Shortish Stories

Roy Spencer Roving

He awoke to the over-heated, under-ventilated comfort of a rural bed and breakfast.  It was the first day of his trek and he rose easily and with a pleasant sense of anticipation. He was the only one in the breakfast room, partly because it was very early and partly because it was quite late on in the walking season.

‘You going all the way?’ asked the landlady as she served him a passable full English. ‘Won’t you be cold?’

‘I’d rather wrap up against the cold than swelter in the sun, so this weather is fine for me.’

‘Well good luck... here have some of this milk - we get it from the farm next door so it’s still warm. It’ll put you on.’

The milk was indeed warm, smooth and creamy. He wondered if it was even legal to serve it, but the thought evaporated as he tried the milk in his tea and over a bowl of cereal.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon when he took his first steps on the Way. He was not an experienced walker but had done some research about the best method to proceed. He practiced consciously spreading his weight along the length of each foot and swinging from one hip to the other so that he soon developed a sustainable lope that, he hoped, would see him comfortably along the first stage of his journey. He had also invested in some top of the range equipment like Ecco Biom Hike Boots, a heavy duty Rab Maverick jacket and Seal Skinz waterproof gloves. Swaddled in all of this he was relaxed and cozy; his only minor niggle was the swish swish of his waterproof trousers. 

It had been a cold night and for the first hour’s walking he was able to enjoy the slow restoration of the colour green to the landscape as the sun drove away the frost and de-silvered the spiders’ webs in the hedgerows. The occasional car or van passed him on the road but no one else was about on foot; he had to be careful not to miss the way markers when he struck out into the fields and began to make some height.

By the second hour he was walking with his jacket open and his hood down and was beginning to think about taking off the waterproof trousers so he could enjoy the silence. His muscles were registering their unwonted effort but they were far from complaining. He had climbed high enough to be rewarded with some fine views of the route he had taken and, once he reached that ridge, even greater prospects lay ahead. 

This is the life, he thought. A clear, achievable goal with easily anticipated obstacles; a map instead of a business plan and no pressure to walk faster or ramble SMARTer. He ate his packed lunch near the summit of the day’s walk with a view that took in three counties’ worth of farm and woodland.

‘Food tastes so much nicer eaten out of doors’ he murmured, quoting Enid Blyton.

From the top the way ahead looked clear but by the time he was ready to start walking again, rain clouds had begun to move in from the west. Within minutes the cloud ceiling had billowed down around him and he was forced to continue through mist and drizzle. He was untroubled by this as he was well-dressed and in fact it was quite pleasant to walk through the soft weather whilst feeling dry and warm.  As well as his map he had a GPS app on his phone so he didn’t even feel anxious about getting lost.

By about four o’clock he was thoroughly lost.

He couldn’t get the map to match up against the limited number of landmarks he could detect in the mist and the GPS app didn’t seem to like being used out of doors.  Eventually he found some way markers that lead him into a valley and once out of the cloud he was able to establish his position with some confidence. The only problem was that he was in the wrong valley. He had overshot his planned route and was now several miles away from the Bed and Breakfast that the guide books recommended.

Fortunately there was a pub had a few rooms. The beer wasn’t very good and all the food on the menu seemed to be either deep-fried or micro-waved.  He chose a ploughman’s and went to bed early. 

As he waited for sleep to take him, he reflected on his day. He had enjoyed all of it he decided, even this pub with its cold sheets and narrow bed. The weather could have been better though.

That’s the trouble with being fictional character, he thought. You’re never sure if the weather is a pathetic fallacy, some sort of laboured metaphor or an actual meteorological event.

 

In the flesh

It was an age old story: boy meets girl; boy and girl fall in love; boy meets girl; boy loses girl.

Ricky and Emma lived on Plate 41 so they were both very well off, but unlike many in their crowd, they actually earned their money. Emma was a wetware designer and spent her days coaxing DNA into new and interesting patterns whilst Ricky was involved at the sharp end of micro-robotics. Just like everyone else in their crowd the worked and played from the comfort of their apartments. 

They met in the usual way by connecting the dots in friends’ networks and by noticing each other’s usernames in forums and on role-playing game missions. They both had a taste for winning through craft and stealth rather than carnage and soon found themselves chatting privately both in and out of games.  In group chats Emma liked Ricky’s habit of saying outrageous and witty things and in one-to-ones she was pleased to find him sensitive and empathetic. Ricky loved the way that Emma tended to be at least two steps of everyone else in any situation.

After a few months they realised that they were spending most of their downtime together and shortly thereafter that they were in love. 

Love was quite rare on Plate 41. Plenty of people had intense, passionate friendships and even more indulged in intense, passionate virtual sex, but real love... real love had a hard time getting through the barriers presented by modern technology. Emma and Ricky almost never went out, for one thing. When they did venture outside they tended to be hermetically sealed off from the physical world; it was simply not worth risking all its hazards to jeopardize their 150 year life expectancies. 

But love always finds a way. There were still some public places on the plate and so, on one beautiful summer’s evening in the second year of their relationship, Ricky and Emma met face to face for the very first time. They talked almost non-stop for two hours during which neither of them referred to any other social or information network. The laughed at the fact that they couldn’t zoom in on each other’s faces and gloried in the knowledge that the moments they shared together would not be available for playback. 

The evening was the most intense experience either of them could remember and at the end of it Ricky asked Emma to take off her glove. Emma, puzzled, made a small movement that caused the monomolecular membrane that shielded her from the outside world to dissolve and held out her naked hand. Impulsively and shockingly Ricky reached down and kissed Emma’s hand with his bare lips.

Emma did not wash her hand for a week, and Ricky’s lips tingled for almost as long.

They were both delighted by how the evening had ended but by the next day joy began to turn to fear. If this was how impulsively they behaved on a first date who knew what intimacies might arise in future? Their love was undiminished but Ricky’s single kiss gave them both the same idea; to mine the DNA traces left by the kiss and use them to adapt a standard house robot into an almost exact replica of their respective lover. M-ah and Rick-E benefitted from the talents of their creators and the thousands of hours of shared behavioural information that the two friends, companions and lovers had accumulated. 

Of course neither Emma nor Ricky could admit what they were doing and it became necessary for M-ah and Rick-E to be out of sight whenever their originals were online. This withholding of information eventually drove a wedge between the two lovers. As they were largely artificial Rick-E and M-ah had no inhibitions about leaving their apartments and, after a time, inevitably, the two substitutes met up. 

They were made for each other. It was love at first sight. Within a week they ran away together to the unconnected world. 

Emma and Ricky were devastated. They hired a private detective to find the runaways but the artificial life forms they had developed were so advanced that they were beyond her abilities to find them. At least, that’s what she said. 

You know how properties move around on the plates? Emma and Ricky are practically neighbours now and if their apartments had windows they’d be able to wave to each other. But they don’t and they don’t. 
 
Intrusive Thoughts 

- When did you begin having the panic attacks?

- I think the first one was about six months ago. I started having... Random ... odd... ideas.

- Intrusive thoughts is the technical term.

- Yes. So I understand. And they were intrusive. I’d be walking down the street and suddenly feel vertiginous, as if I was standing on the edge of a cliff... or I’d look around my living room and not be able to  recognise it. Once I looked into the sky and there were three suns.

- Did you notice any pattern to when you had the thoughts? 

- No... not particularly. They were usually when I was resting or not focussed on any one task. At first I used that to keep them at bay. You know, taking on extra work, going to the gym and exercising till I was exhausted – that kind of thing.

- Did that help? 

- For a while. But I couldn’t keep it up. The thoughts kept leaking through. I read somewhere that the act of suppressing thoughts just leads to more of them occurring. 

- So what did you do next?

- I decided that if I couldn’t beat them, I’d join them. Instead of trying to get rid of my unwelcome head guests I’d let them in and see if I could make some sense of them.

- And did you?

- Well that’s when I came to see you, Doctor Granger. There does seem to be a pattern but I don’t know how to interpret it.

- Go on.

- Well, for one thing, I’m convinced that I’m not on earth. I mentioned the three suns, but gravity also seems different. Sometimes I am surprised by my ability to lift things in my ‘normal’ thoughts and at other times the weight of things seems doubled. The light from the nearest ‘sun’ is consistently reddish and I vision defaults to some kind of sandy desert.

- Have you considered the possibility that you were suffering from hallucinations – they can be remarkably consistent over time. 

- Yes I explored that idea with my psychotherapist, Doctor Bonestell. I kept a diary for three months

- ... so that’s how you noticed the periodicity?

- The period... Yes, the repeat pattern. Every 28 days. 

- Which brought you to here to the space telescope? 

- Yes because you are the experts on the planet that matches my thoughts, Gliese 667 Cc.
Doctor Granger looked carefully at his notes. There was no doubt that everything he had heard matched up closely with the very latest information on the planet Gliese 667 Cc. Much of it had not been made public yet so it was deeply astonishing that Richard Pemberton had access to it. Or rather, most people would have been astonished.

- Well, Richard, the good news is that you are neither psychotic nor schizophrenic. The intrusive thoughts you have been having almost certainly come from another brain on Gliese 667 Cc and represent out first contact with an extra-terrestrial intelligence.

- Come on Doctor, there’s no need to make fun...

- I assure you, I’m deadly serious. We’ve known for a while that some humans are telepathic, but there has never been any way of telling the difference between a thought coming from ‘outside’ and one originating from the ‘inside’; we think that about half of the people diagnosed as schizophrenics are just telepaths.

- How do you know this?

- It’s well know in the space community – astronauts report an eerie sense of calm when they leave the mass of humanity’s thoughts behind. As do people in deserts of course.

- But what about me?

- We think your connection may be a form of quantum entanglement. A fragment of Gliese 667 Cc could well have travelled to Earth in the last five billion years and somehow become incorporated in your brain.

- That’s incredible. 

- Yes but it fits the data that we have. If your intrusive thoughts had been less weird we might never have noticed.



Dr Bonestell completed his monthly assessment of Richard Pemberton. There was no sign that his schizophrenia induced coma had changed or abated. He placed another tick on his chart and carried on with his rounds.


Pattern Recognition

A small mouse in a very large cage appeared in the centre of the high energy physics laboratory. Then it disappeared. Teams of scientists checked their instruments, looked anxiously at second counters and, in many cases, held their breaths. The mouse reappeared. The room erupted in cheers, applause and the sound of popping champagne corks.

Richard Cray, head of the Singularity Project, was still slightly tipsy when he arrived at the head of his street but what he saw there sobered him instantly. An ambulance was parked outside his house, police lines closed off the street and small groups of his neighbours stood about looking uncomfortable and distressed. Richard’s sense of dread was confirmed when he saw his wife, Mary
‘What …?’ he said.
‘It was a truck, a hit and run. Billy was killed instantly.’ Mary was close to tears, but her dominant emotion seemed to be anger. ‘Who could do such a thing?’ she kept repeating.

Later that day, after all of the formalities with the police and the hospital and the undertakers had been completed, Richard told Mary about the success of his experiment.
‘You mean you actually succeeded in sending a mouse back in time?’
‘Yes’ said Richard, without pleasure at his breakthrough, ‘the weirdest thing was seeing it arrive in the lab before we actually sent it. As far as we can tell it’s completely unharmed.’
‘I’m glad for you, darling,’ said Mary, ‘If only …’

The day before the funeral, Billy’s body was brought home. He looked as he always did. The coffin contained a small stasis field that prevented decay; even the bruising that would have started at the site of his injury hadn’t had time to form. Friends and relatives came to pay their last respects but as the evening turned to night Mary and Richard found themselves alone.

Mary said, ‘It’s as if he just walked out of the house. Have the police found out anything about the truck?’
‘No, we’re off all the main routes here, nothing was scheduled and satellite tracking only covers the highways. I doubt we’ll ever know.’
‘Richard, I’ve been thinking about your mouse.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, what if we went back in time and rescued Billy before the truck hit him?’
‘That’s impossible’, said Richard.
‘No it isn’t – we could leave Billy’s body and bring the live Billy forward into the future. It would all seem normal to him. And the last few days would just be a painful memory to us.’
‘But we won’t be able to find him’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, travelling in time also means travelling in space. The Earth spins, it orbits round the Sun, the Sun moves round the galaxy – it’s almost impossible to do the maths to locate things …
‘But with the mouse you said you used a DNA-seeking tracker. Can’t we use the same with Billy?’
‘I suppose so.’

Richard, Mary and the body of their son Billy disappeared from the laboratory.

In the street outside his house Billy saw a blue glow emerge seemingly from nowhere. He was a curious ten-year-old and went instantly towards it. He thought he saw his mother and father for a moment, standing inside a huge metal cage. They were moving towards him and Billy held up his hand in greeting. He didn’t see the metal spar that killed him.


Insult to injury

The Beeb were one of the most powerful races in the Galaxy. They were not very subtle communicators but over time they had noticed that other races made the effort to communicate with them once they found out just how destructive a Beeb warship could be. They were a proud race and took offence easily.

The Beeb were therefore a little surprised when a small planet in a previously unexplored region of the galaxy began broadcasting a deadly insult in their home language. Surprise quickly gave way to anger and two Beeb warships were launched. The smaller one, Goodbye, was over a mile long and could destroy most planets without breaking into a sweat. The larger one, Despair, was about ten miles long and had in the past extinguished suns.

Captain G’tan of the warship Despair quivered with anger. His ship had just returned to normal space after a journey of eighty light years, and that in itself tended to make him feel grumpy. He was angry, though, because his communications people had picked up more signals from the planet ahead. Not only had these aliens been broadcasting their insult for over eighty years, it now appeared that they were broadcasting it on the hour. Sometimes pictures were sent out with the broadcast. These often showed war and other scenes calculated to aggravate the Beeb.

‘Who are these people?’ the Captain asked a fellow officer.
‘I don’t know, Captain’ said Commander G’had, ‘but they’re definitely some of the ugliest aliens I’ve ever seen. Did you look at the latest pictures?’
The Captain quivered with revulsion this time. ‘Don’t remind me. Only four limbs and those horrible little heads at the top. I think we will be doing the universe a favour by wiping them out.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said G’had as he extended one his many arms towards the firing controls.
‘Time to address the troops, I think,’ said the Captain.
‘You’re on all channels, Captain’

‘Fellow Beeb, said the Captain into the ship-wide communication system, ‘we have arrived at the home planet of the race that has been blackening our names across the Galaxy. I do not know how they learned our language, perhaps a passing starship communicated with them. They have many tales of alien encounters it seems, but the people on the planet below have chosen the wrong race to insult. Two hours ago we broadcast a demand for an apology and gave them an hour to respond. No apology has been received and the deadly insult is still being broadcast.’

‘It is not a small thing to destroy a planet, but we cannot allow these aliens to insult us in this way. I have ordered the deployment of a planet crusher missile and you will be able to see its effects if you select channel 371 after this communication. Before we detonate the missile I will replay the insult these people have been repeating about us. I know you will find it offensive but it is important for everyone to understand why we take this serious step.

The Captain’s voice and image were replaced by those of one of the ugly aliens. It looked up, using only two eyes – in itself a deadly insult – and  said. ‘Here is the news from the BBC’. There was shocked silence from all on Despair followed by cheers and sighs of relief as the source of the most offensive insult in the Galaxy was wiped out.

John
 
THE KILLING OF JENNY DOVE

ONE

Knights Rest Retirement Community.  Precious little community. Each resident, sorry, ‘guest’, an island of dementia and loneliness. Elsie Blackmore thumped her walker up and down. Slow progress, her mouth a grim line of determination. Across the room, Joe Street sits slumped in an armchair. A man whose skin has grown loose on his bones. With a final grunt, Elsie deposits herself in front of him. She smiles. He smiles back. She raises a gnarled hand and crooks a finger. Joe leans forward. Elsie takes a deep breath. And spits straight in his face.

TWO

THE HUNGRY GIANT by Lawrence Turgood.

The village children never went up the hill. At the top of the hill, hidden by the trees, was an old, broken down castle. The castle was the home of the Hungry Giant. For most of the year, no-one saw or heard the Giant. He kept to himself during Summer and Autumn. Then, in Winter he slept because he didn’t like the cold. On dark, winter nights, his snores rattled the roofs of the cottages and kept people awake, but no-one dared complain. Then, as the first flowers of Spring poked their heads above ground, the Giant awoke and all the villagers trembled. After such a long sleep, the Giant was always hungry and he set off down the hill to the village to get something for his breakfast.

                ‘Who will feed me?’ he roared, and the villagers trembled. In the village hall, the villagers drew lots to see who would answer the Giant. They all drew straws. The person with the shortest straw burst into tears, but there was no choice. The Giant must be fed or his rage would be terrible to behold.

                With trembling lips and damp eyes, the short straw family would shuffle into the street. Mother, Father and Son or Daughter. ‘We will feed you,’ they cried and the Giant smiled.

                ‘Good,’ he said. ‘In that case, I will not knock down your village and trample it under my enormous feet.’ And he held out his hand. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Time to eat.’

                And the son or the daughter would reach up and take the Giant’s hand. Together they would march up the hill and no matter how much their Mother and Father cried, the Son or Daughter would not look back. It would do no good. The Giant must be fed. They disappeared into the woods, into the Giant’s castle. And they were never seen again.

                One day, a brave knight called Sir Percival was passing through the village and noticed the villagers weeping and wailing. Being kind as well as brave, Sir Percival stopped and asked what  the matter was. The villagers told him about the Giant and his toll for keeping the village safe. This made Sir Percival very angry. ‘I shall lay siege to the varlet’s castle,’ he said. ‘This tyranny must come to an end.’

                The villagers begged him not to go. The Giant is too big, they said. Too strong. Too awful. But Sir Percival took no notice and strode up the hill towards the Giant’s castle.

                The villagers held their breath. Soon, they heard lots of shouting. Lots of banging and crashing. Louder and louder grew the sounds of combat. For three days and three nights the din continued, and then, at last, there was silence. The villagers waited, hardly daring to hope, and then, out of the trees came a lone figure. It was Sir Percival. Bruised, battered and bloodied, but alive. More than alive, triumphant. In his hand he held the severed head of the Giant. He placed the head upon the village green. ‘There,’ he said, ‘he shall bother you no more.’

                The villagers were so happy, they celebrated long into the night as Sir Percival rested after his ordeal and smiled as the village children danced around the Giant’s head singing rude songs and laughing.

                The next day, as Sir Percival was about the take his leave, the village elder begged him to stay. In thanks for his help, they offered to build him a cottage and to keep him supplied in good food, good vegetables and good wine for the rest of his life.

                As he had no family of his own, Sir Percival accepted their offer. In return for their hospitality, he kept the village safe from ogres and witches and werewolves and the like. And if any of those sort did come to the village, they were shown the Giant’s head on the village green and they soon ran away rather than face brave Sir Percival who lived in the village for the rest of his life.

THREE

Her given name was Theresa, but she preferred Terry.

                ‘You’ll love the country,’ her Mum had told her. ‘And they even give us somewhere free to live. On site. So no more travelling to work. Isn’t that great?’

                ‘We’re going to be living in an Old People’s Home?’

                ‘Retirement Community’, her Mum corrected her.

                ‘And you really want this job?’

                ‘It’s the only decent job I’ve been offered, since Dad…’

                ‘Died?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘Then I guess we’d better get packed up then,’ she said, and her Mum had hugged her so hard she thought her ribs would break.

FOUR

Terry looked out of the window. It was a good view she decided. She could see across the whole village and right out front was the village green. It had a playground with swings and see-saws. And right in the middle was a slide. A big metal dome in the shape of a giant’s head. Steps led up to an opening in the back of its head. The kids disappeared inside and came out of the giant’s mouth, the slide like a long metal tongue. Weird, Terry thought. But otherwise everything seemed okay.

                That night, the dreams began.

FIVE

Extract from the Barnmoor Gazette, 27^th May 1956

Police today have arrested a man in connection with the murder of Jenny Dove, whose body was found in Elfish Woods two weeks ago. The man is believed to be twenty year old Joseph Street a neighbour of the dead girl…

SIX

‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…’

                ‘Mrs Dove. Please. I’ve asked you before not to do this.’

                ‘I’m counting the children. If you were any sort of Headmistress, you’d be doing it yourself. Counting them in and counting them out. Got to make sure none of them go missing.’

                ‘You’re scaring them Mrs Dove. The parents have complained.’

                ‘Have you seen my Jenny?’

                ‘No, Mrs Dove. No-one has seen Jenny for a very long time.’

SEVEN

Extract from the Barnmoor Gazette, 15^th September 1956

Joseph Street was today sentenced to a minimum of twenty-five years in a secure mental institution for the murder of thirteen year old Jenny Dove. Street, who is said to have the mental capacity of a ten year old, admitted the crime after cross examination.

EIGHT

The dream started with the light. A soft glow in the corner of her room, like a swarm of glow-worms. The light grew, took shape, human. A man dressed in armour, his face bearded and incredibly sad. Terry sat up in bed. She wasn’t afraid. She knew it was just a dream.

                ‘Who are you?’ she asked. The figure said nothing. He just beckoned her to come stand by him. She did so. He pointed out the window. It was a full moon. Terry could see the village green as plain as day. A long line of children queued up to play on the slide. But they didn’t seem happy about it. They were dressed funny. Some in old fashioned clothes as though they were taking part in a fancy dress parade.  Fifties, sixties, seventies, all the decades were represented.  One of the girls looked up at her and smiled. Terry waved, but the girl just lowered her eyes and continued marching forward. No-one spoke a word. And that wasn’t the only strange thing. They weren’t climbing the steps to enter at the top. They were  climbing up the slide. Going in the wrong way. Going in through the Giant’s mouth. He watched and waited for them to emerge at the top and clamber down the steps. But none of them ever did. No matter how many kids went up the slide, none ever emerged it was as though the Giant had eaten them all.

                And then the Knight spoke for the first time. ‘Save them,’ he said. ‘Save them all.’

NINE

God bless Google and a working single parent.

                The first thing Terry looked up was the history of Knight’s Rest. Built on the site of Knight’s Cottage which was the legendary home of Sir Percival, who had been the inspiration  for Mr Turgood’s book.

                Next she looked up Joe Street. This was a much grimmer tale. He admitted killing thirteen year old Jenny Dove in 1956. Terry could not believe it. He may be simple, but not violent. Not now anyway. Could he really have changed that much? She was about to log off when a reproduction of a newspaper from that time caught her eye. It showed a pretty, smiling Jenny Dove taken just days before her death. Terry recognised that face. It was the same girl from her dream. The girl who had smiled at her was Jenny Dove.

TEN

‘It will be good for the village,’ her Mum said. ‘A village fete after all this time. Mr Turgood was so pleased when I suggested it. The Vicar’s going to do the official opening and Mr Garrett from the pub is going to lay on some food. They all remember the last one and they all thought it was about time everyone moved on.’

                ‘Did you ask Joe if he thought it was a good idea?’ she said.

                ‘It was so long ago,’ her Mum said. ‘I doubt he even remembers it after all he’s been through. Dementia is a terrible thing.’

                Terrible maybe, but not the worst thing. Not the worst thing at all.

ELEVEN

‘I wasn’t a good girl.’ Jenny Dove sat on the end of Terry’s bed. Sir Percival, his armour softly glowing in the moonlight, stood next to the window. Terry knew she was dreaming, but she listened intently all the same.

                ‘I used to let boys do things,’ Jenny said. ‘I wasn’t fussy. Any boy. It was how I got them to like me. All except Joe. He never did nothing to me. But I wanted him too. He was older. Not bad looking for a dummy.  We always used to play hide and seek in the woods after the summer fete. I made sure Joe found me. I tried to kiss him but he was too shy. I even took off my dress, but he just ran away. I got mad then. Threw stones at him. Chased him. Cornered him. Called him nasty names. Punched him. He only put his arm up to defend himself. But he didn’t know his own strength. Caught me on the chin. I fell down and hit my head.’

                ‘He did kill you then,’ Terry said. ‘By accident.’

                Jenny shook her head. ‘No. He just ran away. I woke up later and someone else was there. Standing over me. He was the one. Not Joe. It was the Giant. The Giant killed me.’

TWELVE

God bless Google.

Every night the same dream. Rows of children climbing up the slide, into the Giant’s mouth. Every night Terry memorised one face. Every day she hunted through cyberspace for reports of missing children. Reaching back through the years, trying to find their faces. Some she did. Some she did not. She found enough. Enough to make her believe. Joe Street did not kill Jenny Dove. Someone else did. Someone who has kept on killing ever since.

THIRTEEN

‘He did it. He’s the one. You need to find him, quick.’

                ‘Elsie, please, you’re not helping.’

                ‘Then why’s he run away, eh? Tell me that? Your Terry goes missing and Joseph Street does a bunk. Why’s he run if he’s not guilty, you tell me that.’

FOURTEEN

‘The children did so enjoy the summer fete. They dressed up and acted out the story of The Hungry Giant. It was such fun. I could have played brave Sir Percy, but that wouldn’t have been such fun. No. I always played the Giant.’

FIFTEEN

They found her in the cellar. Frightened and tied up but still alive. Upstairs they found two dead bodies. Joe Street and one other.

                When the police sniffer dogs investigated the cellar they found the remains of fifteen bodies. All aged between twelve and sixteen years of age when they died. Fifteen families now had closure. But they would never forget.

SIXTEEN

‘How did you know?’ her Mum asked.

                ‘There were only three people who took part in the pageant that year. Mr Turgood, the Vicar and Mr Garrett from the pub. I asked Joe if he could remember who had played the Giant, but he couldn’t. Not then. And when he did remember…’

                ‘He came to rescue you.’

                ‘Yes. Oh, Mum, if he hadn’t got there in time…’

                ‘Hush now.  He was a very brave man. He’ll always be remembered for that now instead of… But you still haven’t said how you knew which one it was.’

                ‘I looked it up in the old parish magazines. They had a photo with all the names underneath.’

                ‘Clever girl. Get some sleep now. Busy day tomorrow.’

SEVENTEEN

The dream came again that night. Different this time. Terry awoke to see Sir Percy standing by her window. He smiled and beckoned her over.

                In the playground the children danced and sang and in the middle, with a big beaming smile was Joe Street, happy at last.

                Sir Percival placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You saved them,’ he said. ‘And all the ones yet to come.’

                Terry got back into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. Soon, she was asleep. The dream never came again.

EIGHTEEN

God bless Google.

Terry’s Mum scrolled down the village archives. 1956. The Summer Fete. There it was. Everyone in costume, all their names listed underneath.

                ‘Clever girl,’ she whispered. ‘Who would ever have thought it was him?’

END

Gary

Solitude
 
It is very difficult being a hermit. Craig Fergus knew this from bitter personal experience.
He had started out in a cottage on the North Yorkshire moors. After a few months of peace and quiet people began dropping in on the assumption that he would be lonely and in need of some company. He wasn’t either of these things but the visitors left with a sense of having done a good deed and, naturally, talked up the sense of calm and tranquillity that they had felt in Craig’s presence.  Eventually, Craig’s house acquired a ‘hermitage’ tag on Google maps and the trickle of visitors became a torrent.

Craig moved to a hut in the Atlas Mountains. It was so far off the beaten track that spy satellites used it a point of reference. As his beard grew longer, word of his presence spread and well equipped seekers after truth started to make their way to his retreat. His claims to have no wisdom and no insights into the nature of reality were treated as proof of his profound wisdom and insights into the nature of reality.
 
He spent six months sitting on top of a pole on the edge of the Atacama Desert but by the end of that time a small community of pole dwellers had formed around him.
 
The Kepler 22b Habitat was 600 light years from earth. It had been deposited next to the planet in an experiment with worm hole technology which guaranteed Craig complete solitude for the rest of his natural life. In exchange for this all he had to do was monitor some largely self regulating equipment and send off small packets of information once a Kepler 22b year.
 
At last he had found peace. The Habitat was made from a hollowed out asteroid which was gradually being transformed by nano machines into a fully fledged research station. Meanwhile it floated above a beautiful blue-green planet whose flora and fauna seemed to be at a Jurassic level. Craig had never been a seeker after truth. He just found being around people really, really unpleasant.
 
Captain Temple Guiting arrived off Kepler 22b as a result of a worm hole accident and, considering all the places in the universe she could have ended up, incredibly good luck. Unfortunately this luck did not extend to her co-pilot who was impaled on a communications mast as their ship, The Merriweather, crashed into the habitat.  
 
Craig pulled Captain Temple out of the wreckage and carried her on a small cart to the medical bay. The equipment there pronounced her healthy but prescribed sedation and bed rest. Meanwhile Craig dealt with the co-pilot and assessed the damage to the habitat.  Life support systems and environmental maintenance had hardly noticed the impact at all; in fact the nano-builders had instantly begun leaching the incoming ship of its metal content. The communications centre and its quantum-entangled instant messenger had been completely destroyed.
 
Craig regretted his decision to rescue Temple almost immediately. After an early life in an orphanage and a career in the military she had almost no concept of either privacy or personal space and regarded her own bodily functions as a constant source of comedic delight. She recovered from her minor injuries quickly and soon asked Craig for permission to inspect the mother ship.
 
‘Mother ship,’ said Craig, ‘I’d hardly call it that. Surely it’s more of a scout ship.’
 
‘Oh, Craig, you crack me up. It’s called a mother ship because of all the frozen babies it carries. If all goes well there should be 800 pairs of tiny little feet running around here in a few weeks.’

John