“We exist to progressively leverage existing world-class total linkage in order that we may efficiently develop low-risk, high-yield e-business with 100% on-time delivery.”
Bernard Brightman, acting sales manager for Hayter Hair Products, held up a plaque to his staff. “What do you think?”
Emily popped her bubble-gum and walked out muttering. The remaining employees just looked at each other. Silence descended on the staff room.
“Well?” Bernard eyed them, his face slowly hang-dogging. “Does anyone have anything to say? This is important, guys. Mister Hayter is visiting to sign this off.”
Walking out of the courtroom, Zac turned to the couple who had fostered him for the last six years. His face lit up a huge grin on his face.
”I won, she is out of my life. I’m all yours, you can now adopt me.”
His birth mother stormed out, mouthing abuse at anyone in her path. Zac stood his ground his eyes blazing. Hesitating, his mother met his eyes, turned and stalked away.
Since The Leak life had been a bit strange. The familiarity of domestic routines was a comfort. Practising mindfulness whilst washing-up at the kitchen window was amongst Norma’s favourites. There, as usual, was Robin the robin, twisting and bobbing on the garden wall, looking out for his breakfast. She and Paul had chosen the name long ago when they were still speaking to each other, or more correctly before the diagnosis, when she could speak.
Useless at multi-tasking.
At the movement, Norma’s thoughts refocussed. Looking-up from a particularly stubborn fried egg encrustation, Paul entered her vision window-left. He was wearing his usual gardening attire, the pink “onesie.” Face down, back arched, he was advancing worm-like through the petunias. She and Robin watched him reach the ninety degree obstacle of the house wall corner and stop. Robin opened his beak, uncoiled a forked tongue, flicked and caught the cat snoozing below, gulped, and flew off.
‘Mrs Norris must be one of the most irritating women in literature. She is a snob with prejudices of class and an ingratiating manner to her perceived superiors taken to extremes. What’s more, she is a terrible cadger and someone who puts self-interest well above kindness to those around her.’
It can hardly be said that Ellen could ever be mistaken for a Mrs. Norris fan. Yet in Bethany there was a reluctance to join in this outright condemnation without considering background detail that might have contributed to some of Mrs. Norris’s less appealing manners. She ventured a defence:
‘Poor Mrs. Norris had two sisters. One managed to marry a rich and influential man whilst the other married a seaman who came down in the world. She was in the middle of these extremes and married a local clergyman who seems rather dull and uninterested in matters beyond his mealtimes. She was bored, and sought to enliven her days by visiting the rich man’s household. The sister there was poor company so she tried to involve herself in the lives of the four nieces and nephews who despised and avoided her. All she had left was to abase herself and seek to be useful to the master and mistress of the house. It is sad that her sacrifices were so undervalued by the family and possibly cost her the opportunity of making lasting friendships.’
Looking back, everybody remembered different things about her. To my mum, she had been an angel, (a definite case of amnesia there). Dad would only ever refer to her as his little girl. I was never sure where I was in his affections after her untimely death.
As time passed, she became more and more godlike in my parents’ eyes, placed on a pedestal and worshipped by all, well maybe not quite everyone. My Aunty Betty remembered her wild ways, the problems she brought onto the family, but anytime she mentioned past events, Mum would quickly change the subject.
I remember laying in bed listening to the arguments, my sister screaming and slamming doors, my parents raised voices. The same weekly standoffs about what time she had to be home, the company she was keeping, and the way she behaved. Nothing they ever said made any difference. She just did what she wanted. Back then, my sister was the black sheep of the family and was very proud of it. When Christine was bored, she would go out of her way to cause trouble. It always resulted in her gaining the attention she wanted. I just kept out of her way as much as possible, life was much easier like that.
Arthur Davies had fewer words than a wintry tree has leaves. If he ever showed emotion, it would arouse public comment.
He sometimes walked about the neighbourhood, a nod here and there amid the taciturnity. He was a small, stocky man, a human Oxo cube with short legs. Although only middle-aged, his wild tufty hair was white and resembled anarchic cotton wool.
On the day Kabul fell to the Taliban he went down to the promenade, sat on a bench, and looked out at sea. He was there hours, passers-by said, staring like a sailor trying to locate an object below the surface. The sea was still, impenetrable, its surface gleaming like stainless steel in the August sun.
Somebody wondered if he was recalling his son in that desert of seawater. ‘Bound to have been,’ said another. ‘Might be asking what his sacrifice was for.’ Eighteen years previously, his son’s tank had been blown up by a booby trap, three months after he arrived in Afghanistan. The son had been an idealist, apparently, wanting to do good for the local people of Helmand province, wanting to ‘liberate’ them, help girls get education, stuff like that, it was said. That would’ve consoled Arthur down the years, surely, one woman suggested across her fence to the woman next door. That would’ve kept him going, wouldn’t it? A branch to cling to.
Reaching for my phone, I brace myself for the usual abusive messages from my ex. But for the second day in a row, nothing.
I glance at the clock. Dad asked me to tune into Radio 4 now, for reasons unknown. “You’ll see,” he smiled. Typical Dad, avoiding direct communication, everything a riddle.
The Desert Island Discs theme tune floats out of the speakers like a gentle breeze. The sly old dog! I turn up the volume.
“I’m delighted to welcome today’s Castaway, retired England cricketer, David Myles!” says Lauren Laverne.
“David, you’ve famously declined several invitations over the years. But there’s a very personal reason you’ve agreed now.”
Mum lay on the hospital bed with tubes coming off her. Nurses rushed around, plugged in equipment, pulled over a wheeled table with scalpels, sucking things, an I.V. beeps and boops and machines whirred like sirens. The sight of her turned me to jelly. I wished with all my heart that I hadn’t said those words. ‘I wish you were dead!’ It made me feel sick.
The doctor pulled me outside. ‘She’s refusing to take blood.’
I clutched my head and tried my best to calm my breathing. ‘She’s a Jehovah’s Witness. It’s against her beliefs.’
The doctor gripped my shoulder. ‘Listen, she is going to die unless she has blood. I know you are only sixteen, but you are her next to kin. You can overrule her decision. It’ll be entirely your responsibility. We can’t give her blood without your permission.’
‘She’ll hate me. She really believes in that shit. Can’t you do anything else?’
‘A blood transfusion is her only hope. She has internal bleeding and is in a critical condition. The decision has to be now.’
I looked at her pale face beneath the tubes. A nurse lifted her arm to push in a needle into her vein. She looked dead already. It was too much to bear.
“Order! Order! I’ve called this all clans meeting to discuss what we can do bout stopping our friends and families being kidnapped and eaten” the Chief Clansman stated.
“Hear, hear” shouted Wee Willie.
“As e all know, it’s around this time every year that we get hunted doon,” the chief continued.
“Sommut must be done, I’ll nay lose another bairn,” interjected Aggi.
“We moust act now, if we’re to save our bairns” the Chief stated as he stamped his wee foot on the floor.
“I blame that Robbie Burns. What have we done to him, why are we being sacrificed like poor lambs to the slaughter?” Jock asked.
“Hear, hear” shouted Wee Willie.
“Aye, I’ll agree with e there Jock, I’ve never heed of him.”
Sinking lower into his newspaper, Neville tried to cut out his wife’s shrill tones. She sounded like a hornet deprived of his lunch. It was all the fault of Mrs Hoity Toity down the road, creating a scene about Boris having his way with her precious Siamese and getting her pregnant. Ruined, she declared, and she would seek damages unless they had Boris neutered.
A stern expression on the solicitor’s face. Stacey shrugged. Parker was a jerk. That wrinkled spud of a face and those tiny full stops of eyes: she bet he had no kind of life outside the office and his wife henpecked him.
‘Really, some of your typos.’
‘My what?’
‘Typing errors. Look here. Evidence-based farts. It’s facts Miss Green. And here, look. This is a price we should balls at. It’s balk at.’
‘Maybe they read better that way?’
‘They don’t make sense that way. Get them altered please and pay attention to your work.’
We’ve come the full circle now with the Harvey-Samantha saga. Most of us understood from the get-go that they shouldn’t even have met, let alone moved in together.
I mean, no one’s perfect. But Harvey is one of those people whose worst imperfection is in the nature of an art form. A performance art form. He hones his art and displays it wherever the opportunity arises.
To give an example, our gang often meet up on a Friday night for a couple of drinks. For Harvey, this is an opportunity for artistic self-promotion. He challenges people to out-drink him whilst remaining standing. He calls for combinations of alcohol to prove his talent for holding his drink. Boring stuff, and excruciatingly embarrassing for Samantha.
Martha relaxed into the pilot’s chair, her term on the punishment planet complete. A message flashed on her HUD, “Thank you for your service.”
She hit the eject button.
Ten years earlier, a signal from Rob, “Thank you for your service” meant “Get out of there”. His warning never came. The bots got her, and her wonder turned to blame.
Why contact her now? It had to be him.
She looked back at the ship, then she got her answer as it exploded into fragments. The shock wave hit: her pod shook but survived, coming to rest two-thirds of the way up Pavonis Mons.
Hannah walks into the classroom, and I freeze. It’s not the way she narrows her eyes at me as she passes, sitting next to Jess instead of me. I expected that after yesterday. No, it’s the bright red gash across her pale forehead that turns my stomach to slush. A crisp diagonal line from temple to opposite eyebrow, like a No Entry sign.
It can’t be happening. Not again.
I couldn’t believe my luck when I made friends on my first day here. After everything that went on in my old school, maybe I was going to fit in at last.
For weeks, Hannah, Jess, Katie and I were inseparable. Until yesterday, when they suddenly stopped speaking to me. Confused, I trailed after them like a lost puppy until Hannah finally said,
“Emily, why didn’t you tell us the reason you left your other school? My Mum said you stabbed some boys in their sleep.”
The others wrinkled their noses, recoiling theatrically.
“I’m here in Derbyshire at the home of centenarian Alan Davies,” the reporter Jake informs the viewers. He turns to face the spry man in the chair opposite him.
“I’m sure that all our viewers want to wish you a Happy 100th Birthday, Alan.”
“Thank you,” Alan replies.
“I’m sure that we all would like to know your secret of reaching your 100th birthday. You certainly look much younger than your years.”
It’s at this point that the cameraman Dave, who has heard it all before, decides to leave the camera running, and goes off to find the lavatory.
“I’ve had a good life, taken every opportunity that came my way. I think I owe my longevity to having my own way most of the time.”
Trailing her hand along the intricate carving along the old desk, and sighing deeply, Delyth knew she had to sort out her late father’s affairs. Never having been allowed to use it, a feeling of guilt flowed over her. Straightening her shoulders, placing the key into the top drawer, her search began.
Soon engrossed in his papers, memories crowded in. A receipt for a hotel they stayed at every year, growing up. Her wedding receipts for everything from the dress to the reception. A smile touched her lips. Going through the other drawers were more he had kept, so many things that touched her heart.
These two had been at school together and never roamed far beyond the town. They were content and deeply appreciated the familiarity and depth of one another’s friendship. It was unusual, therefore, to watch them fizzing like a herd of ants imitating a headless chicken. I’m no eavesdropper but I couldn’t help overhearing…
‘You mean you nicked it?’
‘I did, yeah. You have a problem with that?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes, I do have several problems with that. And the first is that you forgot to tell me about it.’
‘ Well, sorry about that, mate, but it’s something that’s been bothering me for a while. 30 years at least. It’s an old score I had to settle. You should be glad I still care about honour and dignity.’
Percy sat staring at the wall… as he does, day-in, day-out. His father John followed Percy’s sightline, to an almost imperceptible blister on the curved stone regolith wall of the living pod where it met the skylight overhead.
Must have been a printing error in the 3D Additive Manufacturing extrusion process. He added it to the list of things needing attention.
It had not been easy to persuade the Space Agency Executives that a child with disabilities could continue in the Family Colonisation Programme. Mary blamed herself for that momentary lapse of attention, -for not fastening the chin strap of her son’s space helmet. One minute he was in the crèche pod clambering up the slide ladder, the next performing an Olympic-perfect front-roll over the restraining side bar; a rag-doll plummet,- helmet spiralling off on a visible “gun-shot” trajectory,- then a muffled thud as he was forked by the shard-ed lunar surface and a spreading of strawberry jam blood complete with pips… except they weren’t pips but shreds of brain matter. Mary ofttimes replayed the accident’s sequence of events. “Water” he had demanded of the obliging playgroup assistant who promptly topped up the empty reservoir of his space-playsuit. That was his last word these 12 years.
“He’s at it again!” Russ slammed the front door, trailing dirt through the hallway.
Barb sighed. She held a protective hand over the mirror on the wall until it stopped vibrating, and reminded Russ for the millionth time to remove his gardening boots in the porch.
But he was already stomping towards the kitchen. Barb followed and put the kettle on, waiting for both it and Russ to boil over. Meanwhile, she listened to the usual rant about how Ian at the allotment was jealous of Russ’s prize vegetable patch, and was obviously tampering with it, because his tools kept moving and his marrows weren’t growing at the expected rate. Yet Ian’s patch was thriving.
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