Author: Alexander Fawn

He slid along the bar a bit and asked her what she was drinking.

The place was very noisy. A large crowd always turned up on nights when the bar put on a live band. He had to repeat himself. She told him again and he ordered two drinks. He looked around nervously, as though he didn’t belong in the place. The drinks came and they sat sipping on them. As noisy as it was, she broke the silence between them.

“Thanks!” She held her glass up. She sidled closer. “Not exactly your scene this, is it?”

“You can tell?”

She smiled knowingly. “What brought you here?”

“I’m kind of working,” he said. “Well, I should say, I am working.”

“How curious! You’re in a place like this, and you’re working.”

“I know, it sounds weird, but I’m looking for someone.”

“You’re in here looking for someone and you’re working at the same time. You must be police.”

“No. Not exactly. I’m working for a security company,” he looked embarrassed, “just started.”

She dropped her voice, despite the racket going on all around them. “Tell me more, I’m intrigued.”

“It’s all about identity theft.”

“Wow!”

“It’s an inheritance case.”

“Ooh!”

He lowered his own voice as much as he could. “Some of them are just revenge killings,” he went on, “I don’t particularly like those.”

“What? You mean you track down the thief and dispose of them?”

He nodded.

“But that’s murder!”

“Yes. I said I didn’t like it.”

“How exciting! You’re on the job now. Don’t suppose you can tell me who’s paying for these drinks?”

He said, “Indirectly, your dead sister’s estate, but directly, your brother.”

It was then that she caught sight of the gun with the silencer.

Through the window, he saw her come into the room.

He was pretty sure she was up to no good. She switched on the light as she entered. He thought this was strange, if she was in fact a burglar. Which he was really sure she was. No; if she was a proper burglar she’d be going through the room with a small torch. She’s probably new at the game. Unless… unless she had cased the place really well and knew for sure that the owners were out and wouldn’t be back for a while. If that was the case, she was good. Yes, she could know exactly what she was doing. He didn’t know what sort of room he was looking at. It could be a study. There was a desk, he could see that. She was walking towards it. Once there, she began sifting through a small pile of papers. Then, seeming to find the one she was looking for, she straightened and held it up to read. She had her back to him. If only he could see what it was! Was this the thing she had come to steal?

He was adjusting the focus when his door opened.

His mother said, “OK, sweetie, that’s enough telescope for tonight, time for beddy-byes.”

He was looking forward to attending the service, it was such a very old church.

This particular Sunday he would pray and give thanks in a church that was built sometime around the year six hundred and something. Apart from the challenge and thrill of visiting such a place, he felt that his religious fervour was waning. This little road trip may give it a boost. In this part of the world the roads where narrow and twisty as they wound through the countryside. The ageing map that he was referencing was probably out of date. There was also the probability that he had missed one or two roadside signs. He knew his time was running out and he would miss the service if he wasn’t careful.

As he took yet another sharp bend he saw an old man sitting on a gate, set back between the hedges. He had a heavy walking stick across his lap. He was obviously a local. This would be his opportunity to get proper directions. He pulled up and wound down his window. “Good morning!” he shouted, waving his map in the air. “I seem to be lost. Are you local, by chance?”

The man lifted his cane with a grin. He said “You could say that.”

He got out of the car and went up to him opening the map. He pointed to the tiny box on the map with the church’s name.

The old man squinted at the map.

“Apparently, it’s a medieval church,” the young man gushed. “It has a seventh-century sundial embedded in its walls.”

“You could be right about that.”

The younger man smiled. “Yes, it’s Anglo-Saxon; very old.”

The old man nodded.

The other said, “Do you know it?”

“I should. My sister was married there.”

“Oh! Really? How nice.”

“Not really. He was no good. Took off. Left her destitute, he did.” He spat into the hedge. “Hung herself!”

The young man winced. “Good Lord!”

“Don’t think the Good Lord had much to do with it.”

The young man looked at his watch. He saw he was now running very late.

The old man said, “You’re way off here, lad. Map’s no good. Older than me, I’d say.” He pointed up the road, in the direction the car was pointing. “Just carry on up here until you see two milk churns on the verge, take the next turning on the right. About half a mile down there and you’ll see a white cottage with the thatched roof. Turn left immediately after that and it’ll take you to the main road. You need to cross that, by turning left then right. Keep going on that road until you see the sign for a caravan park. Just after that turn right. You’ll get to a small roundabout, go straight over. On that road you’ll see some open fields on your left and a row of cottages on your right. Turn right at the end of the cottages and you’ll be on a gravel lane. Just along there on the left you’ll find the church.”

With that, he turned and climbed over the gate and took off across the field. The young man watched him go. He looked back at the map. It seemed that, regardless of how long he had been driving and how far he had travelled, looking at the map he realised he was very close to home. He got back in his car and made for home.

He was going right off this God thing.

Visiting hours would start in a minute or two.

The old man in the bed was looking up at the ceiling, brooding. His old friend and neighbour would show up soon. He would no doubt ask him how he’s doing, he always does. This time he was going to tell him. He really should tell someone. It might as well be him. Noises came from up the other end of the ward; they were letting them in. A few moments later his neighbour poked his head in the door. With a cheery smile he entered the room and pulled up a chair.

“How are you doing?” he enquired.

The patient took in a long breath and said, “Life just seems to have become too much for me.”

Surprised at this response, his visitor asked, “Why? What’s the matter?”

The old man sighed. “You know, all this stuff we’re supposed to know, all of the things that we are supposed to find out about. We get born knowing none of it, then we begin to learn about things, but we can never get to know it all, no one can!”

His visitor sat in silence, then nodded.

“You take a spoon for instance,” the other went on, “a common enough thing you’d think, but how much is there to know about it. Well, one hell of a lot I can tell you!” He wriggled his shoulders. “Quite apart from what it can be made of, or what it’s used for, or its history and development throughout the ages; apart from all that, just the thing itself; its physical presence, if you like.”

He lay there nodding slowly before going on.

“Most people would be able to tell you that it has a handle. Some would think it was too small to be an actual handle, but of course that’s what it is. I doubt very much that there would be too many people that could tell you that the other end is called a bowl.” He shrugged. “Then, there’d be even fewer that know that the bit in the middle is the stem. The bowl ends at the tip and the handle ends at the terminal, and if that part, the terminal, has anything fancy on it, it’s called a finial. Then there’s the neck, that’s the bit between the bowl and the stem, if this has any additional bits on either side they’re called shoulders. Then, there’s the drop.” He looked across with a wince. “That’s the curved shape underneath the bowl that goes from the bowl to the neck. That part’s called the keel and any fancy shapes that are added there are called heels.”

He turned to his visitor with raised eyebrows.

“You see what I mean? It’s all too much.”

The other went to say something.

The old man went on, “I find myself engulfed in what is an overpowering vastness of knowledge. I’m simply swamped by the sheer enormity of it all.”

He sat thinking for a moment while his visitor remained silent.

The old man flapped his hands. “Then, there’s forks!” he said. “Ha! Forks. Don’t talk to me about forks!”

Through science religion and politics they wade,

These thinkers that have shaped our world.

Causing us to stop and think twice,

Allowing ideas to be seen unfurled.

–

Aristotle, with his peripatetic style of teaching,

More mobile than Descartes, because,

As the father of philosophy,

He just thought, and therefore he was.

–

Plato, with his dialogues,

Founding the Western World’s first university.

Socrates, with his method of asking questions.

Seeking answers that prompted diversity.

–

Machiavelli, thinking that being feared

Was better than being loved,

If you really need to stay in power,

With a fist that is not velvet-gloved.

–

Spinoza, with his intellectual view

That miracles are not supernatural.

Kant, saying that we cannot perceive

What the world is really like.

A view offering no real collateral.

–

Aquinas, combining the principles of faith and reason.

Confucius, shaping thoughts about family and society.

Voltaire, thrusting attention on human suffering.

Buddha, saying that nothing is permanent.

All adding to the overall variety.

–

Asking assumption-challenging questions, about all we know,

Brings the process of thought to the brink,

But despite their firm challenge to conceptual truths,

And their logical analysis of all there is,

When all’s said and done,

Their job was second to none,

When you consider that all they did… was think!

The word is, I have to move on.

More a case of being pushed, really. Nothing I can do; I’ll be leaving soon. Personally, I don’t see that it’s absolutely necessary. Others seem to think it is all in the way of some kind of normal process. They seem to think that it’s part of some greater plan that I leave and not come back here. It is probably the case that if pushed out I will be able to make my own way in the world. I reckon the general consensus must be that I get out and meet people, become an interactive member of society. I guess my main problem is the fact that I like it here. If it was only my personal comfort and happiness that were kept in mind, I’m sure I would be allowed to stay. What I say is, everyone to their own opinion.

Anyway, what’s so great about being born?

It was a warm summer evening.

He didn’t particularly like her, she was weird. He wasn’t sure why he agreed to meet her after work, but there they were, sitting in a swanky restaurant, sipping champagne. She was certainly persuasive. When he took her home she invited him in for a nightcap. He declined at first, then he changed his mind. They were sitting on the bed, he felt very uncomfortable. She had certainly been very good company during the evening, but there was no way anything intimate was going to happen. She told him to relax while she made them both a special cocktail.

Looking around her room he noticed that her antique-looking dresser had a wide drawer with part of a black tassel caught in it, where it hadn’t quite closed. He gave in to curiosity and opened it. The tassel belonged to a black hooded cloak. He lifted it and found several items underneath; a pentacle, a wand, a bell and several black candles. It looked like stuff used in witchcraft. He closed the drawer quietly, returned to the bed and waited.

It was a warm summer evening, and the couple returned from the restaurant. It was their tenth special anniversary. They were celebrating the night he proposed to her. She was a wonderful woman. Such a good mother to their two beautiful children. He was still head-over-heels in love with her. He sat on the edge of the bed taking his shoes off when she asked him to take out her pale blue nightie from the same wide drawer and lay it on the bed for her, while she went to the bathroom.

He took his socks off and padded across to the old dresser. He opened the drawer and looked in. He found the one she wanted and laid it on the bed.

In the bathroom, she smiled.

The situation was grim and she wasn’t holding up very well.

He would arrive soon and hopefully tell her what she needed to hear. Time was passing slowly. She looked at the clock again. It had hardly moved. Its low, monotonous tick didn’t help. It was the sound of slowness, a portent of how unbearable things could get. She was in a state, she knew it, but he would be here soon. He would come back and she would hear the words that would set things right. She was watching the seconds ticking away on the clock when she heard him coming through the front door. Her heart raced.

“Thank goodness!” she cried, as he entered.

He smiled at her concern and shook his head.

“I just need to hear it from you,” she said.

He understood and nodded.

“Tell me,” she pleaded.

“OK! OK! I will…”

She laced her fingers in prayer.

He said, “It’s OK. No need to worry. Everything’s going to be alright.”

The gatekeeper was looking through the huge book that lay across his desk, looking for the newcomer’s name. He looked quizzically at the man before him. “Where exactly have you come from?” He asked.

The newcomer waved a hand with a flourish, a gesture that seemed to denote some sort of royalty. “Somewhere, in Egypt… I think. Why? Does it matter?”

The demon, The High Keeper of the Great Book, The Senior Sentinel for the Gates of Hades, who had always seen himself as one of Lucifer’s favourites, looked aghast. “Of course it matters!” He shuffled through more pages, becoming more and more annoyed as he did. “I don’t seem to have a record of…”

He was interrupted by the creak of one of the gigantic gates being pushed open.

The demon stood and bowed as Lucifer approached. He pointed down at the book. “Apologies my Lord, I think we need to pull the miscellaneous file on this one. I… I can’t find him in the book.”

Lucifer looked troubled. “Really?”

The demon bowed again. “Yes, My Greatness.”

Lucifer turned directly to the newcomer. “Where are you from?”

“Egypt, probably.”

Lucifer said, “Probably?”

The man was becoming annoyed. “Look what is all this about? What’s so bloody important about where I came from?”

The demon cowered and Lucifer stiffened, saying “We’ll asked the questions, if you don’t mind. What where you doing in Egypt?”

The man shrugged. “I was on holiday.”

“You were on holiday in Egypt; just a holiday.”

“Probably Egypt, although it may have been Libya.”

Lucifer braced. “Libya?”

“Libya, yes, why not? It’s next door isn’t it? I’m getting just a little bit tired of all this. If you people can’t keep proper records, you’re bound to have this sort of trouble. Just find somewhere cool for me to sit down and I’ll wait for you people to get your act together.”

The demon said, “We don’t have anywhere cool down here,” then bit his lip and sat back down.

Lucifer was enraged by the man’s impudence. He turned to the demon. “Pull the file.”

The demon nodded and summoned a black angel. He gave him his orders. Seeing that the Great Master was present, it flew up and away at great speed, returning quickly with a thick file. He dropped it on the demon’s desk, bowed several times and flew off again.

The demon opened it up and began sifting through paperwork. “Let’s see now. You have to have something… Yes! Here we are. There seems to be an update here that was missed. He’s an undercover government agent, and…”

The newcomer just stood grinning.

Lucifer bristled again. “And?”

“And he’s not one of ours.”

“He’s not?” Lucifer cried.

“No. Your Most Worshipful One. It would appear that Mephistopheles lost this man’s soul recently in a card game to a highly placed American politician.”

Lucifer sighed. “Mephistopheles, gambling again. I might have known.”

The man chuckled.

Lucifer shouted, “OK! OK! Let him go.”

The man smiled, turned, and went back the way he came.

Hunger was always an issue for him and his family.

As mice go, he was pretty smart. However, right now he was trapped. He was stuck, cowering in the corner of the kitchen a long way from his hole. The lady of the house was scowling about something while preparing dinner for her family. He couldn’t move and he just prayed that she didn’t look his way.

Her mobile phone played a tune and she picked up.

“Hi. What’s up?”

Pause.

“Where is he now?”

Pause.

“At school? You were supposed to pick him up.”

Pause.

“What, now? I’m in the middle of getting dinner.”

Long pause.

“OK. OK. I’ll leave now, but don’t you complain to me when your dinner’s late!”

Brief pause.

“OK. Bye.”

“Damn him!” She shouts, and slams down the cheese grater, causing a large knob of cheese to bounce and roll off the end of the table.

His eyes went wide, but he didn’t’ move.

With more grumbling, she took off her apron and stormed out.

He waited until he heard the door go. The house fell silent. He approached the cheese. It was pretty big. He dug his claws in as deep as they would go and began walking backwards, dragging it behind him.

At the hole, he called out. She on the inside pulling and him now on the outside pushing, they just managed to get it through.

He really loved it when humans became bad tempered like that.

They get sloppy.