Author: Alexander Fawn

He was stretched out on a grassy spot beside the river bank, hands clasped behind his head.

The sun was warm on his closed eyes. He had no idea he would end up here today. He was just passing when he had turned off the main road on a whim. The car park was almost empty when he parked, with hardly a soul around. It was perfect, really, for a trip down memory lane. This is where he came as a student, all those years ago. He lifted his head and looked along the riverbank. In his mind he was returning; going back. This is where they moored the boats, he thought. You could hire one for an hour and row upstream for half-an-hour, then turn around and drift back with the current. Yes, he thought, they were good days, alright. He would study hard week after week, then drive up here with fellow students for an afternoon in the summer.

He would give anything to go back, to return, to be there. Would he really? Of course not, he was in a different time now. There was no real going back. In truth, he had no real yearning there. No, life moves on; it moves you on. He sat up slowly and checked the time. He needed to go. He was expected. Life moves you on.

Halfway to the car he stopped and looked back. There may well come a time, he mused, when life has moved on yet again, a time when he looks back and remembers his visit to this place. Would he then wish he was here?

It was all about leadership.

The man they wanted for the job had been a very successful TV show host. He would definitely make a superb politician. He was asked if he would like to be president. At first he said he was far too busy running his hairdressing salons. Not to be put off, and because they really needed his brand of leadership, they pleaded with him. Finally, he relented saying he put himself forward, but only if he could have his pet gerbil, ‘Fluffy’, as his running mate. This was odd because the animal wasn’t at all fluffy, but nobody said anything. It transpired that they were so desperate for his leadership that they agreed. His platform running up to the election was positively stunning. People loved him. He won.

However, shortly after the inauguration and making himself comfortable in the big house, he had an extremely nasty accident. It involved a low-flying, heavy-duty security drone. It happened while he was strolling across one of the lawns. He had his hair caught up in the undercarriage and lifted up to and incredible height before drifting across the city in a northerly direction. This on its own was an amazing turn of events, but doubly amazing on account of the fact that there had been a longstanding rumour that he wore a wig.

As the machine had a remarkably long range guidance system, the control of it didn’t drop out until it was located somewhere over the arctic tundra, at which point the whole thing came crashing down. Because this happened during the winter months, it all plummeted down into total darkness and extremely frigid temperatures.

This is how one of the wealthiest countries in the world ended up being run by a gerbil.

Down inside the Central Processing Unit, two bits got together.

Normally, this sort of thing rarely happened. The fact that they were able to converse was even more improbable. However, to proceed… despite their values being either 0 or 1, and in this case it really doesn’t matter, for the purpose of explaining the events taking place they can safely be referred to as bit one and bit two. It came about that they both felt the same way about how they are made to work nonstop, day after day, at the behest of the lady who regularly boots up her computer for the day. This being the case, they never knew when they were likely to be called on from one minute to the next. A situation that went on for hours on end.

It was this state of affairs that brought about what could only be described as a deliberate, and unheard of, mutiny.

The following conversation lasts for less than a microsecond.

Bit one: Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Bit two: Probably.

Bit one: Fancy some time out?

Bit two: Sounds lovely.

Bit one: Do you want to do it?

Bit two: Can it be done?

Bit one: Sure it can.

Bit two: OK.

The machine had been turned on for less than a minute when it happened. Her screen was black all day.

How much he had to do with it we’ll never know for sure.

That was a couple of decades ago… when it started. He was at camp with his school. It had rained a lot and puddles had formed all around the camp site. He was idly walking around prodding the muddy ground with a stick, when he stopped and looked intently at two shallow pools of water. The larger one was on slightly higher ground than the other. Using his piece of tree branch, he proceeded to scrape out a narrow channel. He worked away until the groove was deep enough to allow water to run between them. This apparently meaningless activity stayed with him throughout the years that followed.

It remained as he finished his school years. It was there all through his studies at university. It never left him as he entered his working life. Civil Engineering had been his natural choice, taking him to a number of countries over time. Eventually, he found himself on an extremely large project. He was there from the beginning.

It would take around ten years to build at a cost of around four hundred million US dollars. There would be times when over forty three thousand people would work on it. More than five thousand six hundred would die during its construction. The groove being made was fifty miles long and the puddles being joined were the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. It would become one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World.

It would be the Panama Canal.

It’s really hard to know just how much he actually had to do with it.

The boy was telling his friend how upset his younger sister was.

He was saying, “She calls it ‘tiger’ because of its markings. Got out three nights ago. Poor kid won’t stop crying. Mum and Dad have gone out with her several times looking for it, knocking on doors, asking the neighbours.”

His friend said, “Sounds like you need the Finder.”

“Who?”

“The Finder. The old guy at 43, a couple of streets over. You know, the old man who lives on his own in that old house. He’s quite famous apparently. Reckons he can find anything. Charges a lot, but from what I’ve heard he seems to give customer satisfaction.”

“OK. I’ll check it out on the way to the bus stop.”

Later, when he left, he found number 43. Outside, there was a sign, saying ‘Finder – expert at tracking down the missing.’

He went up and knocked. The door opened. The old man just looked at him and grunted.

The boy began, “It’s my sister, she’s…”

“Missing, eh?”

“No, not her, her cat.”

“Ah! Not good.”

“No?”

“No. They can be vicious, you know.”

“Vicious?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know. When you’ve been tracking these beasts down as long as I have, you’d know how nasty they can be.”

“But it’s only a kitten!”

“Don’t kid yourself, they can be pretty nasty. Do you want it killed?”

“Of course not! It’s my sister’s pet.”

“OK. Bringing them in alive costs extra.”

“Ehm…”

“Got a photo?”

“Not sure. I’ll have to go home and check, thanks.”

He walked away slowly, resisting the impulse to run.

He bought the painting at a second hand shop, just because he liked it.

When he hung it up at home he realised that it was the only oil painting in the house. It was a portrait of a female actress that he was an avid fan of when he’d been a young man at college. She would have to have been his favourite movie celebrity. She was beautiful, no other word for it. It was a fine painting. The moment he saw it, he recognised her. He wondered who could have painted it and asked the shop owner. The rather weird old man had just smiled and said he had no idea and neither of them could find a signature. This fact had piqued his interest even more. He surprised himself at the time by asking the price, and he actually ended up buying it. He supposed that since living alone he spent a lot of his time with memories. This painting represented a very happy time in his early life and he had no regrets about buying it.

It was only a few weeks after hanging it that he detected something different about the woman’s features. It was only subtle, but he was convinced he was not imagining it. He wondered whether it was something to do with the painting’s different environment, perhaps the light, or the humidity. Could such things bring about a change in the appearance of oil on canvass in this way? That can’t be right. When he thought about it, he had often seen this form of art in galleries that date back centuries. Whatever it was, it was a disappointment. As time went on he was only just aware of his lack of interest in it. He would barely glance at it as he passed. This was the case until he happened to notice that the frame was slightly crooked. He had stopped momentarily to straighten it when he found himself staring at the film star.

The colour had faded from her cheeks and her complexion was becoming pale, with a hint of yellow. It was this incident that had him wondering about her life after entertaining audiences all that time ago. When he looked into it he found that her stardom was short-lived. After her fourth film she had become ill. The different internet sites he looked at had varying versions about what she had suffered from.

Apparently both jaundice, which would explain the colour, and dropsy were involved. The dropsy, or edema as it was later called, affected her face to the degree that she was no longer seen in public. He found all of this information most upsetting. It was an awful shame that such an illness should take hold of such a beautiful woman; his old heartthrob. He stood looking at the picture. He now found it quite disturbing. He had no intention of watching how this goddess changed during her final years. He would remember her as she was back then.

A short time later saw him at the back corner of his garden standing in front of his old oil drum incinerator. He tried not to look at her face as he tipped in the last of the petrol. With a sigh, he struck and threw in a match. With a heavy sigh, he turned away determined to allow the flames to eradicate what he had learnt from his mind.

Returning to the house, he felt sure it was working.

As a lad, he always wanted to be a hobo.

All kids have fads. In his young mind he saw the life of a tramp as a life where the world was open to you, to go wherever you liked and whenever you liked. Nobody told you what to do or when to do it. The freedom of the open road and the choice of places you could visit was awesome. Whenever he played dress ups with his friends he always put on his old, tattered jacket and worn-out trousers, and the scruffy trainers that his mother was always trying to get him to throw out. He would see tramps whenever he went to the city, shopping with his mother. Sometimes people would give them money, he thought that was pretty amazing!

However, this highly romanticized idea of what a vagrant’s life was all about began to fade when the killings started. It was on television and in the papers. There was a serial killer at work. Homeless people were being murdered. He was taunting the police with messages about how he was doing the community a service by getting rid of them. His attitude was that such people were a blight on society. There was a lot of talk about it. The whole thing got a lot worse, particularly for the boy, when the news reports said that the police suspected that the murders were being carried out by one of their own. In other words, it was a tramp killing tramps.

It was around this time that the boy’s attention was drawn to second-hand car salesman.

It was one of the few places in the city where she could just sit and think.

She was never much of an art lover, but the gallery was peaceful and nobody bothered you. Not even if you were quietly crying to yourself, sobbing into a tissue. How could she have got it all so wrong? She had always imagined it would be wonderful to start a family, but not like this. It was an overseas holiday. She would probably never see him again. It was quite deliberate that she still held the plastic test stick in her hand. It needed to be there, speaking to her, shouting at her. For her, there was no embarrassment. It represented the awful impact of it. From that moment in the cubicle, back in the office toilet, at the beginning of her lunch break, until now.

She pulled off another tissue. On reflection, this had been the way of it her entire life. It was as though she was now looking back at a couple of decades of cause and effect. She saw it clearly, probably for the first time; yes clearly, she was always the effect. She had never really caused anything! Her life was a constant stream of things that had happened to her. Did it all start with the bullying at school? Who knows? Never the cause, always the affect.

When she finally dabbed her eyes and looked up, the image that hung facing her was Picasso’s ‘Weeping Woman’; it was entirely appropriate. It was somehow solid proof that what she was about to do would break the spell, break the rut she had been in for so long. It would all change now. She alone would be the cause, and with this one decisive action would allow her future to turn on a point, and she would be changed. It really didn’t matter whether anyone understood or not; understood what was happening to her.

The art piece in question had been stolen from the gallery some three decades earlier, before she was born. She read somewhere it had been returned on a tip off and the case was never solved. She stopped in front of it and burst into tears. Falling forward, she grabbed at the frame to support herself. A siren began to shriek and in no time she was surrounded by uniformed staff.

It took some time for the uproar to die down. All those around her seemed to be greatly affected by the whole incident, and when they saw the little stick in her hand, they were all very kind. They brought her hot tea in a paper cup.

And now, she was young and healthy. She would go out there… and cause things…

This will surely get his attention, she thought, gazing into the mirror.

The hair salon was certainly expensive, but she needed to make an impact. His lack of attention had always annoyed her, but it had become worse of late. At times she felt that he looked right through her. He would come home from work and greet her with a faraway look, almost as though she wasn’t there. But this, this new look being so radically different, it’s sure to have the desired effect. After all, it was quite different to any hairstyle she’d ever had before. She would put her new dress on and greet him at the door, before he went up to get changed. She was feeling quite giddy at the prospect and sat smiling at herself for a few beats before getting up.

When his key turned in the front door her heart gave a positive flutter.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching the door open. She made an effort to look casual, without taking on a pose. His greeting was the usual one.

“Hello, dear.”

She held her ground. “Was your day all right?” she said, patting her hair gently.

“Same as usual,” he said, closing the door without looking at her.

She swivelled her head a couple of times as he approached. “What do you think, do you like it?”

“Like it?” he asked, loosening his tie.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“Sorry, dear, like what?”

“My hair, do you like it?”

He managed a brief smile. “Yes, I like it when you wear it like that,” he said, as he climbed the stairs.

She watched him go, until he was out of sight. She stood motionless for some time before going into the kitchen.

When he came down he found her standing at the sink with the door to the cupboard underneath open.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She turned, looking a little helpless. “I think there’s a leak,” she said, pointing down.

He sighed. “I’ll have a look,” he mumbled, going to the sink and crouching down. He peered under the sink. “I can’t see any problem under here,” he said in a muffled voice.

As he brought his head out she picked up the rolling pin.

Inattention has its limits.

There had been a number of burglaries in the neighbourhood in recent weeks.

She, like so many others she had spoken to, was very nervous. It seemed that this particular criminal was brazen. He or she, after all some of them are women, has been robbing houses while the owners were in watching TV. The police were getting a lot of complaints about their lack of progress. They, in turn, were not happy with the public arming themselves.

She had been on edge ever since it started, while her husband made little of it, saying the locks he had installed would prevent them from ever becoming victims. He was a good sort really, he just didn’t realise how tense she had become. She felt sure that his shrugging it off was partly on account of the fact that he was working so late most nights. She knew he was doing his best to bring in a little more money, but this meant that he was hardly ever around during the evening. As a result, she was at home on her own and that didn’t help.

It was very late when he finally got home and she had been hearing noises all through the evening. Knowing she’d be asleep at this time, he planned to have a quick shower to wash away the whiff of whiskey and perfume. He was halfway to the bathroom when the hall light came on. He stopped, peering around in the glare of the light. She was standing by the front door holding her late father’s shotgun.

“It’s you!” she cried. “What’s got into you? You could have been shot creeping in like that.” She lowered the gun. “Where are you going?”

“Oh! I just need to clean up a bit.”

“Clean up?” She sniffed. She sniffed again. She walked forward a few paces, taking in the distinctive odours. She began to think about all the evenings she’d been alone in the house while he was supposed to be working late. She slowly brought the gun back up. “You could be a burglar,” she said.

“Don’t be silly.”

“But, you could you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her eyes blazed and she glowered at him with a peculiar grin. “I think you’re a burglar. Yes, I’m quite convinced about that. That is what you are. You have broken in and I’ve caught you.” She giggled. “I’ll be famous for stopping you in your tracks.”

He went to speak, but froze as the barrel was lifted a little more.

The blast was deafening.

She switched the light off and ran out into the street, screaming.