Author: Alexander Fawn

The woman looked at the unwanted child with a kindly smile. He began to cry.

As a nurse, this was not a new situation for her, but it moved her every time. The baby had been found in a cardboard box with a dirty blanket tucked around his tiny body. A passer-by had seen it on the steps of a church and reported it. He would be well cared for here. He would, of course, grow up as an orphan. He would go into foster care. None of these went well. He was moved around from one to another, never being really wanted, never really loved.

He was fifteen when he managed to escape yet another unhappy foster home and dropped out of the system. He managed to stay under the radar and made his way by begging on the streets.

At the age of seventeen he found work with a criminal gang. It paid well and gave him a roof over his head.

At the age of twenty he met a girl. She became pregnant and they married.

At the age of twenty-two his cheating wife left him with another man and took their child with her.

At the age of twenty-four, the gang he’d been working for was broken up by police raids, along with several arrests.

At the age of twenty-five, the drinking had got the better of him and he was an alcoholic.

Finally, at the age of forty-three, after years of walking the streets, after suffering several bouts of sickness, after a life of begging, of continually moving from town to town, he was truly homeless. He had no prospects. He’d been moved on from his recent sleeping place behind the bins at the rear of a service station by an angry manager who reported him to the police.

Two nights later, a policewoman found him, shivering beneath a filthy blanket. “Come on, you can’t sleep here,” she said, with a kind voice. “Let’s see if we can’t get you into the homeless shelter.”

She thought she would have seen enough of these cases to feel less emotional about their plight, but it always affected her the same way. After all, he was just another human being down on his luck. They made their way through town until they entered the warmth of the building. They waited for someone to come to the front desk.

The woman looked at the unwanted man with a kindly smile. He began to cry.

The man reached across his desk and picked up the phone.

He’d been sitting, waiting for his visitor for several minutes. His excitement, if that’s what it was, was definitely building. He just couldn’t wait any longer. He punched in a couple of numbers. Two floors below, in the laboratory, a researcher picked up.

The caller said, “It’s bubonic plague!”

There was a long silence at the other end, followed by, “You have to be kidding!”

“No. That’s what it is,” he replied.

“You’re sure, are you?”

“I am. I have the whole thing laid out. I was expecting you five minutes ago.”

“Yes, sorry. Just had to finish something here. I’ll be right up.”

The man put the phone down and sat looking down at the results. He had mixed feelings about how they’d found the answer. It would have been revealed earlier if not for a mistake. A simple one, but a mistake, nevertheless. He heard steps approaching from the hall. The man in a white lab coat came in carrying a small plastic box. He took a seat across from his colleague, saying, “This would have to be one of the hardest nuts we’ve ever had to crack.”

The other man smiled triumphantly. “Yes. I agree, but there was an error you see.”

The visitor opened the container and took out a sandwich. “An error?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man said, shaking his head.

“Are you certain about this?” the visitor asked, taking a bite of his sandwich, “I’ve looked back over my own copy, and the results for twelve would definitely have to conflict with what you’re saying.”

The man beckoned, saying, “I’ll show you.”

The visitor went around the desk.

“Here we are,” said the man, “Seven down, thirteen letters, right?”

“Right.”

“OK. Thirteen letters, two words, seven and six letters, ‘bubonic plague’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, because twelve across was wrong. That should have been ‘union’.

The visitor stood staring at it for a while, then said, “Ah! Got it. Well done!”

He dropped a piece of sandwich into his lunchbox and picked it up. He moved towards the door. “Better get back; getting busy down there.”

“OK,” said the man, with a satisfied smile.

As he left, the other said, “Same time tomorrow.”

The man, still gazing down at the crossword, stuck his thumb up.

He looked into the blueness of her eyes.

His pulse was racing. He felt sure hers was beating in unison with his own. It had always been this way, ever since that magic moment when he first saw her. He stroked away a stray wisp of golden hair and she smiled. He breathed in deeply, taking in the exotic perfume.

He knew theirs would be a wonderful future. They had talked about it often enough and had so many plans worked out. It was as though these expectations alone would maintain their bond of love. They were both so excited about what lay ahead for them.

He took her delicate hand and kissed her gently on the cheek. He said, “Sleep well my angel,” and carefully laid the Barbie doll back into the bed in the pretty little Barbie house.

His mother, looking on, whispered to her husband, “I don’t care what you say, I’m really worried about him!”

He was on his way home when he first saw them.

They were charred bodies scattered along the path. Although barely recognisable, that’s what they were. It was a hot day and the sun was fierce, but that didn’t explain what he was witnessing. There were so many of them that he felt he should begin a count. He suddenly stopped dead, the counting forgotten. Up ahead, he was amazed to see a great beam of light coming down from somewhere above. He had never seen anything like it and immediately left the track and began to make his way forward using the cover of the verge-side undergrowth. As he came closer, he saw a great giant of one of those creatures he had come to know about. Some of them could be wicked. This one was probably a boy. He was grinning, holding a large magnifying glass and directing the sun’s rays down upon some of his kind.

He being a bulldog ant, arguably the most dangerous ant in the world, who when attacking uses both his sting and jaws simultaneously, and knocking up a number of recorded fatalities, rightly considered that climbing onto the enormous shoe and working his way up the ankle until he came to bare flesh would be the way to go.

He reckoned that several good bites should do the job.

It was his first day as a free man after two years.

He had served time for being in possession of drugs. It had been a long sentence, but it had given him time to fully see the error of his ways. Inside, he had found religion. This was not just a case of seeing the light, but it had given him time to consider how badly he had lived his life. He had thought of all the people he had wronged, the sinful things he had done. Starting at the age of eighteen, when he had bludgeoned an old man late one night and taken his wallet. From that incident he worked his way forward, year by year, crime by crime, throughout his miserable life. He confronted all of it, using the strength he had found in his redeemer. Not only that, he had planned a way to atone for all that he had done, a way to wipe the slate clean.

His plan would make use of the leaps and bounds made in the time travel industry. While in prison he had done extensive research on the companies that provided these services. He had specifically looked into the most suitable provider with plans to visit them in the near future. It was still an extremely expensive service, used mainly by the very wealthy, but he had a stash. This consisted of the proceeds from robberies committed over the years. He had decided that it would not compromise his newly found beliefs, if the money was used for good; used to put things right.

Having recovered the hidden cash, he made an appointment with the chosen time travel agency. At the meeting he explained that he wished to go back to a specific, date, time and location. He had paid for an hour to allow his plan to be implemented in a careful and controlled manner, despite his only requiring a few minutes. The date was fourteen years earlier, when he was eighteen. The time was 8:50 am. The place was the pedestrian mall that led to the town’s largest department store.

It was a few days before the evening that he’d mugged and robbed the old man. It was the morning that the store had its most popular annual sale. It was close to a shop’s entrance where a large crowd would be gathering, waiting for the doors to open.

He entered the booth. He stood, while the technician completed the appropriate settings before leaving and closing the door. There was a flash…

A little shaky at first, he found himself standing at the prearranged corner, watching people turning into the mall. While he waited, he couldn’t help thinking about how his act of atonement would undoubtedly cause problems for the agency. This was something he had considered when the idea had first come to mind. His reveries were instantly dismissed when he caught sight of the teenager. He moved into the queue behind the boy. As they all neared the store the crowd became far denser and more chaotic.

Nobody saw the silencer being screwed on or heard its muffled pop. Those nearest were too occupied with the boy who had fallen to the ground, to notice the man mingle into the crush and slowly fade… to nothing.

Annually they meet.

They go by their own name and gather in private. Speculation and guesswork have come up with names for the group. An assembly of men and women that sit in secluded places. Locations selected for peaceful ambience. They meet to consider the business they each bring to the table. All aspects of worldly affairs are reviewed, considered and decided upon. The common title for what they are about is New World Order. The appellations given for what they do or how they are named are of little consequence. Their choice to remain anonymous needs no explanation. With indefatigable energy and purpose they go about their business. The unknown nature of their existence remains firmly in place, managed by consummate planning and proven methodology.

All rumours concerning conspiracy, propaganda, controversy, globalism, authoritarianism and elitism have no bearing on their deliberations. They only strive to review, consider and decide.

Maybe it is worth considering the idea that they be left alone.

He stood beneath the spread of the tree at the far end of the park.

It was the second Saturday in May. Here it was again, the day they parted. The day they vowed to meet here a year later on this very spot, on her return from her work overseas. They were so much in love, it was a solemn pact. It had been a long year. For him, it was a year of planning and saving, of making plans for their future. A year spent preparing for her return and the life they would have together. He stood, knowing that this year would be different. It would be a special year. This would be the tenth and final anniversary. No more waiting. No more coming here to pay homage. No more mourning over an elusive dream of how things could have been.

After all, he had met someone else. They were married with two small children and his life was good. He wanted for nothing more than his new life had given him. He was perfectly happy. So, why did he keep this pointless vigil year after year? At one time, when the bitterness first set in, he imagined it was to confront her with her cruelty. It would be his one and only precious opportunity to load her with her self-made guilt. But, even this thought of vengeance lost its appeal over time.

No. He knew what had to change. This would stop, along with the deception of making it here, alone, each year. The painful, yet ridiculous deceit of withholding all knowledge of his activities from the woman he now shares a contented life with would have to stop. He could no longer tolerate the duplicity of it. Now, it seemed quite clear to him. He knew what would lay ahead. The stupidity of it all ended here. No, his mind was made up.

This year would probably be the last.

He found a call on his answering machine about a letter.

It was from the woman who lived further up the street. She said it was for him, but had the wrong house number. He could call in on any morning to collect it. He thought it was good of her to let him know, but couldn’t ignore the local gossip that said she was a bit odd. She apparently never went out. This made sense when he considered the fact that most people would simply redeliver it next time they passed the intended house; just put it in their mail box. With all these considerations, he was a little apprehensive about calling in to collect it.

The following morning, he’d shrugged all these silly thoughts off, he’d never regarded himself as yellow. He rang her doorbell. As the door opened he was hit with a waft of spicy odour, it was pungent, but not unpleasant. The woman answering the door had a big smile. She was wiping her hands on an apron. “Please come in,” she said, “I’ll get your letter. I have a pot of saffron rice on the boil at the moment. I won’t be a minute, go on through.” She pointed to a door and disappeared back into the kitchen.

He pushed the door open and went in. He stood for a moment, blinking. The room was yellow; really yellow. He stood taking it all in. The walls were yellow. They were hung with pictures of canaries, sunflowers and daffodils. The curtains, carpet, lampshade, sofa, plastic coffee table with a bowl of plastic lemons, and an old style plastic telephone were all yellow. Arty objects of various sizes, such as a toy taxi, strings of beads, china eggcups and so on, were scattered around on the table, on the shelves, in fact on any surface flat enough to place them. They were all yellow.

She came in with a grateful smile and handed him the letter. “I see you’re admiring my lounge.” Her other hand came up. “Would you like a banana?”

Making meaning quite bizarre,

Their journey paths are badly laid.

They make you wonder where you are.

The lines you read are sickly made!

The assassin had developed a conscience, well not exactly a conscience.

For some time now, he’d been hearing voices. Voices of the dead; voices of his victims. It was some kind of telepathy, although it was coming from the other side, from beyond the grave. At first he saw it as a talent; a gift that he hadn’t known he had. They came from locked trunks in attics, oil drums in abandoned farm sheds, sealed crates in warehouses and from several plots of compacted soil scattered around the outskirts of town. So many of them. At times it would be just one of them, at others, at least a dozen of them all gabbling away at once. Most of it came down to complaints with a lot of really bad language. In a strange way he was getting so used to them that ignoring what they were saying became easy. He could listen or not. He could choose.

At least, this was the case until his attention was grabbed by the word ‘survivor’ coming through the noise from time to time. He only heard the word when there were others all speaking at the same time. It felt as though he was being teased with it.

Then, the time came when the silence that had gone on for a while was broken. The voice, unlike the others, seemed so calm. It was saying, “Yes, you’ve got it. I’m a survivor. You need to know that it’s not just the dead that can accomplish a direct transference of thoughts. You botched it with me when you were disturbed and you left me for dead. I recognised you the night you brought out the silenced gun and pointed it at me. Right now I’m in the main police headquarters in town, having given the police your full description, name and address. They are on the way to you now.”

He sat thinking about what he had heard for quite some time.

In fact, the loner had just finished his frozen TV dinner when he saw the blue light flashing through the curtains.