Author: Alexander Fawn

She stood in the isle of the supermarket, holding a box of cereal.

Her daughter, having recently qualified as a nurse, said she should eat more carbohydrates. She said they were the body’s main source of energy. She idly perused the ingredients. There it was, carbohydrates 28 grams. She used to enjoy these, so she needed to rediscover them. She put them in her trolley.

That night was Bingo Night. She would go with her friend once a week. She never seemed to win anything but she enjoyed the evening. It was quite early in the last game of the evening when she found herself looking at her card that only needed one number. Everything was crossed of, leaving just one to go. This could well be her lucky night. The main prize, a huge hamper of food, sat on the caller’s table. Her friend’s eyebrows shot up when she lifted her card. Just moments later the caller shouted, “Not too late, number twenty eight!”

When she and her friend went up to collect the prize, she was amazed to find a box of cereal laying across the top of all the groceries. It was the very same product that she had bought earlier that day. What a coincidence, she thought. She took this as an omen, a sign that her daughter was right about eating more carbs.

She didn’t notice the numbers.

But, there again, why should she?

In their own ways they were both really fond of going to the movies.

Their local cinema was showing the latest offering from Hollywood. It seemed that everyone was talking about it. It happened to be the kind of film that had all of the things they liked in it, along with several of their favourite stars. He had suggested that they go and see it. He came up with a day and time, saying that he would purchase the tickets online and meet her in the foyer. On the night, they met on time. He bought their favourite snacks and drinks and they went in. They took their seats and waited patiently for the show to begin.

For nearly two hours neither of them gave a moment’s thought to the fact that they had never really liked each other.

He had always liked numbers.

At school he had been good with them, their sequence, and their patterns. He had been able to see patterns were other kids couldn’t. That’s what made using them so special. That’s how he had everything worked out so nicely. Number fifteen was his favourite. It had always been the number that he lived by. Now, as a young man, putting things right in the world, it was his magic sequence for bumping people off. These were simply people that had to go. The homicide detectives couldn’t find anything that linked those he’d sent to their maker. Only he saw the ones that had to go. He was able to spot them straight away, in the street, in shops, buildings, railway stations; anywhere. He came across them everywhere, the ones that had to go. He could tell just by looking at them, across a room, passing in the street, they were not quite right, dodgy, worthless, all walking around using up valuable oxygen.

He knew that his contribution to fixing things up was very small, minimal really. He had despatched a dozen to date with only three to go, all exactly fifteen days apart. He was sure that the cops had worked this much out, the time between, but that common element the despatched all shared, they would never see that. He understood that fifteen was just a drop in the bucket. There were so many people walking around out there that were just wasting space, polluting the gene pool, eating valuable food, making TV commercials; the list just went on. But, he would stop at fifteen. He’d been working on thirteen for a while now. His sequence consisted of first spotting someone who didn’t deserve to be around, spending a couple of weeks observing their habits, routines, their activity patterns, then knock them off on day fifteen.

For him, he was now well versed in the business of dispatching, the making disappear, the rubbing out. Number thirteen was easy, this snotty-nosed kid, so rude to that old lady on the bus. Observation had been a cinch. This would be a careless step out in to traffic. A quick passing. The nasty little sod, death’s too good for him really. But, hey! One does what one can.

Anyway, now comes the worst part, the one drawback to maintaining his sequence… the waiting! He now had to wait three whole days before removing one more blight from the community. There again, on the other hand, if he improve society on day fourteen or sixteen, they wouldn’t see my pattern.

They wouldn’t know it was me!

He slowly came to, looking around at the room and taking in the smell of antiseptic.

It was taking a while for it all to come back to him. He knew he was in hospital. It was something to do with his stomach, or was it his chest? He prodded himself. No pain, nothing at all. Obviously the operation went well, whatever it was, or at least he’d survived it. He was hungry; he knew that! He had a sudden flash of something; something bouncing him around. The ambulance, of course, that was it. The journey in the ambulance with a mask on his face and the siren blaring. Before that, there was the floor, a cold and dirty concrete floor with him lying face down on it. Before that, there was the knife. That’s right, the knife that came out of nowhere; and the fight.

His head fell back. What about the stuff? What happened to that? The largest drug shipment this year, and he was supposed to be guarding it. The Big Cahuna wasn’t going to like it. But, he reflected, somebody cares enough to get me here. Somebody had to call for an ambulance and get me into surgery. He was jarred out of his reverie when a nurse opened the door and looked in. She approached the bed with a smile. Taking his wrist, she stood looking down at her watch. She looked so nice in her clean-starched uniform. She was pretty too. He was trying to think of something saucy to say when he felt the hunger pangs return.

He said, “Any chance of something to eat?”

She shook her head. “Nobody eats here.”

At that moment, there was a noticeable rise in temperature and a distant crackling noise. Suddenly, the bright lighting and the white walls faded away leaving the room dingy, an orange glow flooded the room, with just a couple of small candles burning in the corner. There was a stink of sulphur. He was no longer lying in a comfy bed, but strapped to something hard. Looking back at the nurse, he was shocked to find her a withered, evil looking figure in black. She had two dark wings at her back.

She screamed with laughter. “Get’s ‘em every time!” she said, leering down at him. “He just loves doing this. I must admit I get a kick out of it myself.” Bony fingers tap him on the arm, while great feathered things fluttered behind her.

“It’s OK,” she consoles, “it’s just one of Lucifer’s little jokes.”

The country lane had poor lighting, he was driving carefully.

It was getting late and he was making his way home when the flashing blue light sped past him and pulled up. The driver slowed to a stop behind the police car. He was surprised to find the constabulary patrolling such a minor road at this time of night, but he had nothing to worry about. The driver of the police car seemed to be taking a long time getting out. The man sat waiting. After a while, he began to feel agitated. Finally, a large figure got out and walked back slowly to the man’s vehicle. As the policeman approached, the man wound down his window.

The man in uniform leaned in with a stern expression. “Good evening, sir. I would ask you to turn your ignition off.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Just turn the ignition off, thank you, sir.”

He turned the key. The engine died.

“Thank you, sir.” “Your licence please, sir.”

The man handed him his licence.

The officer took the card and appeared to scratch it several times, then scribbled something in his notebook. He peered in again, and asked, “Is this your licence and ID?”

The man nodded.

The officer handed it back, saying, “The photo appears to be damaged; you’d be wise to get it replaced, sir.” He stepped back, looking around the car. “Is this your vehicle, sir?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you sure about that, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

The policeman sniffed. “Of course, you say.”

The driver was becoming uncomfortable with the way things were going. He asked, “Look, did I do something wrong, officer?”

“Ah! Why would you think that, sir?” More scribbling.

“Just seems A bit unusual, that’s all.”

“Unusual you say.” The officer made another note and walked to the back of the car. Moments later the man heard the tinkling of broken glass.

The policeman returned. “Where you aware that you have a broken light, sir?”

The man stayed quiet for a moment. “No. No I didn’t. I’ll get it fixed. Now, have you finished with me? Can I go now?”

The policeman stood back and straightened. “Right, out of the car, sir.”

“Out of the car, whatever…” the man spluttered.

He was cut short by the policeman’s harsh command. “Get out of the car… sir!”

As the man got out, the sudden blow to his stomach winded him and he crumpled to the ground.

The policeman looked down at the man. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you in, sir.”

The man winced in pain. “Take me in, whatever for?” he said, holding his stomach.

The little notebook came out and the policeman began to read.

“Well, sir, firstly there’s the matter of the rear light. This being the reason for my pulling you over. Then there was your refusal to produce your licence until I insisted. Your damaged licence is hard to read so that a proper identification was not possible. Then, after your initial refusal to get out of the car, you got out and attacked me…”

“Attacked?” the man on the ground croaked.

“Yes, sir, a vicious attack.”

“My stomach! What about that?”

“Self-defence. You lunged at me.” The policeman laughed. “You see, a thing like a broken tail light can lead to consequences, sir.”

Still in pain, the man looked up and asked, “Consequences? What do you mean consequences?”

“Well, sir, for instance you might get pulled over by someone who, as a totally innocent child was bullied at school, who years later joins the police force!”

Mister Fawkes stood watching the inferno and listening to the shouts and screams.

He had an excellent view, but he wasn’t happy. After all, there was a lot of bad politics going on, it was rife in the country. He told himself that this was just another Guy Fawkes Night. He reflected on the fact that the back garden bonfire, with families letting off their own fireworks, was gradually dwindling. Even community celebrations like this were being phased out. Is it civic duty at play, with genuine concerns about health and safety, or is it something else? Do they want us to forget? Maybe these revellers are celebrating the potential emergence of the people against the government!

What was happening beneath the current four centuries ago? Was it simply one faction against another in a deadly mixture of religion and politics? Do the history books give an accurate account of the mood of the people when the plot was discovered? What is really being celebrated down there? What’s really in the minds of those standing around in the flickering light, watching the effigy burn? Do some wish that the gunpowder plot had succeeded? Is there a sense of lawlessness here? Who here is genuinely pleased that the plot failed? With the rolling in of new generations, how many here know that there was a plot?

He could see the heat, but he couldn’t feel it. The cold wind was biting and he retreated from the balcony of his nineteen floor apartment. The city would quieten down in a few hours.

None of his speculation would help him come to terms with the fact that he had never been really comfortable with his family name.

When she was young she had a method for getting off to sleep.

She would watch animals running around on her bedroom ceiling. It was green, with grass and bushes and trees. She used to watch them each night before drifting off into gentle slumber. There were rabbits chasing around and frogs sitting on lily pads. Once, she had seen a mole come out of a hole.

She could summon these up and many more. Sometimes a bird would fly across the room from one side to the other. She had managed to conjure up all of the creatures known to her, and this had made them real, although imagined. The method worked really well for so long. However, sometimes a different thing would appear, not one that she recognised. She didn’t like it. It was black and crept low along the ground. It wasn’t one of her animals. Its face was quite ugly with great shining, purple eyes.

Then there was the night when she had snuggled down comfortably after watching her friends at play. She remembers it vividly. She was lying on her side with her head cushioned nicely in her pillow, when she was startled by a puff of warm, acrid breath hitting her face. Opening her eyes she had come face-to-face with two large violet, glowing eyes.

That was the night she stopped doing it.

The boy found the book in the attic.

It was an old Boys Annual that had seen better days, but was still readable. The scribbled note inside showed that it had belonged to his grandfather. He can hardly remember him, although he had the feeling that the man was a bit odd. He knows that he had never really warmed to him. He thought the book looked interesting, so he took it back to his room. That night he began reading it. He was a few pages in when he noticed that a word had been underlined in red. The word was ‘bother’. It made no sense at the time and he carried on reading. It was when he discovered the word ‘this’, that he began to wonder whether this was some sort of secret code. Was the old man trying to tell him something?

Although it was getting late and he had already begun to feel tired, finding this second word and the possibility that there was a secret message hidden in the pages woke him right up. A further search came up with the word ‘nonsense’, near the end of the book. Now, he knew for sure that it was a message. He turned back to the beginning of the book and started a more careful search, going from page to page.

It was here that he found two more words that he hadn’t noticed before, on pages that were more grubby than most. They were certainly underlined like the others. These were the words, ‘do’ and ‘not’. He felt sure he was getting somewhere. He went on and found the word ‘as’. Then further on he found the two words, ‘is’ and ‘just’. Just to make sure, he took his time working his way carefully through the whole book. After assuring himself that he had them all, he got pen and paper and wrote the eight words down using the sequence they had appeared in the book. When he was done, the sentence read, ‘do not bother as this is just nonsense’.

He had never liked his grandfather.

He first saw her coming out of a shop in the high street.

It was a sunny day with rain forecast for mid-morning. He had no plans for the day, other than spending time wandering around town. Most of his Saturday mornings were like this. It was never anything you’d call exciting, but looking in shop windows, sometimes buying the odd thing, and visiting a café. It was a time-out thing for him. That is, it was that kind of day until he saw her come out of the newsagency across the street from him. He was instantly smitten. She was like something out of this world. She walked slowly passed shop windows, pausing from time to time to look at things.

This continued for some time, with her occasionally going in and coming out of shops, before he realised he had been following her for several minutes. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He hoped she wasn’t aware of him. To be accused of stalking… although that’s exactly what he was doing, would ruin any chance he ever had of getting to know her. Finally, after staring in through the window of a clothes shop for some time, she went in. Outside, across the street, he watched as the rain began. He had no umbrella with him and he had seen that neither had she.

Taking a chance, he raced back along a couple of streets to where he had seen small telescopic umbrellas for sale, he bought one and ran back. It was coming down heavily at this point and he used it. Returning to his vantage point he saw her still in there talking to the shop assistant.

Eventually, she looked as though she was saying goodbye, about to leave. He dodged a car to get across, then held himself in readiness. The timing had to be right. When she came out she stood under the awning for a moment, wondering how long it would be before it stopped.

He approached, saying, “May I?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Well, thank you! Talk about great timing.”

They both stood for a moment looking out at the rain. Together, they both blurted out, “Horrible weather!”

They laughed, and that started it.

Timing can do that.

His progress with writing the story was slow.

He knew it was going to be a large book when he started. At this point, chapter six was beginning to take shape. Thinking back, his first chapter had not gone well. It had been a lot of boring background stuff, so, he had deleted it. When he read through the second chapter, although it gave more information about the where and the when, this too was pretty humdrum. He decided that he could do without it. Chapter three wasn’t much better. It went into a lot of mind-numbing description about the building. This also ended up in the bin.

Chapter four didn’t add anything to the action. It had gone on and on about the four men and what had brought them there. Reading back through it he had found it all very tedious. Details about getting their hands on the required floor plans and how they managed to acquire the various components they needed to build the explosive device was uninteresting to say the least. It had to go.

The build-up of how they broke in and made their way to the basement, in chapter five, made tiresome reading. The account of how they carried out the wiring made dull reading, and the narrative dealing with how nervous they were all getting, became pretty dreary after the first few paragraphs.

Meanwhile, chapter six was going nicely and it was pretty straightforward. He felt he was finally getting to the essence of it. After all, the bomb had gone off prematurely and they all died. That’s all there was to it, really.

There’s a lot to be said for short stories.