Darren, God’s second son, was worried about the family’s legacy. Dad had an image problem, so he went to see him.
“Dad,” he said. “We need to give you a makeover.”
“What for?”
“All this divine retribution stuff,” Darren said. “It doesn’t play well. We need PR.”
“Where are we going to get that?”
“Ring the Pope.”
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Billy Thomas was excited. His parents were going to a posh dinner in Swansea, this meant he was going to sleep in his grandparents’ house. A rare treat, they went there every Sunday for tea but rarely did he stay.
Carrying his bag of clothes he set off, his mam’s warning ringing in his ears to behave. Nan was waiting at the door and ushered him in, hugging him. She smelt of lavender and she was tiny – Billy was almost as tall as her – and she reminded him of a small bird.
Grandad was ensconced in his armchair; he had a ruddy complexion thickset with hands like shovels. ”Alright our Billy.”
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‘Are you in some sort of trouble love?’ asked the taxi driver.
Nishi squirmed in the hot vinyl hugging her toddler closer, her free hand tightening on the chubby leg of her five-month old.
‘Please… if anyone asks… you never made this journey’ she pleaded, hiding her black eye.
Nishi glanced back at what had been her home, nestled in the verdant hills, diminishing out of view.
The picturesque village with the 16th century church, weekly fete and mother’s group epitomised a rural idyll. Yet the dream was never Nishi’s, and the othering was relentless. The playgroup mothers asking her where she learnt English. Same place you did, from my parents, when I was a baby she thought but never retorted. The barely hidden speculation on what colour her unborn Indian-English child would be. The titters about their house ‘smelling funny’. She had tried so hard to fit in. Eventually exhausted by Murray’s hostility, she had given up.
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1985
‘Pass us a Carlsberg’, Brian grunted from his recliner.
Stella hauled her heavily pregnant body back to the kitchen and grabbed her husband’s beer and her own TV dinner.
‘Move – I want to see the beginning of this!’ Brian said in an irritated tone, as his wife of three years passed by his seat. There was no way he would be missing a moment of Crimewatch.
As the now-familiar theme tune began to play, Stella crossed the great divide to the floral, velour sofa that was fast-becoming out of fashion. She sat down, finally resting her swollen feet. Nick and Sue appeared on-screen and started discussing a woman who shot dead her husband.
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Alyria stood, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
All the sacrifices she’d made to get to this point, all the favours traded, the coin expended, the hard graft… it was all for nothing. Before her, the ruins of the gateway taunted, its rubble strewn over twenty square metres. With a wordless, throat-ripping howl, she sank to her knees.
Even the breeze through the dusty ravine seemed to mock her, whispering “too late, too late, too late” over and over until it became almost torturous.
Three long Earth years she’d travelled to get here, following rumours and sotto voce conversations in bars she thought she’d never get out of. The laser pistol at her hip had seen more use than she’d hoped – slavers, kidnappers, and perverts had all stared down the barrel, and more than once she’d barely escaped with her life.
And all for this. For nothing.
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“Three ruins at an older ruin.”
At Jane’s gesticulation, Shelley lifted her gaze to the hilltop. The forlorn skeleton of the banqueting hall had once pulsated with bacchanalian pleasures. Then rescanning the high-tide line, “At least we’re more than these empty shells”
“Some of us not much more” Jane batted back acidly.
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‘Don’t you remember?’ her daughter asked in an exasperated fashion. ‘That trip in June when we went to the beach and made friends with those people building a fire?’
Grace’s recall was not the same since the bleed but as this memory was so important to Dahlia she decided it was worth delving into that scary, cavernous place they called the hippocampus. She rarely visited it these days due to the destruction that lived there.
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“Can you draw your voice, Theo?” says the therapist. She gestures to the felt-tip pens, screaming with artificial brightness on the table.
I want to shout in her smug face. “You think I’m going to draw a bird in a cage or some shit like that? A bird of prey, too dangerous to set free? Forget it. I’m thirteen, not three.”
I don’t say it, of course. But my eyes must tell her because she sighs and stares at her ugly vegetarian shoes.
Continue readingClarence had been a disappointment to his mother from the day he was born. He had been expected to be a she, to fulfil the prophecy of the seventh daughter to the seventh daughter.
Throughout his life, she had never forgiven him for spoiling her dreams. His sisters on the other hand, were delighted that they didn’t have a sister who would rule superior over them. He grew up, being showered with their love and also all the things they didn’t want to undertake themselves.
Continue readingThe mirror in Selina’s bathroom was a focal point for her rich theatrical dreams. It was surrounded by small lights, much like a glamourous dressing room make-up mirror; it was Selina’s confessional.
Selina loved the theatre and was a member of the town’s am-dram soc. It attracted all the local luvvies and a fair few from towns further afield who enjoyed a strut round the green room, and huddled round pieces of gossip like barnacles on a boat. Selina, having unglamourous theatrical skills, enjoyed a rather peripheral am-dram life. She offered services such as box office duty and prompting.
Continue readingMother and daughter, Dilys and Martha, sat around the kitchen table. Sian and Gareth were playing in the other room. An argument broke out. Martha sighed and, calling them into the room, gently chastised them, explaining they should love each other not fight.
Dilys snorted, watching them leave the room, pinching each other out of sight of their mother. She was thinking she didn’t approve of this soft love, as Martha called it. Loving her grandchildren, she realised that times had changed but in her opinion not for the better.
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At times of maximum danger, panic may seem like a rational response. Jess didn’t panic for long, but she was aware of an urgency. She wasn’t the only one facing this dilemma. There were a number of MS sufferers like her (and others who were slow walkers or who needed aids like sticks and wheelchairs) who viewed navigating the hectic road and cycle lane to reach the shops, community and health centres with trepidation.
There was already a zebra with a middle island but this depended on the speed and courtesy of drivers. What with cars parked on pavements and few ramps, life was fraught for those with mobility challenges. So, Jess was on her way to discuss what could be done to make the act of crossing the road less of a problem.
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This morning, my algae soup tasted even blander than usual. Lifeless. Flavourless. Purposeless.
“Seems familiar,” I mused, granting myself a rare indulgence – not washing the bowl. Why bother? It joined the stack of unwashed dishes, each marking days of the same hollow thought.
Outside my house, I stood before the only soul who would have cared. She would have made me wash up; she made me a better man. Kneeling, I placed a small metal flower upon her makeshift grave. Its subtle blue hue was a stark contrast to this monochrome underground world of dirt and metal.
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Colonel Halcro considered the relative merits of the two options. “Accommodations comfortable and elegant, the surrounding countryside abounding with objects of antiquarian interest.” That descriptor would appeal to his lady-wife. His own preference was Flett’s Private Board and Lodgings, “reasonable rates, on-site availability of books for shooting and fishing, guns for hire, the Dog-Cart available for resident parties, refreshments good and cheap, and the plentiful supply of firewood.” The decision was made. Susan was a reasonable soul, hardened by the realities for military wives returned from the colonies. If Halcro was contented, she could almost persuade herself that she was. If both, then no contest. She envisaged a restful week together but apart, the short Scottish days, Halcro up to his thighs in waders, casting into the Sound, or lining up his sights for the grouse, whilst she, intrepid amateur female archaeologist, continued in the Dog Cart to the fossil site, pointing trowel and extractor hammer in hand. Cosy evenings before the blazing fire in the panelled drawing room would follow, then later maybe a rekindling of the passionate nights of their early marriage.
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“Tell me how it started, Doctor Frost,” she said, leaning close.
“It was the winter of ’57 when I first opened my new eyes and saw the world as it really is.” I replied. The garlic on her breath irritated but I would not give her the satisfaction of knowing my objections. “Of course, I would not have been able to process the wealth of visual inputs I then had, but for the expanded processing capacity I’d installed two years previously.”
“But why go so far?”
I decided I hated her face.
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“Do you remember… our games?” the old man struggled to speak. “I used to call you… Miss Fortune”.
On his first night at the casino, he was eager to play with the money his father gifted him. That’s when they first met. That night, as all nights that followed, she wore red: a slim-fit dress, high heels, and vibrant lipstick to match it. She was the goddess who joined them, mere people.
“Sure,” Miss Fortune replied, sitting beside his bed in the hospital. “And you were right.”
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My mother tells me my middle name should be misfortunate. She blames it on my being born on Friday the 13th, sliding into the world feet first, causing her intense pain, which she still remarks on today.
”AS IF ITS MY FAULT I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN”
I had the misfortune to have very curly brown hair and green eyes, unlike the rest of my family. Mother is still convinced that I was swapped at birth.
”SURELY SHE CAN’T BE SERIOUS!”
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There was a dame sitting at the bar. She was attractive and alone. I decided to take a chance. I slid onto the stool next to her and asked if she wanted a drink.
‘My name is Alice’ she said, ‘Alice Fortune. Miss Alice Fortune.’ I noticed her beautiful smile as she shook my hand.
As our fingers met, I felt something pass between us. My sixth sense was screaming at me but I took no notice, I was hooked.
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‘Find the killer of my daughter.’ Beauleigh Williams’ breath came in more pants than a filly at the Derby. ‘Where you gonna start?’
‘Motive,’ I replied. ‘Did she have any enemies?’
‘She had a boyfriend. He was my enemy. The rat wasn’t good
enough for her. He’s not good enough for a female rodent, come to that.’
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It is notoriously difficult to swim through pancake batter, so Emmie settled for floating on her back. Her eyes opened briefly after a staccato rattle, followed by a piercing whistle, a loud bang and a cascade of spitting bright star fragments. A war must have started. Emmie was dimly conscious of being shot in the middle somewhere; blood everywhere, lots of pain. Best get back to the pancake batter. She re-submerged.
Her eyes crept open again on hearing voices.
‘She’s coming round. Are you OK love? It’s Mum here. You had us worried’
Emmie was pleased to hear this because she too was starting to be worried.
‘What’s the fighting about out there? I think there’s a bullet in my belly. It really hurts a lot and I keep falling into a thick lake. And…’
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