Бесплатный фрагмент - More Short Stories

Section Ι. FANTASY AND ACTION

FAIRY DUST, DRAGONS AND STRAWBERRY PANCAKES

He was an only child. He was a lonely child. Imagination carried him through toddler stage, that and umpteen nannies and au pairs. Some lasted as little as a few hours, most a couple of days, and a two brave but foolhardy souls barely a week.

The complaints mounted and no agency would provide further applicants/victims. The child was four years old when the parent’s literally stumbled across a lifesaver in the form of a decrepit old man.

Now, a lifesaver is one of those round things about the size of a hoola-hoop that you throw at a person who has fallen from a pier, or boat or ship into the water. As long as you don’t scone them when you throw it at them, it helps them remain afloat until rescue arrives.

That’s exactly what the little decrepit old man did. He kept the parent’s afloat by saving their sanity, and their child. The child himself is nineteen now, a young man, still an only child but no more a lonely one. His parent’s passed, both of them but they exceeded the decrepit old man by nearly a decade.

The young man lay on his back staring at the dark ceiling. He thought about his parents often, everyday in fact, but he thought about the old man much more regularly. He may have left a lot earlier than the parents did but his invocations were far more enlightening and memorable.

His mind, as it so often did, wandered back to that very first day when they found the old man. Never had the question been answered, satisfactorily anyway, of whether it was coincidence or simple blind fool’s luck that they found him. Or the third option, which he favoured, that the old man had been there waiting for them.

That final choice was impossible to prove because it’s not like walks in the park were a regular occurrence. The fact that this particular walk had been spurred by the loss of another nanny, an impromptu decision made by despairing parents made it even less obvious the old man could possibly know they would be there at that particular time, on that particular day in that very location. Yet, that’s exactly what the young man knew in his heart was the truth.

Fairy dust, dragons and strawberry pancakes …

◎◎◎◎◎

He placed the phone back down gently into the cradle, then looked up at the distressed face of his wife standing expectantly, hopeful. When he shook his head at her, she burst into tears.

“What are we going to do?” she wailed through clutching fingers.

Her husband walked quickly and enveloped her into his arms. Over her shoulder, he saw their son sitting on the big sofa, looking back at them with a completely blank look on his face. The husband, the father, whispered to his wife yet fully aware the boy would hear his words also.

“He is no monster. He is just … just different.”

“Walk,” the boy said to his mother’s heaving back and his father’s doleful face.

Both reacted quickly, father’s eyes springing open and mother twirling free from his embrace. Her eyes mirrored her husbands’.

“Dillon, honey, what did you say?” she pleaded.

Dillon maintained a straight face. He was not used to outward vestiges of emotion － not with his face anyway. His mind was the tool he used to exhibit his feelings and he did it again now, sending them both a picture of the three of them walking down the sidewalk, he between his parent’s, holding hands, smiling, laughing, though in reality, Dillon never did so. The scene was complete, right down the neighbour’s picket fences, the numbers on the post boxes, and even Rory Steven’s red truck half blocking the path a little way down the block.

“No, Dillon,’ father shook his head. “Your mother asked you to repeat what you said. Speak to us son.”

Dillon eyed them both, swinging his head between the two of them several times before giving them a curt nod that belied his age. He took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily, a sign of annoyance from him that the parent’s were well aware of. They braced, but instead he opened his mouth and complied with their wishes.

“Walk.”

His voice was flat and emotionless, just like his face always remained. This time though, his father would swear later to his wife that he saw a glint of humour in their son’s eyes, as if he was happy that he had teased them. Sometimes, a similar bout of annoyance would be accompanied by the upsetting of the sugar bowl, the cutlery drawer springing open, or the fridge door swinging wildly distributing it’s liquid contents all over the kitchen. There was nothing like that at the moment, and apart from the apparent glint, nothing disturbed the relative peace of the household － both parent’s visibly relaxed without even knowing they did so. Mother raced to her son and passed on the embrace she just been receiving.

“That’s great honey, yes, great idea,” her tear streaked face managed warmly. She released him and held her hands on his shoulders. “Where would you like to go?”

Father braced again. Public places where there were many people were out of the question, the mall, downtown, the amusement park, all were too dangerous. He prayed inwardly the kid would say the beach, or the river. Before he could finish his internal conference, Dillon sent his answer to them.

Green grass, blue skies, walking paths, trees, birds, ponds with ducks and swans.

“The park?” his father asked unnecessarily, and thankfully.

◎◎◎◎

Dillon, the young man, slid his hands up behind his head. He still stared at the ceiling, the dark ceiling. Always, always at this part of his memory, he would stop and think. Did the old man somehow send him an invitation? Come, come to the park, come to the park right now. Dillon didn’t know. He had no recollection of it, only the scene in the living room of his parent’s looking at him uncomfortably, as they always did. As everybody always did. Dillon reasoned that if he could recall such an invite from the old man, it would solve the mystery of coincidence or summons.

◎◎◎◎

They almost skipped along the footpath, and if either of the three could visualize what they looked like from behind, it would be a perfect copy of the image Dillon had sent to them not fifteen minutes earlier. Picket fences, post boxes and red pickups.

The park was not designated as such but it’s what everybody referred to it as. There were no swings or children’s play areas, no designated walking paths, not even benches to rest the weary legs. Nature, and irregular council maintenance preserved it for what it was. A short line of dumpsters designated the main entry point, and the widest dirt track for relaxed wanderers. The occasional dirt tracker or enduro rider was the bugbear of the area but a complaint to the local constabulary usually saw that taken care of in short order. Wildlife, though not prevalent, wasn’t rare either, and sightings helped ease the mind of locals with a penchant for preservation.

What was not allowed, strictly, and actively enforced, was no camping, illegal use by down and outers, or the growing tribe of alcohol and drug abusers. What people did within the sanctity of their own homes was entirely up to them － except for the homeless who of course found it impossible to act homeless within the confines of a home, theirs or otherwise. Really, nobody cared about them anyway, they were invisible to most people.

The park was generally considered a safe place. Motorcycle riders could be heard coming and avoided. Bums were invisible, so not a problem. Until today.

The trio walked past the smelly dumpsters and into the park. The parent’s still smiled, though closer inspection would see the strain of having to do so. The years of stress had stretched their capacity for happiness beyond the limit. But for their son, they would at least try.

A short way into the park and they automatically deviated along a smaller path. They did so because that was the way to the pond with the ducks and the swans in the image Dillon had sent them. The narrower path meant they could not walk three abreast and it was father who led the way, mother directly behind but holding tightly to Dillon’s hand as he trundled straight-faced behind her.

In the lead, father gasped as he tripped and almost fell, arms swinging pell mell as he fought for balance. Mother almost followed, managing to sidestep at the last moment the apparent cause － a pair of trousers, dingy and brown, encrusted with soil and crud that effectively camouflaged them.

She hardly afforded the trousers a glance as she released Dillon’s hand to help stabilise her husband. He dusted himself off, even though he hadn’t fallen, and they turned together to their son. The shocks that had been coming for years still didn’t prepare them for what they saw.

An old man sat on the ground. He’d propped himself up to a sitting position, so it was now obvious there was a pair of legs inside those trousers. The rest of him matched the condition of the trousers, gnarled, dirty and well used. His straggly long hair was grey and brown, but the actual colour indiscernible because of the leaves and muck. His face was tanned and heavily creased, as if he’d worked a lifetime in the sun, his straggly beard matched the unknown colour of his hair.

In his lap sat Dillon. They were looking at each other as if the parent’s did not exist.

Mother was the first to react. “Get your hands off him,” she screeched as she leapt forward.

Before she could lay a hand on her son and retrieve him to “safety”, the old man turned his face to her and barked back.

“Stop! We is talkin’.”

His eyes were steely grey, like the sun had tanned his face but bleached his eyes. Father came up beside his wife and they stared in horror at the picture before them, within them. Neither knew if it was Dillon or the old man that sent the image, but it achieved it’s purpose and they stopped. It showed two regular people, sitting in a cafe, or a bar, sitting and chatting, smiling, laughing. Dillon, laughing, smiling. It was enough to stop them even had the old man been deigning some heinous act. Their horror turned slowly to amazement and they looked on, desperately clutching each other. The image faded and all they could see was Dillon sitting on this old man’s lap but it had been powerful enough to halt them.

It only lasted a minute, then Dillon looked at his parents, looked back at the old man and nodded, then stood up and rushed to his parents, hugging the surprise and barely shielded terror from them. Through mother’s crying and father’s gasps of joy, they clearly heard Dillon speak. It was so rare that he did so but the word he used and it’s intent and purpose rendered them well aware of it’s meaning.

“Sorry.”

Quite some minutes passed as a family became a real family for the very first time since his birth. Even that joy had not lasted long, Dillon prone to uncontrolled bursts of image flashing, usually of his mother’s naked breasts when he was hungry, then of the nannies and au pairs who followed. When he wasn’t sated as quickly as possible, the images became more violent. A great maw of teeth would clamp down on the naked breast and rip it from the chest of the unfortunate bearer. The unfortunate carried on in the form of the actual pain. However, the worst was that the image and accompanying pain was shared with everybody in the household at the time. Mother, father, nanny, all clutching at their chests and screaming in pain in unison.

It was more than a year before mother could even leave the house. Another year after that before the breast images ceased, replaced with formula bottles, then a bowl and spoon, then a sandwich, usually peanut butter and cheese, his favourite, but it could be whatever he desired at that point of hunger. And if he was not satisfied, it turned to limbs being torn off by that giant maw, a black hole filled with serrated teeth that seemed to string down the unknown depths of that huge mouth.

Right now, standing in the park, their arms around their son and his around them, they saw pancakes, a stack six high overloaded with strawberries and cream. They looked at each other, knowing the impossibility of fulfilling this order, and dreading the outcome. Until the old man spoke again, the old man they had forgotten about in such a brief interlude of happiness.

“‘Tis okay now, ‘e don’t bite anymores,” as if he knew of their problem.

Of course he knew, and they understood this, but it was the how that perplexed them.

Father reluctantly released himself and squatted beside the old man. He ignored the rank smell of mould and feces and something else, something that reeked of mouldy cheese and formaldehyde, eye-watering but not off putting after the miracle that had just occurred.

“How, how do you know this?”

“’bout Dillon? ‘Coz ‘e told me, jus’ like he says ‘is name is Dillon. Youse don’ hafta worries no more, I hept him unnerstand what ‘e was doin’ was bad, y’know, all naughty like. I told ‘im us dragons gotta be more reeesponsible.”

“Reeesponsible,” Dillon repeated clearly, nodding his head at their surprised faces. “Furry dust,” he added which also added to their shock.

“‘E mean fairy dust,” the old man explained then turned his eyes down to Dillon, “fairy dust, not furry dust, fairy. Got it?”

Dillon nodded again. “Faaairy dust,” he almost yelled, bringing a burst of smiles simultaneously to the faces of his parents and the old man.

“‘E be a good student, ‘e listens does that boy. Most don’ listen no more.”

“What, who are you?” father asked.

“I be a dragon, jus’ told you that. Yer boy listens good but you don’, ” he cackled.

Father ignored the crack. “Really, I mean? I saw it with my own eyes, you and Dillon talking. And now, it’s like some miracle, he’s talking to us.”

The old man sqizzed his tired old bleached eyes closed a little, then when he opened them, appraised all three in turn before responding.

“I told Dillon that you hold the fairy dust, you an’ ya wife. The fairy dust is the parental control, the reward for bringin’ another dragon inta the world and that because youse have the fairy dust, he can never, ever harm you again. Never for real and never in ‘is mind.”

“What, what about other people?” Mother asked hesitantly as she peered down at her son ensconced in her tight embrace.

“‘e need learn control. ‘e don’ need to hurt anybody but ‘e needs to learn, and that be me who needs to teach ‘im.”

“You can see and do the same that he does?” Father asked.

“Yair, an’ nobody to ‘elp me git through me life either, but this boy needs me, and lookin’ at youse two, so does you.”

“Ugh, first thing we need to do is clean you up,” Mother said, and was rewarded a sharp look from her husband.

“We don’t know anything about him,” Father appealed.

Suddenly an image appeared to them, a swooping, shining, armoured dragon, regal rather than ferocious looking, it’s faded grey eyes enormous as they scanned the deep green forest landscape above which it soared. As the image dissipated, father looked back at the old man.

“That was you, that’s you?”

“The dragon? That be what Dillon see, ‘e sent it, weren’t me,” and he nodded in Dillon’s direction. “Glad it be what ‘e see, I is better lookin’ in his eyes,” he cackled again.

“Yeah, well, okay. We clean you up. You help Dillon but we can only pay you the same as we paid the nannies.”

“Don’ need no money. Feed me twice a day, give me a place to rest my head and I’ll do everything I can to help with your son. We is family too, y’know,” he blinked an outrageous, exaggerated wink at Dillon who to the further surprise of his parents, burst into laughter.

They helped the old man to his feet and as they walked back to the roadway, civilization and reality, a new feasible reality, Mother thought of a question.

“Fairy dust I understand, the dragon, well, I kind of understand, but what is with the pancakes?”

The old man cackled at the question, as did Dillon.

“I told ‘im he was using his special dragon power to summons a sandwich. That be like usin’ an atom bomb to disassemble a lawnmower, know what I mean. So I told him to think of something more special. Me, ida asked fer fried chicken, y’know, but Dillon there, that boy be wanting strawberry pancakes.”

“Right then, home, get you cleaned up, then I’ll go down the mall for some clean clothes for you. And,” Father added with his own kind of glint in his eye, “maybe I should pick up some fried chicken and strawberry pancakes!”

◎◎◎◎

Nineteen year old Dillon felt a tear prickle his eye. An image immediately swept across his brain, a regal armoured dragon with grey eyes and the words passed clearly through to him.

“Dragons don’t cry.”

He sat up, leaned over and turned on the bedside light. Shrugging into shorts, a t-shirt, and trainers, he walked down stairs of the house he now occupied by himself. Draped across the sofa was the dragon, his tail curled around and taking up most of the room, his head up near the ceiling. They both nodded curtly at each other but as he headed out the door Dillon spoke.

“Getting some take out. I’ll bring some home with me.” And he floated off leaving the fading image of a stack of pancakes piled high with strawberries and cream and a mega bucket of friend chicken. Until a voice intervened.

“Wait,” said the old dragon. “We’ll go together. It’s night, we’ll fly together. An’ everyt’ing be all right.”

No more fairy dust but they still had dragons, strawberry pancakes and the fairy dust had been superseded by fried chicken.

◎◎◎THE END◎◎◎

THANKS GREG

Every Wednesday he waits. Wednesday is writing day, the only day of the whole week where he simply does not have to leave the house, and because of that, it’s his self-imposed day of writing.

Every other day seems to hold inherent responsibilities, the kind he can’t postpone or delete either, which would have been his preference. But a court order is a court order, and he valued his freedom above all else so he abided by the rules as much as possible. Any knock on the door, rare as they were anyway, was usually some distant family member or one of few close friends upholding their moral duty to check up on him. That was probably self-imposed too, but he wished they would get over it because he didn’t want or need their help or interference, or their prying eyes and their prying questions.

The past six months had also seen new neighbours, Sanjiv and Meena, a nice enough couple on the downhill run of a failed marriage. How they couldn’t see it was beyond him, their loathing for each other barely hidden in public and literally dripping from their entire faces in the confines of their own home. He only ever saw them individually coming and going from the house and they always acknowledged seeing him with a little wave, a muted ‘hi, Roger,’ and a pained smile. How sad it was. First time he ever knew anybody from India too, and it made him think it didn’t matter where you come from in the world, marriages would almost always, ultimately, end in divorce.

He’d never considered marriage himself and was glad of it. So much sacrifice just to isolate ones’ own self to a life of forever answering to someone else. May as well stay a kid if that’s what you wanted out of life － or go join some religious community.

And he had done just that too, after the misandristic upbringing he’d received, he thought it would be perfect － no girls, no woman, just the nuns and the parishioners － which he didn’t personally have to worry about. It didn’t solve a damn thing, in fact, it created a bigger problem, because what he didn’t learn from his man hating mother and all her man hating friends, was that they were right.

This, he had to find out the hard way all by himself.

He fought his abusers tooth and nail, but he was a backward young man, unused to defending himself in the first place and not expecting to have to do so in this environment. They told him, take it, accept it, keep it a secret, or the police would take him away to jail because who would the police believe? A 55 year-old priest, or a 17 year-old homeless boy? The answer was obvious too but it didn’t stop him from fighting off their approaches, it was in him to at least try.

He even went and complained to the parish clergy, the upper hierarchy, and once a hastily scrawled letter to the Deacon of the city. It didn’t stop the abuse and nothing else happened either, except, in time, the occurrences became less frequent then ultimately stopped, a result he believed came from his continued physical objections. More than a few priests sported broken noses and mashed lips from his particular form of ‘objection.’ What he didn’t understand then was he was partly right －they were ignoring him physically － but, for them, he’d simply become too old and therefore less attractive.

Then it happened, the time his life changed forever.

Two things seem to converge, an epiphany about life in general, and a complete lack of attention from the before insatiable men of the cloth. Religion never entered into it and to this day, he remains an apatheist or, some would argue, an apathetic agnostic. He didn’t care personally. He’d already been labelled, officially labelled even.

Killer.

He wasn’t the only teenager in the system, not by a long shot, but he was the oldest. He didn’t mix much with the younger boys and most of them didn’t hang around long anyway. Whether they ran away or found alternate housing wasn’t his problem.

Until Greg showed up.

Greg was a small framed boy who looked closer to ten-years-old than his true 14 years but it was his stories to the other boys that attracted attention, because not only was Greg different, so were his stories. Almost exclusively, the boys came from broken homes or orphanages. Greg was the exception, he actually chose the church, and came from a loving family home who supported him in his endeavour to join the priesthood. They believed as strongly as he, that it was his duty to give service to God.

It had been Greg that told him about the words apatheist and agnostic, and though Roger himself didn’t waste time thinking about such terminology, or their application to himself, what he did like was hearing about Greg’s family life and the polar opposite boyhood Greg had experienced.

The life epiphany was this － Greg grew up surrounded by loving family because of the apparent bond between husband and wife, Greg’s parents. They, and Greg, espoused the theory that when you love somebody, you love them completely, everything you do is for and on behalf of your partner. One shared everything, and gave everything, their sole focus being on the partner.

Roger had laughed the first time he heard this theory. His imagination had seen Greg’s father bursting to go to the toilet first thing in the morning but this inherent theory had forced him to let his wife go first, even though her need may not be as pressing. Greg had been amused at this admission but patiently explained that it would never happen, as the focus of the two would identify his father’s need as greater and he would have gone first!

The boys developed a warm relationship, the very first, real boyhood friend that Roger had ever had. They saw each most days doing duties or at school, sharing lunch in the canteen, and sometimes Greg would come to Roger’s room in the evening to play cards or read books, or just talk.

That fateful day came when Roger didn’t see Greg anywhere, all day. He asked one of the boys from the same class who simply gave Roger a quick look and a shrug of the shoulders. He noticed a few of the other boys were also not meeting his eye.

Two days later, after a soft knock on the door, Greg was there again, explaining he’d just had to shoot off home for a couple of days, his mother’s birthday. His lack of eye contact and his downcast attitude made Roger fear the worst, aware that Greg was never going to be a good liar, asked him directly, which priest was it? Greg feigned surprise, a pretty good effort actually, and maybe he was surprised that Roger would know such a horror had befallen him. But he refused to be drawn, staying with his automated responses of having gone home.

After two more weeks, the loving, caring boy who had been Greg became a shell of a human being, walking around with a shocked look on his face, jumping at the slightest noise normal or not, and forever with his eyes facing down to the ground. He stopped coming to Roger’s room at all, probably scared that Roger knew and would eventually force the truth out of him.

Roger himself decided enough was enough – at least he could try and defend himself but a little kid like Greg? No way, not against an adult, an adult he respected above even his own parents. Or used to respect. Being the eldest boy, Roger had the relative luxury of a single room, not the shared dorm most of the other boys occupied. It also gave him a little more freedom. He took to spending a lot of time around the corridors of the dorm, just his spare time so he wasn’t seen as shirking his duties. Fortunately, most of the boys shared similar down times, so there was always plenty of people around together.

It dawned on Roger how absolutely stupid he’d been. Here he was concentrating on one single boy, firstly himself, then Greg, somehow believing they were the only targets. After a week, he realised almost every single boy at some time or other, had been requested to attend to some special duty during what would have been, should have been, their normal casual time. Now Roger began to recollect the vision of their terrified faces after returning from those ‘duties’, and berated himself for not seeing it sooner.

He knew better after asking Greg not to repeat the same accusations, the same question, a question to which he already knew the answer.

He’d never been allowed to be angry before, his mother instilling in him that all men are angry and that he needed to be different, better. But it boiled in him now, a livid rage that grown men could be so horrible, and even worse, that his mother had been right about them. For so long he had hated her, now he turned that hate toward the perpetrators who had proven her right. He thought about the priests and what they had done, or attempted to do to him on many occasions, then thought of little Greg, and the other boys, trying to defend themselves against something that was inhuman.

Inhuman was what Roger became. Somewhere in his mind as he took out all his pent up anger at his worst memory, somewhere was his mother telling him he was a good boy now. The eviscerated body was discovered the next morning, but by the time the police arrived, a hastily scrawled note nailed to the genitalia was gone. The note was to advise the authorities of the real culprits, and victims, and the reason behind the attack.

Roger was immediately placed under arrest, the note itself duly identifying him as the culprit, but one completely unaware the note had gone. He remained ever hopeful that some good would come of it all. He was led out of his room in handcuffs, through the dormitory and past boys being held fast by the very men that defiled them. The look on their faces told him the answer － there was no hope － they looked at him as if he were the monster when it was the men in robes directly behind them that were the real monsters.

Ten years of being in and out of different forms of institutions, the last four years a normal prison where he managed to finish his education, and learned that he loved writing. His first book was a success, and he used his past notoriety to advantage, especially considering his work of fiction was a story about priests abusing those under their care. It caused many problems and the resulting publicity turned out to be the best possible marketing because the first print sold out to pre-orders.

Now he lived modestly, in his own home that once belonged to his mother. He continued to write and his agent made sure his home detention, parole, was as comfortable as possible for him, as comfortable as can be when wearing an electronic ankle bracelet anyway.

Wednesday. Wednesday was writing day, but after carrying his morning coffee into the study he sat and looked at the posters and awards he’d received on the wall. He had Greg to thank for them, he always remembered Greg and wondered about him too from time to time. He hoped that somewhere in the world, Greg was making things right for himself and others. Roger offered him up a toast.

Greg, always a toast to Greg first, followed by his mother, a toast to his mother, for all the things she said.

Wednesday, time to write.

◎◎◎THE END◎◎◎

A BLUE DAY

It’s all fun in the sun, until somebody gets hurt. So he thought. Why was he always the one on the receiving end, though? He sighed and got back into it, the recent vacation a thing of the past now.

All work and no play makes Harrison forget about his blue hair.

The people in his office are used to seeing it － nearly used to it. Mostly, they don’t look anymore. Give them another four or five days, the comments will cease as well.

Harrison Childes Jnr, Executive Manager, well liked by all and sundry, willingly respected by subordinates, envied by the jocks, a fantasy figure to some of the ladies (and one man who strives desperately to hide this secret desire), and the sole upcoming junior partner to a proud couple of Chief Execs.

Until his hair went blue.

The Chief Executives; Dorothy McWinters, old and wise, experienced and quick with tongue and wit, impatient with fools and time wasters, with a sharp eye that could see through walls, and an equally sharp tongue that could whip losers out the door in seconds. Orin Parmenter, probably older than Dorothy, but not in appearance. His sharp aristocratic dress sense, his impeccable manners and his warm, encouraging tone of voice placed him polar opposite to Dorothy. Don’t be fooled by Orin though, he also is whip cracker smart. Have to be to succeed in this business.

Both chiefs viewed Harrison as their protege. The helm awaited him.

Well, up until his hair turned blue anyway.

His first day back from a rare vacation, it was noticeable that he kept his fedora in place, something he never did before. He’d often offered hints to others to remove their hats indoors so this made it more remarkable. And more obvious.

The babble commenced as soon as confused greetings were exchanged during his speedy passing, the door of his office opaque, and a natural block to prying eyes. The office gossip commenced immediately.

“Blue hair, I swear that’s what I saw.”

“Yeah, me too,” from another.

“He never even said hello,” lamented another. “Blue hair?”

“I saw it too!”

And the conversation centred on this, and this alone, unheard by Harrison behind closed doors but well aware it was happening anyway.

Just inside his office － he had yet to take another step after closing the door － he appraised the plush surrounds, breathing a heavy sigh. Finally, he removed the soft fedora and placed it onto an adjacent side table, beside the stainless tray holding six fine crystal tumblers and matching decanter of Glenkinchie 1991 Distillers Edition Whiskey, his current favourite.

A cursory glance told him the whiskey was the same level as when he walked out two weeks ago and he seriously contemplated pouring one right now. Except the buzzer on his desk phone interrupted this thought.

“Here it comes,” he muttered, and stepped off to answer the call.

No welcome backs, no friendly hellos, just a summons to the Chief Execs with a please explain ready. Not a mention of the blue hair but he knew that’s what they wanted to hear about.

He left the fedora, marching back out of his office mere minutes after entering knowing that sooner rather than later meant that people would cease talking about it the earlier they got over the initial shock, and laughter, no doubt.

He smiled and waved as he passed through the office again, issuing sprightly good ‘good morning’s’ to all he passed.

Down the plush carpet of the corridor and, without knocking, entered the conference room shared by the Chief Execs. It was a rare event, the Chief Execs together in one place at one time, let alone in this particular conference room.

Dorothy was first to react as he closed the door.

“What in blue blazes, oh, ha ha ha,” she chortled, pointing for effect at the same time.

Orin was more restrained, befitting his personality, but his wide eyes displayed momentary shock.

“Shut it, Dotty,” he said to his fellow boss, but the trace of a smile at the corner of his lips was evidence he was only just holding in his own mirth. “Harrison,” now he let his natural smile open in welcome, “come in and sit down.” He cocked his head a little sideways as he fought to keep his eyes from shooting repeatedly to the bright blue shock of hair on top of their star employee. “And, and you better start telling us about, about that,” and finally he let his eyes glance at Harrison’s hair.

Composed, professional, Harrison made himself comfortable before eyeing them back. Dorothy continued to laugh to herself but her little trembling torso gave it away. A stern glance from Orin and she ceased, but her eyes darted from Harrison’s face to his blue hair in a continual up and down nod. Harrison cupped his hands together on the conference table, and began.

◎◎◎◎◎

The first day of his holiday to the Canary Islands, first class across the Atlantic to Paris, a short stopover there before picking up his connecting flight － and the first shock. No first class, business class was booked out, and he was booted to economy. Flight duration, two and a half-hours. No problem, he could deal with that.

Second shock, DeGaulle airport, five terminals, and he had to find his way to a terminal he’d never been before, with the poor signage and the less than accommodating airport staff. After teetering around on the shuttle bus, he finally recognised that he was passing certain drop off and pick points for the second time. He glanced again at the modern display board on the bus, confirmed his terminal, again, checked it against the fuzzy sticker charts on the bus windows, and decided the next stop was his. He’d circumnavigated the airport, nearly twice, when he only had to go four stops. He got off at the next stop.

A waiting doorman asked for his boarding pass, which he presented. The doorman waved it at a scanner, which indicated he had to go to the next terminal to catch his flight.

Harrison sighed heavily, professionally patient, but knowing time was running short, further frustrated by his lack of knowledge of the local language. His frustration was noted by the doorman, obviously witnessing similar displays every day in his job.

“Perhaps monsieur would like to sit down in the air conditioning,” and he gestured to a small lounge area inside the glass doors.

“You speak English?” Harrison was unable to control his surprise.

The doorman smiled. “Of course, sir.”

“Well, how long do I have to wait for the next bus? Or can I walk?”

The doorman kept smiling. “Oh no, sir, no walking inside the secure zone of airport property, but ze bus will only be five minutes.”

“And I get off at the very next stop,” he confirmed.

“Yes, sir. Terminal 5D.”

Of course it didn’t turn out that simple. Terminal 5 was divided into departure gates, like all other airports. But instead of having numbers, the departure gates were listed by letters. Frustratingly French, but Harrison quickly worked it out and arrived at his gate while the final boarding call was being announced over the public address system.

He squeezed into the small entry of the unknown aircraft. Whatever it was, it was certainly smaller than he was used to flying aboard. A narrow centre aisle led through bustling passengers, excitedly stowing last minute items into the overhead bins. He heard quite a number of different languages.

He noted the seating pattern, two seats to his right, lettered A and B, and three seats on his left, identified with the letters C,D and E. A and E were respectively window seats. He glanced at his boarding pass, 27A his seat and plunged deeper along the aisle, counting down the numbers above the seats.

“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five,” he counted to himself as he searched out his seat ahead － and who he was penalised to sit with.

Shock number three. She was stunning. And she was sitting in his seat.

He gave a polite little cough as he levered his carry on into the overhead compartment. She didn’t look. Her gaze was firmly fixed out through the window. From his position, Harrison could only see the wing of the airplane so he had no idea what she was fixated upon.

She wore a flowing, loose fitting, sleeveless long dress in pale pink. Off white, sensible, low heeled sandals adorned her dainty feet. Her trim arms, neck and the profile of her face inferred that she carried a slim natural build. Both her small hands were pressed against the window, as if she expressing some kind of final farewell, not so far off the truth as it turned out. No jewellery was visible even though her mid-length dark hair was tucked back behind one petite ear.

Harrison coughed again. “Madam?” he ventured when again she didn’t respond.

“Sir! Sir! Could you please take your seat. We’re ready for take off.” A heavy set attendant with an even heavier accent, touched his arm.

He showed his boarding pass, “I would if I could,” and nodded at the lady in his seat who still sat staring out the window.

The flight attendant leaned across him, effectively shouldering him out of the way, and applied a hand to the lady’s shoulder. “Ma’am,” she barked, and both she and Harrison jumped back as the lady screamed, then broke into tears.

“I am sorry, very sorry,” she sobbed into her hands. She peered above her fingers, piercing dark eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so scared. This is my first time.”

Harrison and the attendant looked at each other and an immediate understanding passed between them. It was Harrison’s problem now. The attendant gave him an appreciative smile and dashed off to her pre-flight duties. Harrison sat down in the aisle seat, buckled his seat belt, then turned to his fellow passenger. She was watching him but had, at least, dropped her hands so Harrison could see, even through her crying-spoilt makeup, that she was one, very, beautiful, woman.

He offered his hand. “Harrison … oh!” never finishing the introduction as she grasped his hand immediately, clutching it desperately with both her small hands and dragging him tight up against her naked shoulder. “Ma’am?”

He managed to loosen his left arm from between their bodies, then withdrew his right hand from her tight grip. She immediately grabbed hold of the proffered replacement, dragging him even tighter up against her. The separating armrest dug painfully into his ribs but brought him close enough to smell her fresh, appealing perfume.

“What is that?” he asked lightly, watching her eyes go from excruciating stress to semi-confusion.

“What is what, messieur?” her sing song voice with a trace of vibrato.

“Your perfume. It’s beautiful,” Harrison forged on, believing he had her attention.

“Perhaps messieur thinks he has found a damsel in distress that he may take advantage of,” she said firmly, yet still she clutched his hand tightly in her lap, the repeat vibrato also indicating she had not forgotten her fear.

“No ma’am, not at all,” he replied. “It is you in my seat so I think that you have taken advantage of me,” he smiled and raised his eyebrows.

The aircraft was being taxied back from the boarding runway and the engines were cycling faster and faster. Cabin crew were stationed for the emergency briefing and the lady shifted her attention to every thing around her. Her hold on Harrison’s hand grew even tighter.

“It’s okay, lady, this is all normal. I’ll talk you through it if you like. Do you have any gum?”

“What?” Her surprise made her fear dissipate in a flash.

“Gum, you know, chewing gum. It helps equalise the pressure you’ll feel in your ears when we take off.”

She cocked her head at him. “You are joking with me, messieur?”

“Not at all, and my name is Harrison. As I mentioned already.”

The aircraft began to move forward to it’s take off point, the cabin staff began the emergency briefing which gained her attention again. Harrison watched her intent concentration on the briefing, noting she followed, or appeared to follow the English, French, and surprisingly, Russian language explanations. From experience, Harrison himself knew some basic phrases of French, but nothing of Russian.

“Parlez vous Francais,” he squawked roughly and was rewarded with an embarrassed smile in recognition of his poor effort.

“Wee, messieur, but you do not, that is clear to me. Harrison,” she finally acknowledged.

“Yes, Harrison, and you are?” he smiled.

“Dimasha, you may call me, Mr Harrison.”

“Dimasha. Nice. Exotic. And it’s just Harrison. That’s my first name. Where, where are you from?”

And began a lengthy conversation between the two that swallowed the short flight. Harrison did his best to forewarn her of all the movements, actions and effects of flying. Once in the air at cruising altitude, she often glanced out of the window, the glee at the view shining across her face. Even when the drinks trolley came along, she did not release Harrison’s hand, though she did remove one of her own to collect and sip at the water she requested.

The heavy-set attendant was one of those propelling the cart and she smiled and winked at Harrison.

Dimasha surprised Harrison by telling him that some of the resorts on Canary Island had converted to cater for Eastern European clients, meaning they supplied all inclusive packages for, compared to western hotels, a very cheap price. Dimasha was to be employed at one of these hotels. She easily got the position because she came from Kazakhstan, spoke her native tongue plus fluent Russian, some Ukrainian and some Cantonese. More surprising, her fluency in French came from a French father.

Harrison assumed she would hold some executive position, at the very least reception or concierge duties. No, the surprises kept coming.

“I am a gypsy fortune teller,” Dimasha told him, her demure look making her appear almost embarrassed at the disclosure.

“Um, what?”

She glanced around a little before lowering her head confidentially close to his. “Russian tourists love it. They are suckers for such things as this.”

The takeoff, flight and landing were smooth, the time whisked away by conversation, the sound and motion as the wheels touched down the only further discomfort for Dimasha as she let out a little squeal and squeezed Harrison’s hand even tighter. Then the reverse thrust as the half of the passengers applauded their arrival, Dimasha’s eyes wide open until the aircraft had slowed to taxiing speed.

At last, she released his hand. Harrison was reluctant to take it back. Her constant touch, the soft warmth of her lower body against the back of his hand, the sound of her lilting voice for the past two and a half hours had conjured up feelings within him that had been dormant many a year. As they taxied, she looked at him expectantly.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“I will not see you again will I, messieur? I doubt you will be staying at the resort I will be working.” She held an expectant look, a half smile. “How can I possibly thank you for looking after me on this, my maiden flight. You made it bearable, Harrison, and I wish to thank you, in some small way if I am able.”

“Um, well, I don’t know. What’s the name of the hotel where you’ll be working? It was my pleasure you know. You don’t have to thank me for anything. I, I, well,” he stopped, realising he was babbling.

The engines cycled down quickly as passengers around them unbuckled, eager to be first off the plane and off on their holiday of a lifetime. Dimasha and Harrison only had eyes, and ears, for each other. She surveyed him with her large, wide, dark eyes, and her voice took on a deeper pitch.

“You have very dangerous employment. You must come and see me, I have a warning for you.”

Harrison shook his head, then laughed a little, a hollow laugh that this pretty lady so frightened mere moments ago, had turned into this. “Not bad. You’ve very good at your job, that’s for sure,” and when she cocked her head at his reply, he added, “so, where do I find you.”

Her eyes shrunk down and she replied in her more normal tone but Harrison detected she was now being cautious. He nodded at her, and glanced around to see the line of passengers had almost cleared the aircraft. He stood up and grabbed his bag from the locker then gestured for her to exit first.

“I told you, I’m a gentleman,” he said, but she only nodded in return.

She did not look back on the walk off the plane, down the steps, onto a little bus that would ferry them to the terminal. Harrison veered off at the last moment and entered the bus through a different doorway. He saw only a fleeting glimpse of shiny black hair as she disappeared from the baggage collection carousel. And thought that would be the last he would ever see her.

He sunbathed, swam in the hotel pools and the warm Atlantic, went sailing twice, deep sea fishing on one day, and ate and drank copious amounts. It was his first actual holiday in nearly a decade and he was energized to make it memorable.

Except every single day, he thought of her. If this was going to be the most memorable part of this holiday, he thought, then I have to go and see her, even if just for one last time. And she had invited him. There was only one more day before he was due to fly out.

He showered and put on some casual clothes, picked up the room phone and dialled the number for the concierge desk. Yes, they knew where that resort was, came back the answer. A taxi would be waiting for him when he came down.

He walked out through the lobby, the front doors, the doorman holding a door open of a taxi idling in the driveway. As he approached the taxi, the Concierge ran out the doors behind him.

“Mr Childes, Mr Childes, one moment please, Mr Childes!”

Harrison turned to meet him. “Yes?”

The concierge spoke briefly and quietly. “That resort you are going to, it does not have the best reputation on the island Mr Childes. I just wanted to warn you of that, to be careful.”

“Thanks, but, what, what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s owned by a Russian Oligarch, and many of the guest there are, well, let’s just say, less than savoury, shall we? Just please be careful Mr Childes.”

Harrison patted the concierge’s shoulder. “No worries, thanks for the warning. I can look after myself. Appreciated though,” he nodded, turned and got into the taxi. The doorman closed the door and they were away.

The taxi driver was a Nigerian, educated in Britain and possessed a wild head of dreadlocks. His voice was almost Jamaican, which meant Harrison had a lot of trouble understanding his speech. When they arrived at the destination, it was only when the taxi driver turned and appraised him with such a worried look that Harrison understood he was being told to be careful, again. He gave the man a tip to go with the pat on the shoulder.

It was dinner time in the hotel and there were people literally everywhere. It was like a free-for-all and Harrison understood none of the loud chatter. Most people seemed to be shouting or arguing. He noted the reception desk and the lone staff member manning it, and headed toward her.

She acknowledged his presence with a nod of the head, no smile, and spoke something he didn’t understand, he assumed the same language as everyone else around him.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, sir. Is there a problem?”

“What? No, I don’t know what you mean. I’m looking for someone.”

She ducked her head and tapped at a computer screen. “Name, sir?”

“Um, what?”

“The name of the guest you are looking for?”

“No, not a guest. A member of staff. Dimasha.”

“We have nobody here by that name. I’m sorry, sir, I cannot help you.” She turned to walk away to the other end of the reception area where a couple of other guests had approached.

“It, it must be. She said she was working here as fortune teller. I, I had an appointment, to see her.” he gasped.

The receptionist gave the other guests a wait gesture and turned back to Harrison.

“The Lady Dimalaine, oh, yes.” She gave Harrison the same wait signal and picked up the phone and spoke in Russian, Harrison was now sure. “You’re name, sir?” the receptionist asked him. She relayed the answer down the phone, nodded, then hung up. “Please wait, Mr Childes. Somebody will come for you in a short time.” With that, she turned her back on him as if he’d never been there.

Harrison shrugged, looked around the busy lobby, and did as he was told. Waited. A sudden tap on his shoulder and he looked around. Expecting Dimasha, instead, one of the largest men on the planet stood beside him. Harrison could not figure for the life of him how such a huge beast of a man had managed to step so close to be in touching range without making any noise. He looked up, and up, and up, finally noting the man was smiling. At least he hoped this was a smile. The man did not speak, just gestured for Harrison to follow.

As soon as they stepped off, Harrison noted the soft canvas sneakers the man wore, which contributed to his almost noiseless movement. The fact that such a big man could step so softly belied his size and the obvious weight that would go with it.

They entered a door off to one side of the lobby area, immediately Harrison knew they were in a staff only area, back of house he recalled was the term. The man in front had to constantly duck to avoid the electronic fire exit signs which he appeared to do unconsciously without even looking. How horrible to go through life knowing you always had to be ducking your head.

They followed snaking corridors for an age, past clanging kitchens, bakeries, buzzing housekeepers pushing laden trolleys and all manner of staff wearing uniforms appropriate to their station. Harrison expected staff quarters of hostel equivalent, but was surprised when they exited a private doorway and entered a guest wing. The views over the beach and the azure Atlantic were almost as good as his own. Two doors along a corridor and the big man stopped. He knocked softly on the door, and as it began to open, nodded at Harrison and padded quietly away. Harrison watched his departure until Dimasha’s soft voice tickled his ear.

“Do not worry you silly American man, he does not bite.”

Harrison swivelled quickly to look at her. He’d read stories, books, heard other people tell of nearly swooning at meeting some celebrity but never before gave it any credence until that moment. He was tongue tied, not believing what he was seeing. She was a beautiful woman, he had that memory already, carried it with him for nearly ten days. Now though, she, she was radiant. There was no other word for it. A bright blue aura seemed to surround her with a presence that besotted him even more than he already was.

He gawked. Unspectacular as he was, she laughed at him, reached out and dragged him inside. The room was more than a room, it was a suite. She guided him to a small sitting room and pushed him down onto a plush white sofa. His eyes never left her face.

Before he could speak, if he was actually capable of speech at that moment, she negated any efforts of doing so by straddling his lap. His hands automatically went to her trim waist as she cupped hers behind his neck. Instead of the kiss he was expecting, she closed her adoreable eyes and leaned forward until her smooth forehead rested gently against his own.

She resisted when he used his hands gently, a hint to slide further forward onto his lap, so he closed his eyes and absorbed the close intimacy. He felt the hot connections where body met body, her inner thighs against his outer, the cheeks of her petite bottom resting on top, forearms resting on his clavicles, her cupped palms on the back of his neck, her nose tip to tip with his.

Strangely, Harrison perceived no sexual innuendo in her actions and relaxed, and that’s when things did heat up. Not the other connections, contacts of body, but where their foreheads met. And Dimasha (The Lady Dimalaine, he thought) began to speak, her hushed deep tones little feathers of breath on his face.

“You have a very dangerous employment my dear Harrison, where you must take care. In your absence, there are two plotting against you and they intend to act upon your return. It is their aim that you will not live out that day. You must act first before they apply their despicable plan. It is only these two that must take your concern, you should not fear others, though there is a man who desires your intimate presence, he also of no interest.”

Harrison frowned, his creasing forehead compacted on their heated connection but Dimasha ignored his discomfort and pressed harder against him. Now all their points of contact began to glow, except this time, it also annointed his groin area so that there was no longer any vagary of sexual connotation.

Her warning first, the foreplay, the orgasmic aftermath to follow. He allowed his hands to slip down and grasp her hips and she ground herself down on him as she continued talking.

“The two are your most trusted superiors and they are overconfident that you do not suspect anything. So I assist you, in my own freewill as my personal thank you for helping me on my virgin flight. I imbibe you with a temporary distraction that by it’s very simplicity and ridiculousness, they will not be able to see beyond.”

With that she crushed her lips against Harrison’s searching mouth, the aftermath indeed, orgasmic.

◎◎◎◎◎

Dorothy and Orin both sat staring at him. Neither had offered a word. In this, their very special conference room, no windows, armoured walls and doors, soundproofed and bombproof as befits an international organisation of bounty hunters and assassins.

Harrison had been their very best but something tugged at them – he was too prone to love. He actually cared too much and declined certain contracts where the risk to innocent bystanders were too great. This had not sat well with Dorothy and Orin. They saw loss of money, prestige, and reputation. It still didn’t stop Harrison being the best at what he did, and right at the moment, he proved it.

Orin first, he was the greater risk. Harrison double tagged him quickly in the head with one of his trusted Walther PPQ, and Orin, ever the gentleman, slunk down quietly, dead before he even knew it. At the same time, Harrison crashed himself sideways out of the chair as Dorothy let loose with the DP-12 double barrel shotgun she nursed under the conference table.

Harrison heard her pumping the action even as his chair obliterated behind him. Shrapnel creased him in several places but did not deter his aim. Just before hitting the floor, he fired again, instinctively, three shots, then the jolt of colliding with the floor, he rolled again and fired again, three more shots as he rolled sideways, his grunts as he saw each round hit its intended target.

He slowly got up, satisfied that Dorothy was no longer a risk. He walked around the conference table, stepped over Orin without a glance but let off another silenced round into the man’s heart, his eyes remained glued to Dorothy as she gasped in pain.

His first three shots had been aimed at the shotgun. She was nothing if not predictable, and he knew she would have it there. It was by no means her first time, but very definitely her last.

The second three shots, spaced, timed as her body took the impacts of each individual round, first one to the kidney, incredibly painful, and fatal if the bleeding isn’t halted quickly. The second shot took her trigger hand out of play. She was clumsy left-handed, little to no risk. The third shot, as she slid off the chair, neatly severing her spine, even better than Harrison intended. A shot, any like shock to the spine, causes almost immediate paralysis.

At least her kidney pain would no longer be an issue. Dorothy managed to turn her head toward his approach, willing desperately for her lower body to move, even though that was useless now the shotgun was damaged. She glared up at him as Harrison lifted the Walther, double tapping her in the head to finish off the same way he had started with Orin.

Harrison shook his own head － who’d have believed it, it worked! A little subterfuge, a ridiculous distraction, the blue hair Dimasha infused him with while they made love.

He walked across to a phone on an adjacent sideboard, picked it up the handset and dialled a number from memory. At the same time, exchanging magazines for a full one in the Walther, he then slid it into the shoulder holster so he had two free hands.

“Hello, yes, it’s Harrison Childes again. May I confirm that booking to the Canary Islands please. Thank you.”

◎◎◎THE END◎◎◎

FEELING COCKY

International travel. A dream for some. Not me. Not anymore.

I admit, the first couple of years were exciting; new locations, new countries, new cities, new people, different races, different food, different languages.

Generally, I was good with people, but not so good with languages, though I managed to pick up and remember courteous local greetings and farewells — took a few years, but I got them right eventually. I could say hello, nice to meet you, thank you and goodbye in about twenty different languages. Yes, sometimes I’d forget which country I was in and come out with the wrong one, an embarrassment that I could fortunately carry off, because, well, as I said, I was good with people.

Salespeople. There’s good and bad in every occupation. I was top shelf, and my value to the company meant I got rewarded very well indeed. It’s more than personality and smooth talk, it’s more than technique, it’s more than presentation of the whole package. It’s about understanding the most intimate thoughts and desires of each and every potential client, then once you convert them to actual client status, remembering and continuing to appease them.

Service the hell out of them and they never forget you. Forget one thing, one time, and you become just one of the rest. Me, I always wanted to be the best and fuck the rest. Cocky. Yeah, I am. Not that I crowed about it, but if you want personal references? Go ask any of my present and past clients, and they’ll dazzle you with my brilliance, assault you with my positives, drone on with never ending accolades.

They’ll do that because they’re my friends. Or were. That’s the secret. Make them your friends, because that’s how you learn all the juicy, intimate details you need to know so you can be the best.

Enough of this dribble though, blowing my own trumpet is not my thing. If I could ever escape, that would be something worth getting excited over.

Twenty years I plied my trade, travelling at the whim of client demands, and always observing for more potential new leads. That all finished twenty years ago, an ironic coincidence that, and I’m certain I could never be the same success in today’s electronic business world. It’s so impersonal nowadays, and no doubt, from my limited view of expanding technology, business, and probably everything else, is conducted with digital efficiency. Digital world. For people with digits.

Myself, I have only a few left. Frostbite and infections took care of that.

Twenty years ago, a well respected businessman travelling the world, to this. I look around my confines that I know in every (intimate and juicy) detail. And remember twenty years ago.

It was fairly straightforward. Or should have been. I had been enroute back home when a message arrived while I was waiting for a connecting flight out of Paris. I wouldn’t even have been there if it had been my choice, I hated Paris airport. What I wouldn’t give to be back there now.

I was paged to an information desk, who passed over a telephone message in the sullen way Parisians have, and proudly call it customer service.

Kabul, amended travel arrangements. And a name and telephone number. I’d been travelling the world for twenty years and I’d never heard of Kabul. Then again, it had only been a few years before that I flew in to Kyiv, Ukraine, for the first time too. Prior to that first trip, I never even knew that country existed either.

I checked my new tickets. First leg to Istanbul, Turkey, from there to Islamabad, Pakistan. Then Kabul, but I couldn’t recognise the country abbreviation so I still didn’t know where it was. Back to the information desk, where they grudgingly, unsmilingly, as per usually, advised that Kabul was the capital of Afghanistan. Merci.

I went and found a bank of payphones and put through a reverse-charge call to my home office in Sydney. No answer. Damn it, time difference. I tried the Director’s mobile telephone number, but was told there was no provision for reverse charge calls. Damn it.

There was a shared conversation I remembered between the Director and I, and he mentioned Afghanistan as untapped potential. The war with the Soviets had finished some five or six years earlier and the Americans were in charge now. Or so we believed.

I also recalled some of my immediate post Cold War dealings with Russian businessmen, some of them veterans from the Afghan war, and they did not paint a pretty picture. They’d expressed more than das verdonya when the final withdrawal had happened. Then of course, only a few years after that, the entire Soviet Union disbanded. Das verdonya once again.

Untapped potential, now I wasn’t so sure about my Director’s opinion.

Time to go find my new departure gate, a nightmare in this airport but for once, I lucked in. Same terminal, different gate, and an earlier departure meant I had less time in this damn place. But oh, how I wish I was there now.

Another surprise, an almost on time departure, again a rarity out of Paris. I should have seen the signs then that something was going wrong because everything was going right.

Same deal in and out of Turkey, on time, no delays, smooth flights, good service. Everything was too good to be true. Except I was one of the best there was, I deserved this kind of luck, for a change. Arrogance wasn’t going to win me anything in this one.

Islamabad, still a relatively new city, still infuriating in its sanitary efficiency. I had friends in Islamabad, but I didn’t call because I only had a two hour turn around before my connecting flight, and I couldn’t be bothered going in and out of customs.

Besides, the excitement was growing again, something I didn’t know I’d been missing after twenty years on the job. A new country. A new city. New people, new language. I wondered about the new Taliban government. Sitting in the Rawal Lounge, I tried to find anything to read up about this new country. There was nothing. I didn’t even know if Pakistan and Afghanistan were friendly with each other. Talk about ignorant. Maybe I should have called my friends. At least they could have given me some information about where I was going.

Flying blind, literally, I went to Kabul.

What I didn’t know was that somehow, some time in that lounge back in Islamabad, somebody had switched my carry-on bag. I hope airport security has improved since then, everywhere for that matter.

Hi-jackings were still relatively rare, but they did happen, and in some countries, Customs Control amounted to little more than a cursory glance at a passport. What I know is that if departure checking was better, I would not be where I am now.

First impressions of Kabul were not good. No women anywhere, except a very few minority of the passengers, and the majority of them were stewardesses off the plane of course. Even now I didn’t think to ask about our shared destination. It was the atmosphere though, even in the airplane. There is always excited chatter, non-stop banter between friends, crying babies, especially on short legs such as this one. This one had none of that. It had been eerily silent, the stewardesses almost whispering their commands and requests.

Only the Captain’s address sounded relatively normal, and perhaps he was lucky because he was doing an immediate turnaround. It still didn’t alleviate the atmosphere on that whole short trip. Of course, as all the way from Paris had been, we arrived on time. On time for what would forever change the rest of my life.

I wandered, looking around at new surrounds with the group from the aircraft. No First or Business Class luxuries here, we wandered with the masses from economy. The preponderance of men was glaringly obvious, and I finally asked my first question, directed to a fellow passenger as I walked alongside with not my carry-on clutched in my left hand.

“Sharia Law,” is what he told me bluntly, as if that would tell me where all the women were. What was more noticeable were his smart glances around before he answered, not that I actually noticed then. Now with the preponderance of time on my hands to consider the preponderance of men leading up to that question, I better understand his answer and his actions.

The other noticeable thing in the airport was guns. Every person, a man of course, in any semblance of uniform was carrying some kind of automatic weapon. I had seen this before in some African and South American airports, but never the number visible to me then. I thought the war was over, when it hadn’t even begun.

We arrived at Customs, Security and Border Control and I patiently waited as the most intensive security checking occurred on the passengers. Some of them had to remove shoes and belts, and everything from their bags. I’d never seen the like of it before. A very few of the passengers were invited to attend another “private interview room” for further questioning. Some went willingly enough, a couple were bodily dragged kicking and screaming. My heavy frown was noted by one of the guards, who moved forward and prodded me out of the line.

I tried to be courteous and polite — the man was pointing his weapon loosely in my direction. In bad English and jerky, threatening gestures, he directed me to the next, unoccupied and unmanned security gate. I had nothing to hide. Every directive, when I understood clearly enough, I immediately complied. Arms up, as he swept some metal detector around my torso and limbs. Empty all my pockets, Passport, boarding pass, cigarettes and lighter and my wallet. He placed them on the counter beside my carry-on.

Another guard joined us, this one with much better English. He spoke initially to the first guard then moved around the counter so he was standing with all my stuff. He looked at me and asked why I was in Afghanistan. I told him the truth. My Company had sent me to investigate potential leads. His hands dropped to my bag, and he fingered the clutch buttons that would release the latches.

What exactly is it that your company does, he wanted to know. I had nothing to hide, so of course I told him the truth again. Tupperware.

His blank look was quite amusing but I easily suppressed any mirth I might have felt at the time. In truth, I was scared out of my wits. His brow creased, and I jumped at the sound as he clicked open my bag. He repeated his question before opening my bag and I described, in detail, as any good salesmen can do, the range of the worldwide phenomena of Tupperware. My mouth was running off, fuelled by the horrible premonition that something bad was going to happen, all because these people didn’t know what Tupperware was. Then he opened the lid of my case.

I knew what was inside, naturally. Brochures. Nothing but brochures. Oh, that and my personal care ablution needs, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, deodorant and the like. And a couple of extra packs of cigarettes.

He listened on to my prattle then glanced down into the case. The lid effectively blocked my view. It was about then I realised something was more than wrong because a little mark, a gouge I knew to be on the front edge of my case, wasn’t there. His and my eyes opened wide at the same time, and guard number two had leaned over to look into the case as well, and was immediately dragging his weapon around.

No pretensions this time, that weapon was pointed directly at me.

Guard number two put his hands on the side of, what I knew was not my case anymore, and turned it around. The whole time, his eyes never left mine. I dragged my eyes away from his and looked into the bag, hoping beyond hope that all I would see would be cigarettes, some brochures and a Rexona can. I frowned then recoiled, and if fear didn’t override revulsion, I probably would have stepped back too.

Twenty years later and I still see it, clear as day. All those magazines I first mistook as my brochures. I don’t know how many were in there, but the graphic sex scenes of unimagined depravity were glossily visible.

I looked around wildly, and I didn’t notice it then, but a man had just passed through the Border Control Gate and stood watching the scene unfolding with me as the centre of attention. That man had my bag in his hand. I could even see the white mark of the gouge on the front edge of the lid. He saw me looking around and walked off. Funny how you can look back and see those sort of things now, when at the time, seeing it might have made all the difference to the next twenty years.

I was bundled away. My head was bagged. I spent an eternity banging around in the back of some van. When the bag came off my head, I was in a small earthen cell, no windows and a solid metal door. Nobody came and asked me any questions, and nobody would listen to my pleas.

After I don’t know how many days, I was bagged, bundled away again, and for an even longer time, banged away in the back of van. This time I wasn’t alone, at least three others were with me but none of them spoke English. One was French, or spoke French anyway, so at least I could tell him hello, nice to meet you, thank you and goodbye. Another spoke Spanish, so again, we passed the same informal courtesies as we pitched and rolled against each other. I didn’t hear another word in English for many years. Or see the sun again, ever. Yet.

I don’t know how many days and nights we spent in that van, the occasional water or piss break the only relief. When the bag came off my head, I expected sunlight. Instead, there was the dim light inside a small cell, solid earthen walls, no windows, and a solid metal door. If the door had been the same colour, I might have thought I hadn’t actually left my original cell. Except for the temperature. That original cell was hot. This one was cool.

Over the years, I heard enough and learnt enough, to pass courtesies with the regularly changing guards who brought food and water. Not exactly sure when, but an American occupied the cell beside me for a short time. He was the one that brought me up to date with what was happening. The Americans were coming. He assured me it would happen, especially after 9/11. I heard and felt the rumble of bombs, or heavy vehicles, or something.

But that was a long time ago now. At least another ten years. At least. I think. I don’t know anymore. I don’t have anything else to do anyway, so it’s all I do. Think. I know I’m not so cocky anymore, that’s for sure. No necessity to think about that at all.

Right now, I’d be happy if I was in Paris or any other airport. Just not Kabul. Or Afghanistan. Please?

Merci. thank you. Das verdonya. Bye.

◎◎◎THE END◎◎◎

Section ΙΙ. DRAMA AND ROMANCE

HAPPY ENDING

A happy ending. It’s all she ever wanted, all she ever dreamed about. A happy ending. Just like in all those books she’d read as a child, the hero rescues the heroine or damsel in distress. If ever there was a damsel in distress, she felt the perfect candidate was that one person who looked back at her in every mirror, from every reflective surface.

She never knew her father. After ten years living under the same roof as her mother, she felt her father had been the smart one. Not long after, a timely overdose by her mother saw the girl go to institutions and foster care, too many to even remember, except the last one which turned out comfortable, if not relatively happy.

Then came Carl.

Carl from high school, then Carl at college. The inevitable, Carl waiting for her as she walked down the aisle, her foster family bravely smiling and probably ecstatic that she’d be, finally, gone from their lives. She hoped this was the happy ending for her and for them.

Carl talked his way into a good job, and for a time, it looked like the happy ending was on the way. Nice car, nice clothes, a nice apartment in a nice building in a nice neighbourhood. Everything was nice. Even the god damn nosy neighbours were nice. If only they’d keep their nosy noses in their own business, and even after repeated eye-rolling and heavy, exaggerated sighs, not to mention numerous glances at her watch, they still chatted on inanely. Nice. Thanks a lot. Appreciated.

She learnt to switch off, something she’d never have contemplated under her mother’s roof. It did not pay to switch off there, not, one, little, bit. Now, it became her God-send for her God-dammed noisy, nosy neighbours.

Except the habit began to creep in elsewhere. Her own job. And even with Carl. Switching off.

Carl only saw it as his overtired spouse falling into exhaustion. He mentioned about how much work she’d been doing. He acknowledged it, and made allowances for it, even suggesting she find easier employment, part time or casual. It’s not like they needed the extra income, though it was nice to have. She didn’t hear his compassion, or his suggestions.

She’d switched off.

Alone now, in her thoughts with nobody except that singular image who always seemed to be looking back at her － the one from every mirror, every reflective surface. She was beginning to dislike what she saw. Older, no wiser. Definitely older. Where had those lines around her lips come from, and on the forehead? Crow’s-feet around the eyes too, are you kidding! She stopped looking. Problem solved. Alone.

Work let her go. She had been unproductive for weeks, and after several warnings, was fired. She listlessly stuffed a few personal items into a shopping packet, and after glancing and ignoring her own reflection from the computer screen on her desk, walked out without a backward glance.

She woke up enough to tell Carl she’d been fired. He was happy, it seems he’d even suggested she find a better, easier job. Nice. Now he tells her.

Carl, with his perfect job, perfect office, perfect apartment in a perfect building with perfect neighbours. What the hell did he know?

Not nice. Everything for Carl was perfect. Except his lousy non-perfect wife.

Through some little window, dawning came upon her. What a selfish bitch she was being. She cried on his perfect shoulder, in his perfect arms and told him sorry, a million times sorry. She didn’t know what to do.

Therapy, her perfect husband told her. Nice. Just perfect.

Of course Carl found the perfect therapist for her. And when she met, she nodded her agreement. Yes, he was nice. Now they had a nice car, a nice apartment in a nice building in a nice neighbourhood, with once nice neighbours who’d been superceded by this nice therapist. Very nice indeed. The neighbours could go fuck themselves.

Several months and her outlook changed considerably. Carl was impressed. He even saw his wife rushing out to go next door and speak to a neighbour she’d ignored for nearly a year. It was a nice change.

Then she scored a part-time job, actually a time share job that her therapist had found for her. Her general outlook kept looking up and up. Nice.

What Carl didn’t know was that therapist and patient were happily fucking each other. So no miracle cure at all. It went on for a year. Her therapist even helped her avoid any guilt feelings, wasn’t that nice!

All good things must come to an end though – it’s Murphy’s Law, it’s inevitable, it’s logical, it’s obvious. No happy ending here. Yet.

It was obvious too, what was going on, to everyone except Carl. Only when investigators knocked on the door of the apartment one evening, did Carl find out what had been going on. Inevitable.

She also received sad tidings that she wasn’t the only ‘victim’. That had not been so obvious, though it should have been logical, to any logically thinking person. Not nice at all.

Carl strove to work through it, understanding that his wife had been taken advantage of while in a state of stress, under duress even. He loved, he cared, but he could not forget. He did a nice job of trying. Everyone knows it takes two to make a relationship work, and even with the extravagant effort Carl put in, he felt he could not get over the trust issue.

They separated for a time and Carl, being the nice guy he is, helped support her in a small apartment of her own, close to her work so she could walk without the concerns or additional costs of public transport. On his own, he suffered without her, miserable, and there was nothing his nice job, or his nice neighbours, could do to help.

On her part, she began to do and say the right things, demonstrate the right actions, but she was forthright in declaring the time apart was necessary, so she could get her head together. Properly this time. And no therapy required.

No therapist because the licentious asshole was coming around to her apartment to do the fucking they used to do in his office. Nice of Carl to provide them with a convenient location.

It wasn’t all they were doing in the apartment. Plotting was the additional task they added to their sexual outpourings. Plotting to get rid of Carl and gain access to his nice car, nice apartment, and no doubt, nice financial dividend. And the nice, nosy neighbours could still go fuck themselves. Nice, eh.

The plot turned to plan, the plan to action, and sadly, for Carl, the action was successful. The funeral was more than nice. It was perfect. Perfectly nice.

The heady secret sedative that Carl had consumed, unfortunately wore off as the last clump of soil was tamped into place. The grave diggers retired, leaving the grieving widow as the sole witness to the screams coming from six feet down. She gave it an hour, and when the muted sounds had all disappeared, she smiled and left, went back to her nice car.

Then drove back to her nice apartment, with all her nice clothes, to the nice building in the nice neighbourhood with all the nice, concerned neighbours who would share in her pain. Nice.

Now there is a happy ending.

No, not yet. Must tie up loose ends if there is ever to be a happy ending.

The therapist. She didn’t know who, where or how he obtained the sedative, but there was something she did know. It worked. Goodbye therapist.

Now it’s a happy ending. Perfect. Have a nice day.

◎◎◎◎◎

Oh dear. How stupid can she be, though it’s not nice to say so, is it. Of course the police in this nice neighbourhood didn’t like the fact that a husband dies in mysterious circumstances － followed soon thereafter by the disappearance of the very therapist the wife of said deceased husband was being ‘treated’ by and who also just happened to be under investigation for breach of practice.

The judge at her trial summed it up for her perfectly. All those nice neighbours who showed up to testify as character witnesses, for the prosecution, couldn’t have been more damning. He told her she was going to a faraway place for a very, very long time. Nice.

So no happy ending after all. And her dream lives on.

◎◎◎THE END◎◎◎

FARQUAR

From the four corners of the globe, they came. Wait. Hang on a mo. How does a globe have corners? Must be one of them leftover flat earth society idioms.

Okay, better work on that. From the furthest outreaches of this, our planet earth, they came. Yeah, yeah, that sounds better. Not sure if it’s catchy enough though. It don’t matter, I got all night to work on it. But I just gotta make this one good, the best I ever did.

I’m a busker, a street busker. Street lurker most nights, street busker by day. When I’m not busking or lurking on the streets, I have a sometimes home to go to but I avoid it as many nights as possible, because, well, because I don’t like who I have to share with.

Fact is, I’d rather share the streets with city folk who sometimes treat me very well, and sometimes they don’t either but even when they don’t, it’s still a damn sight better than how I get treated at home. And those nights I stay out lurking, I just kinda say that to make myself sound sinister. Truth of that matter is, I hide under some alleyway annex if the rain be about, or if the weather be good, just a cardboard box makes a damn fine bedroom.

The bonus, apart from not having to put up with the home life, is that every cent I make, is mine. Well, mine and whatever interest it earns for the First National Bank on Main Street.

I is thrifty, for sure, can’t argue with that one little bit, and there be some that say I take it too far, but then I see them people, in their luxury Jaguar imported automobiles, heading over to their uptown addresses late in the evening. Some of them, bless their silk socks, even drop some money in the tin for me, which is shore funny for me, coz I know even with all their tax loopholes and dodges, they still probably earned near twenty-dollars just so they could appear so charitable giving me ten. They is the losers.

Me, I’m a winner.

How I know all that is because I used to be one of them. I can, if I so choose, talk the taffy talk as good as the best, nose tilted in the air and failing to see the failures of life around us, be it something as simple as litter, or the beggar that occupies every street corner. Homeless people, down and outers, are completely invisible, never to be seen by such cultured vision. Losers. The taffy-nose wankers I mean － they are the big time losers.

Every damn one of ‘em going to be dead sometime in the middle-aged bracket, and those that last longer are probably paying squillions for the privilege yet still not seeing any more of life than the multi-million dollar medical equipment that surrounds them in their designer bedrooms.

So, there be the obvious question of what happened to me, wouldn’t there? Excuse me if I transgress between my day voice and my past self won’t you. It’s extremely difficult to simply expunge oneself of all knowledge gained from a one-hundred-K a year education, and sometimes I degenerate. For the sake of clarity, I shall make all attempts to stay with my present day personage, after all, it is the one that now provides for me and my future.

Righteo, let’s get back to it. What happened to take me from highly educated master of all things economic and financial, wizard, and secretly I loved this description, wolf? A simple act of charity awoke me, that’s what. Actually, the way I’d describe it these days is, my reality got rocked. Yeah, and even to my past educated self, that sounds a lot better.

Seven figure personal earnings for the preceding ten years, and I thought I had it all. Was I ever wrong. Every day, yes, every, single, day, I’d drive up to that building I part-owned in the centre of the city, pull up in the designated VIP parking zone and simply walk away from whichever luxury carriage I’d chosen to pedal that day. I liked driving, I liked my cars too, so even though I could easily afford a chauffeur, I never bothered. Oh the wife had one, she loved that she could be driven anywhere, anytime and always have a conveyance waiting that opened doors and carried shopping and called her ‘Ma’am’.

What she don’t know, but I do, is that when she weren’t around, that same helping hand referred to her as ‘the bitch’. I laughed first time I heard it. So did they, the hired hands, when I began using it to refer to her as I talked with them. They started off all polite, like you know, I was testing them or something, but soon as they understood I meant it, they laughed as outrageously as before when I weren’t there.

Me. Forgot this here story is about me. Oh, the bitch still be there alright. Now you know why I prefer a box in an alley rather than go home. The story, the story, right.

So, I was rich, more than rich. And heading for the same middle-aged health plunge that all my previous, present and future colleagues were lining up to receive. Stress is the killer, see, and you can’t beat stress if’n you want to be at the top. You lives with it and deals with it, then you dies too young. Not me. Not anymore. I escaped.

The last six years of my past career, I’d flip those car keys to whoever the duty valet was on the day, and stride toward my building. The last six years, every day, there was this homeless man sitting near the corner of that building. Started off he was closer to the entry but somebody complained and he was moved a further twenty yards. I didn’t actually know that, because I had the taffy-nose-up-in-the-air attitude. Didn’t have no clue he even existed. Until one day.

Couldn’t tell you why exactly, not anymore, but one day, I come out of the building and decided to walk up the street a little ways. Maybe I was looking for a 7/11, I don’t know, I don’t recall. But I had to walk right past him. Remember, us taffy noses don’t see people like that, like him, and I didn’t either. Not until I tripped over his legs and sent his cup of change spilling down the sidewalk. Selective vision gone in a flash, and you know, it wasn’t the tinkling of money against cement that really got my attention, nor the hollow chock-chock of his now empty coffee mug as it bounced along the pavement. No, it was his voice. He got my attention

“I am so sorry, sir,” he said in such a cultured tone that I simply stood there looking at him.

After blundering over his legs, my immediate reaction was anger and I’d composed and was ready to shoot off at him. Trouble with that was he beat me to the punch. How can you be angry at a person that apologises so sincerely and in such a mellow tone of obviously educated modulation. I was no longer angry, I was shocked. I looked him over.

He looked homeless. He dressed homeless. He didn’t smell homeless and most of all, in his eyes was the sharp gaze of an observer. Observers are learners. They watch, listen, and learn. This man had been watching me for six years. Longer, as I was soon to find out.

I squatted down and looked at that gaze and the dint of a memory came to mind. These eyes I’d seen before. Not in my department, perhaps not even in my company. But definitely in my building.

“Who are you? What’s your name?” I cocked my head at him.

“I’m nobody. As you can plainly see.” The perfect articulation was blindingly obvious to me, which rendered his answer an outright lie.

“You don’t sound like a nobody,” I told him.

At that, he smiled, aware that he’d blundered, or so I thought. I was wrong. ‘Twas I that blundered.

“Wasn’t no other way to git your attenshun, sunshine,” he spat out.

The melodic tone had gone and I saw straight away that I’d erred. He’d suckered me. I stood up, ready to walk away, disgusted more with myself than with him. But he got me again. The first punch had been the sucker punch, now he was moving in for the kill. He was better than good. He was the best I’ve ever seen, anywhere. Period.

“You walk away now, Farquar, and you miss out on the best insider information that you’ll ever get in your entire, dollar driven, life.” The educated tone of all seeing, all knowing knowledge was back, and with a vengeance.

“How, how do you know my name?” I squinted at him. I was recognising those eyes again as they coolly appraised me behind the obvious, now, masquerade. It took a few seconds to realise I’d stuttered. Never, ever before in my entire life had I stuttered. My frown got heavier. “Who are you?” I demanded.

“Don’t make a scene, Farquar, and all will become clear,” he mused behind a grin.

I stood up straight, trying for the taffy-nosed aristocratic approach that had alway, always worked for me. Before. “Who the hell are you, mister, and if you don’t answer me, I, I, I’ll call the police,” I faded into a failed whisper. I looked down at my shoes, took a deep breath, was smart enough to know I was being outsmarted, and looked back at him. With a whimper I asked, “please, who are you?”

“Don’t stoop to begging, Farquar,” he barked, and I backed away a half a step. His grin didn’t fade, it was swept away in an instant. “Now do you remember?”

Oh yes, I sure did. One of my professors from University. Not one, THE Professor, the professor of all professors, the one that made grown men tremble and the weakest buckle under pressure. He’d left the university in my third year, head hunted by one of the conglomerates. And I’d seen him again, many times, in the corridor, in the lift, in my building.

“What, what happened to you?” It was the best I could force out in my surprise.

“Why, I promoted myself,” he smiled warmly.

Recognition or not, I scoffed. “You call this a promotion?” I couldn’t hide the sneer that went with it, nor the look of disdain as my nose automatically turned up.

“Seven million dollars, tax free,” was his smiling reply.

“Bullshit,” I countered immediately, the inbuilt calculator going off in my head. “Twenty-thousand dollars a day? Bullshit,” I repeated.

“Pretty good,” he nodded, “you’re still just as fast on your feet I see. Trouble is with that, son, is you assumed too much. Seven mill is the earnings over seven years. Tax free. Working only five days a week. And only six hours a day, less. Come on now, what’s that brain of yours telling you?”

I was befuddled. The calculator didn’t work well befuddled. “Three, four thousand a week?” was the best I could splutter out.

“Don’t suppose you want to sit down?” he gestured to the pavement beside him.

“Um, um …”

“It’s a simple question, Farquar. Yes, or no. Not even. Just do it. Or don’t.” He shrugged his shoulders and gestured again at the sidewalk.

Befuddled, confused, I shuffled around in my pockets, came up with some loose change and a few notes and shoved, threw them in his lap before spinning on my heels and walking away.

“I will see you tomorrow, son,” his laughing voice of immaculate articulation followed me.

For the very first time in my life, I called in sick. My ensemble of personal assistants were in a panic. None of them could do their job without me. I called in sick a second day, and their panic was transmitted across the digital airways as clear as day. Except me, the recipient, was panicking more than they were.

The Professor.

The following day, followed out the door by the strange looks from the bitch, I went to work, because it was Saturday. I pulled into the VIP bay and glanced across to the edge of the building, breathing an overt sigh of release that he wasn’t there. Of course not. He only worked five days a week. Every hour on the job perked me up and brought me back to a semblance of normalcy, my normalcy. Sunday followed Saturday, as it usually did every week, and I forgot about him.

The Professor.