“This is all of the candidates?” I heard him ask his advisors, sotto voce.
His gaze swept me dismissively, no more interested than had I been a speck of lint on his finely tailored collar. I took no offence; clients who have underestimated and tried to double cross me in the past have regretted it, albeit very briefly.
“This is most irregular.” An acolyte was addressing me directly now.
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An obituary published in the local paper caught Martha’s eye.
“Poor Mr. Aldridge has passed away.”
Martha’s husband hid behind his Times, “Humph” his reply.
“Do you think we should attend his funeral. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of.”
“Humph.”
Martha knew Mr. Aldridge enough to say hello, him not being very social or active in the neighbourhood. The thought of his funeral being unattended was unthinkable. On a chilly but bright morning Martha wandered down to the church with a bouquet of flowers from her garden. Walking up the path of the churchyard, she noticed a crowd of military men all in full-dress uniform. She hesitated slightly, and a gentleman behind her urged her on. Walking into the church, she marvelled at the beautiful flowers; half the pews were full of military men. Sidling into the back pews, she watched the ceremony.
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“Woe to the warrior, woe to the woman of the street, and woe most all of all he who hears but does not believe!”
The braying, bleating voice was once again calling out in the square. People came to trade and gossip, often from ten miles away and the last thing anyone needed was the shaming voice of a pious preacher.
So, Herndon, retired but still a respected war hero, decided to talk some sense into the young Christian, and if not sense, perhaps a little muscle.
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On his haunches outside the toilet, whimpering. Of course his mistress would return. But what if she stayed there for ever, studying the face she saw reflected in the tiny pool fixed on the wall above the sink?
Anxious? Indeed. He hadn’t forgotten his first eight years, had he? Living in a shed, Mr Phillips cursorily leaving him food, then ignoring him. Occasionally the house dogs, big as buses, would come out and get angry with him. ‘Outsider!’ they would snarl. ‘Stay out of our house. Not welcome!’ One of them, an Alsatian called Farage, the head on him the size of his shed, bit him once him on top of his skull. Mr Phillips had put a bit of rag over the cut, muttering, ‘Now what’ve you been up to? Flipping nuisance!’
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I met with my hero twice a day, everyday. Morning and night. He wasn’t your average hero, he didn’t wear a cape, or fly, nor did he have highly advanced technology. He was small, white, round and tasted of talcum powder. He did have superpowers, he could fight against illness, look after me and was very strong.
Yes, he was a tablet. My hero was a tablet.
We first met when his fellow tablets couldn’t handle me. He was recommended by the doctor because he was so strong. I did some research on him. Found out what his strengths and weakness were. If I were to work with this fella, let him into my life, I needed to know who he was.
He seemed suitable.
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Mavis Potter reclined in her seat, her body visibly deflating.
‘That’s such a relief, Dr Parker. I was certain it was a brain tumour. Thank you for seeing me out of hours again. You really are a hero.’
‘Just doing my job. The migraine should subside soon, and the tablets will help. In future, remember that stress can be a trigger – that includes googling symptoms.’
Dr Paul Parker’s smile reached the corners of his eyes, kindness radiating out of him. Mavis basked in it for a moment. A visit to the GP was as good as a holiday.
She floated out of the surgery. ‘Thank you, Dr!’
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The family last got together at their family ranch in the spring of ’06. Mike Profaci, tired from a three-hundred-mile drive along I-15 from Calgary to Great Falls, pulled his RV into the yard fronting the house just as a warm May-wind whipped through the Engelmanns lining the packed gravel driveway that cut through the forest from the Interstate to the Lucchese casa-di-famiglia.
His mother stepped onto the porch, her familiar gingham apron flapping in the breeze, a warm smile on her face and arms opened wide.
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The fellow smoked his pipe, stroked his messy mane of a beard, and Johnson who it must be said lacked insight was unsure of what to make of him.
The man was intelligent yes, or at least, confident, and all around the walls of his innermost chamber, (a converted garage in truth) showed a life well lived. Framed photos proudly depicted the gentleman, shaking hands with Andy Warhol or standing in front of the pyramids of Giza.
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The syringe went in. As small wisps of raw power arced between her fingertips, she let out an involuntary gasp. She’d been expecting something of course, just not… this. Her entire life she’d been told she was special. “One in seven billion,” said the very serious looking people in white coats, who’d crowded round her prodding, poking, and doing all sorts of other tests, then shaking their heads.
Now, those same men stood back, as awestruck as she was, before turning to shake each other’s hands.
“We’ve done it!” one of them whispered reverently. “We’ve tamed Clarke’s Third Law.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and then… she did. Information was there for her instantly; every electron that had ever passed through any electronic storage device available for her to access at will. Some of it was fascinating, some too disturbing to contemplate, but suddenly she understood what she was. Who they were. What they’d done to her. Her brain and body felt truly alive… electric.
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Our team turned up at the pub ready to challenge our old rivals, the reigning pub quiz champions of Little Nedding. They are notorious cheats of course, what with concealed smartphones and friends planted around to covertly signal answers. But we were in great form, brain cells bristling, which is more than can be said for the stand-in quiz-meister ( the usual one had covid.)
The stand-in chap seemed a bit furtive. He clutched the answer sheets like a symbol of power and made a great show of concealing the pages. Definitely something peculiar about him.
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Hubert was struggling. Progress on the Business Improvement Plan requested, rather mandated, by the Directors of News Wales Live Radio was tortuous. Analytics had diagnosed a 25% audience fall -off after the third quarter- hour. Perhaps change the bumper music. Done. Replace the liner front-selling the next guest…. possible. Could be a one hour programme was simply too long. Rearranging the playlist would address the former. The latter was frightening, heralding a possible cut to his hours and a corresponding reduction in salary. With the legally- enforceable encumbrances of 3 ex-partners and 7 children to support, a Bentley Meteor to maintain and fuel, plus his 10 tank collection of non-native reptiles and amphibians to feed, house and heat, Hubert had decisions to make. He compiled a list of friends and professional acquaintances and started.
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The credits rolled over the screen as he stood to turn off the television after their normal Saturday night animated film, as if it was a routine action.
“Do you think we need fairies?” she asked jokingly as she stretched after lying awkwardly for the past half an hour.
“No of course not,” he smiled as he started tickling her feet. “Our fairy tale consists of takeaways, laughter, cuddles and adventure.”
She giggled uncontrollably as she tried to wiggle away from her tickle monster.
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With the use of her nail file, Fiona finally pried open the bureau drawer. It had been out of bounds for all of her childhood. Even now, she felt that she was defying her mother. She slid the drawer open with reverence and found the key to the glass cabinet.
Even at this sad time, she felt a smile creep across her face. The long felt desire of handling her mother’s favourite possession made her body shake. She picked up the old lamp and held it close to her chest.
To her astonishment, a genie materialised before her. It stretched and yawned, and finally opened it’s eyes.
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Packing up his dad’s old kitbag, Billy excitedly rushed downstairs. The camping trip beckoned. The gang had finally persuaded their parents to let them sleep over at Devil’s Cave near their home.
Summer holidays had started. Most of the boys had jobs for the holidays but this weekend was a boy’s right of passage. His mother had laid out food for them, some bread, a bit of dripping, and some jam tarts. That was my contribution.
Gathering at the end of our road we set off. It was quite a climb to the cave but there was a stream bubbling away alongside the path, so we stopped to fill our pop bottles frequently.
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She comes once a month with her weeny plug-in keyboard. A pair of legs are attached to them, taken from a long solid case. Then she sits on a borrowed chair, as battered as her audience, and holds her hands above the three octaves, poised like a concert player, as if the large room were the Albert Hall, as if the old dears with food stains on their mouths and tops were aristocracy in tiaras and gowns.
Ta-ra-ta-tum! The opening notes of I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside, in an electronic tinkle, and she is singing in a pleasant tenor, smiling at the half-ring of armchairs and wheelchairs. Slumped heads lift, minds which exist in a fog have moments of clarity, return to childhood holidays, recall sandcastles, brylcreemed fathers in turned up trousers with braces, and shirts with ties, mothers with fat red legs spread in deckchairs, the sun roasting them stealthily.
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Laughter echoed around the kitchen, bouncing off gleaming surfaces and easing the tension. Andy had been right. A get-together was exactly what the community needed at this difficult time.
Across the marble island, her face protruding from behind a vase of lilies, his wife, Kat, barely cracked a smile. Not that the Botox permitted much facial expression, but the sparkle had been absent from her eyes ever since their neighbour, Mark, had gone missing. Andy took a swig of beer, drowning out one bitter taste with another.
He was launching into his next comical tale when the doorbell rang. Andy excused himself and weaved through the guests to the front door, listening out for gossip. Did anyone suspect anything?
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The house was like nothing she’d seen before. It smelled of biscuits and old tea; and looked like a half-buried cottage with just the top floor sticking out. This, it turned out, was an accurate description.
She’d been dropped at the end of the lane by a taciturn bus driver, who simply nodded at the lane when she asked for directions.
After walking for a mile, the lane ended, and the bramble shrouded garden began. At first her aunt’s cottage wasn’t visible, just a curl of wood-smoke from a chimney poking above the treetops. She headed towards it and arrived at the two up, three down-down-down to find her aunt leaning out of a window, shaking a large quilt covered in esoteric patterns.
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It was really great to meet up again and surprising the way we fell into the old patterns of benign teasing. There was the indulgence of reminiscence and a lot of catching up on the water under the bridge. In some cases that seemed to be quite a deluge. Having said that, we were more or less up to date on relationships – break ups and reassemblies.
Four of us, who now sat in a city park, had been especially close and still shared an odd sense of humour. I have to admit some of our conversations tended to straddle the boundary of acceptability, but it was all part of the delight of storytelling about passers-by who were unaware of their part in our dramas.
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Flowers twice in one month, that’s never happened before. I hear my voice thanking him profusely while my mind is warning me there’s something up.
I have never had any reason to doubt him before, but my gut seems to be playing a set of Tom-Toms. I ignore both of them and make dinner. It isn’t until the early hours of the morning, that my fears start up again. I tell myself I’m imagining things but find it really difficult to get back to sleep, with my mind constantly going over the same questions
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I curse my parents’ choice of Fatimah. A name, whether given at birth, self-ascribed or bestowed by mocking contemporaries is so entwined with identity. Change by deed poll seemed the only solution to the seemingly irremovable tags of “Fatty” and “Tatty.” Identifying a fitting substitution was the challenge.
But that was before my career as a Digital Modifier with the Palimpsest Foundation. Digital Falsifier would be a more accurate descriptor. The greatest perk of apprenticeship was learning the tools of the trade,- pixel manipulation, real-time video simulation, voice replication,- from a true master. The downside was moving far from family to the glaring redness of the Foundation’s god-forsaken HQ in the Mohave Desert.
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