself starting to sweat.

‘Did you ever take banned substances to enhance your cycling performance?’ she repeated, her voice sterner and more forceful.

‘Y-y-yes?’ the Rider replied hesitantly.

‘Was one of those banned substances EPO?’

‘I don’t know.  What’s EPO?’ the Rider replied.

‘ANSWER ME, MALLIOT JAUNE!’ Oh shouted.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about!’  The Rider tried to stand up, but Oh grabbed his forearm.

‘You sit DOWN, Maillot Jaune.  Tell me what I want to know and you shall be allowed to go.  Was one of those banned substances EPO?’  Oh glared at the Rider.

‘…Yes?’ he responded.

‘Good.  Now we are getting somewhere.  Did you ever blood dope or use blood transfusions to enhance your cycling performance?’

‘I guess,’ answered the Rider.  ‘But I don’t see what this has to do with…’

‘SILENCE!  Did you ever use any other banned substances such as testosterone, cortisone or human growth hormone?

’I suppose so… I’m not sure.’

In all seven of your victories, did you ever take banned substances or blood dope?

‘Erm… Yes?’

‘So you admit it then, Malliot Jaune.  SHAME ON YOU!  SHAME!  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS MAN IS A FRAUD AND A CHEAT!’

The Rider looked directly at his interrogator.  He could see the rage in her eyes.   ‘B-b-but I don’t understand!  What is happening here?  W-w-who are you?’ he stammered.

‘You damn well know who I am, Malliot Jaune.  (Oh my me, pardon my French!)’  

The chanters resumed their song…

Galibier et Tourmalet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

En danseuse jusqu'au sommet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Pedaler en grand braquet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Sprint final a l'arrivee (Tour De France! Tour De France!)…

Oh gestured to the man with the sideburns.  The Rider felt a blow to the back of his head and he passed out.

--

The Rider awoke on the bed in the hospital room.  He had a headache, but he appeared to be otherwise unharmed.  Beside him was a tattered box file. He opened it.  Inside was a single DVD-R with ‘Lance Armstrong – The Oprah Interview’ scrawled upon it, a brown envelope containing a music CD broken into several shards, an official looking letter and a small plastic case.

The Rider examined the remains of the music CD;  Kraftwerk.  Written on the envelope in small tidy writing was ‘How do you like them now?’

The Rider then read the letter.

 April 20--,

Dear Mr Armstrong,

In the light of current world events and the on-going austerity measures, I regret to inform you that your application for funds to purchase one (1) exercise bike for the Site Fallout Shelter has proved unsuccessful.  Additionally the decision to reduce the Shelter Entertainment Budget by 100% was regrettable, but necessary.  A memo instructing key shelter personnel to bring their own books, films and music will be distributed shortly.

As a personal favour to a fellow cyclist, I have provided alternatively sourced entertainment for you to enjoy if the worst were ever to happen.  I hope you agree that the music CD has several catchy little tunes; even if you cannot exercise on a bike as you originally intended, you could keep your spirits up by jigging about to the music.  Also, there is an important message to be gained from watching the DVD; cheats never prosper, Mr Armstrong. I know what you have been up to and I expect to receive your resignation from the cycle club at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

E. M. Armitage

Procurement Officer (Civil Defence­)

Civil Contingencies Secretariat

 --

The Rider sighed and refolded the letter.  Then he noticed the Post-It note attached to it.  It read:

Sorry!  I was a bit rough back there.  You can be Wiggins next time and I’ll be Lance.

Inside the plastic case was a pair of false sideburns.  The Rider smiled.

                                                                                                                                      

Puzzled?  These links might help give you some understanding about what this was all about.  Perhaps...

That Oprah Interview

Kraftwerk - Tour De France