Pulp Idol 2016

Pulp Idol - Firsts

Writing on the Wall Kuumba Imani Millennium Centre 4 Princes Road Liverpool L8 1TH Published by Writing on the Wall 2015 Š Remains with authors Design and layout by Rosa Murdoch ISBN: 978-1-910580-10-3 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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Contents Foreword

i

Introductions

ii

Jamie Carragher

1

Emma Morgan

13

Jack Roe

25

Billy Cowan

33

John Hewitt

41

David Lowes

47

Kate McCloskey

53

Paul McDermott

61

Lizzie Morrison

73

Alan Porter-Barnes

79

Andrew Taylor

87

James Wafer

97

Foreword 2015 has been an amazing year for Pulp Idol. In January we launched Alice and the Fly (Hodder and Stoughton), the debut novel of Pulp Idol 2010 winner, James Rice. In May we launched Pulp Idol 2014 finalist Clare Coombes’ debut novel, Definitions (Bennion and Kearney), and in October 2010 Pulp Idol finalist John Donoghue called in to thank us for our role in helping him get his novel, The Death’s Head Chess Club (Atlantic Books), published, which has now been translated into five languages.

We are incredibly proud of these writers, and the role we have played in the development of their careers; they deserve to be published, and it’s a tribute to Pulp Idol that they have gone on and used the competition as a platform for mainstream success.

You will find the same level of quality represented here with the 2016 collection of Firsts from the 2015 Pulp Idol final as selected by our judges, author James Rice, and literary agents Laura Longrigg from MBA Lit, and Hellie Ogden of Janklow and Nesbit.

As the competition grows so does its intensity. All those represented here have earned the right to be published. We are sure all our readers will enjoy these opening chapters, which will hopefully whet their appetite for more. We encourage publishers and agents to follow up those writers they feel they can work with to develop these chapters into complete novels for publication, so they too can enjoy the success of previous finalists.

Mike Morris, Editor and Co-Director of Writing on the Wall

i

Introductions The Gig, by Pulp Idol winner Jamie Carragher, is a savvy, sharply-written novel set in Birkenhead. In the ex-chippy basement of Skeletal Records, the narrator, Danny, a schoolboy music buff, is planning to stage the gig to end all gigs. His aim? To go down in history, win back his family and friends and, most of all, wreak revenge on Year 10 scally enemy Nate Sloan.

In This Way Home, competition runner-up, Emma Morgan, grabs the reader by the throat and doesn’t let go. Her introduction to Nic and Linus, the teenage Shaw twins, who are trying to cope with a traumatic and dysfunctional family life, is as powerful as it is heart-rending.

Arnold Strange, the lead protagonist and anti-hero of runner-up Jack Roe’s Strangetown, is just one of the marvellous characters populating this intriguing opening chapter, to what promises to be an unforgettable debut novel.

Billy Cowan’s The Crow Lady is told by Gabe, a tall, gay teenage outsider bullied by his dad and now living alone in a tent, supported by his friend, the Doc Marten-wearing Boots.

Here, in this local park, he meets a mysterious, white-haired lady with pink and white Nikes beneath the hem of her cloak, whose cohort of birds reveals to him a new, surreal reality.

David Lowes’ When a Fox Preaches is set in the reign of Charles II. Having accepted a living in the small town of Burford, its hero, parson Jeremiah Elsking, uncovers corruption and even blasphemous rites, the exposure of which threatens his marriage, his reputation and, finally, even his life.

Kate McLoskey’s Miracle babies is a beautifully crafted tale of teenage obsession exploring the contemporary issue of anorexia through the eyes of Cathy, as she reflects on her ii

mutually destructive relationship with her friend, Bea, and her own dark shadow.

Everything’s about to change in Paul McDermott’s excellent dystopian adventure story, 20-23, as Joe receives a mysterious call summoning him to retrieve ‘the item’ that has been hidden for twenty-five years. Meanwhile, with Europe under a downpour of biblical proportions, Munro is summoned for a mission led by the shadowy figure of General, Emanuel Nastasi.

In Lizzie Morrison’s Land of Shadows, Ruban Green, a fourteen year old Cumbrian, lives in the shadow of Gebrecan, a nuclear power station. In this fantasy novel with a strongly political edge, Ruban goes on a journey to this dangerous Land of Shadows to rescue the friend who has herself risked everything to save him.

Alan Barnes’ Time Writer combines comedy and sciencefiction in a brilliant opening chapter populated by the lead character, Harry Greene, who meets himself going forwards, backwards and sideways, in a ‘real-life’ story that threatens to out-do the sci-fi novel Harry himself is set on writing.

In The Shade of the Tamarind Tree opens nostalgically on Blackpool pier in a direct, unshowy prose style, that vividly conjures the characters in their time and setting. Andrew Taylor’s story of lost love and missed opportunities promises an emotional and thought-provoking read.

In Danny and St Nicholas, James Wafer leads the reader and his young hero into a mysterious world of time travel and long kept secrets when Danny’s stay with his grandfather develops an unexpected twist.

Jenny Newman, Penny Feeny, Editors.

iii

Jamie Carragher

jamieacarragher@gmail.com Jamie is a Writing on the Wall Young Writer and a graduate of the Liverpool Everyman and Playhouse Young Writers' Programme.

The Gig Nate Sloan is ruining Danny's life, both at home and at school.

Things are looking hopeless until Danny discovers the abandoned floor of Skeletal Records. There, Danny plans to put on a gig so good that it will reverse his fortunes and win back his family and friends.

1

The Gig Danny had always wanted a nemesis and thanks to Nate Sloan now he had one. It was much less fulfilling than Danny had imagined it would be. Having an enemy was exhausting. One reason why it was so difficult was that Nate Sloan was a scally and he displayed some classic scally tendencies such as:  Gobbing on the pavement,  Clutching his balls whenever and wherever  Wearing an unused knuckleduster that contained very low metallic content  Handing out pubes like fliers He was always backed up by a group of Year 10s. That added to the shame of it, getting laughed at by idiots from the year below. Nate was a year behind where he should have been, but this only gave him extra status amongst that lot. He was King of The Idiots.

One Friday when Danny walked out the school gates, Nate and his mates were waiting for him.

'Danny - yer a fuckin' virgin loser.'

'Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not,' replied Danny, coolly, instantly.

(Quite quietly.)

Danny had used the Arctic Monkeys album title as a rebuttal before. He liked doing so because it perfectly expressed how he felt whilst also letting the idiots know that he liked good music and was therefore better than them.

Double whammy.

But the retort was not risk free. If anyone ever accused him of being contrarian, Danny knew he would be screwed.

But Danny wasn't afraid of Nate stumping him with logic.

He was afraid of Nate repeatedly whacking him with a cricket stump. Or stapling his arm pits. Or setting him on fire.

2

That Friday he was safe. Danny moved clear of the group and walked towards Birkenhead, navigating his way past fellow students who had once been his friends. He felt relief rush through his body. It wasn't usually that easy.

Danny was on his way to his favourite place in the whole world: Skeletal Records, a grotty shop round the corner from McDonalds and Cash Converters. It had a big, red, metal door and no bottom floor. To reach the shop you had to climb up a creaky, narrow staircase.

'Alright, Danny.'

'Alright, Midget.'

Midget was the owner and sole employee of the SR. Midget wasn't his real name. Permanently positioned behind the counter, he spent his days filling out forms, penning angry letters and flipping records instinctively like a chef.

'You know what I think's underrated?' Danny asked.

'What?'

Danny shuffled on the spot.

'Treble.'

'You're not wrong, ya know.'

Danny was not entirely sure what treble actually consisted of. But he was entirely sure that he disliked any song that explicitly boasted about the dropping of bass and he thought it was about time treble got a look in. Midget grabbed a pen and added it to the list of Musical Commandments: Rule #557 Underestimate the treble at your peril.

Above Midget, a science lab skeleton hung from the ceiling like the victim of some terrible pi単ata tragedy. Around the skeleton's neck was a sign that read: 'This guy asked for a discount.' Danny peaked over Midget's shoulder. The storeroom door was slightly ajar. He'd never seen it open before.

3

'You should be playing something, man,' Midget said as he put the list away.

This much was true. But Danny's parents had never supported his love of music even though he evidently had 'bags of potential' (his words). Case in point: although they had paid for drum lessons, when, after a week of playing Danny developed a case of severe tennis elbow, they refused to pay for the physiotherapy needed to run side by side with the musical tuition. By doing this they were essentially sabotaging Danny's life and robbing him of the chance to flourish, creatively and generally. Apparently 'food' was 'more important'. How Danny and Midget laughed whenever they remembered that. #252 Music beats food.

'Got anything decent in?'

'Nothing new.'

Danny always asked this in the hope that Midget had discovered the next big thing. He wanted to be at the heart of something. He dreamt of being one of the Arctic Monkeys select who caught wind before the hype and sensation.

Midget once said: ‘Problem is, all the bastard Oasis heads who just wanna smash people up, they're all Arctic fans now.’ Midget was right. But Danny had been a Johnny-comelately too so he felt he couldn't complain. If he'd been there from the start, back in Hunter's Bar- oh, he'd complain alright.

He'd complain till the cows had not only come home but had added on a conservatory extension. Having a moan in those circumstances would be a moral obligation. But Danny had bought the record when it was already number 1 and he didn't want to be one of those muppets who went on holiday to a

4

popular destination and then complained about all the tourists making it busy.

'Early doors tonight, Dan.' The SR's opening hours were very loose and were dictated

by Midget's iffy digestive system and/or love life. They weren't unconnected.

If bowels allowed, Midget was always seeing someone new. He never actually went 'out' with his dates though. They came to him. They went up to his flat above the SR where serenading would take place; he'd make up lyrics referring exclusively to the appearance of whoever was round visiting.

Recently, he'd got some robust action thanks to two ditties entitled 'Girl with the Lympic Rings Round Her Eyes' and 'More Moles For Me.' After a few months of coming into the shop, Danny realised that the subject of the songs was never the same from one week to the next.

'Why you never happy with one girl, Midge?'

'Heartbroken, Dan. Have been since '78.'

'What happened in '78?'

'Everything changed after seein' Debbie Harry.'

'You were seeing Debbie Harry?'

'Just the once.'

'Still!'

'On a poster. It ruined women for me.'

Maybe Debbie Harry had finally picked up Midget's call. But Blondie or no Blondie, Danny hadn't planned on heading home so early. Sensing his disappointment, Midget slipped Danny an original copy of Paul Simon's Graceland free of charge.

Record in hand, Danny walked past the scummy nightclubs like Sherlock's and Paradise. He passed the Buffett 88. In another life it had been called 'The Majestic Ballroom' and both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones had played there.

5

Now the building was fronted by a sign that read 'Chinese and hai Cuisine'. The glory days of Buffett 88 seemed long gone, never mind The Majestic Ballroom.

Danny picked up his walking pace. He thought about what he'd do to cheer himself up once he got home. Have a wank, probably.

It was 5:15 when Danny arrived back at the house. Dark clouds dominated the sky and the rain began to fall. Danny rang the bell and it squealed. No reply.

He wandered down the drive, around the back to the garden. The backdoor was locked. He looked under the rock used to keep the backdoor open on hot days but the spare wasn't there. He unzipped the pouch at the front of his backpack but his own key wasn't there either. He looked through the kitchen window but his Mum wasn't standing there cooking dinner.

Instead, there was Nate Sloan, sitting at Danny's kitchen table in Danny's home.

This was another reason the whole enemy thing wasn't working out. They lived in the same house.

Danny's keys were on the table. Next to Danny's keys was the spare set and next to that was Nate's set. Nate shot a smirk at Danny, who immediately scrabbled around the house to check the windows. All of them locked. Danny's phone was on charge in his bedroom and there was no saying when his Mum and Dad would be back from work. Danny knocked on the kitchen window. It was an English stand-off: one person safe behind double glazing, the other miserable, getting battered by the elements. Danny gave Nate his best 'Okay, you got me' eyes. But Nate Sloan didn't move. He simply smiled.

Over the next hour, standing in the belting rain, Danny went from laughing hysterically to despondency, to exhaustion, and finally, to anger. Unable to take it any longer, 6

Danny went out the garden, down the drive and onto the street.

With Danny gone, the security light illuminating the garden suddenly went out and Nate was left alone.

Danny held the record to his stomach as he walked, his holding hand clenched and red. It was pitch black. The rain was 'Hollywood Rain', the type of rain that no matter how quick and heavy, it always managed to one-up itself. Under the spotlights of streetlamps it looked like the roads were spitting up rice.

Then he was at Birkenhead Park gates. They were open, allowing the road to roll through them. In the daytime they promised park and pitches. Now they offered unremitting black. To go into the park would be to welcome danger. At night, people went there to fight. To knife and be knifed.

Danny turned and ran. Away from the gates, along the park's perimeter. His feet slapped the pavement and the force of each step went shooting up his shins. He looked down at his feet to see what was wrong with them and his neck and head became a sudden weight. He crashed to the ground, grazing his palms and his knees, searing a little of his forehead.

He shot up. He felt the shards of Graceland crack and come away next to his shirt. Some dropped to the floor. He kept what he could and ran again.

Danny banged on the red metal door. It crashed forward and back like a cymbal, tinny and horrible. He didn't stop banging until a window two stories above rocketed up into its frame. A topless Midget stuck out his head and wailed a combination of 'Oi' and 'Fuck': 'Foick!' He looked down at Danny. Half a minute later, Midget was opening the door like the gatekeeper to a besieged city, mindful of an ambush or attack.

7

Up in Midget's flat, Danny stood on the welcome mat with his head bowed down, a chocolate brown towel around his shoulders. Danny began to shake with crying. He let the bits of Graceland slip out of his hand.

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry.'

'I shouldn't be here.'

Danny's nose erupted with mushy-pea-snot-peas right onto Midget's terracotta carpet.

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't you worry 'bout that. It's swallowed worse than that.

When I moved in it was snow white, swear down.'

Danny laughed and snotted some more.

'Okay, now you're taking the piss.'

And again.

'You know who cried a lot don't you?'

'Who?' Midget looked around.

'Led Zeppelin.'

'Really?'

'Yeah yeah. Jimmy Page, Robert Plant. John Bonham...John Paul Jones,’ He was just naming the members of Led Zeppelin, 'They actually did their best work when crying.'

He'd taken the lie too far now and his eyes scuttled off quickly to the left before returning to the centre again. Midget took him inside and showed him to the bathroom.

There, Danny slopped off his trousers, shirt and socks. The cold tiles pinched at his feet. He looked into the mirror and wanted nothing more than to be someone else.

Midget knocked on the door and thrust his hand through a gap, holding some plasters and a plastic bag stuffed with clothes, including a Bruce Springsteen tour t-shirt from 1992.

The t-shirt read 'I Believe In The Boss!'

8

Midget's living room was exactly as Danny had imagined it to be. There were rugs on the walls and no tables or chairs.

There was a giant cooking pot in the middle of the room that had never been used for cooking food. A lot of beanbags. On the shelves were choice records, books aimed at altering the mind and small bags of substances aimed at altering the mind hidden within some of the books.

As Danny crept into the room his eyes slalomed over the shelves. He pulled out a book. The Power of Now. 'You read this?'

Slumped on a beanbag, Midget craned his head backwards.

He dismissed Danny with his hands.

'I'll get round to it.'

Danny took a beanbag. For the next few hours the two of them didn't really speak. Midget chose, handled and changed each record. Danny slipped away into his thoughts, lost in the milky curdle of swirling vinyl. He refused to think of Nate or the b-word. About how his parents always took Nate's side because he was the fostered one. Danny sent his mind elsewhere: 'What do you want to be when you're older?'

These words belonged to parents, teachers, concerned friends of the family, and also, complete strangers. If they were human, had the power of speech and a basic grasp of English, they all asked that question.

Danny didn't know what he wanted to do. Also, he didn't know why he needed to know right now.

He reckoned that being 15 was similar to being pregnant (he knew full well that you could be both at the same time like Jenny Rideway from school) because a pregnant woman is asked the same thing over and over- 'When's it due?'- and so is a teenager. But instead of incubating a small, hairless

9

mammal, a teenager must harbour a fully-fledged road map of life from which they cannot divert at any point.

Danny was a dreamer, and as far as he could see he was the only one, Midget aside. So, when somebody enquired, 'What are you going to be?', Danny's rotating answers included jobs like:  A think tank  A travelling optician  An asbestos potter 'Wanna see something?' Midget asked, breaking Danny's train of thought.

They went downstairs, into the Skeletal Records storeroom. A wall of cardboard boxes stuffed with unsorted records stood before them. A lonely bulb drooped from the ceiling and was half submerged in the highest of the boxes.

Because of this it threw out light in a surprising way, as if the box was full of pirate treasure that was so brilliant it produced its own light.

'Suck in, kid.'

Midget breathed in hard but his belly didn't budge.

Somehow, he slipped through between two towers of boxes without knocking them over. Danny approached carefully; this was Jenga with stakes. One false move and the boxes full of filler would turn out to be killer.

Past the boxes, and basically blind, they fumbled their way down a staircase. At the bottom, Midget palmed the wall like an overly-zealous mime until he reached the switch he was looking for. The lights were clinical. Danny winced. When he opened his eyes he saw a black and white floor, furry with dust.

White menu boards were hanging on the wall: 'Fish and Chips- 50p' - it was the chippy that inflation forgot. Under the hot plate, lying on its side, was a beautiful black Fender guitar.

10

There were amps dotted all over the shop. A killer kit. Cool posters on the wall.

Danny was looking over at the drum kit in astonishment.

Behind the stool was a large standing circle. A big 'O'. It had the wooden legs of an old-fashioned chalkboard keeping it up, the kind with wheels and brakes.

Midget gave a toothy grin and tied back his hair into a fresh ponytail before pulling out two drumsticks from the holster attached to the kit. He blew on the sticks and sat down. With Midget in front of it, the mysterious standing circle now looked like a rock and roll halo.

He began on the hi-hat, raining down hits onto the metal plates. At regular intervals he pushed his left foot down on the pedal and the plates separated before quickly rejoining. Then he'd throw in a hit on the snare: Tsz-da-Tsz-da-Tsz-da-Don Danny didn't know that Midget could play drums.

'I dabble.'

'Dabble, my arse.'

'Don't mind if I do.'

Midget moved his momentum left to right, over to the toms, launching into a sweeping fill that cascaded around the room: Shigga-Digga-Digga-Dada-Da-Dadi And then his right arm drew so far back that he hit the skin of the big moon behind him - Dun- then his left went back and hit it too - Dun- and then in a flash he moved both arms over his left shoulder - Da-Dun-Dun Dun-Dun - before returning faultlessly to the beat on the hi-hat. It was amazing. It was samurai drumming.

'What is it?'

'The back drum.'

Danny had seen the future. This was boss and worth believing in.

11

'Me and the Wang Bang Gang used it back in the 90s, but you know, the world wasn't ready for it.'

Danny imagined riots in the streets. The BBC banning any song that incorporated or alluded to it; the best kind of publicity. The back drum.

Danny looked around the shop. The front window boarded up, the door unopened for so many years, the padded bench down the side. He walked around the empty space where the kitchen must have been, the stand-alone sink the only clue of its previous existence.

He had found what he needed. One gig here is all it would take. It would go down in history. In the years to come so many people would claim to have been at the gig in the chippie. A stupid number. An impossible number. With Danny, organiser supreme, at the heart of it all. He had no idea how he was going to do it, just that it needed to be done.

Wrapped up in this vision was Danny's salvation. This gig had the power to reverse his fortunes, to win back his friends and family. And it would thrust Danny up to the top and Nate down low. For they were as connected as scales: one could only prosper at the expense of the other. It was essential Nate had no idea about what was to come. He'd know about it only when it was too late to stop it.

12

Emma Morgan

teachinan@yahoo.com Emma Morgan was born in Guernsey and went to university in Liverpool and Essex. She has been a bookmaker’s clerk, stacked shelves in a library and read the Traffic and Travel on BBC local radio. After a lot of wandering about, including five years in Spain, she now lives in Liverpool again.

This Way Home In Liverpool the seventeen year old Shaw twins are doing the best they can to keep their family together while everything is falling apart. This Way Home is a dark story of love and loss, sex and drugs, and the poetry of everyday.

13

This Way Home The taps are on full blast in the sink and water sprays out onto the tiles of the kitchen floor. Nicola Shaw stands on the concrete outside the back door, locked out of the house, with no shoes, no jumper or coat, just a tiny silk nightie, and the dewed dawn is cold. She hops up and down, her hands slapping her arms to keep warm. She wants to get back into the house, she wants to go back up to her room and she wants to put on music as loud as it will go and pretend that none of this is happening.

She looks at the upstairs window and wonders if she could reach it, shimmy up the drainpipe or something ’cos it’s on the latch. She’s sure that Linus could make it up there but she never was no good at climbing, never did the messy, muddy things that he and Petey have done; she always was such a girly girl, all Barbies and glitter nail varnish. I’m useless, she thinks, not for the first time. If she had a ladder she could get up there though. She looks down the garden at the shed. They haven’t got a ladder that big but maybe she could just go and sit in there; it must be warmer than out here, there might be something she could wrap herself in.

The inside of the shed is orderly, a bit different from indoors today then. There’s an old workbench with bits of wood piled on it and tins with labels on. A rusted Quality Street tin labelled nails. A tin of that horrible biscuit selection her dad likes labelled screws. She could do with a screw. In the corner there’s a built-in cupboard. She turns the little key in the lock and opens it; it’s full of paint cans with their lids on proper, petrol, oil. A good place to start a fire. Just as well she’s not 14

one of them pyrowhatsits. At the bottom there’s an old grey blanket folded up. She pulls it out. Something clunks onto the floor. A bottle. Courvoisier. Linus. Their dad only drinks Lamb’s Navy Rum. She feels around behind the things in the cupboard to see if there’s any weed or fags, but she can’t find any.

She wraps herself in the blanket and it feels lovely, like a big rough coat smelling of Dad. She takes a swig out of the bottle.

Mmm. Warm. Another swig. Warmer. Toasty soon. The door to the shed bangs open so suddenly it makes her jump and she almost drops the bottle.

‘Where the fuck were ya?’

Nic says nothing. She knows better than to speak when she’s like this. She turns around but looks at the floor and hides the bottle behind her back.

‘Tryin' to warm up were ya? Nice for ya in ’ere is it? Well it’s not nice for me in there! In that fuckin’ death trap. In that fuckin’ shit ’ole. You cum back ’ere right now my girl an’ clean up the mess y’ve made. Y’dirty little cow! You slut! I know what y’ve been up to with them dirty boys. Don’t think that I don’t. Y’should be ashamed of yeself. Dirty. Little. Whore.’

Oh shit, thinks Nic, she’s gonna pull my hair. I don’t mind getting a belt but please don’t touch my hair. She backs into the corner and crouches down as small as she can with her arms wrapped round her head so that there’s less of her to be slapped and clawed at. But nothing happens. She looks up and sees that there are arms around the raging, spitting thing in the doorway. A raging, crazy thing that is not their mum, not really.

Their mum is nice. Their mum don’t swear; their mum don’t pull her own hair out and their hair. Their mum don’t tear up all of their stuff and rip up books and throw plates. Their mum don’t try to bite them and shout and talk to herself all the time, 15

and hit Nic so hard once, years ago this was, that she got a black eye, and the teacher called Social Services. Some fat, stuck up bitch in a cheap suit came round and talked about Care. Nic and Linus were hiding in the hall. Their mum nice as pie that day, she was having a good day, their dad dead polite; the lady went away in the end, wobbled off down the path, and part of Nic wanted to run after her and say, yes, please take me.

Linus is whispering into their mum’s ear now and whatever he’s saying, it’s working; he’s the only one who can help her when she’s like this, and if she hits him, he couldn’t care less the blows just bounce off. He’s picked her up now and he carries her back up the garden to the house. Nic stands in the doorway of the shed and watches them, thinks how their mum looks like a little doll, one of them ones with a white china face.

Petey is next to the kitchen doorway, hugging his yellow plastic Lego box. Part of her wants to stay in the shed but she walks slowly back over the grass, still with the blanket on, but with the end of it bunched up in her hand like a train, like she’s a bride or some fucking princess.

When she reaches Petey she wraps the blanket around him too and together they shuffle slowly through the kitchen where the floor is still wet and the kitchen cupboard doors are all open and there’s food scattered all over the place. They go through the hall and into the front room. There the cushions that are normally primped so carefully have been thrown at the bookcase where the ornaments are kept and some of them are on the floor. Thank Christ they don’t look broken. What’s that on the carpet? Mud? Their mum is lying on the sofa with a duvet over her, Linus sat on the arm next to her head humming quietly and stroking her hair.

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‘I luv ya Mum,’ says Petey, curling up at her feet.

‘We all luv ya,’ says Linus.

‘I’m no use to ya. I’m just a burden on ya.’ Her voice comes out muffled.

‘Y’re not a burden Mum,’ says Linus. ‘Y’re just not feelin’ very well.’

‘I can’t cope.’

‘It’ll be alright,’ says Linus.

‘Yeah Mum it will,’ says Petey.

‘I’ll make uz some beans,’ says Nic. Their house is ruled by the Scouse version of the Holy Trinity: Jesus, Marx and Shankly. Their mum goes to Mass three times a week with Petey, sometimes more, but the twins have been refusing to go since they were thirteen, forcing their mum to pray ferociously at night for their souls and for that of her militant Marxist-Leninist husband. Father Doyle remains her idol; every word that comes from his lips liquid gold. ‘Father Doyle says’ is the underlined heading of their childhood instructions. They mimic her and receive a slap round the back of the head from their dad. ‘Just you show y’mother some respect or y’ll get a ’idin’ y’won’t forget in a ’urry.’ She says the rosary every morning and every night, the ivory beads that were her dad’s slipping through her fingers. When the twins were little they watched her in this trance and didn’t quite recognise her, as if she had crossed into a country they couldn’t visit; it never had the same effect on them, and now they are as likely to say it as they are to bring The Daily Telegraph into the house.

Come the revolution, their dad will still be on the first train out of Lime Street: destination Leningrad, and their mum will 17

be on her way to Rome, on her knees if she has to. Catholics, Linus thinks, are addicted to suffering. They are pain junkies.

Their adoration of the agony of our lord is their quiddity. He thinks it’s sick. And Marx, he thinks, is the Holy Ghost. It may wander round after their dad preaching the dialectic, but it’s not getting me. He’ll stick with hedonism and Keats, with Steven Gerrard and amphetamines. And as for his sister, his pretty, pretty sister? She don’t give a fuck about any of it. She probably prays to Vogue. And Petey, who got given to them as a present when they were eight, ‘Look what y’mother brought ’ome from the ’ospital for ya’, well he probably prays to David Attenborough in the hope that he will finally be allowed gerbils. But then he’s a funny kid.

The twins are more than relieved that in the front room their mum and dad for once agreed on something: it’s the photo of Bill Shankly that has pride of place on the wall, looking like a prize fighter who’s just become champion of the world, looking like God before the worshiping masses. Just where he should be.

Now Petey stands in front of the settee in his instantly bedraggled version of school uniform, guard dogging a sleeping Mum, while Linus tries to sort out the contents of his rucksack for him and Nic tries to straighten up his clothes. At least they’ve tidied up a bit.

‘I dunno what y’do to these shirts,’ says Nic. ‘We found ’is other shoe,’ says Linus.

‘Yeah Nic, it was behind the settee.’

‘The mess in ’ere lad,’ says Linus.

‘Don’t wanna go to school.’ ‘ ’Ave them little basta’ds from Year Six been givin’ ya ’assle again?’ asks Linus.

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‘No.’ ‘Well if they do y’ll tell me won’t ya?’

‘Don’t wanna go to school. Wanna stay ’ere an’ look after me mum.’

‘Y’can’t be saggin’ now. That’s the last thing we need. I’m gonna wait ’ere ’til Dad gets ’ome’, says Linus. ‘‘Aven’t y’got that test paper thingy first thing?’ asks Nic. ‘It’s only English.’

‘Oh an’ Miss Thing. Well that’s alright then.’

Linus grins.

‘Miss Wells yeah.’

A tired, stooped Dad comes in from his night shift, his pale face all creases, and Petey runs and jumps at him, clinging round his neck.

‘Dad! Dad! Dad!’ ‘Alright son. Y’re almost too big for this now y’know.’

He puts him down.

‘We gave ’er 10mg of Olanzapine,’ says Linus.

‘10?’ asks Dad. Linus shrugs.

‘We’d run out of Diazepam. If y’ring for the script I can get it in me lunch,’ says Nic. ‘She only likes the blue ones though,’ says Petey. ‘Don’t get ’er the white ones, she don’t like them. Says they’re dangerous. D’y’think they are dangerous?’

‘No’, says Linus.

‘Y’gonna be late’, Dad says.

When they’re gone he stands looking at his wife. He puts his hands up and rubs at his face and then goes to find the number for the doctor.

19

Here are the Shaw twins. Linus has the brow and the aquiline nose of a Roman general on a coin; Nic’s nose is straight, her face a perfect oval. What they share are dark grey eyes, pale skin with faint freckles and the carved full mouth of Greek statues that on Nic looks indecent and on Linus so unexpected it confuses. He, like Nic, is skinny still, he’s got the height already and the frame but he hasn’t grown into himself. No meat on his bones. ‘Eat up kid’, says their dad. He eats and eats but to no effect. Their mum gives him extra chocolate ice cream for Sunday dinner. She stands over him, softly stroking the back of his head. He’s her favourite. Their dad loves Petey, is always in some corner with him building stuff out of cardboard or matchsticks, always down the shed. Poor Nic is nowhere.

Apart they are beautiful, but together they are astounding, from the root meaning to stun or stupefy. Linus has always loved the roots of words, ‘He’s swallowed the dictionary that one,’ says their mum. Linus is the clever one and everybody knows it, always has been, devouring books since he taught himself to read at three years old. In turn he tried to teach Nic but she never was much interested. Now Linus is at college, going to go to uni, and Nic’s left school with almost no exams; she’s working in a tacky clothes shop down the arcade. She hates it. The scratchy feel of the nylon in the clothes. The crap zips that stick. The fact that the shop smells of chemicals and plastic when it should be smelling of clean cotton and silk. The fat cow what runs the place who wears the clothes from the shop, ’cept they’re too small for her, all that black lycra stuck to her rolls of belly. Now she’s standing at the front door looking at her watch and tapping her fat foot.

‘Y’late. Again. Fifteen minutes this time’, says Fat Louise.

20

‘I was doin’ me make up.’

‘In the back of that Toyota parked up the lane?’

‘Yeah.’ ‘ ’Ave y’been smokin’ in the shop again?’

‘No.’ ‘What’s this then?’

She holds up the lid of a jar with a couple of cigarette butts in it.

‘Dunno.’

‘Five quid off for the fifteen minutes. An’ a tenner for the smokin’.’

‘One pound twenty five.’

‘What?’

‘For the fifteen minutes. On the shite wages you pay me.’

‘I’m just ’bout ’ad enuf of your lip. I knew plenty of girls like you in school. Y’think just ’cos y’pretty y’goin’ somewhere.

Know where them girls went? D’y’know where they went? No bloody where. Unless y’call two ugly kids by two different blokes ooh’ve both fucked off by the time y’re nineteen somewhere. Is that what y’call a future? ’Cos that’s where y’re ’eadin’. That was Andy Evans’s car weren’t it? If y’don’t ’ave the crabs already it’ll be a friggin’ miracle.’

‘Know what?’ says Nic. ‘What?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘Gud. Go fold them boxes in the back.’

‘Fine.’

But as Nic pushes past her Fat Louise seems to change her mind and she catches hold of Nic by the arm.

‘Look luv, I know, I know it must be ’ard for you at ’ome with ya mum an’ that bein’ ’ow she is an’ all but don’t throw it away 21

on losers like ’im. Y’not bad at this lark an’ y’eye for the lifters so gud I ’aven’t ’ad to look at the CCTV in months. I’m doin’ ya a favour ’ere. This could be a career for you this. I’ve done well offa this I ’ave. Me own ’ouse. Nice car. ’Oliday every year.

Went to Italy last year.’

‘I know, y’told me. Rome.’

‘Don’t see why you can’t go one of these days. Save up a bit.’

‘Our Linus would like that. ’E likes ’istory.’

‘See, look ’ow well ’e’s doin’.’

‘Yeah, but ’e’s dead clever like. I’m not like that.’

‘Since you’ve been ’ere, that till’s never been out, not once.

Go on, get back in there an’ take the closed sign off. Y’can do the window.’

‘An’ the money?’

‘I’ll let y’off. Don’t smoke in there again though, no gud tryin’ to flog clothes what smell like an ashtray.’

She lights a cigarette and pats Nic on the arm as Nic goes through the door into the shop.

That evening Linus stays home so that Nic can go out. He waits up for her, sitting on the front door step smoking a spliff, listening to the boring sounds of the suburbs. His dad’s still on the night shift, his mum upstairs asleep, better like that, then at least there’s someone home with her in the day.

Nic wobbles slightly on her high heels as she totters up the marigold edged path, tights laddered, her mini looking like it’s been in a bit of a fight. Their front garden is as regimented as park flower beds. The night air smells of the lawn in the back that their dad mowed today. Their dad and his prize chrysanthemums the colour of bronze medals.

‘Y’ve got shagga’s ’air our Nicola.’

22

‘That’s ’cos I’ve been shaggin’.’

She comes to a stop beside him and gestures for the spliff.

He passes it to her and she sits down next to him and takes off her shoes; they lean back against the door.

‘Me feet are fuckin’ killin’ me.’

When he grows up he won’t have a garden. He won’t live in a house that’s the same as every other house in the street. He won’t get trapped here, suffocating in the attempt to be respectable, or as respectable as you can get in a council semi.

He won’t have a car to wash on Sundays. He won’t own an iron. He’ll live in a flat in town near the Anglican Cathedral and at night he’ll watch the glow it makes over the dark slash of St James’s Gardens. He’ll stay up the nights or go out. He’ll bring girl after girl home. He’ll write poetry. He tries sometimes but he’s no good.

‘Andy? For fuck’s sake. ’E’s ’ardly the soul of discretion is ’e?’

‘As ’e been sayin’ somethin’?’

‘Only that y’re the best shag ’e’s ever ’ad.’

‘Well I am.’

‘But ‘’e shouldn’t be sayin’ that should ’e.’

‘Heidi Fairclough?’ ‘’Er sister weren’t bad neither.’

‘An’ ’er mum?’

‘Mmm…slightly lackin’ in the vaginal ’ygiene department.’

‘Could have told y’that much. Mingers the lot of them. By the way, sold a couple of tenths, an eighth an’ a quarter.’

‘Gud.’ He puts his arm around her. He always feels better when he knows where she is, he won’t tell her that though, she’d have a spitting hissy fit. All those boys chasing around after her, it would worry him if she was anyone else. She leans into him.

23

All those girls chasing around after him like he’s God’s gift, always asking her about him, like she’s going to say anything.

They finish the spliff and Linus stubs it out in a flower bed, he stands up and hauls her up after him. Then he opens the front door and they go in and there’s always this moment, always this long silence where, Linus thinks, like animals, all their senses are alive to the many possibilities that this house holds.

But tonight the silence is of the good kind, of the right sort of quiet. Thank fuck, thinks Nic.

24

Jack Roe

jack.b.roe@gmail.com Having received a Ba(Hons) in Contemporary Media Practice from the University of Westminster in 2013, Jack has spent the last couple of years honing his skills as a writer having developed an interest in the craft as a community theatre-based playwright as a teenager. After creating and maintaining a personal blog as a platform for original short form writing, he moved to the Northwest in 2014 and has since engaged with several prominent local publications including FACT and the Double Negative as an arts and culture critic. Strange Town is his first novel.

Strange Town Due to a bizarre and frankly quite silly series of events, the quiet seaside town of Hunstanton, Norfolk, has been separated from the rest of the UK. As the town undergoes a highly spirited societal collapse, local barista Arnold Strange, along with a heartbroken ice cream man and a Welsh gardening prodigy, rather absentmindedly comes to the rescue.

25

Strange Town

By Way of Introduction Arnold Strange had come to view the rain as some sort of abstract expression, some reflection of himself and his peers.

It had been falling for so long now that it no longer seemed a part of the weather system, instead a part of the physical landscape of his home, as integral and permanent as the ground he stood on and the trees he gazed at. Staring out of his living room window he wondered how many people had fallen in love in the rain, and if the rain had helped. He wondered how well travelled the rain was, if, were it able to talk, it could tell him of angry young men in Prague and pretty young women in Barcelona. Had it ever been to New York City, USA and fallen on John Cusack, who seems to get rained on an awful lot. It wasn't long before his thoughts were carrying him forward, in that dreamlike way they sometimes did. He found himself compelled to sample some of this wise and mysterious water. To see if his organs could, in their breaking down of this rain water, in its incorporation into his internal processes, discern something of tangible experience. He considered that maybe contained within an unsuspected and unassuming hydrogen particle he might decode some vital and simple and secret knowledge. He imagined becoming a part of the water cycle and ruining a picnic, along with Arthur's shoes and Heidi's summer dress, in Buckinghamshire at 2pm, on a Wednesday. He imagined his intimate acquaintances with deep sea creatures, being filtered through the gills of things that remained secret to probing humans. He imagined being buffeted by winds and riding thermal currents and being frozen into snow and marvelling at his uniqueness. He 26

imagined revelling in autonomy during freefall before smashing, breaking apart and reforming as part of some larger form, some serene mountaintop lake. He was struck, not for the first time, by the limitations of his humanity, by the disappointing boundaries that his corporeal definitions would not allow him to reach or cross.

He lifted an eggcup from the cupboard above his kettle, his favourite, with a tiny slogan imploring him to 'Rise and Shine!!' with reckless optimism, and strode purposefully down the garden path. Strode to the very same mismatched paving stone that had been laid in haste some years before and over which he had stumbled so often. He knelt there in the rain, and dipped his eggcup into the shallow puddle that had formed. Upon the transference of rain to lips, Arnold remained steadfastly human, never to frolic amongst clouds or along the ocean floor. This disappointment was tempered however when he realized that he alone among humans could reliably define the taste of love in the rain, the taste of adventure, the taste of John Cusack's shampoo.

And the rain continued.

It continued with such abandon as to make a mockery of Hunstanton's drains and to wash freely down the streets. It continued, with almost sentient glee, to make a mockery of the local ice cream men to drive them inside, to worry about their financial commitments and to try and remember the salient points of their educations. It poured scorn on the various outdoor entertainment attractions along the promenade, the lights and sounds of the seaside fair screeching and blinking to themselves, the carousel horses delighting no-one. It pattered without deference on the lavender fields on the edge of the town, turning the delicate 27

soil there into swampland. It rained. No-one was entirely sure of its cause, words like unprecedented had been used. Words like inexplicable. Heavy and expensive words that served no purpose other than to make people that knew specifically nothing seem more intelligent. To negate their failures. It rained on these people too, because rain only has one act with which to express itself.

In another part of town Reggie Borne was staring, in accordance with a strict social and moral code from which he never deviated, straight ahead at the urinal and saying absolutely nothing. His companion, Rick Jarvis, was oblivious to urinal etiquette, something which Reggie was keen to rectify, and was chattering away happily.

‘Honestly mate, this guy's supernatural. I've been tracking him for years. He never does interviews, he never goes on telly. The only trace of him is these weirdos on radio phoneins and regional news programs. They reckon he's like a train, like an old steam train, he rumbles along digging out a channel four foot wide and six foot deep and no-one knows who he is.

'Cept me, I do...’

Outside the men's washroom, life in the Oddly Shaped Pear went on much the same as it always did, with David Sowester's attempts to bring the bi-monthly meeting of the Concerned Citizens of Hunstanton Taskforce to order, or attention, or at least get them to pretend to care.

‘Gentlemen, ladies. Please let’s begin. Where's Reggie?’

‘S'at the bar Dave’ David, suppressing a shudder at this contraction of his name, reflected silently on the various disappointments of his life. His attempts to bring his natural instincts for civic concern and the betterment of his local community to bear on a group of like-minded individuals was a disaster. They met in a pub. A dirty pub. He was almost certain, looking at the pallid, vague 28

expressions of the eight men in front of him that the only reason they even turned up to these things was either because it gave them an excuse to avoid 'the missus' or 'her indoors' or 'the girls' for an evening, or indeed because they were in the pub anyway at the inaugural meeting and David just happened to claim the table they would have been sitting at. Most of all he hated Reggie Borne. Reggie with his smiles and his puppy charms, his wide-eyed enthusiasm and his ability to actually get a reaction out of these hideous people. His infernal combination of desire and ability to get things done that never failed to make David himself look like a bit of a knob. Oh and here he came now, and of course he had a drink for everyone.

Popular, likable, generous Reggie Borne. The little shit.

‘Sorry Dave, didn't know what you were drinking. I'll go back if you want?’ Reggie beamed ‘David. That's quite alright Reginald’ David's attempts to convey his annoyance at Reggie's tardiness were rather spoiled by his handing out of cloudy yellowing pints of ale to a grateful committee.

‘It's Reggie, Dave. And this is my mate Rick.’ Reggie, hands full of beer nodded vaguely towards Rick Jarvis. Pale, gangling Rick Jarvis. Scruffy Rick Jarvis. David hated him instantly.

‘David. And you are?’

‘Rick Jarvis, Dave. I'm with Reggie’ ‘E's with me Dave.’ Reggie, the human approximation of a cat with a dead bird as a 'present' ‘Well, as this is a private committee rather than a public forum, I have to wonder why he's here. And it's David. My name. My name is David’ ‘Sorry Dave. Well it’s about the lavender fields see. Rick might know someone who can help.’

29

Three days later, roughly 230 miles away, away from the rain and David's rapidly deteriorating mood, away from the rain and Arnold's pondering, in the picturesque village of Usk in South Wales, winner of Britain in Bloom's prestigious Large Village award in 2005, Bryn Parry blinked and shook his head slightly. The book in front of him, a collection of short stories that updated and transposed Ancient Greek mythology into contemporary society, frankly made no bloody sense.

Bookmarking his place on Damocles' adventures as a Premier League football manager he gave up the pretence and was reaching for the television remote when he was interrupted by a rather enthusiastic knock at the door of his rather lovely little bungalow. He opened the door to see a round-faced and somewhat short young man on his doorstep beaming like the noonday sun.

‘Can I help you?’ Bryn said.

‘Are you Bryn Parry? I'm Reggie Borne, big fan. Here!’

Reggie put a rather damp brown envelope into Bryn's hand and stood back, still smiling with an expression bordering on lunatic that Bryn couldn't decide if he found endearing or slightly scary.

‘Read it! Please, I've been looking for you for hours!’

Bryn, who knew on some level that this was not a person he had the energy to refuse, looked at the envelope. It looked as though its short life had been a sorry one, bundled, scraped, wetted, folded and slightly torn. He took out a letter addressed to him on official looking, high quality paper and read thus;

30

The Oddly Shaped Pear The Green Hunstanton Norfolk PE36 6BQ Dear Mr. Bryn Parry, We are concerned. I am sure you are well aware of Hunstanton, we are after all proud to call the only West facing beach on the East coast of this United Kingdom home. As you yourself are a denizen of Usk, proud and deserving winner of Britain in Bloom's Large Village Award in 2005, we are sure you can appreciate the need for properly cultivated and maintained natural beauty.

Which of course brings us to Lavender. You see the outskirts of our town are home to some truly divine lavender fields. They have, over the years, become quite a hit with the visitors and a huge source of pride for the locals. That is until last year and may I repeat. We are concerned. The lavender did not bloom in May last year, as it has every year for the last decade, instead flowering in September and rather missing the Summer holidays. As of writing it is the 26th of June and the flowers are yet to bloom once again. The problem, we believe, is a matter of flooding, the fields have ceased to drain and while we are not expert horticulturalists we believe that there may be a causal link between the excess of ground water and the lack of Lavender blossom. The best recourse then, in the event that we are correct, is for someone to dig a ditch. We became aware of your gift, Bryn Parry, after a little, ahem, digging. We need you to impart some of your specialised wisdom to a number of young men we have enlisted. We need you, Bryn Parry, to save our lavender fields. Send word back with Reggie Borne, the rather excitable young man who has just handed you this very missive.

31

We are, as ever, concerned.

Yours, David Sowester Secy – Concerned Hunstantonian Citizens' Civil Taskforce, Lavender Fields Department.

'Semper sollicitus, semper comis'-MMXV Bryn blinked, looked from the letter to this strange man-child on his doorstep, re-read the letter and remained silent. Reggie had been expecting rather more from Hunstanton's chosen champion but his first instinct towards gruff older men was one of respect and so he too kept silent. ‘Bollocks.’ The word was little more than a breath and yet sounded quite musical in Bryn's Welsh brogue-Boll-lacks. His avid study of ancient myths had helped Bryn to develop a heightened sensitivity to things like fate and he felt the unmistakable pressing of his future on this moment. He also recognized Reggie immediately for who he was.

'Hermes' Bryn said, after another extended pause.

'Sorry?' Reggie had lost the run of the meeting.

'Hermes. Greek messenger god. Wings on his heels?'

'Yes?' 'I suppose you'd better come in my lad' And in another place entirely, the rain continued.

32

Billy Cowan

billy@truantcompany.com Billy Cowan is an award-winning playwright wanting to be a novelist, but worried about the commitment! He’s therefore been dipping his toes into fiction by writing flashes and starting The Crow Lady. The Troubles, a story about growing up in Northern Ireland, is soon to be published in Funny NonFiction Flash.

The Crow Lady Gabe runs away after stabbing his abusive father, Big Jim McCann. He sets up home in a vast country park where he meets an old witch-like woman who communicates with crows. When Gabe’s father comes seeking revenge, the Crow Lady and her crows help Gabe dispense with his problem forever.

33

The Crow Lady On the outskirts of the city is a vast country park called Highfield and in the middle of this park, surrounded by a dense cluster of pine trees, is a little orange tent. And in this tent you’ll find me.

My name’s Gabe, by the way. I’m sixteen and tall. Very tall.

Mum says I have legs like a gazelle and she’s right. It makes living in the tent very difficult. At night when I zip up and curl my legs into my chest to sleep, I feel like a vacuum-packed ready meal.

The tent protects me against the elements and I’m so glad I have it. Without it, I would have to bunk down in the city, finding shelter in pissy shop doorways or under bridges or in the many flea-ridden hostels tucked away in the grubby backstreets.

And that’s not me.

I prefer to be surrounded by nature. I feel more at home with the foxes and the grey squirrels than with the losers who sleep rough in the city. I’m not like them. My story is different.

I haven’t been kicked out of home because I’ve been stealing money to sustain a drug habit. Nor have I been thrown out because my parents could no longer tolerate my erratic teenage behaviour. No, I left of my own free will, because it isn’t me who’s screwed up. It’s my parents. Or to be more precise, my dad, Big Jim McCann.

Big Jim McCann who thinks he knows everything; who thinks he has the right to treat everyone like slaves; who thinks it’s okay to come home pissed of a night and lay into me and my mum for no reason at all. Big Jim McCann who thinks it’s funny to torture me with jokes about being gay, about looking like a curly-haired, long-legged freak, about being weak. Well, 34

I showed Big Jim McCann who was weak the night I stuck the bread knife into his shoulder. …

I’ve been living in the park now for two months. It’s been a long two months. There’ve been so many things I’ve struggled to get used to, like the cold autumn nights, only just made bearable by my camouflage sleeping bag. Then there are the strange, eerie night-sounds that used to freak me out and keep me awake until dawn. Having no television or computer or mobile phone has also been hard as has cooking my own dinners on a single gas-stove and washing myself in the freezing cold stream that trickles a few metres from the tent.

It’s the loneliness and the boredom that gets to me the most and has made me think, more than once, about going back home. This is the last thing I want, so I’ve found ways to cope like going into the city library and borrowing survival books, which I spend all day studying back at my tent. I’ve learned some amazing things like making matches waterproof by dipping them into the hot wax of a candle, or lighting a fire with sticks if my matches have run out. I’ve even learned how to carve a four-prong spear from a sapling and use it to catch fish in the little stream. More importantly I’ve learned how to recognise and forage for natural foods such as mushrooms, lambsquarter, crab apples, hazel nuts and berries, burdock roots, natural garlic and horseradish. I can still remember the delicious, sweet-sour, sticky taste of my first crab apple roasted on the bonfire, and the intense kick that my first horseradish root gave to a tin of Heinz tomato soup.

Although learning and practicing these new skills has kept boredom at bay, there are times when I just need some human contact. On these occasions I sneak back home to see Mum 35

when Big Jim McCann is at work. This is a major risk as he might come back unexpectedly, on purpose, to catch me, but I need to reassure my mum that I’m okay. I also need to get money for essentials like toothpaste and soap, and food like chocolate and bread, all the stuff I can’t find in the park. I also want to make sure that Dad isn’t beating Mum again. When I ask her she tries to convince me that everything is fine, that Dad has changed, that the stabbing has made him see the error of his ways. But I know Big Jim McCann will never change, and if it seems he has, then it’s an act to stop Mum from leaving him, or a trick to get me to return.

Mum isn’t the only one I see. I also meet Boots, my best friend. I sometimes pick her up after school and go for a coffee and a piece of cake, which Boots always pays for because she’s kind like that.

Boots is called Boots because she always wears Doc Martens, even in the middle of summer, and thinks nothing of booting any boy who annoys her between the legs. She also listens to nothing but miserable eighties Goth music like Siouxsie and the Banshees and Sisters of Mercy, and the boots are an essential part of her black gothic image.

Boots is the type of girl who talks for hours and hours. If talking was an Olympic sport she’d be on the England team.

And it isn’t just stupid things she talks about, though she talks about these as well. She also discusses things like feminism and gender politics and strange sounding philosophers like Nietzsche who I’ve never heard of, nor am interested in to be honest. But listening to Boots go on about Nietzsche is much better than sitting alone in my tent listening to the wind.

Boots and Mum are the only two people I have spoken to, at any length, since running away from home. I haven’t even had one accidental encounter with a dog walker, or a jogger, or a kid bunking off school. So, you can imagine how freaked 36

out I was the other day when this weird, old woman appeared out of the canopy of the trees. …

I was washing a pair of underpants in the stream by my tent when a loud krra-kra-kraa sound came from behind me, making me turn around. Walking towards me was an old woman unlike any old woman I’d ever seen before. She wore a long, black cloak and carried a huge, carved, wooden branch that looked like a whale’s rib. Her face was powdered white and her lips were painted redder than a robin’s breast. Her long silver hair almost touched the ground where pink and white Nikes poked out from the hem of her cloak. On top of her head perched a black crow. At least a dozen more crows and rooks flew around her, in and out of the branches of the trees. I was gob-smacked. Was she a witch? Was it a nightmare? Was I having an out of body experience while my actual body lay safe in the confines of the orange tent? Surely this strange vision couldn’t be real? But then the crow that sat on her head launched towards me and I knew it was very real.

As it swooped past my face, I swiped it away with my hand.

‘You!’ the old woman shouted, shaking her large rib-like stick in the air. ‘You, boy. Leave my birds alone.’ Her voice was as croaky as the crows that surrounded her. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’

‘I thought it was going to peck my eyes out.’

‘Crack!’

I jumped back thinking she was about to batter me with the stick.

‘His name is Crack.’

‘Who?’ ‘My crow, you little idiot.’

37

I couldn’t believe she had names for the birds and thought she must be a homeless old bird herself who had escaped from some local mental institution.

‘Sorry. I didn’t realise,’ I said. ‘He’s such an awesome bird.’

Crack now sat with all the other crows on the branches of the trees looking down at me as if they were watching a play.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘I’m … studying the wildlife … for college. It’s a project for college.’

The deep lines along her brow wrinkled up. ‘How long for?’

‘Only a … a few nights … maybe a bit longer.’

‘These are my woods. And only I can say who stays here.’

I now knew she was mad because the park belonged to the city council.

‘Oh, I didn’t know.’ I thought it best to play along. ‘Is it okay to stay for a couple of nights then?’

She pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes. I thought she was never going to answer. It was Crack who finally broke the silence with a loud krra-kra as he flew down and landed back on the old woman’s head.

‘Crack says yes.’

Crack had said no such thing. It was only a bird for God’s sake. Yet it did cock its head towards the old woman’s ear.

‘Don’t leave a mess and don’t take anything that belongs to the woods.’

‘Of course not. I’m very respectful.’ This was the truth.

With a ‘humph’ the old woman moved away and all the birds took to the air like a squadron of fighter jets. As she disappeared among the trees, I could see her dipping her hand into the pocket of her cloak and scooping out something that she scattered on the ground. Whatever it is, I thought, it must taste good for all the birds to follow her like that.

38

‌ That night I had a dream, the first one since running away to the park.

I was asleep in my tent when I heard the beating of wings; giant wings like the wings of an angel or a dragon; or maybe a devil that made the sides of the tent flap about as if they were being battered by a hurricane. Then the tent began to rise into the air leaving me on the ground in my sleeping bag. At first I thought the tent was rising by itself, but when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see a giant crow holding the tent in its razor sharp beak where it dangled like the skin of a dead animal. I was scared rigid. The crow then shook its head and the skin catapulted across the sky where it landed on the top branches of a tree. It then blinked its black orb of an eye and looked down at me. Before I could unzip my sleeping bag and get away, I was high up in the sky myself looking down at the earth. And there in my sleeping bag, looking up at me with petrified eyes, was Big Jim McCann.

I had become the crow.

It was my giant wings that flapped at the side of my head and it was my big, black eye that now blinked down at Dad. Opening my razor-sharp beak, I let out a deafening Kraa that shook the trees and rippled the surface of the stream. Then I dived straight down through the night air, like a spear, with my beak pointing directly at Big Jim McCann’s head. With only a few inches to go before my beak punctured his skull, he let out a scream and I jolted awake in my sweat-drenched sleeping bag.

For minutes I just lay there, shaking and catching my breath, while condensation ran down the insides of the tent like little worms. When my heart rate finally slowed and the shaking stopped, I went out into the cold night to grab a drink 39

from the stream. The cluster of trees that had protected me for the past two months now felt like it was hiding unknown dangers, and I quickly darted back to the refuge of the tent.

The day after the dream, I thought about moving to another spot in the park, some place where the old lady and her crows wouldn’t find me. But this was silly. She was just an old, harmless eccentric who had probably forgotten about me the moment she’d disappeared back to wherever she came from. And even if she did remember and return, what could she possibly do? I had a right to be here just as much as she did. It wasn’t her park, it belonged to the city and the people of the city, and I’d tell her this. Yes, I’d tell her, in a kindly way of course, to go away and leave me in peace.

Then I thought about the crows. Could it be that the old lady had power over the birds? That she was indeed some kind of a witch who could make the crows do whatever she wished, like peck someone to death? Was the dream an omen of some kind? A warning for me to escape? The only person who could help me answer these questions was Boots because not only did she know about feminism and Nietzsche, she also knew everything about witchcraft and poltergeists and the occult and tarot cards and serial killers and all things scary.

Boots would tell me what to do.

40

John Hewitt

j.r.hewitt@hotmail.co.uk John Hewitt is a bearded, bespectacled bloke from Birkenhead who’s always had a story or several bouncing around in his bonce.

Though he mostly writes fantasy, he often makes forays into alternative history, science fiction and young adult stories. An alumnus of the University of Liverpool’s School of History, he regularly attends writing classes and is a proud member of the Wayward Writers writing group.

The Locomotive Giant Lawrence Franklin has long dreamt of creating the greatest invention of the Steam Age, something to pull mankind into a new golden era. But seeing as everything he’s built so far either doesn’t work or doesn’t work and then explodes, all his machines have done so far is earn him the apprehension of the people of Little Prospect and the enmity of its sheriff. That is, until he manages to do the impossible: he builds The Locomotive Giant, a ten foot tall, steam powered robot.

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The Locomotive Giant Mild West The cart clattered to a halt beside me, horses whinnied as they were enveloped in the following dust cloud. An oriental boy in a bowler hat jumped from the driver’s seat and helped the mayor of Little Prospect down to the dirt road. No sooner had the mayor pressed a coin into the boys open palm, he’d leapt back into the seat and drove off back through town.

The mayor mopped his brow with the back of his hand.

Under the heavy grey duster, his handlebar moustache and the weight of reddened jowls, it was a surprise he hadn’t yet collapsed in the stifling desert heat. He looked like an egg forced into human clothes, slowly coming to the boil.

I extended my hand in greeting, my smile broad. ‘Thank you for coming out today-’ The mayor waved my hand aside. ‘Look, let’s just get this over with, son. Are we all here?’

Sweat fell from my lank fringe to slide down my glasses. I took them off, cleaning them with the handkerchief I kept in the breast pocket of my tweed waistcoat. ‘We’re still waiting on Sheriff Whittaker, sir.’

The mayor grunted and marched past me, only to stop and turn. He frowned. ‘This, um…this ain’t goin’ to turn out like your flying machine did, is it?’

I cringed at the memory that had been my flying machine.

‘No, sir. I’ve made sure that it won’t.’

Frown still firmly in place, the mayor grunted again and marched off into the barn.

Little Prospect bustled with life around me, despite a heat so fierce that I could smell and taste it baking the parched earth. Off-key piano music washed out of Vivian’s Saloon 42

whenever the doors swung open. Mothers dragged disgruntled children around town on their errands. Folk that walked by made a point of not looking at me. Those that did look in my direction either huffed with palpable contempt or stared in cautious fascination, as though I might provide them with some entertainment and explode at any moment.

The blood in my veins fizzed as my heartbeat thundered in my chest. This day would be my big chance, my grand success.

This day would be remembered throughout history as the day Lawrence Franklin changed the world as we know it forever… …or, quite probably, the day he wiped Little Prospect off the map. The possibility didn’t bear thinking about.

A dark shape appeared racing into town, morphed from an indistinct silhouette into a horse and rider. Townsfolk dived before they were crushed beneath the beast’s hooves, its legs moving with the relentless motion of steam train pistons. I pulled my pocket watch out by its chain and popped open the cover. Only eighteen minutes late this time. At least it’s an improvement.

The sheriff leap from his horse and tied the reins to a post, patted the animals flanks with genuine affection. He ran a whippet thin hand through his dark stubble, before he pointed an accusing finger under my nose. ‘This’d better not be another waste of my time, Lawrence. I’ve got a town to run, y’know?’ Even in the scorching sunlight, I could feel the bitter cold in Sheriff Whittaker’s glare.

‘I promise you, sir, that my latest invention will not only blow you away, it’ll revolutionise these United States as we know them.’

‘You know, I remember hearing something similar the last time you decided to show off your latest contraption.’ the sheriff stared up at me, as through trying to bore into my skull

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through sight alone. ‘And I definitely remember having to ride around the damned crater it made.’

A single drop of sweat slid an agonising trail down the length of my spine. ‘I am so sorry for that, sheriff. But this time will be different. I’m sure of it.’

‘Damn right, it’ll be different.’ He pointed at the barn.

‘Because if whatever’s in there so much as looks wrong, I’ll throw you in jail so fast it’ll make your grandpa spin in his grave. Do you understand me?’

I stared at him as a strangled sound escaped from my throat, suddenly far too dry and far too tight. ‘…Yes?’ The sheriff rolled his eyes, pushed past me to walk into the barn and left me to catch up.

The air inside was warm and thick, the moisture in my mouth evaporated in an instant. Harsh sunlight pierced through the slats between the boards, the startling blue sky visible beyond. A hodgepodge stench of chalk, oil, coal, copper and stale sweat permeated throughout. Every available surface was occupied with machinery, hastily scribbled notes, dirty laundry or plates of food long forgotten. The ruins of a gutted player piano sat against the far wall. The laughter of children playing in the dirt road outside mingled with the soft growl of the boiler in the corner.

A group of town officials shuffled around; some sneered at the mess around them, others eyed it with suspicion. The mayor chewed on tobacco as he argued with the pastor. ‘I don’t care what those salesmen say; we don’t want no railroad runnin’ right down the middle of our town…’ Sheriff Whittaker took half a rollup from behind his ear and a match book from his pocket.

‘Ah, could you please not smoke here, sir? There are some highly flamma-’

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Whittaker struck the match off a table and lit his rollup. He drew on it until it nearly burned down to the stub, blew the smoke directly into my face. He spat out the cigarette and crushed it under his heel, only to pull out a pouch from his pocket, open it and take out a pinch of tobacco and a skin of paper. He deftly worked the two together with one hand until he had a new cigarette, never once taking his eyes off mine.

‘Uh, gentlemen. If you could all please step this way?’

Navigating the mess around us, I led the group to the centre of the barn. Hidden beneath a heavy canvas was a ten foot tall object, my latest invention. The metallic drum from a player piano sat on the table next to me. The officials gathered around with Sheriff Whittaker front and centre, the others cowered behind him. Though most were a good foot taller than the sheriff, the officials gave off the air of a group of terrified ducklings, clustered behind their chain-smoking mother for safety.

‘Gentlemen,’ my voice came out far higher than I would have liked. ‘Thank you all for coming-’ Whittaker groaned theatrically and massaged his temples.

‘Christ Almighty, not ‘nother goddamn speech. Just get the hell on with it, tenderfoot.’ The town officials chuckled.

My mouth fell open, a rapid blush rose despite the heat. To heck with it. I tore away the canvas, pulled hand over hand.

There sat a crude statue with an enormous boiler set in its chest. Its long limbs constructed from old train parts, slumped like an unstrung puppet. Its head was a smooth dome of expressionless brass, save for a pair of lenses in the place of eyes. The back of the head was open, a mass of mechanical looms, gears and keys that made up its analytical engine.

I heaved the piano drum into a slot in the machine’s leg, tapped out a coda on the keys liberated from an old typewriter and set in its foot. The drum began to turn slowly, gradually 45

picking up speed until it became a blur. The boiler rumbled into action, the chimney jutting out of the construct’s shoulder belched a thick plume of steam. The gears of the analytic engine clattered into an effortless rhythm. My fingers curled around the lever in the machines ankle, licked my lips in anticipation. Well, here goes…something.

I yanked the lever down with all my strength. The whistle in the statue’s chest gave a shrill scream. The sound carried on for a couple of seconds more, long enough to convince the town officials that this was yet another failure by the village crackpot.

Then the construct ponderously unfolded, heaved itself to its feet, and stood.

The mayor stumbled back, ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Several town officials stepped back from the enormous machine, others fell to their knees in disbelief. Sheriff Whittaker reached for the Colt Dragoon on his hip, uncertainty plain in his eyes.

It was my turn to grin now. ‘Gentlemen, I give you the Locomotive Giant.’ The mechanised colossus turned to me, tilted its head to the side like a curious child. ‘Well, say hello to the nice gentlemen.’

In a cacophony of turning gears and hissing steam, the Locomotive Giant raised its hand and waved.

46

David Lowes

delowes@blueyonder.co.uk David Lowes lives locally and has also written non-fiction monographs that reflect his interests in History and Political Economy.

The Anti-Capitalist Dictionary (Zed Books, 2006) 'Original and rigorous....' Political Studies Review.

Cuts, Privatisation and Resistance, (Merlin, 2012) 'a serious contribution to our understanding of ... the anti-cuts movement.' Socialist Review When A Fox Preaches As the new vicar of Burford during the reign of Charles II, Jeremiah Elskling makes routine enquiries that unsettle those in positions of power. Undeterred by costs to his reputation and marriage the troubled Parson decides to expose the terrible practices he uncovers and leave a record for all eternity.

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When A Fox Preaches Thursday, 29th December, 1689 The Parish of Saint John the Baptist, Burford, Oxfordshire.

‘I thank God that you have been my window on the world and my amanuensis.’

At the thought of his parting words, Elizabeth Elskling weeps again. Tears fall onto the lead parcel she cradles in her lap and, tenderly, she wipes them away. Her charge contains their last collaboration, something she can touch, an antidote to the cruel tricks that grief plays on the senses, when you think, you hope, you see a departed loved one again.

Then, a gentle knock on the door and the hushed tones of Anne Wilkins, the maid, coax her back into the present: ‘The Steward is here, ma’am.’

She looks up and peers at her interlocutor through a mist of salt-water. The room is a blur, but she can still make out the moulded beams, the window and the fireplace with stores of firewood on either side. In her daze, the embers seem to glow more brightly, as the red, orange and yellow of the burning coals melt into a burnished blaze.

To clear her vision, Elizabeth looks down at the sarcophagus in her lap. It is approximately 18 inches long, 12 inches wide and 3 inches deep. The corners have been mitred, like the wrapping around a gift, but the Lenthall arms and greyhound crest are stamped into the corner folds. It does not give any clue as to what is inside, but the uninitiated could be forgiven for thinking that it must be a cherished object, even something of value.

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It is time to go but, as she gets to her feet, she stops and takes a long wistful look at the empty wainscot chair. His chair with his cane resting betwixt arm and seat, before the warmth of the hearth, now and forever empty.

Head bowed and in mourning clothes she walks reluctantly across the stone floor toward the door and, taking the parcel in one hand, to free the other, examines the smooth side, where there are no folds or crests. There is, though, the figure of a dog’s head, scratched into the lead. She knows its meaning, but makes no comment about it as she steps into the hallway and passes her charge to the maid: ‘Hold this girl. Tight mind, don’t drop it.’

Neither speaks as Elizabeth wraps her dark woollen cloak around her shoulders, retrieves her prize and conceals it within. Anne opens the front door and with the words ‘Thank you, child,’ Elizabeth leaves the Vicarage and heads out into the cold and to the waiting carriage.

If there had been an option, neither she nor her husband would have chosen to conduct the ceremony in the middle of winter. But there wasn’t. On this day falls the feast of Saint Thomas Becket, whose blood, it was believed, possessed miraculous properties, whose cult persisted in Burford and had such an impact on the life of the Reverend Jeremiah Elskling, on the life of the town, that no other day would have been appropriate.

Nothing is said on the brief ride to the Priory and its Chapel.

The occasion demands respectful silence, as does the solemn nature of the task ahead. Arriving at the entrance to the hall, Elizabeth and her driver are greeted by William Lenthall, grandson of the famous parliamentarian. ‘Widow Elskling, my condolences,’ he says.

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‘Thank you, Sir, you are most kind. I am forever in your debt for allowing me this service.’

‘If you will follow me, we will proceed.’

It is a short journey, but every step requires care as boots crunch through a crust of ice, made visible by a warm yellow glow from the priory windows - a contrast to the cold mottled blanket of snow on the shrubs and trees. Those laden branches droop under the weight of frozen water and, at the slightest movement from breeze, animal or bird, intermittent cascades break the wintery silence with a powdery flurry.

They arrive at the chapel, cast grey in the shadow of its neighbour and the murk that counts as daylight when the sky is full of snow. Atop the steps that lead to its door, a man is using a trowel to scrape mortar from around the top stone, while another loosens it with his chisel. Then, as one, they grip the curved edge that extends over the riser and lift the slab, as if opening the lid of a box.

The onlookers watch as the men heave the stone upright and walk it to the chapel wall. As their breath turns to vapour and melts into the cold air, all stare blankly at the open sore before them. Next, a hole is excavated and, while she lowers her leaden load into the void, like a ritual offering intended to help heal the wound, Elizabeth speaks: ‘This testimony of human imperfection, fraud and imposture, although crying out to be heard, is not ripe for revelation in our own time. But, with the grace of God, the tragic tale will one day be known and the truth told about the many falsehoods that were charged against honest men.

‘It is the account of one man’s use of Holy Scripture in service of the glory and power of God, that touchstone of Truth, through which absurd and pernicious error was banished, and answers given to the insolent abuse that spewed forth from the mouths of incarnate devils.

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‘These said blasphemers covenanted with Satan to increase their earthly fortune and, in so doing, preyed wickedly upon the poor, the wretched; indeed, upon all seekers of alms. But nothing withstands God’s purpose or hinders that which He intends to accomplish.

‘In this the Lord calls us to holiness, blesses us with His grace and strength and makes us his instruments to do good for the souls of others. We put our trust in Him and give body and soul unto His design without question. Because of this, the sufferings are great, but we praise God that He chooses us to do his work in Burford. Amen.’

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52

Katie McCloskey

katiegibbons2014@icloud.com I am a third year Creative Writing degree student, studying at LJMU but based on the Wirral. I mostly write poetry, and my work has been published in a number of magazines. Miracle Babies is my first attempt at a novel.

Miracle Babies Cathy is locked in her Father’s basement, in the throes of a mental breakdown. What led her here? Miracle Babies follows her story through the ten years up to this point, following her struggle with anorexia, and the escalating darkness of her friendship with the beguiling but dangerous Bea.

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Miracle Babies Once, I put a purple cat-shaped cushion over Bea’s face when she was sleeping. It was after one of her girly nights out. Her eye sockets were dry mascara wells and her lipsticky dribble was pooling on the armrest. I just stood with it over her face, blotting her out. I didn’t press down.

Bea was a miracle baby.

All of us enter this world destined for a hole in the ground.

Some of us are burnt up and our ashes float away and the rain falls and we are sucked into the soil. My grave is wide enough to stretch out my arms and touch the sides. You do it to yourself, Cathy! screams Bea, my best friend, my greatest champion.

Some of us are miracles. Her father had a vasectomy. Peter Braithwaite was a science professor, with sensible scientific ideas about things. But there was the shiny new Mrs Braithwaite with the damp litmus stick and the words miracle baby, and he let himself believe it. Or he let everyone else believe that. Bloody fool. Peter Braithwaite bought nursery linen, a pine crib, a white chair to rock in beside the bay window, 123 wallpaper and a mobile of planets. Mercury to Pluto, floating on nylon string.

Bea was premature. A headful of black hair and your father’s eyes. Peter Braithwaite bought a pink balloon, a pack of dummies, a card and a bottle of Teachers, which he left half empty on the coffee table with his wedding ring.

My mother used to say we all have a ‘shadow’. She read it in one of her yoga and meditation books. Any one of us is capable of anything at all, she’d say, but she didn’t mean capable of success, of rising to starry heights. It was your shadow that made you capable - of dark, dark things. Things 54

people read about in newspapers and True Crime magazines and think who would do something like that? while they dunk their rich tea biscuits and scratch their behinds. Nutters, psychopaths, some people are just born evil. Evil babies.

I don’t often listen to my mother, but she was right about my shadow. I suspected so when I was fifteen, and I know it now.

Not all of us are miracles. My mum and dad were just kids when I came along, they only cared about their fish and chips and their weekend discos. Dad delivered white goods and Mum worked tills at the co-op. In my baby photos they look underfed and happy and I look fat and red-faced and disillusioned.

They got married after Julie came along, because of some sort of government benefits. Mum used to sit on the couch with the photo album on her knee. Julie and I sat either side, bending over the pictures, cracking heads. Mum would point me out, a round baby in an orange bouncer, looking stern and still. You were a funny little thing. Fat little red face. Wearing one of those monogrammed peach cardies Nana knitted for us all.

Get to me! There were more photos of Julie. Smiley Julie.

They had more money by then.

Funny little thing. Little Cathy. Little thing. Bea was a woman when I met her, when she was seventeen. She wore orange satin pants and tank tops so short her ribs were on display. She had a belly button piercing with a green jewel.

Right little tart. Bea had earrings running right up the side of her left ear and a stud in her tongue. She sucked it when she was hungry. She told me the iron kept off the fainting spells. I believed her.

Blood has the same taste as iron, when you suck it, like a warm nail. When you cut your finger, you suck it. Why do you 55

do that? A child will try to lick a cut knee. Kiss it better. Magic kisses. They say that a dog licks its wounds because there is something healing in the saliva. Some people let their dogs lick their faces. Come and give Mummy a kiss, good girl, good girl!

There was a time we thought every drop we lost brought us closer to empty, closer to invisible, which was perfection.

We never sucked our fingers. There could be anything on there.

When I was fifteen, I was still wearing clothes from my nana. She got me a bubble jacket from the market which looked like a black fat suit. I used to put it on when she came over and stuff it in my bag halfway up the road, which is not easy with a bubble jacket.

I tried to copy the clothes the girls from school wore, but I only got to see them on own clothes days. Kappa tracksuits, white trainies. Blue jeans and Tommy Hilfiger blouses for discos. My mum used to come shopping with me. I had to get kids pants from Adams in the end or they’d fall down.

I liked nail varnish, glittery, different colours on each finger.

At school they’d send me to the office where they had a pink bottle of remover. I took off the colours but the sparkles would stay, little metal pieces embedded in my nail. I had a rainbow of those rubbery shag-bands running up my arm. In the clinic, Bea snapped the red one. You’ll have to shag me now. Ha! Some people have an office. They take calls and drive cars.

That was what Mum and Dad foresaw, for me. The 98% marks, the A*s. It would all amount to Armani skirt suits and mobile phones. Get out of this shit-hole, sweetheart. You don’t want to end up like your old man. I would work until I could run. I would emerge from my shell of solitude a perfectly formed social butterfly. Not crippled. Not twisted and bloodless, like a bound foot.

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My shadow is louder lately. It is louder than it’s ever been.

It makes the hairs stand up on my arms. I am trying to be extra, extra quiet, and it is shouting at me in my own voice. Victory!

Success! It is wanting to know why I am folded up in the dark picking my bloody fingernails. A*s. Taking calls. An opentopped car, hair blowing out behind.

My nails are bitten to the quick. Funny little thing. I would have made a terrible mother, anyway. It doesn’t matter, really.

The crusty paint tins on the high up ledge rattle. My shadow stops shouting and snickers.

It was only the one time with the cushion. After that, some other things. The shower mat. Shoes kicked off on the stairs.

One morning she was at the bottom in a heap and my heart fell out, but it turned out she’d just crumpled there before she’d got around to climbing them. Girly nights out. Flat out on the floor, her squashed buttocks in her leather-look skirt.

At the clinic, we wore baggy sweatshirts to keep out the cold. We tried so hard to change those bodies and then we covered them up completely. I wore tights under my tracky bottoms. Bea said that being cold was good. There were no fat poor people before they invented central heating, she said. I remember her sloped on a chair in the TV room, her long, pimply arms stretching out of white cropped sleeves, long, bluish fingers fiddling with her belly button ring. She fidgeted on bed rest and told them it was shivering. She heckled the nurses. Why don’t you go tube-feed Kate Moss? Bea was indestructible.

Here in my grave I believe I remember everything. Our first day of freedom. The smell of bitter earth is her rancid breath, our rancid breath, as our stomachs ate themselves. I remember the sound of her laugh, when we walked out of

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Meadowfields, toting our backpacks like festival-goers, heading for the city. How strong we were.

The cold under the bones of my arse is the metal bench at Chester station, Bea and me waiting for the last train. White paint peeling off rusty girders like old bones, freezing wind coming down the line. I remember how the drunk who swaggered across, wet hair, stains on his shirt, waved us an offer of his bag of chips. How we sat together under the smell of those chips. How she didn’t look at me. How strong we were.

When I was fourteen, I hid my dinner in the wardrobe. I wrapped it in Julie’s ‘Grandad jumper’. She said that jumper smelled like him because she was wearing it when we saw him last. It only smelled like the hospital to me, and even that was probably imaginary. Sausage and mash, spaghetti bolognese, pasta with some sort of greasy cheese sauce, everything Mum made was swimming in fat. Cathy, it stinks in here. Bloody teenagers. After a while I threw it in the bin and Julie never even noticed it was gone.

If I had gotten married, Bea would have been my maid of honour. She would have worn something floaty, like lemon chiffon, and she would have held a glass with a stem like her swans neck while she gave a toast. Cathy and I have known each other since we were teenagers. We’ve been through good times and bad times. She is like the sister I never had. Julie, in something inappropriate, like jeans, would’ve scowled at that.

I first saw my shadow in the pictures I drew of myself. I was too old to draw pictures, but I did. I drew pictures of stick people doing things to each other and the pictures made me feel funny in the knees. Some of the girls on the back seat of the school bus looked at dirty magazines. Not very nice young ladies.

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I drew a picture of myself and in the picture I had lots of faces. A face for Mum and Dad. A face for the teachers. A face for Cousin Helen when she came round with her glitter gel pens and her Boyzone videos. A face for the girls at school, when they cornered me. The face I wore when nobody was watching, a face I drew with black wells for eyes. And there it was, at the bottom of those wells – my shadow.

By the time I turned fifteen, it had a voice all of its own. You can’t eat that! You don’t deserve that! You’re disgusting! It was my coach, while I was running around the park after school, feet swollen up in tatty old Reebok trainers, Keep going, you lazy bitch, is that the best you can do? It was my trusty narrator in social situations, They’re looking at you, you know. They’re all thinking ‘look at that porker, who’s she think she’s kidding with that little black dress?’ That was Aunty May’s funeral.

Mum said it was puppy fat, it’d all be gone by the time I left for high school. A puppy shedding fat like a snakeskin, wriggling across the Junior school playground, worming its sleek way out into sunlight through the gates.

We are born for transformation and we change until we die. Like those sped-up images of roses, unfurling and blossoming on flickering time-lapse film, up they go and up and they swell and burst and then they shrink and the petals brown, and fall, and the green stalks shrivel and it’s all just compost in the end.

We didn’t want to bloom. We decided against unfurling, against giving up a single red petal to the angry soil. We were stoppers in the mouth of time. We were children on rewind, paring ourselves back to perfect. We would all be miracle babies.

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It is so very cold. It is cold in my bones. My shadow is chittering words like broken birdsong through my teeth. Bea. My Bea. A cushion was never going to be enough.

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Paul McDermott

paul.mcdermott6@btopenworld.com I was born in Liverpool in the fifties, and wanted to be a footballer. I spent my early working life in the textile and fashion industry and dabbled with music until my midtwenties. I always found it easier to express myself through writing and started writing seriously about ten years ago. I've done most of a Creative Writing Degree at the O.U. and will finish it when I feel inclined. I've had a couple of short stories published in The Lancashire Evening Post and had a play performed at The Salmon Theatre, Manchester. My writing tends to reflect my interest in Sci-fi and conspiracy.

20-23 20-23 is the first book of a Sci-fi Trilogy and begins four days before Christmas. As Global Warming reaches its Point of No Return, and the World's financial systems collapse; one man holds a key to a gate that is the last barrier to an alien invasion.

The chaos triggers a War that threatens to destroy civilisation 61

20-23 Joe lay in a bath that was far too hot for his own good. He was pondering the unusual weather and driving rain outside.

Instead of it easing off like the weatherman predicted, it seemed to be getting worse.

He was hypnotised by the light reflecting through the rain as it battered the bathroom window and it reminded him of something you'd experience on acid. Not that he was one for tripping.

It occurred to him how opposite they were, that pouring rain and his steaming hot bath.

How can same things be so different?

They were both made of the same stuff, they came from the sky, and they both got you soaking wet. But it was the way you got wet that made all the difference. It determined your whole social standing. If you're soaked and sleeping in a shop doorway you're a bum – an arse-hole. But lie in a hot bubbly tub with your skin like a lobster-ed walnut and you're middle class.

He sniggered at the thought. 'Me, Joe Scaiffe ...Middle class.'

He stretched out his leg to turn off the water with his toe.

It was streaming out of the overflow and was so hot it was making him sick. He studied his smooth shin.

Looks like I've been shaving my legs.

He couldn't figure out why they were so bald.

Old age?

He cast an eye over the mound of pubic hair poking through the suds.

Never lose it there though. Seems to be getting thicker – looks like a woman's snatch.

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...Maybe that's what happens when you get old, you change sex. Women get hairy and men go smooth. He chuckled at the idea.

Maybe it's not age at all, maybe it's the crap belching from those Corporation stacks, spewing toxic shite everywhere!

Toxins cause gender change.

He knew that.

It does in fish.

He remembered some documentary about pollution in Alaska. It had certainly done weird things to the weather.

Another squall of winter rain hit the glass and he sunk deeper into the suffocating heat.

He thought he understood rain. God knows he'd seen enough. Mostly at weekends, or Bank Holidays. Like it knew he wasn't working. The best times were the camping trips with the kids. It would appear like some loony drummer rocking it out on the canvass. He'd been glad of it sometimes, cooling things down after a long hot day. Or at the end of a big freeze when it washed away the snow. But it had never been like this.

He remembered the day it started; St. Swithins oddly enough. Apocalyptic gold for the doom mongers. He wasn't religious but he was beginning to think they had a point. A shower that steadily got worse. Like someone was gradually turning up the pressure on a hose pipe. An unnoticeable increase every hour, every day, every week until now, three days before Christmas. We-l-l you might think, five months of rain, nothing wrong with that. Stranger things have happened.

And you'd be right, except that was July 2022, now it's 2023.

It's been pissing down for seventeen months; and just lately the odd shock of lightning snags the sky. Not just Britain but Europe too; and it's warm rain, not the driving freezing stuff you'd associate with winter.

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'Ar-rr...' he sighed. What he'd give to see the sun again and not have to go for a paper looking like a scuba diver. He closed his eyes and wallowed in the heat. 'Mmmm...' He imagined an ice cold beer and the sun frying eggs on his chest...

'Joe! – Joe!' He jerked from his pipe dreams and opened his eyes. Helen stood over him silhouetted in the bathroom light. He cupped his hands over his crotch.

'There's someone on the phone –' She offered him the handset. '– sounds important...' She frowned curiously. '...It's really weird.'

Joe sat up and dried his hands on a facecloth. He took the phone and waited for his wife to leave. She rearranged the bottles on the bathroom shelf and straightened the towels on the rail. She hesitated for as long as she could without seeming to appear intrusive. Eventually she took Joe's silence as a hint and disappeared through the door.

Joe waited, listening to make sure she'd gone. He studied the display on the phone but knew it would say ‘Withheld’. He raised the phone to his ear. '...H-hello,' he half whispered.

There was a long, long silence. Then that voice; cold, genderless; devoid of empathy or colour. '...Hello Janitor.'

Joe's heart almost stopped. He hadn't heard it for almost twenty five years. He took a deep breath. He composed himself and spoke. '...You-you do know this is an open line, don't you?'

There was another long silence before it answered. 'None of that matters anymore.' Again it went silent.

Joe felt a chill and realised his bath had gone cold. '….We need the item.' Another pause. 'I trust you still have it safe?'

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Two thousand miles south east of Joe's bathroom, Munro felt the vibration before it happened. He reached into his pocket instinctively and caught Julie watching him as he pulled out the black, credit card size screen. She knew too. It was like the tablet was psychically linked to their brains. She smiled resignedly and carried on chatting to her dad. The device buzzed silently in his hand and a message appeared on the screen.

‘GAME ON: 21:30.’ It flashed three times and disappeared.

'Fucking Deveraux!' He checked the time at the bottom of the screen.

‘17:03’ He slipped the device back where it came from and felt adrenalin stir the pit of his stomach.

'Is it time?'

Munro hadn't noticed her cross the room. His new wife was standing by his side.

He nodded and stared at the floor. A lump formed in his throat. 'Why today...?' He gazed into her beautiful face.

She half smiled but said nothing.

'Today of all days. We haven't even had the meal yet – and what about our announcement?'

'You knew it was coming,' Julie said. 'At least they let us have the service, and as for our news – Well that can wait.' She flicked a bit of fluff from his jacket and removed his flower.

'Just go. I'll make the excuses.'

'Don't I get a goodbye kiss?

'A-a!' She put a finger to his lips. 'Never – never say that word. Besides, if we make a fuss they'll know something's wrong. Best just slip away.' She straightened his lapels dwelling for a moment and looked deep into his eyes. 'Just promise me one thing.'

'Anything Julie, you know that.'

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'Well it may not be that easy Alex, but if it's possible.' She frowned. 'Could you call me Christmas day – Just tell me you're okay?'

Munroe laughed to make light it. 'I'll be home by then. It's only a briefing.'

Julie rolled her eyes to heaven. 'For God's sake Alex. I'm not a child. D'you really think this'll be over in three days?'

He gave her his puppy dog look. 'You know Julie, you really are a woman in a million.'

She feigned a frown. 'Only a million!' then she smiled. 'But that's why you married me isn't it!' She paused. 'But do you promise?'

Munroe nodded. 'Of course I promise. If I'm not home, byhook-or-by-crook I'll contact you Christmas day! Promise!'

'Good!' She took a deep breath. '...Now go!' she commanded. 'The car'll be here soon!' She turned him around by the shoulders. 'Go! Go!' She shooed him toward the door so he couldn't see her tears.

'You know Julie, I really love...' He didn't finish. She was already halfway across the room re-joining their guests and a waiter appeared to inform Munro he was wanted on the car park.

Joe examined the 8 by 8cm gap where ‘the item’ had lived for the past twenty five years. He ran his eyes down the edge of the loft's chimney breast. Nice neat job he thought. Like a lovely row of teeth but with one missing. The block had come out easy too. He put it in a bucket covered by some tools and quickly filled in the hole with the brick he'd removed all those years before. He fixed it in with some ready mixed filler and threw a couple of handfuls of dust over the new cement.

'There you go...' he whispered to himself. 'Can hardly see the difference.'

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'Have you found them yet...?' Helen called up from the bottom of the steps.

'Yeah... I've got them. I was just looking at some old photographs.' He placed the bucket on the lip of the hatch and picked up the two suitcases he told her he'd come up for. He past them through the trap door and down to Helen who'd ventured onto the third step of the ladder.

'Can't think how you managed this...' She took a case into the bedroom and returned for the other. '...I mean, I've been trying for months, and you just speak to some old friend and, whoosh... we're off to India. I just can't believe it!'

'Well it wasn't as simple as all that! I do have to do some work while we're there. You make it sound so easy.' Joe watched as she took the second case into the room. He hurried down the ladder with the bucket. He stowed it back where it had come from, behind the door in the box room, and followed her into their bedroom.

'Well it seems much easier than what I've been doing for all these months. You can't get a flight to the sun for any money. Everybody in Europe wants to get away from the rain – and how come they sounded so strange – thisss...' she gestured with her hand like she was shooing someone away. '...friend of yours. And-and why do we have to go immediately? The flight's not till the day after tomorrow!'

Leaving now was Joe's idea. 'Oh I don't know,' he said.

'Maybe it's because they were calling from India or something.

I have to pick up some plans in London and the rain will slow us right down. We might as well stay in a hotel tomorrow night so we're nice and fresh for the airport. Anyway, why all these questions? Don't you want to go away for Christmas?'

She glared from under her eyebrows like he was an idiot.

'Are you kidding! You try and stop me!' She dragged open the drawers and started loading her underwear into a case.

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Joe palmed her mobile and slipped it into his pocket.

'Now! Where are my sunglasses,' said Helen. 'You go and find the passports!'

Munro spotted a smouldering Havana stub on the drive near the car door. He knew it meant company on his eighteen mile trip to Akroteri Airbase. Who his companion might be? –he didn't know, but the high end motor suggested a VIP and he knew it meant they were in a hurry. A huge guy with jet black hair, black sunglasses and a black suit opened the back door of the black Bentley limousine without nodding or even acknowledging Munro existed. He just stood silently with his hands crossed in front of him - the way undertakers do expecting Munro to climb into the pitch black leather interior.

An aroma of Cuban coronas bullied the Jasmine scented air and Munro took one last look around. He felt as if he'd only just noticed the beauty of his adopted Cyprus home and he didn't want to leave. His attention was drawn to the Royal Standard flapping languidly on the car's bonnet and he was seized by panic. A voice in his head screamed, Run Alex! Run! Go grab Julie and run! But he couldn't run. Like you can never run in a dream. He hesitated before stepping into the air conditioned darkness. The huge Man in Black coughed and gently closed the door on the back of his leg. Munro resisted.

'Sir?' the Man said, acknowledging Munro was there.

Munro took that last step and sat down on the seat. The door clunked shut blocking out the light and he imagined he'd entered a tomb. It was cold and silent, but he sensed there was someone facing him.

'Good evening Captain Munro – Ahem! Alex, may I call you Alex?' The voice was cultured, deep, dark brown and tuned by a hundred thousand cigars.

Munro nodded in the gloom.

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The voice continued. 'I hear two lots of congratulations are in order. I trust everything went well?'

Two lots! Munro was stunned. How did he know? Surely...

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could just make out a figure on the back seat. 'W-well yes' Munro stuttered.

'Everything went beautifully, except…'

'I know Captain, I know, and I apologise for my timing.'

'Er - pardon me if I seem rude Sir, but do I know you? It's just....'

'Oh no Captain, not at all. It's me who is being rude. I wouldn't normally come myself, but now time is of the essence.'

A lighter flared as the man lit another cigar and highlighted his features under thick black eyebrows. Munro could just make out his gaunt face sucking hard on a cigar and noticed he had shoulder length hair.

'You know of me Captain Munro, you know of me -- but we've never met.'

The cab filled with rich Havana smoke then quickly dispersed through the car’s efficient ventilation.

'I'm General...' He sucked hard to get the Havana going and shifted in his seat.'... General.' He sucked and puffed, sucked and puffed. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Always a bit of a ritual getting these things going. Filthy habit of course! Now where was I?' 'Munro sat in silence.

'Oh yes! --I'm Emanuel Nastasi – General, Emanuel Nastasi to be precise. We've only ever communicated through Deveraux, but his over protectiveness can be rather time consuming, and as I've already indicated, we've run out of that. Now let me fill you in.'

Munro sat in shocked silence half listening to what Nastasi wanted him to know. He was only ever given information on a need to know basis. He was far more concerned about how 69

the General knew what he'd only found out himself a few hours before. How could Nastasi possibly know that he was about to become a father.

The Micro X-49 Black Hawk surveillance drone is top of its class. It can reach speeds in excess of Mach 20 and has the most recent S.A.D. (Search and Destroy) technology crammed into a 20 by 10cm body. All its minder has to do is program in the target details and boom! – Job done. There was no need for second opinions or orders from above, the operator just tapped in the co-ordinates of the phone call and the X-49 set off at 3800 miles per hour; about a quarter of its top speed while its faceless controller downloaded Joe's most recent facial image and his DNA profile. It took no time at all for the drone to reach Joe's home. The delay had been in getting the data to the drone’s controller. The watchers had waited years for the signal. Almost twenty-five in fact. So long that the patrons had decided to pull the plug, and the watchers had lost interest in what seemed a senseless vigil. The location alarm caught them by surprise and it took them two hours to react.

Not much time you'd think. Not when you've been waiting twenty-five years and the drone didn't know or care that it had missed Joe and his wife by over an hour. It just did what it was programmed to do and scanned Joe's modest semi but could find no sign of life. It did pick up the biological signatures of Esta and Brian Lucas in the lounge of the adjoining house. No one else was there. Their daughter had just got married so they had their life back. They were watching Deal Yourself to A Million. They liked that. Antiques and collectables had become a bit of a hobby and it was one of their favourite shows; but the drone wouldn't have found it interesting. It had its job to do.

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It detected Joe's mobile on the hall table near the land-line.

The same land-line that had yelled, I'm here! I'm here! when Joe took the call in the bath. They'd waited all those years to discover where it was hidden, and one little call from that point in CERN told them where it was. But they hadn't allowed for the two hour delay while the fat watcher with the huge sweat patches under her arms finished her online chess match before noticing the flashing alert icon on her surveillance screen.

The X-49 didn't panic. Not the way the fat watcher had panicked when she saw the alert that made the sweat patches on her SECURITELL shirt expand so rapidly. Panic wasn't part of its programming, sweating certainly wasn't. It just downloaded Joe's phone records in an instant and deduced he'd rung a taxi exactly one hour, eleven minutes and forty three seconds before. It linked the number to Viceroy Cabs in Jacobs Marsh and processed the binary codes that initialised its Quantum Laser Reaper Ray. It could have quarantined the target's HQ so that only Joe's home would have been taken out but it decided to vaporise the two dwellings on the site.

'I'm sure we've got one of those lamps – It's in the garage!'

Esta said to her husband.

Brian looked at his wife and wondered why she appeared to be melting, within that same split second Esta thought the same about him. They say that when two people live together for such a long time they start to think alike. Then in that same moment they turned to vapour – and disappeared into the wet night.

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72

Lizzie Morrison

lizimoz@yahoo.com Lizzie Morrison lives in the Lake District in Cumbria. She has been attending creative writing classes for a number of years.

Recently she decided to go part-time in her job as a secondary school teacher so she can follow her dream and write a trilogy for teenagers.

Shadows of Calder Shadows of Calder is a YA magical-realism novel narrated by Ruban Green, a fourteen year old boy from north-west England. When Ruban’s friend, Kata Virtanen, learns of the nuclear power station’s sinister plan, she walks into the deathly wasteland of Calder, hoping that Ruban will ‘wake-up’ before it’s too late.

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Shadows of Calder I fly through the jagged rocks of the Giant’s Teeth and across that cold, wild ocean. My silver-black feathers carve the air as waves swell and crash. Lightning flickers as I reach the shore.

I see her now in the distance as rain patters upon my wings and scatters across the desolate wasteland ahead. She walks barefoot, her knee-length coat is drenched, and her hood is pulled tight over her head. She trudges across the blackened sand and crawls up onto the flat stones. Dirt clings in marbled patterns to her legs as yellow-brown air slithers round her ankles.

I feel her fire within me. I know she grows more fierce with every step. I swoop beneath the dark, vast sky towards her.

She turns her head.

‘Ruban,’ she whispers.

My claws grip her shoulder. Her breath is hot. A tear rolls down her cheek.

‘You broke your promise, Ruban.’ Her words hit my breast like burning pebbles.

I made a promise to Kata last year. I said I would meet her on the full moon at Linton Woods. She would walk from Salterbeck and I would walk from Crolling and there we would meet, beneath the shimmering leaves of the silver birch tree.

I wanted to touch the soft ringlets that brushed her cheek. I wanted to see her eyes sparkle like freshly cut apples under the moonlight. But I didn’t go. I tried to forget her.

‘Ruban, Gebrecan and the line of power. It’s happening again.’

I open my beak but no sound comes out. I gasp.

‘Ruban, you must wake up and you must find me.’

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Beneath the shadows I see the monsters stir. Eyes and hooked teeth rise from the poisoned soil. The hissing gets louder. Kata lifts her hand and drags down her hood. Rain pelts the smooth skin of her forehead and trickles down the swarthy curve of her collarbone. She turns, raises her head and screams.

‘Ruban!’

The sound threads the air. The ground shakes. Her body is filled with fury and a light of triumph burns across her eyes.

The monsters bare their teeth. A moment later, they are upon us. ***** I bolted upright, my hair damp with sweat. I tried to hold on to the dream, to the pictures of black waves and terrifying skies, but they faded from my grasp like curls of smoke. My trembling fingers reached for the alarm clock. Red numbers glared: 5.32 am.

‘Terry!’ I grabbed the glow-in-the-dark star from next to my bed and ran across the corridor to his room. Mam and Dad’s door was ajar, and I could hear the quiet drone of Dad snoring.

In Terry’s room dull street light pushed though the split in the curtains, a dusting of orange falling over a shelf of glossy picture books and a convoy of small wooden trucks. Luminous stars, like the one I clutched in my palm, were scattered across the walls and ceiling. Beneath the duvet, Terry’s body rose and fell with easy breaths. Silt-coloured hair fell in soft segments over his pale cheeks. Delicate fingers rested over the worn fur of his teddy. Brown-Bear had once been mine. Now, white fibres of stuffing poked between the loose seams. Dangling arms and legs clung to the misshapen torso. Button eyes

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stared back at me. I leaned against the wall, my hot skin welcoming the cool.

A year ago my young brother woke from his coma. He then made a full recovery, and things seemed to be returning to how they were before the accident. Mam and Dad went back to work. Terry went back to school. Then I started having dreams. I could never remember them, no matter how I tried, but each time I woke with the same thought: Terry was gone.

I spun the star between my fingers, staring at the fading yellow-green glow. After Terry gained consciousness I found a box of them at the bottom of my wardrobe. I gave them to him the day he came home from hospital. Mam said they had fascinated me when I was young. I couldn’t remember them.

Terry loved them and had wrapped his soft, warm arms around my neck. ‘This one is for you,’ he whispered, passing me one back, and tracing the criss-cross marking in my palm with it. ‘It’s your guiding star.’ I had wrapped it tight in my fist, my tears merging everything. At night it lay on the shelf next to my bed and at school I tucked it safely inside my shirt pocket. It helped. But it didn’t stop the dreams.

Dr Richards called it ‘post-traumatic anxiety’. ‘I’m sure it will pass,’ he said, staring over his gold rimmed glasses with eyes like grey marbles, his skin yellow under the harsh, florescent light. ‘Yes, that’s most likely the cause of the nightmares, Mrs Green. No need to worry at present.’

Mam sat forward, rigid fingers smoothing her cherrycoloured skirt onto her tights as she perched uncomfortably on the oversized chair.

‘But he’s had nightmares before, Doctor.’

‘Have I?’ I looked up. Her thin lips paled and her forehead crinkled as she stared, half at me, half into the past.

‘When you were much younger, Ruban.’

‘But you’ve never mentioned it.’

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‘I didn’t want to remind you.’

‘Mrs Green,’ Doctor Richards’ voice was as warm as chocolate. He circled his pen in the air. His rolling eyes followed it. ‘Dreams are just the mind’s way of processing things. Your family have been through a lot. Give Ruban a little time.’

But time had not changed things. The fear had not gone.

And though I tried to forget about everything that happened, to forget about her, and to forget about the promise, it was always there. In quieter moments, there was nothing else.

I tiptoed across the carpet to the window and peeked through the curtains at the street lights and winding roads below. The full moon had almost faded in the sky, while a ribbon of pale-morning rested across the ground. To the west, thick smoke tippled out of the wide, grey chimneys of Gebrecan, the nuclear power station where Dad worked. To the east, Linton Woods were just visible, a bobbled mass of green-black tree-tops huddling together on the horizon. I thought back to the day when Kata Virtanen stepped out of those woods and walked into my life. She changed everything.

She brought me Raven, my guide, and showed me how to help the unquiet dead pass over. When she beat on the drum I became something else. Something I was not ready to be.

‘Kata Virtanen,’ I whispered, ‘I wonder where you are right now.’ Tightening my grip on my guiding star, I left Terry in his soft sleep and crept back to bed.

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78

Alan Porter-Barnes

abarnes1950@btinternet.com My first love was Plasticine until I was tempted into a lifelong affair with the delights only a 2b pencil can provide.

Meanwhile, Wells, Bradbury, Simmack, Lee and Ditko, Frazetta, Adams, Homer, and my good friend Tom Evans, all conspired to spur my imagination, until, after several years of infatuation with the short story, I have eventually found myself here.

Time Writer Harry Greene is an aspiring writer of science fiction. His ambition is to write a bestselling time travel novel. A time travelling future self informs him that he will indeed not only write the book, but also a TV series and a smash hit Hollywood movie all based upon his time travelling exploits. The story charts his first tentative steps into the realm of time travel, as he makes a remarkable discovery about his past.

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Time Writer ‘Look,’ he said. My own slightly better mirror image trying – I could tell – desperately to engage me in conversation, knowing full well how I’d react. I say full well now because I realize how he -that is to say, me- had already witnessed this encounter. He wasn’t as I’ve said quite the mirror image, he, this other me was perhaps slightly older, a bit more distinguished, just a little bit more, well, rock star chic, the way I often think I should look, before I catch that reflection in the mirror. ‘…there’s plenty of time for you to take this in, even though I won’t be able to answer all your questions.’

Of course he knew how me would react, he had already been through this.

You know how things always start off in a predictable manner? Well, as predictable as you come to expect. The working day, the routine? You get up, -you have a patternafter the third or fourth summons from the alarm on snooze.

Go downstairs, on automatic, switch on the coffee maker, encounter the cats. Every now and then stepping on something they’ve brought up during the night. Mop up.

Return upstairs, petting one or two of them as you do, they adopt your routine too. Walk into the bathroom in the assured knowledge that no one is in there, you’re the only one up at this hour, and find yourself face to face with what you’ve become overnight as you take that first tentative look in the mirror. Well today had, up until that point, been exactly like that. Now however things had taken a distinct turn out of the ordinary.

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The reassuring routine I had become so accustomed to, had spent so long perfecting, was now flexing its wings preparing to take its first maiden flight out of the window.

Instead of staring back at myself in the bath room mirror, seeing the bed head, shabby dressing gown, the lines, wrinkles and multiplying grey hairs, I was looking at a fully dressed albeit slightly different version of myself.

‘Look,’ He began again. ‘Up to now you’ve done everything just wrong. You know what I mean. All the wasted opportunities, the people you’ve failed to impress, the jobs.

They’ve all just missed the mark. Now you’ll be able to put all that to some use. The first thing you need to do is write about this. Forget the novel, well for now at least, there’ll be time for that, - you’ve actually got all the time in the world, that’s the beauty of this – but not just yet. You’ve got to remember all this and do as I tell you. You know all those people you didn’t listen to? You know all those that you did? Well now all you have to do is listen to yourself. The one thing we can’t help but agree on is being yourself, not who anyone else thinks you should be.’

I’d heard this voice so much, so many times before, usually directed at other people, always in my head, so much so that I could almost predict my precise words. Words I’d use, words I was using, only on this occasion I was using them directly at me.

He, that is me, was looking at me as though I was reading my mind.

‘You’ve just been thinking how I was using your own words haven’t you? This only has to be one way. You don’t have to join in. I remember how I felt. After all this is somewhat out of the ordinary. It’s not every day that you actually get to talk to yourself in person. Well at least it wasn’t every day. After a while you get used to it.’

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By this point I really needed to clear my head. I really needed that cup of coffee like I’d never needed it before.

‘Listen you need to have a shower, brush your teeth and all that, other stuff, and by now you’ll really need that cup of coffee. Oh.’ He added as he was leaving the room. ‘You’ll need to answer the phone before it wakes anyone else. Just hangup, it’s not important.’

The phone rang.

The shower and the feeling of fresh clean teeth had the desired effect. I felt awake and almost ready to tackle the world. Well at least I would be once I’d had that coffee.

Walking back down the stairs I began to wonder about that waking dream, or was it my over active imagination, the curse of the fiction writer. This sort of thing always happens at the most inconvenient times, having an idea for a story or a snippet of conversation that may or may not prove to be useful in a story. I kept trying to recall the scene, talking to myself in the bathroom, a me who seemed to know what was going to happen, at least knowing the phone was going to ring, and I knew almost instinctively that I should write it down.

Opening the door to the living room the aroma of filtered coffee greeted me as usual, but today it was mixed with the smell of toast and marmalade. The coffee, toast and marmalade were all on a tray gracing the coffee table, this, without doubt, was well out of the ordinary. Routine had quite definitely flown the nest.

The contented sound of soft purring in the kitchen prompted me to take a cautious look through the door. There I was, that other me, arms folded, knife in hand, propped with his back against the sink watching the cats feeding.

‘It’s a bit like groundhog day, but not really.’ He said with little more than a cursory glance in my direction. ‘It’s not like you actually live the same day over and over again, that’s 82

fantasy this is reality. But you do re-visit the same events time and time again.’ I gathered up the empty plastic plates, strategically placed on work surfaces and floor, precisely located where each one of the cats had their preference for breakfast, as the other me opened the door leading to the garden stroking each one of them as they trotted out doors.

Some routines obviously never leave.

‘Have your coffee at least. We’ve still got time for that.’

Without any thought of questioning I did as I said. Taking the first sip, the heady smell filling my nostrils, the exact proportion of single cream to fresh coffee sliding effortlessly down my throat, the warm comforting feeling brought me firmly into the day. Along with that feeling, that reassurance that this was indeed reality, questions started to cascade through my mind.

‘What do you mean, we’ve still got time?’ Of all the things I could have asked him this was probably the least important.

‘You know the pen you got for your Birthday?’ He began.

‘The one that has never worked?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one …’

‘I’m not sure where it is … I think it’s in the …’

‘It’s in my pocket.’ The merest trace of frustration creeping across his tongue, that same trace I know so well. ‘This sort of thing happens all the while. You’ve got to keep up, but you do need it. Have a look in the writing slope, I’m sure it’s there.’ It was precisely where he said it would be, and as I took the pen from the fake Victoriana box, he continued. ‘You need to keep it with you all the times, never let it out of your sight, and before you say ‘what about when I’m asleep?’, don’t try and be a smart arse!’ Then taking a casual look at the clock he continued. ‘Look, we need to change clothes.’ Still the questions stalled somewhere between mind and vocal chords.

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It was an odd sensation feeling the warmth of my own body against my skin as we exchanged clothing, especially as the smell of his deodorant was new to me.

‘You’re going to die at 7.26 on the 24th.’

‘That’s today!’ I looked at the clock. ‘In about fifteen minutes!’

Before I had time to comprehend the full implications of this new dilemma, before I had time to think, to verbalise any thought that may be forming, he continued. ‘Twelve and a half minutes in actual fact. But don’t worry about it, it’s not as bad as it seems.’ He was eyeing the dressing gown with that look you have when you see yourself in an old photo.

Remembering how you liked a particular shirt or shoes, but also just a touch embarrassed, unsure of your own taste.

‘You’ve got all the time in the world. You can come and go as you like. If you look in the garden you’ll see yourself sitting on the garden bench writing. You don’t have to come back at all, although obviously you do, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ A slight smile. ‘And, he needs to be out there. And if I’m not mistaken we’re upstairs having a very passionate session with the woman of our dreams.’

The unasked questions and the inane information I was giving to myself, confused me to the point of distraction.

Nevertheless I managed at least to ask. ‘What has the pen got to do with anything?’

‘You’re about to travel in time. Don’t you get it? It’s just initial confusion. The pen is your time machine.’

I knew I had more to ask, - Upstairs? Who the … - but right now nothing seemed to be forthcoming. He continued to fill in the blanks.

‘Look. I haven’t got time to explain, you’re going to have to trust in yourself. That’s me. See? Let’s face it if you can’t trust yourself who can you trust? You’re going to have to talk to the 84

other us outside too, but don’t annoy him he’s busy. And believe me what he’s doing is really important to all of us. See in the future you’re one of those people who arouse a lot of debate. A great deal of what he writes about, that is what we write, in these time travel tales is found to be true when time travel becomes a reality. In fact there’s a large amount of what is initially regarded as speculation in our stories that international government bodies and military take on board in order to regulate the various uses of time travel. In short we’re regarded as something of an authority on the subject.’ He paused as if waiting for me to make some sort of comment, and I almost felt obliged to say something.

‘I’m no physicist, as well you know, anything I, we, were to write would be no more than fantasy, speculation. And, well, you know, I, that is we … well the idea of a time travel story is something I’ve always wanted to write, but …’ He looked at me with that look I knew I’d shot at so many other people a thousand times before. That expression which I instantly recognised as, I can see I’m going to have to explain this in simple terms.

‘Yeah, I know. But this time you’ve got the advantage, this time you can actually travel in time! Whenever anyone talks about time travel in the future, they always quote us! It’s pretty cool really, up there with old HGW.’ I was becoming more confused and I could just tell this other me was relishing having the upper hand. Controlling the entire conversation, knowing what I’d say next. (Smug get!)

‘But how do I come into possession of a time machine? I certainly won’t invent it.’

‘No that’s a bloke named Riccardo, but no one remembers him. It’s a bit like the inventor of the jet engine, or the TV, or the hoover.’ He afforded himself a self-congratulatory smirk as the exact same expression swept across my own features.

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‘No one remembers who invented them, we just use them, take them for granted. It doesn’t really matter.’

I recognised so much about this guy, it was a little like writing things down and reading them a year or so later. Even though you know what’s coming, you can still surprise yourself. The look on his face, the thought process, the twinkle of mischievousness in his eye, I felt really weird for liking him so much, almost incestuous. He was so much the way I’d like to see myself, and in fact he was. Is? I don’t know the tense.

‘The thing is, as far as most people are concerned it’s me, well you know, us, who sets down all the rules governing time travel. But there’s all kinds of debate about whether or not we really did travel in time. It’s like the bloody moon landings.’

We looked at each other in recognition of the amusement.

‘Anyway, the thing is you have to use the time machine, the pen, to write all the stories and stuff. There’s a best seller, movie and TV series that provide a very healthy income for, well for us, you know, Victoria, the kids, they’re taken care of, provided for.’

Victoria, Vicky, my wife, he said he, me, one of us was upstairs with her right now! How could she possibly …

He walked over to the fire place where he promptly stubbed his toe on the marble hearth, stooped instinctively, as I knew I would to rub it, cracked his head on the mantle, let out the softest of moans along with the words, ‘Christ I knew that would happen …’ and fell down dead.

It was seven twenty-five, a minute earlier than he predicted.

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Andrew Taylor

andrewtaylor.home@gmail.com I tried, and failed, to write this story twenty-five years ago.

Now, with work and children less demanding, I’ve had the chance to try and do justice to this tale of society and individuals prioritising wealth over health.

In The Shade of The Tamarind Tree Vincent is an ambitious mill manager whose love for Alice, a weaver, is unrequited. He knows that weaving with asbestos yarn is dangerous, but his success relies on winning these contracts. As the Cotton Industry declines, Vincent profits by selling looms to India where he marries disastrously. Years later, he learns of Alice’s terminal cancer. Is asbestos the cause? Has Vincent killed his one love?

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In The Shade of The Tamarind Tree ‘In India, locals say that no other plant can survive in the shade of the Tamarind Tree.’

Manchester Cotton Magazine, 22 March 1956 1974 On Blackpool Pier, Alice and Joyce linger, watching a ship make slow progress on the horizon. The afternoon sun appears from behind towering clouds. They are sheltered from the breeze by a stall selling postcards and souvenirs. The tide is high and the sea surrounds them. Out here the air shifts between brackish and fishy. Waves slap around the legs of the pier and looking down between the gaps in the wooden walkway the constant movement of water gives Alice a floating sensation, as if the whole structure has set sail. Perhaps it’s those pills.

She turns her back to the sea as two squaddies chase shouting girls towards the promenade; standard issue boots send vibrations through the wooden planks. A dozen or so seagulls perch like finials on the theatre roof at the end of the pier, their squawking broadcast by the wind. A sign edged with multi-coloured light bulbs advertises a comedy show that she will never see. Music escapes from an amusement arcade. The elderly couple sitting on a bench concentrate on their small tubs of seafood, selecting each item with miniature forks as if the order in which they eat them matters.

‘Did you believe her then?’ Joyce says, as they monitor three boys firing rifles at empty cans.

‘Well some of it sounded like complete rubbish; but it was a bit strange when she said that I would never return to work in the mill. Also she mentioned a loss – just the thought of 88

Vincent made me want to leave there and then. The rest was just waffle, I wasn’t really listening. What about you?’

‘Oh, I thought I was going to fall off my stool when she said that this year would end in emotional turmoil,’ Joyce says.

‘And my Ted didn’t get a look in until I told her he wanted to go to Spain next summer. She said that I should beware of foreign travel because of the hidden dangers.’ Joyce puts on an old woman voice; ‘I’d stick with Blackpool if I were you.’

‘She would say that,’ says Alice.

Standing back from the iron railing, Joyce delves into her handbag and produces a couple of mints wrapped in cellophane. ‘Oh and she said there’d be a big surprise at the end of the week.’

‘You never know it might not be raining when we get home,’ Alice says taking a mint. She stretches out her arm and looks at her watch; it’s half past two.

‘How about an hour on the beach? I could do with a cup of tea and a sit down.’ ****** Pushing back on the wooden frame with both hands, Alice lifts herself, stays suspended in mid-air for a few seconds and then falls back into the canvas.

‘The trouble with deckchairs is that once you are in, it can be the devil’s own job to get out.’

Joyce leans sideways and levers herself out of the chair.

Taking both of Alice’s hands, she places one foot behind the other and heaves her sister upright. Alice smiles, rubbing her lower back.

‘Are you alright?’ Joyce asks.

‘Just a bit of lumbago, nothing to worry about,’ says Alice.

Joyce sits back down and raises her face to the sun.

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‘That Gypsy Francesca has brought it all back.’ Alice watches the sea turn from brown to grey, occasionally bluish.

‘Sometimes I wonder what Him up there is thinking, I really do.’

Joyce’s eyes are closed, Alice wonders if she has dropped off.

‘The thing is, I can’t imagine life without Vincent. I know he went off to India, but he came back, he cared, he...’ Alice bites her bottom lip. Her ribs ache, as though she’s being crushed.

‘He was one of a kind, that’s for sure,’ says Joyce opening her eyes. ‘He’d done well, but you know, I wonder if he was ever really happy.’ She tuts.

Blackpool is the best of both worlds – away from the damp and grime of home, but not far away. It’s a reassuring blend of different and familiar. Alice tries to remember how many times she’s stayed at the Carlton, but gets muddled around 1962. Vincent’s Mum and Dad were usually booked into the room across the landing but all the children went in together.

Cramps shoot across her stomach, Alice grits her teeth and her eyes water. She sits down and the deckchair swings alarmingly. The air has lost its warmth, the fabric of the deckchair presses into her back and the smell of sea and chips is sharp in her nose. The pain in her stomach is more intense now.

She reaches into her pocket for the Tramadol. It’s early for another two, but she doesn’t care. Gusts from a new direction blow sand into the air to create a sparkling cloud back-lit by the yellowing sun. A few grains land in the cup of cold tea next to her deckchair.

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Lancashire 1947 ‘Vincent.’ She sounded close. ‘Vincent.’ She spoke again, her voice high-pitched against a background of shouting and screaming. He opened his eyes and brought Alice into focus.

She was leaning over him; blue eyes surrounded by dark brown hair that fell in front of her pale face. He lay on the wooden floor, it was vibrating, bouncing, and he seemed to be surrounded by a tangle of feet and legs. His left ear throbbed.

Someone switched on the lights and illuminated the dance hall commotion in unforgiving white light. Everyone seemed to be fighting - Vincent remembered the blow to the side of his head and his knees collapsing.

Alice shook his shoulder.

‘Vincent, come on, get up,’ she said.

A heavy-set lad knocked Alice sideways and kicked Vincent in the gut before turning his attention elsewhere. Vincent rolled on to his back pulling his knees towards his chin, the muscles across his stomach and chest in spasm, air forced from his lungs. Alice picked herself up, she was crying now.

‘Vincent, come on, please, we need to get out of here.’ She sounded desperate.

Vincent uncoiled himself, taking in air, one arm crossed over his stomach as he stood up. Before he could reach out to Alice someone rammed an elbow into his face, jolting his head backwards. Alice screamed. Vincent, now alert, grabbed the boy by his lapels, head butted him, kneed him in the groin and pushed him away. The boy fell backwards hitting his head on the floor.

Scanning the room, Vincent seized Alice’s arm and pulled her towards the doors.

‘Keep close to me,’ he said making a path through the crowd, pushing fighters and bystanders away. At the back of 91

the hall, an older man ushered them through double doors into the foyer, as if he was rescuing people from a burning building - his actions urgent, intense. The flow of young people carried Vincent and Alice into the street.

Vincent clamped his hand over Alice’s and they hurried across the road. His lips felt swollen and he could taste metal in his mouth. His breathing was fast and deep and the night air was coarse in his chest.

At a safe distance, they turned to watch young men and women spilling onto the pavement. A group of six or seven youths were still arguing, jostling each other on the steps. A lad fell back against a door to the sound of breaking glass. The others broke off briefly to look. Alice shuddered and covered her face with her hands. Vincent put his arm around her and she turned into him, sobbing. He leaned his head into hers, her scent sweet and fresh, and held her tight. His head pounded, as though it might burst, but in this moment, in this place, holding Alice, he could bear it.

‘Let’s go home,’ she said, ‘I heard one of the doormen say the police were on their way.’ Alice pulled herself from his hold, took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes.

If taking on that mouthy lout didn’t convince Alice that he could look after her, then nothing would, thought Vincent. His face felt as though it were growing, puffing out in different directions - but it was worth it. Alice could see that he’d stick up for her, protect her and he sensed she was glad to be in his arms. He wondered if she was starting to see him differently, as a boyfriend, as a man. He should thank that gang for causing so much trouble.

As they walked away, arms linked, Vincent looked over his shoulder. Three black cars pulled up outside the hall with blue lights flashing, their bells ringing.

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***** ‘You didn’t have to defend me. I can look after myself,’ Alice said, arms folded. Her cheeks streaked with mascara.

‘Not so hard.’ Vincent winced as Kathleen dabbed around his swollen ear. ‘And not too much iodine, my whole head will be yellow if you carry on.’ He tried to sound in control but since they’d arrived at Alice’s house his whole body was shaky and cold. He was glad that Eddie had lit a blazing fire that night - he could feel the heat across the kitchen.

‘Stop complaining, it’s your own fault. You’re lucky it’s not serious.’ Alice stood next to her mother, the front of her cardigan daubed red.

‘I think he should go to the hospital,’ Kathleen said looking him up and down.

‘No, I’ll be alright,’ said Vincent. ‘It looks worse than it is – but I’m glad Alice said to come here. You know what my Mum’s like when she sees blood.’

‘If you’d left me to sort myself out, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’ Alice took off her cardigan, studied the bloodstains, then went over to the sink and began to run the tap.

‘Hang on, that gang were from out of town, anyone could see they were looking for trouble. I saw two of them arguing outside the gents’ not long after we’d arrived. Ouch!’ Vincent pulled his head away. ‘I couldn’t let a scruff speak to you like that, could I?’ ‘Sounds to me like a set up if the fighting kicked off all over the place.’ Eddie said. He poked the fire, bright orange coals rising to the top of the heap, black ones buried in the flames.

‘Too many young men out of work as I see it; too much energy and not enough to do. You don’t need money to fight.’

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Vincent wanted a cigarette, but he’d never dare smoke at Kathleen’s. It didn’t seemed right that he was getting a hard time when all he tried to do was look after Alice, at least her dad was sticking up for him.

‘We should have left earlier, Easter Saturday or not,’ Alice said leaving her cardigan in the sink. She dried her hands and picked up a ball of cotton wool. ‘Let me do his chin, Mum.’ ‘Your face is going to be every colour under the sun in a day or two. People won’t know whether you’re a hero or a villain,’ Alice said soaking the ball in iodine and patting Vincent’s chin.

He could see a smile edging on to her lips and Vincent relaxed into the chair. Her touch was tender, kinder than Kathleen’s. He closed his eyes enjoying Alice’s attention, trying not to flinch as she tended the bruised skin around his eye. She really did like him, he could tell from the way her fingers brushed his cheek as she cleaned his wounds. Everyone knew that he and Alice were best friends; boys ribbed him about her being his girlfriend - if only she was.

But liking wasn’t enough. Somehow he had to make Alice love him - be in love with him. His stomach contracted and he wrapped his arms around his middle. He held his breath until the urge to vomit subsided. Tonight wasn’t turning out as he imagined. He was sure of his love for Alice but what if she could never love him back?

Alice stopped her ministering for a moment, looked at Vincent checking him over and carried on.

The nausea faded, to be replaced by old worries. What if he had to spend his whole life looking for another girl and had to settle for second best? He couldn’t allow that to happen, he’d have to do something.

It didn’t help that Alice had left school last summer whilst he’d stayed on to get his certificate. She seemed older now and she certainly had more money than him. What he needed 94

was a part time job that would see him through to the summer; that would be a start. He could buy some new clothes; look sharp. After tonight’s episode, he could do with a new shirt. He tried not to think about Alice’s bloody cardigan.

‘You’ll do,’ said Alice standing back to examine Vincent, ‘do you want me to walk you home?’

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James Wafer

james@bluewhistledesign.com James is a full time graphic designer whose work pursuits include photography and copy writing. He enjoys jazz and old black and white films with his wife Katy and two young boys Jamie and Thomas. He has enjoyed writing Danny and St Nicholas and its content reflects his love of fantasy adventure, comics, history, philosophy and his home town of Liverpool.

Danny and St Nicholas On December 1st, Danny Murphy has to make a choice: follow the ordinary, or follow a robin into a frozen pool. The robin will lead him on an epic journey, one that uncovers the truth about the mystical legend known as Father Christmas.

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Danny and St Nicholas 20 years ago. A Secret.

Giuseppe Tomino lay in his hospital bed, certain death would swallow him soon. He opened his mouth to call for a nurse but only a whisper scraped past his teeth. His eyes flickered desperately. Secrets can gnaw at a man’s mind and Giuseppe had bitterly kept his secret since World War II. He’d been on the losing side but had gained something incredible.

A warm Italian breeze blew gently through the open window and no one came. Giuseppe closed his eyes, unready for death but for the first time in over half a century ready to share his secret. Pain bit into his body. This was it. This was how it ended.

‘Signore Tomino are you ok?’ came a voice. The old Captain dragged his eyelids open, his pupils shook as he looked towards the face of a young nun. Her face, framed by her wimple, as perfect as an egg. ‘I’ll get Doctor Pacino.’

‘NO!’ Giuseppe reached his arms around her neck like a man drowning. ‘I have done something… awful…’ She began to pull away but Giuseppe shook his head and pulled her closer. ‘Something… that WE stole. I didn’t understand what we were doing.’ Tears began to stream from his eyes. ‘I have something… you need to put back… to Myra…’

‘What are you talking about…I really must get the Doctor’ replied the nun shocked by the man’s intensity.

‘There is a box…’

‘What box?’ she said, certain she would lose him.

Giuseppe’s rasp was almost inaudible. He said little but enough to tell her where the box was hidden. ‘Do not give it to the Brothers… the Relic Brothers. Promise me. Promise… ‘ 98

‘I promise.’

His eyes rolled back, his body fell onto the bed, his tongue pushed against his teeth as he half-mouthed a word. A word he couldn’t say but only scream within his mind. ‘TRUTH!’ Giuseppe Tomino, a Captain of the Royal Italian Navy, was dead but with his last words – the secret was out.

November 30th. The Present The car came to a halt. The engine gave a final grunt and settled into silence. A thick fog enveloped its shape and there was a quieter silence still. It stood there and then the doors popped open and a light appeared. It shone dimly; a heart in the ghost of fog.

Out stepped a heavy foot, cracking the dirty ice that had formed on the pavement. It was a man, carrying his sleeping son. The boy was called Danny. He could have woken him – it would have been easier, but he chose to hold him close. His mother followed, struggling with everything Danny would need for the month ahead. Everything a boy would need if separated from his Mum and Dad at Christmas. Well, almost everything.

Unseen, a photograph fell from the boy’s bag pocket. It was an image of Danny and his family, standing on a beach in bright summer. It tipped onto the floor and was blown - scuttling under the fog until it rested face down.

The mother followed her husband and child into a doorway that spilt its yellow light from the tower block – and again, everywhere was silent. A wind stirred and spun the photograph through the fog, into the night air and across to the wet field that lay north of the tower block. The field was freezing and on it had gathered a large, dark, wet puddle. The puddle had become a surface like dark cracked glass as the 99

night went on. There was silence; a silence that seemed to begin beneath the ice. The time passed to midnight; and above, hidden by the purple-hued clouds, a comet chalked the deep, dark heavens; the old day disappeared and Advent began.

December 1st Danny was awake. He hadn’t quite worked out what the smell was that was filling the room or who was making the noise beyond the door.

‘Danny. Daaaannny! Rise and shine son! You sleepy monkey!’

‘Grandad. Bacon.’ he thought as his eyes and his mind adjusted to the darkness. He pulled back the coarse blankets and climbed down from the steep iron bed; its springs creaked loudly and his bare feet touched the tiled floor. He shuffled to the wicker basket and found his dressing gown folded neatly on top of his school uniform – and so, quickly, to spite the bitter air, he put it on and left the coldness of the room.

‘Morning lad!’ said Grandad, as he spied Danny through the beads that hung from the kitchen doorframe. The boy poked his head through. The old man reached forward and ruffled Danny’s hair. Danny yawned and clumsily put his arms around him. And hung there stalling with tiredness.

‘Ahhh, that’s a good lad. Oh ‘ang on son, get off... toast has popped.’ Grandad gave the boy a push ‘Sit down at the table.

Put the radio on while you’re there.’ Grandad pointed to an old wooden box with a Sellotaped aerial.

‘Your Mum an’ Dad wouldn’t wake you last night. His face was purple by the time he’d climbed the stairs. Tough guy eh!?’

Grandad placed a bacon sandwich in front of the boy. ‘You 100

wouldn’t get me carrying anyone up those stairs’ he coughed.

‘He does make things ‘arder for himself.’

‘Lots of press-ups.... he never stops’ yawned Danny.

Danny’s parents performed an illusionists’ act.

‘Here’s your juice son and there’s tea in the pot… here you are, I’ll do it.’

Danny let Grandad pour.

‘We are going to have a real gas this Christmas, son. I found a couple of your dad’s old board games.’

‘Bored games...’ muttered Danny - everything Grandad had was old-fashioned, outmoded. But as he looked at the old man with his mop of grey hair and buttoned up waistcoat and black tie, Danny felt a wave of emotion break over him, and his eyes welled up with tears.

‘Oh come on lad. It’s not that bad. You’ve brought your computer games thingy too, though ‘Snakes and Ladders’ is a far better night-in.’ He walked around the table and put his arm on the shoulder of the boy.

‘Look son,’ he said, pushing his head towards Danny’s, ‘your mum and dad love you so much. It’s a real opportunity on that ship. It’s something they just ‘ave to do. They were so sad to go - your mother – well she was completely…’

He stopped a moment.

‘They love you very much and will call as much as they can.

They SO much need the money; it will set you all up for the next year.’ Danny sighed in resignation. He understood why they had to work away but he didn’t like it.

‘It’ll fly by.’ said Grandad. ‘It reminds me of when I was sent away from Liverpool with my brother, your Great Uncle Henry, during the war.’

Grandad started to talk about German bombers and how his own mum had made him ‘jam butties’ wrapped up in newspaper for his journey. They were off to find safety in the 101

countryside but lost the butties in a marble competition with some other boys.

‘Well me mam and dad – your great grandparents - weren’t pulling rabbits out of hats for folks on a cruise ship. Me, My dad’, said Grandad, correcting his grammar, ‘was running through the jungle being chased by the Japanese. Tigers and Samurai warriors everywhere. While me mam was keeping Hitler out of Anfield with the FASTEST typing skills in the west.’

‘Oh come on! There weren’t any Samurai... only soldiers.’ protested Danny with a loud sniff.

‘I tell you, there were plenty of Japanese officers who fancied themselves as Samurai and they battled our lads all over Burma.’ said the old man, his eyes widening and his grip tight on Danny’s arm.

‘Did your dad ever kill anyone?’ said Danny with another loud sniff.

‘Oh Danny, me dad had lost his glasses by 1941. Dropped them down a poop-hole toilet in Rangoon. PLOP! So I doubt it!’

Danny looked around the room, chuckling at Grandad. And this place was so familiar, everything in the same position it had always been - though a little dustier than ever. The painting of the Roman soldier at Pompeii, the ship in a bottle, the old clock that looked like a ship’s wheel. Every other space was cluttered with old books stacked on their side or on top of each other, but it was the picture of Nanny that stood out.

Danny’s mother had warned him to be gentle with Grandad. It had been three years since Nanny Mary had died and though they were all having trouble letting go, Granddad was feeling it the worst.

‘Right’o, time for whipper-snapper cowboys to get their school uniforms on. Schools a’ callin’.’

He always did this voice. It was meant to be the voice of an 102

old actor called John Wayne. John Wayne was, according to Granddad, the greatest and toughest action-hero of them all.

‘The Rock… wouldn’t last two minutes with The Duke’. Danny loved these old films and none of his friends understood - but that was ok, he enjoyed sharing the love of old films with his Grandad.

‘Why I oughta…’ said Danny, surprising Grandad with one of the film cowboy’s famous lines. It was good to see Grandad laugh.

Danny returned to his room and began to dress. When he finally tied his tie, he was careful not to make it too neat. This was the right look, as there are plenty of people only too willing to criticize if your clothes were not to their regulations.

Sometimes teachers but mainly other children. It was only a year ago he’d worn the ‘wrong ‘trainers and had to suffer almost 3 months of abuse, spearheaded by a boy called Eddie Connor.

Grandad wandered back and forth through the flat looking for ‘something’. This could be anything: his shoes; his wallet; the cup of tea he’d just made or even his false teeth. Grandad said it wasn’t old age - he’d always been like that. Danny sat down and waited – he guessed it wasn’t his teeth by the way the old man could do his cowboy impression, besides, the boy wasn’t in a rush to get to school despite the risk of a telling off from Mrs. Priory. Whilst sitting there, he spied an old cardboard box, with an array of Christmas decorations spilling from it.

He walked across the room and parted the lid. Inside, the contents were carelessly stuffed: tinsel, baubles, miniature presents, a toilet roll painted blue and a long string of fairy lights. The tinsel had lost most of its cheeriness and was thin and rough like yuletide barbed wire. The baubles were either missing their eyelets, so they couldn’t be hung or were cracked 103

open like day old Easter eggs. Danny picked up one of the survivors – its spherical form reflecting his curious face and making his nose zoom awkwardly towards its gleaming surface.

‘I put them by the door, I always put them by the door…’ huffed Grandad, still searching for his unspecified item. Danny didn’t hear him, his eye was caught by something - not gleaming like the other items - but dull and yellowed and mottled with the effects of damp. It was pressed against the side of the old cardboard box but looked older than the box itself. He reached forward and pinched the edge of the card, he felt the furriness of dust on his fingertips. He pulled it out.

It was an advent calendar.

Instead of bright, garish colours and a filling of chocolates, it was a dull, sombre and unnerving thing.

‘Noel – Good Fellows’ was written at the top in unusual hand-drawn type. Below it was a picture of a large, fat fir tree.

It was an expertly engraved lithograph with each branch and every needle meticulously rendered. Below the tree’s dark green mass, was a selection of toy gifts and fruits that lay half submerged in the snow-covered ground.

Danny wondered how old the calendar could be – the toys were from a bygone time, there wasn’t a smart phone or even a mountain bike in sight. But, as per usual, there were twentyfour scored door marks. Number fifteen had been opened and a picture of a sailing boat was peeking out.

‘Oh, you’ve found the decorations then…what’s that there?’ asked Grandad.

‘An advent thingy…’ replied Danny, only half listening, ‘Is it yours?’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the calendar. ‘…Not mine, son. Looks even older than me!’ The old man walked over and rubbed his fingers on the calendar’s corner.

‘Looks Victorian, but should be no older than say…oooh 104

1850s? That’s when the first advent calendars appeared.

Could be worth a few bob.’

‘Brilliant!’ said Danny. Grandad knew a lot of things and never seemed tired of searching for new knowledge. He spent most days reading; all those words and facts that, most of the time were never used practically, but were up there, stored away, like spare light bulbs in case of an emergency.

‘Come on lad, you’ll be late, put your scarf on.’ Grandad patted his pocket for keys as he moved towards the front door.

‘I’ll just open number one.’ Danny picked the cut edge of the numbered door.

‘Hurry up’ said Grandad ‘that headmaster will be writing ME a letter because you were late on the first day I send you in.’

‘It’s a robin.’

Looking at the image, Danny felt a little disappointed.

Walking towards the front door, he realized that he still held the calendar. He threw the object back towards his room, skimming it through the open door and onto his dressing table.

‘Shot!’

They left the flat and walked down the landing to the stairwell and began the long descent unaided by the lift.

Grandad commented again that Danny’s father had carried him up the eight flights of stairs. ‘Some magician eh… should have got you up here in a puff of smoke!’ With each step the pensioner’s pocket chimed with spare change – he’d always had a smattering of coins in his pockets and Danny silently recalled how Nan used to tell him off for spoiling his suit pockets.

‘Don’t put spare change in there!’ she’d say.

‘Spare, it’s not spare it’s all we’ve got!’ Grandad would reply, winking back.

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They reached the ground floor.

‘Oooh hang on…let me get me other legs on.’ Grandad grimaced as he paused from the effort. ‘Legs always wake up last.’ The air outside met their breath and made a steam of it.

‘It’s freezin’, feel that!’ puffed Danny. Grandad gave a sharp whistle.

‘Zip up and put your hat on - I wish they would mop the entrance a bit more, it smells like a stable in here.’

‘Ack! Grandad, it stinks!’ Danny grabbed at the old man’s sleeve and, laughing, pulled him away from the smell and towards cleaner air.

‘Well that’s my exercise over for the day!

‘I’ll walk you to the main road, you’ll find your way from there, the school is up the hill – stop me - you know where it is.’ Grandad paused, his breath hanging like a cloud around his face. As they walked along, Danny noticed that the puddles in the gutter were frozen and the ice had trapped some leaves and crisp packets in its tense hold. He looked across the field.

Frost had gathered round the edge of an immense puddle. As they hurried along, Danny could just see past his coat collar to the partially frozen wetness. The puddle was at least the size of a football pitch and was broken up by the occasional crest of tall grass and, more remarkably, the shell of an old, rusted car. The car sat like the skull of a great beast and the wind piped through the shapes, rocking its shell, sending quivering ripples across the water. The only other feature was the remains of a goal post that stood bone-white, net-less and broken. School approached and the boy began to get that sinking feeling.

‘Righto son – ‘Ipsa scientia potestas est’,’ piped Grandad.

‘Wha?! ‘ puzzled the boy screwing up his face.

‘Knowledge itself is power’ – and don’t say ‘wha’’ – say ‘pardon’.’

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‘Knowledge… wha?’ repeated Danny, laughing. ‘Laters….’

The pair parted company; Grandad went left towards the newspaper shop and Danny carried straight on up the hill to school.

He passed the rows of houses where husbands and wives kissed farewells to each other; parting company before they went to work. Danny looked on, remembering that it was only the 1st of December and his parents would be away, absent for the whole of Christmas and well into January. He placed his hand into his coat pocket to feel his mobile. It was new and he had never owned one before. His Dad had made it clear that phone calls could be a problem, as the ship would be sailing in and out of range. He so wanted to call them now but he wondered would there be any point.

As he walked on, he feared that this would be his dullest Christmas ever.

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