Friday, 20 September 2013

Silver Linings

thethemeis: Risk
theauthoris: Gary Sykes-Blythe

   1983.

   Captain Petrov tapped a plastic pen against his teeth pensively. 

   Hmmmmm...’see the positives of the Argentine rain’. 

   He sat with his up feet on his wobbly desk with Pravda open on his lap; it wasn’t today’s edition, but he was only doing the crossword. Some thoughtless person had already done half of it, but most of it was wrong and that was frustrating. He slapped the paper down and sighed at the darkened concrete ceiling of the Oko Nuclear Early Warning Detection Command (West) Bunker. He picked up his cup and sipped in a bored kind of way.

   ‘Denisov! What the fuck is wrong with this coffee?’ A head poked around the doorway. Denisov was the man on mess duty today and apparently he wasn’t doing very well. 

   ‘Comrade Captain?’ 

   ‘The coffee! What is wrong with it?’ 

   ‘That’s tea, sir.’ Petrov slammed the cup on top of the desk in a way that would’ve smashed it, had it been made of anything as genteel as porcelain. 

   ‘I know! I was being ironic, you provincial moron. I don’t like fucking tea.’ Petrov slopped the tea over his shoulder where it made a long splash on the dim wall. ‘Bring me some coffee.’

   ‘There isn’t any, sir.’ 

   ‘Oh. Bring me some more tea then.’

   ‘Sir!’ And with that Denisov bustled away, apparently relieved to be elsewhere. It was one of Captain Petrov’s favourite pastimes to bully him. He picked up the paper again.

   Suddenly, the lights in the room switched to an angry red. Petrov looked around him, slightly annoyed. A moment later red text appeared on the banks of screen at the front of the room. Angry red letters flashed against the black. Tinny horns and sirens wailed atonally.
   
   Предупреждение! Предупреждение! Предупреждение! 

   Warning?

   Petrov rapidly gathered his feet under him and stood up. He straightened his uniform without thinking and strode to the wall of screens. The sirens screamed their alerts; he could hear the whistling in his ears already. It’ll be there for a fucking week.

   He searched his mind hastily for a memory of a scheduled test. 

   He briefly wondered if it were a Stavka inspection or drill. 

   He scanned the screens again. Surely not... surely not... 

   But still:

   Предупреждение! Предупреждение! Предупреждение!

   Petrov strode to the station behind the lead technician. ‘Report,’ he snapped over the sound of the alarms. The junior technician was flustered and stammered.

   ‘Uh, well, I don’t know, sir. Everything just went... red.’ He trailed off vaguely.

   ‘Cause?’ 

   ‘I, er, don’t know sir. The system has detected, um, a... series of launches from North America.’

   ‘What?!’ Petrov’s voice suddenly lifted in pitch. 

   ‘Five launches, in progress, um, somewhere in the Mid-West.’ Petrov removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Five?

   ‘Five? You’re sure? Five?’ 

   ‘Yes, sir, just five.’ It was the first time the technician had sounded confident. Denisov stepped one pace to his right and glared over the shoulder of the next technician in line. 

   ‘Brusilov. Confirm what Lieutenant Saiga is reporting.’

   ‘It’s the same, sir.’

   ‘Run a full systems check. Now. And do it fast.’ All of the technicians answered and immediately a flurry of fingers flashed across a bank of keyboards. Surely not. The crews  were working admirably fast, Petrov couldn’t help but be pleased, but then, there really was nothing better to do than train... 

   ‘All systems are showing correct, sir.’ Fuck. 

   ‘How long? What’s the ETA?’
   

   ‘Uh... about... 15 minutes.’ Long enough to check again. 

   ‘Check again.’ Again the fingers flew over the keys. There was a palpable tension; it was like someone in the room was trying not to cry. Petrov couldn’t have said whether it was the tension, the fact that everyone had trained for so very long for this to happen or the wailing of the sirens. 

   ‘All systems are showing correct, sir.’ Fuck. What’s the procedure? Petrov knew exactly what to do, of course, but his mind played for time. On the wall, a large, heavily constructed phone was bolted onto the concrete. It had just one button. Petrov carefully stepped over to it. He knew what would happen. He knew like they all knew. This is it. Petrov picked it up, but he hesitated. This was going to be nuclear war, after all. It was an open secret that the CCCP defences were on the barest edge of a hair-trigger. One push and Schoooom! a hundred hundred missiles would blast into space: to Europe; to Australia; to America. Why?
NATO were the enemy, of course. NATO were the West; they called themselves Free World. Well, maybe they were, but everyone always thought that they were the ‘good guys’. Petrov wasted a few more precious seconds considering the options. He gnawed on his knuckle and shifted his feet in his uncomfortable boots.

   ‘Check again.’ A third time the keyboards rattled as the code was searched for the vital clue. Saiga turned in his chair and reported again that all was normal. Petrov didn’t really hear. Saiga awkwardly caught the eye of Petrov.

   ‘Sir, we need to,’ he sighed heavily, ‘we need to retaliate. There is only just enough time to laun-’

   ‘Shut up!’ They are doing exercises. But they do every year. Every year. NATO, the great enemy, every year. But why? Why just five? Why launch now? Why? Why? Why? ‘What are the ground radar reports?’

   ‘Nothing, sir.’
   

   Everyone in Russia knew that the Nazis had invaded without warning. Everyone knew that Russia wasn’t going to be caught napping again. Surely not again. On sang the sirens and the alarms, injecting sickening urgency to a diabolical situation. 

   Предупреждение! Предупреждение! Предупреждение! 

   ‘How far away now?’ 
   

   ‘7 minutes.’ 

   ‘How many?’

   ‘Still just five, sir.’ Why only five? Petrov searched his mind for a reason. Could it be some new super-weapon? Could it be a mistake? 

   ‘Five minutes now, sir. I am obliged to tell you that the window for retaliation is quite small now, sir. Uh, probably only about 10% of our missiles could get through and the defence system will need two minutes to prepare to launch.’

   Fuck off. 

   ‘Wait. Do not touch that phone.’ What are the odds? Everyone knows there’s no point launching just five missiles. Everyone knows that the retaliation would be too strong. Everyone knows that. Maybe it’s just an accident. Maybe it’s a mistake? Petrov knew perfectly well what he was officially forbidden to notice: the Soviet system was creaking, literally and figuratively, and the missile defence satellites had lagged behind the West... 

   What do I do? What do I do? Petrov knew what he was supposed to do. Call Stavka and advise them to launch. Everything. Every single rocket, every single missile, every single silo, every submarine, every bomber, every satellite was destined for combat. Every single thought in the Russian military waited for him. It can’t be right. It can’t be right. No. It can’t be just five. I have to stop. What if it’s not... what if it’s just a mistake... what if... what if it’s is a launch? 

   ‘Where is it headed?’ 

   ‘Um. I, uh, think they ought to arrive about 300 miles to the East of Leningrad.’ Saiga breathed out explosively. ‘3 minutes, sir. It’s now or never.’ Petrov wanted to take his pistol and shoot the man, but instead he just held the silent phone to his ear and glared at the wall. 

   Предупреждение! Предупреждение! Предупреждение! 

   ‘Two minutes. The chance to retaliate is... gone.’ It sounded like a death sentence. Petrov imagined a missile. High, oh so high, breaking up into smaller warheads. It couldn’t be stopped now. Arcing gracefully, the weapons would sweep towards the silos. Targets that had been programmed in some twenty years ago; always in the hope that they’d never be used. 

   ‘One minute, sir.’ Waiting. ’30 seconds.’ Saiga took a deep breath and counted down. 

   ‘20’ A tiny stopwatch in Petrov’s head began to whirr down.

   ‘10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...’ Petrov looked over to Saiga. ‘Impact.’

   Предупреждение! Предупреждение! Предупреждение!

   A long moment passed in the bunker. Petrov looked at the phone in his hand. Any second now the messages would come through: ‘how did this happen? Launch! Launch now!’ some general would be shuffling out of bed and screaming. Somewhere, maybe in lots of places, a great white flower of flame would blossom on a horizon and the populace would know that it had come at last. People would be burned in their beds. Crying and screaming and running all about. Maybe ten minutes. He knew that the Soviets were ready for an outcome like this. He knew that independent commands all across the CCCP would be preparing to launch once the world knew that the West had launched first. 

   Ten minutes came and went. 

   Twenty minutes came and went. 

   The alarms all at once ceased and it sounded all too quiet. The screens still shouted their message, but it didn’t seem so worrying without the alarm calls. The lights clicked back to their usual sickly green.

   Предупреждение! Предупреждение! Предупреждение!

   ‘Saiga! Report!’ 

   ‘Uh...’ 

   ‘Are we at nuclear war? Seismic activity? Fallout? Air raids?’ But Petrov was already acting, because he already knew. He laughed. ‘Fuck me, lads. I think we got away with it.’

========================================================================

   General Yury Votintsev, who was in command of the Soviet Air Defence’s Missile Defence Units, wrote a memoir that told the whole story in the 1990s. Petrov had averted a war in 1983. It would have been the last war, but it wasn’t. Later reports confirmed that the signal deteced by the Soviet missile defence system had, in fact, been the reflection of a cloud and it was Petrov’s disbelief in a small scale missile attack that had effectively averted the end of the world. The Soviet Union only lasted 7 more years, but it was 1983 that nearly saw the early end. Had the Russian system not been so stupendously out of date, so stupendously poorly made and had the organs of state themselves not been so paranoid and inefficient, Petrov might never have been known. As it was, his coolness earned him promotion, a commendation from the UN and the lifelong gratitude of the US. Petrov’s ‘correct actions’ were initially praised, but he found himself with only paperwork in the future.

Kirsty's Advice

thethemeis: Risk
theauthoris: LiamD

     Simon didn't really understand. He'd thought his novel had been truly original, he'd thought anyone who read it would marvel at it's uniqueness whether they liked it or not - he thought he'd been taking risks. 

     But the publishers' responses (or those that implied his manuscript had been read past the title, at least) were unanimously decided - Twice in a Lifetime was 'retreading over tired grounds', it was 'borrowing all of its style from great literature but had no substance to accommodate it'. 'Ultimately', as Tomahawk Publishing Ltd. had gut-wrenchingly put it, 'it reads like a bad fan-fic, without the fun of knowing the characters.' Such responses were not something Simon was expecting to hear. 

     'Try not to dwell on it too much, my love,' Kirsty soothed gently from her reclined position on their three seater. 'It's your first attempt - I bet all the greats were rejected at least once before they made it big. You just need to keep at it.' 

     'I know, but...' he let out a growl as his face twisted into a grimace of strangled frustration. 'I don't know where I went wrong.' He took a mouthful of tea while he ordered his thoughts. That always warmed him in the cold autumn and winter months. Their small flat did have central heating but they rarely used it since, Kirsty had reasoned, it was better to save money in the cold than waste money in the warm, when times is 'ard. Simon had laughed, and then agreed. 

     'I tried so hard to find something nobody had ever done before. I genuinely thought it was original. But the books they say I've lifted things from... I've never even heard of most of them. I mean, "Replay",' he gestured at the letter containing the reference, 'Who the fuck is Ken Grimwood?!' 

     Kirsty laughed, despite her other half's clear distress. They both took a sip of tea and then, after she had controlled her laughter, she spoke. 'To be honest, this is something I've been thinking about for a while' she said. 'At school, one of my music teachers once said that all the greatest composers are equally good thieves.' 

     Simon blinked. 'What?' he said. 

     'Well, I think that can be applied to all artists,' she explained. 

     He looked at her blankly, so she continued. 'Maybe you approached the novel from the wrong angle. If your only aim is to do something nobody has ever done before, then you're ignoring the knowledge and writing technique that has been developed over the years through popular literature. It's like you were trying to reinvent the wheel. How many sci-fi books had you actually read before deciding on to your story?' 

     'Not many,' he admitted. Sometimes Kirsty's tendency to speak in metaphors was endearing, but today Simon was finding it slightly irritating. 'But I don't see what this had to do with-' 

     'You can't push boundaries if you don't know where they are! It's like trying to invent a flying car without knowing anything about engines or aviation' she said. 

     Simon could see that somewhere in the midst of analogy, she had a point. 'Ok, so you think I should read more of the genre, do my research, then return to the planning phase and come up with something truly unique?' 

     'Well...' She gave him a sympathetic look. 'Not exactly.' 

     Simon looked incredulous. 'But that's what you just said!' 

     'No it isn't, not really; I said you were approaching the novel from the wrong angle. If a story is unique, what does that matter if the storytelling is weak? Themes, character development, narrative flow, aren't these things more important than originality? Sure, an original story idea is great, but until you've developed your long story writing skills to a sufficient level, you'll never do it justice.' Kirsty was trying hard not to hurt his feelings, but some advice can't be given without telling people things they don't want to hear. 

     Simon stared at their plain beige carpet thoughtfully and, after a time, responded. 'Perhaps you're right. Perhaps if anything I should be taking as few risks as possible.' He paused while he thought some more. 'But where does the thievery come into it?' 

     'It's obvious isn't it? Borrow what you like, what works. Adopt, adapt and improve!' she winked. 

     'Ah, the motto of the round table,' he replied, and they both laughed. There was another brief pause for more tea. 'You know,' he said as the warmth trickled down his throat, 'you're way too smart to be a teacher.' 

     'Isn't that the idea?' she asked with a chuckle. 

     It's times like this, Simon thought to himself, that make me realise how lucky I am. He was suddenly hit by an idea. 

     'This was a pretty inspiring conversation. I might use if for a short story.' he exclaimed. 

     'That's the spirit!' Kirsty smiled, stood up, kissed Simon on the cheek, and left the room. Simon started writing.

Saturday, 14 September 2013

Snake Eyes

thethemeis: Risk
theauthoris: Luke Stephenson

Behind the scenes you never see
The laws of probability.
We live on blind and blissfully;
Spinning the roulette wheel.

When every breath could be the last,
Ensure you won't regret your past,
And try your utmost best to last
The distance 'neath fate's heel.

Our chances of a life long led
Are best if we don't bet on red.
Pursue a peaceful world instead;
Put off that final meal.

But what is life if lived in fear?
Where comes the joy if we stay near
Too close to home where we can't hear
The laughter others steal?

Bleak shadows linger every day,
With care we keep the worst at bay,
But risk too much and get no say;
Accept your lot and kneel.

Sunday, 18 August 2013

The Fleadh

thethemeis: Reunions
theauthoris: LiamD

Jack pushes open the vaguely familiar heavy wooden doors and trudges slowly towards the unfamiliar man standing behind a counter on the right hand side of the room. He feels the mans eyes bore further into him with each step he takes, and quickly grows tired of his expression that does all but scream, What are you doing back here?! You have no place here anymore; we all know what you did, we all know what you are and you wont get away with it! But, Jack knows, for this unknown face in front of him to actually be forming such thoughts would be impossible; nobody knows what he is. For that matter, there would be very few people remaining who even know who he is. Nobody knows what he did; hes already gotten away with it. So instead of succumbing to his fear, turning there and then, and bolting back through the heavy doors hes not long entered, Jack completes his inevitable journey to this man who cannot know him and, in a voice that betrays all of the weight of the world that is piled heavily upon his shoulders, states:

Ill have a Fosters.

The unfamiliar man nods silently and begins to pour a pint of bubbling orange piss into a clear glass marked with a circled white F, and by the time the man says

Thatll be £3.50,

any real fears Jack might have had have been alleviated.

The cold sip of the beer makes Jack realise just how hot he is in his suit and tie, so he unravels the cheap black polyester from around his neck, unfastens his top button, and removes the suit jacket for good measure. The funeral had been an all-round unpleasant affair, as most funerals are, but this was more so than others. Jacks brother Nick had always been very open with his close friends when he was alive, and those who had arranged and attended the funeral had known exactly what type of a role model Jack had been to his younger, belated brother.

He had not given a speech; in what he thought of as an honourable gesture that would most likely never be appreciated, Jack had kept out of the funeral arrangements, leaving it to those who had known and loved Nick most. Initially he believed theyd recognise his distance as a mark of respect, a final dignity for his brother. But as he sat in the crematorium, watching the box containing what used to be his brother trundle inexorably towards the flames, he felt their glares all the same. In a room of people united by their grief, Jack had cried alone. It was all too much for him, and as soon as the service had ended, he caught the first train to Wembley Park with only one destination in mind. He had twenty-four hours until the 17:40 Easyjet left for Krakow; plenty of time to erase the day from his memory with his sweet amber nectar.

For the first time, Jack focuses on something other than the bottom of his beer glass or the barman, and surveys the room. The Fleadh is quite a small pub, and there are only a few patrons other than himself inside. A middle-aged, grey haired man sits on a stool a little further down the bar and eyes Jack suspiciously whilst dipping his bulbous nose into a pint of pale ale. To his left, on a small table in the far corner of the room, sit three younger men, each wearing t-shirts and stonewashed jeans. They laugh loudly and often, making inappropriate jokes about the reports of a celebrity accused of paedophilia being shown on the large LCD opposite them, and the lives he may or may not have ruined.

Behind him, a young couple sitting at a small table talk quietly and urgently, and Jack wonders if his ears are beginning to burn. He overhears snippets of ‘…at the bar, in a suit…’ and ‘…like hes just been to a funeral…’ He does his best to ignore them and orders another drink. The barman makes no attempt at conversation, and Jack is beginning to think the room has conspired to loathe him without bothering to find an excuse first. This doesnt surprise him, and neither does the loud giggle that bursts from the mouth of the young woman on the table behind him; he guesses he must look pretty funny, to the casual observer. He drinks some more. After three quick mouthfuls, he has already finished half the glass, and he quickly downs the rest. As he lowers the drink, he hears footsteps creeping quietly towards him from behind. In the bottom of his glass, he sees the reflection of a well-built, grinning man approaching him.

Jack turns around and his eyes widen slightly as his brain recognises the man now standing in front of him. It is the man who laughed; the man who pulled the trigger; the man who killed Lauren Healy in front of him one year ago today. Jack smiles a smile that he hopes doesnt look anywhere near as forced as it feels, and greets his old acquaintance.

Jesus Christ, alright Tom? I didnt know you still lived round here!

*

Tom had seen Jack enter the pub about twenty minutes earlier. That is, he noticed a weather-beaten, defeated looking man trudging miserably towards the bar and remaining there to drown his heavy sorrows. Tom had probably even stood next to him as he got the first round in, but focusing, as he was, on how best to get Jess drunk, out of her tastefully plain office clothes, and back to his bed, he hadn’t thought much of the establishment’s other clientele. In fact, it was only when Jess had interrupted his detailed explanation of his current training regime (for, he knew, no woman can resist a well maintained six-pack) to comment on how sad and lonely the solitary figure at the bar looked, that he paid enough attention to recognise the face.

“Shit… I used to know him.” He muttered when the penny dropped. Never one to think for too long before speaking, Tom sent most of his thoughts on a live stream to his mouth. If he had stopped to think, he might have kept this one to himself.

“Didn’t you like him?” Against the backdrop of Tom’s thoughts about his and Jack’s dark past, Jess’s face was the portrait of innocence.

“Yeah I did… once… it’s complicated,” he told her, and after seeing the naked confusion on her face hastily added, “I’m not fucking bent, we were good mates who fell out!”

Jess giggled at this, and Tom realised she’d been winding him up. He quite liked this girl, he’d decided.

Not three hours ago, he hadn’t known she’d existed. The Spartan Singles speed dating event had been a complete waste of time, as far as Tom was concerned. The smoking hot lap dancer called Mindy that he was chatting to online hadn’t turned up and all of the other female attendees had proved to be ugly, boring or both. That was, until he’d sat at table four and got chatting to the slightly chubby office bird with the subtle, rimless glasses and mundanely bun-tied hair. Ok, she was no knock-out, he knew that, and sure, she looked like she might have had a stick up her arse. Yet, in spite of all of that, she was definitely the fittest girl in the room, as little an achievement as that may have been. Aside from the challenge of sexual conquest though (something that Tom knew he was more than up to), he had genuinely come to enjoy her company as the afternoon progressed. There was something familiar about her, something comfortable, and he liked how feisty she was.

“Why don’t you invite him over for a drink with us?” she suggested. “Maybe you can patch things up.” If Tom hadn’t already drank four pints of lager on an empty stomach, he might have thought this an odd thing for a girl he was (presumably) dating to ask. But since he was half-cut by this point, he welcomed the idea as if he’d thought of it himself.

“I’ll bring him over. Want another drink?”

“No, thanks.” Tom had known what her answer would be before he’d asked the question; her glass was still full from the previous round, but no one could say he hadn’t offered. Standing up, he made his way towards the bar.

*

Tom briefly wonders why the smile on Jack’s face looks so forced, before ignoring it entirely. He asks the barman for two pints of Fosters and two shots of vodka and has paid before Jack has had the chance to make an excuse to object.

“I don’t really,” says Tom. Jack gives him a puzzled look, so he elaborates: “Live around here, I mean. I moved to Romford a while back. I only came by today to see a man about a dog.” He laughs a laugh that might be infectious to an innocent bystander who has never heard it in the right context. Jack is not infected. He wonders about the type of men and the kind of dogs Tom might have had business with since becoming a murderer. Tom, meanwhile, thinks that there are some things you just don’t admit to your mates, and the fact you’ve been speed dating is one of them.

“What are you doing in these parts? I thought you’d left the country.”

“I did,” Jack replies. “I live in Poland, but my brother died last week; I’m back for his funeral.”

“Shit, sorry mate, I had no idea,” says Tom. He tries to think of something sympathetic to say, but comes up at a loss. In the end he goes with, “Come and sit with us.”

“Us?” Jack remembers as soon as he’s asked that Tom has been sitting with a young girl. “Your girlfriend?” he asks, hopefully.

“Well I haven’t had a chance to fuck her yet, but we’ll soon fix that,” he sneers.

“Heh, good one,” Jack laughs unenthusiastically. Tom, who had initially been excited about catching up with Jack, starts to recall why they’d grown apart in the first place, before concluding that Jack hasn’t changed a bit.

Hes still acting all fucking weird around me, he thinks.

“Are we doing these shots, or what?” he says.

They knock back their 35ml glasses of Smirnoff and walk over to the table, lagers in hand.

“Hi, Jack!” The girl greets him as he takes a seat. “I’m Jess.” Jack thinks it a bit creepy how she calls him by his name before he’s told her what it is, but then he remembers the way they were so obviously talking about him before Tom came over, and wonders just how much she’s been told about him. He smiles politely to her.

“Pleased to meet you,” There’s something homely about this girl, something familiar and comforting, and Jack can’t help but smile as he says it. It actually cheers him up a little, before he thinks of the danger she might be in with Tom around.

A slightly awkward silence ensues while Tom takes a generous mouthful of beer, and from the small speakers of the LCD, a newsreader can be heard.

“…no sign of high-street worker Lauren Healy, after twelve months of investigation. Police were optimistic about the case when a confessional suicide note was found by the body of Paul Wright in Harrow last October, but ten months on, and Detective Chief Inspector Samuel Porter admits that they are no closer to finding Lauren or the remaining perpetrators…”

If Jess notices the awkward movements Jack makes at the mention of Paul Wright, she doesn’t mention it. Jack listens to the news pensively, wondering what might have been, had Paul not felt the urge to take his own life. Tom looks at Jack enquiringly.

“So, out of all the countries you could have moved to,” he begins, “why the fuck did you choose Poland?”

“Dunno really, just fancied a change.” Jack talks sheepishly, as if in fear of ridicule.

“I’ve heard it’s a beautiful country,” Jess puts in cheerily. Jack gives her a grateful smile.

“Yeah, maybe,” Tom replies, “if you like your countries full of builders and fast food workers.” He sneers and takes another huge swig of his pint. He slams his glass down and assesses the amount of lager remaining in Jack’s glass.

“Are you gonna drink that, or just sit there nursing it?” Jack no longer thinks it a wise idea to stay in The Fleadh all night, but he isn’t about to tell Tom.  He takes a long enough gulp to satisfy him. Tom turns to Jess.

“Are you sure you don’t want another drink?” She declines with a smile, and Tom wonders how he’s ever going to get her drunk enough to bed. Perhaps I can spike her drink, he jokes to himself darkly.

Jack finds some small talk. “What do you do then, Jess?”

“Oh, I work for-” She begins to respond, but is interrupted by Tom.

“Fuckin’ hell – look who’s just walked in.” He stands up, shouting: “Rob, over ‘ere!”

*

Rob was three sheets to the wind, which was not unusual; his view on alcohol was that it was a useful coping aid for the guilt and sorrows of everyday life. What was unusual, was for Rob to be a happy drunk. Tonight, Rob wasn’t just happy – he was singing.

They had done it, and Rob was ecstatic. It had been a real nail-biter, and there were times Rob was sure that they weren’t going to make it, but somehow they had gotten through it, and they had done it.

Charlton Athletic had beaten Millwall.

The Championship playoff final had been a close, tough contest, with each team scoring three goals apiece over the course of the first eighty-eight minutes. In the eighty-sixth, Green had given away a penalty, and everyone at Wembley was convinced at that point that Charlton had thrown it away. But somehow, Hamer had managed to not only save the shot from Morison but he had actually held onto it, and sent it down the left wing to give life to a swift counter attack. It had all happened so quickly, and fifteen seconds later the Addicks fans erupted as Johnnie Jackson coolly placed the ball neatly past Forde in the Millwall goal, securing Charlton’s place in the Premiership next season.

Rob had been singing all the way to the pub, although somewhere along the way he’d lost the words, so that by the time he arrived outside The Fleadh, it sounded less like song and more like a sequence of drunken ‘whey’s and ‘ah’s.

He didn’t find it surprising that he’d ended up at The Fleadh. It was really the only pub he knew in the area. He pushed open the wooden doors, like another two men of a similar age had done previously that night, and marched to the bar.

“I’ll have a Fosters please!” he exclaimed merrily.

The barman seemed to be weighing up his options of serving him or not, as he asked, “How many have you had, mate?”

“One for every goal!” Rob told him. In his intoxicated state, he still musters enough self-control not to tell him about the additional shots he’d been doing for each foul. It was a derby, after all.

The barman looked like he was about to refuse service, until they were interrupted by a shout from a table opposite the bar.

“Rob, over ‘ere!”

*

Rob looks towards the table behind him and sees the grinning face that has haunted his darkest nightmares for the last nine months, when he’s been sober enough to dream. At some point in the confused trail of his drunken thoughts, a voice tells him to leave the pub now, to catch the next tube to Kings Cross and journey home to Sheffield while he still can, but the thought slips away from him, as his mind prioritises his concentration on the more important tasks of standing straight and acting sober. So, instead of shouting or crying or running, he sings,

“Wheyyyy, Tommy boy, Tommy boy, Tommy boy!”

as if it’s a well-known football chant.

“It’s alright mate, he’s with us,” Tom tells the barman, as if this is perfectly valid criteria for serving alcohol to someone who is clearly on the verge of hospitalisation. The barman mutters something inaudible that sounds a lot like “it’s his funeral”, but protests no further.

Rob buys a fresh round of drinks, much to Jack’s dismay, and joins them at the small table.

“Who’s the lady?” asks Rob. Swimming around somewhere in his head is the notion that he’s seen her somewhere before, but he can’t quite grasp it.

“Jess. Pleasure to meet you,” says Jess.

“Met her today,” Tom explains, before adding in a stage whisper “I think she likes me,” and giving Jess a wink. To her credit, Jess doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Well, we’re having a right fucking reunion today!” he declares, before turning back to Rob. “Why are you back round this neck of the woods?”

“Playoff final, weren’t it.” He starts chanting we are going up and Jess giggles at his drunken behaviour.

“Fuck me, you won the lottery or something?” Tom asks. Rob was always the poor one in the group.

“Nah, I won the tickets in a competition.” He stumbles over the last word and then burps loudly. Jess continues to giggle.

“Wha’bout you two?”

“Funeral…” mutters Jack.

“This an’ that.” shrugs Tom. He decides to change the subject. “Enough of this small talk shit, let’s get these drinks down us.”

And so it comes to be that Jack (who stays reluctantly), Rob (who at this stage couldn’t decline another beer if his life depended on it) and Tom (who is just happy to be seeing his old friends again) spend their evening drinking more than is healthy for them until the late closing hours of The Fleadh.

*

Jess looks around the table at the three men she’s spent the evening with and marvels at how easy the chance meeting was to manufacture. She’d been anxious all evening about how the affair would pan out, but once Rob had walked through the door singing in that ridiculous inebriated fashion, she had barely been able to contain her feelings of accomplishment. It has become late and the drinking pace has slowed to a crawl. All three men are very drunk.

Tom stands up urgently and shouts “Gotta go toilet!” before sauntering off to the urinals.

Rob also arises as steadily as he can manage, which, given the circumstances, isn’t very steadily at all, and slurs “Going home… shouldn’t have stayed… he’s a bad man…” incoherently. He stumbles towards the pub’s entrance, but trips on a stray leg of furniture on the way and falls to the ground in a crash of tables and chairs.

The barman helps him up. “Come on mate, let’s get you in a cab,’ he says, and leads him out of the front door.

Jess giggles again, and looks over at Jack, who is probably the least trashed of the three men. She smiles at him sweetly. It makes Jack feel guilty. While he may have drank far too much over the course of the night, he has still been worrying about this innocent girl’s future with Tom. Waiting for the opportunity to warn her about him is the only reason he’s stayed as long as he has. At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. There is a loud thump from the direction of the men’s toilet, and Jack decides to tell her before he loses the opportunity.

“There’s something you need to know, Jess. About Tom,” he begins.

“I always suspected you were the nice one, Jack. You were the wildcard, you know. I didn’t know if you’d come.” She’s still smiling as she says it, and this makes Jack all the more confused.

“Seriously Jess, listen to me. You can’t meet up with him again; he’s an evil man.” The alcohol hasn’t been making it easy to hold onto his thoughts, but he feels that if he can just convince her of this, it won’t matter. Behind them the barman has returned and is making his way to the toilets to investigate the noise.

“I mean, Tom was easy. He thinks with nothing but his cock. I send him one message from a fake account on a dating site and he’s begging to meet up.”

Jack hears what she is saying but finds it difficult to process. His head is starting to feel numb and a prickling pins and needles sensation is tickling the nape of his neck.

“Jess, please, I’m not joking.”

“Rob was harder, but I still knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of seeing his beloved team at Wembley. I work for Sky Sports, you know. It was me who drew his name as the competition winner.” Jack thinks he understands what she is implying, but it still makes no sense to him. Why would she have brought them together?

“But then there was you, Jack. Nine hundred miles away on the cusp of Eastern Europe. I didn’t think I was going to be able to bring you back. But then I remembered your brother. I couldn’t be sure that you were close, not with your track record, but I didn’t have any other ideas.”

“What… who are you?” Jack has to really concentrate to force the words out. The numbness has been spreading the whole time she’s been talking, and his head is beginning to droop towards the table.

“My name is Jess, Jack. You know that. Jessica Healey.” She is still smiling at him, but what he previously thought of as sweet in the smile he now recognises as malice.

“Jessica… Healey?” He’s struggling intensely not to succumb to the anaesthesia tugging at his brain, beckoning him into a deep sleep. Before he follows its lead, a rush of connected thoughts informs him as to why he found this girl so familiar, why he’d felt the strong urge to protect her. He knows now that she has drugged him, knows that she is taking a form of twisted revenge. He uses his last ounce of strength to tell her the one thing that can save him.

“But it was Tom,” he manages, “Tom killed Lauren…”

“Maybe it was. Maybe he ended her life. But you all ensured that she was never found. You all ran away, and you all hid the truth. For that, I will never forgive you.”

The barman returns from the toilet, dragging an unconscious Tom out towards the heavy double doors.

“What do you want done with them?” he asks Jess.

“There’s a van in the car park. The rear doors are open, stick the three of them in there. Andy’s driving, he’ll give you a hand.” She looks at Jack’s head as it rests on the table in front of her and a uncontrollable rage shifts through her body as she remembers her sweet sister. She waits for it to subside and looks to the barman again “I really appreciate this, Pete.”

He clears Jack’s limp body from her view, and she sits at the table alone, finally drinking the vodka and orange juice Tom bought her two hours ago.

Coming Home

thethemeis: Reunions
theauthoris: Ben Hayes

At last, the city came into sight through the ash, the shimmering glow of the dome visible as a diffuse light in the clouded distance. Kilam smiled beneath his mask, and shifted the weight of his pack, hastening his pace.

He reached the ashlocks, and rang the great steel gong that hung beside them. There was a brief pause, and the outer door swung open. He stepped through, into the cramped space on the outside of the dome’s arc. The door closed behind him with a sullen clunk, and a fine spray of water filed the air, dripping off the heavy waxed canvas of his poncho. As Kilam watched, the ash that had entered with him fell as a thin grey fluid, draining away through the floor grates. The water stopped, and a tooth-edge whining sound bit his ears. The dome vanished, and he stepped into the other half of the room. With another high whine, the dome flashed back into coherence behind him, and the interior door opened.

Stepping out into the courtyard, he tugged his mask off, feeling his skin tingle at the fresh air. The light of the city was brilliant after so many days in the ash of the gahl, and he blinked as his eyes teared. Hooking the mask onto his belt, he shifted his pack again and began to walk.

He could have found his way from the ashlocks to his home almost blind by now, but each time he returned the walk still felt fresh. He reached old Osur’s cart, and bought a roast yam filled with fried brightwing grubs.

“Back from the gahl again, Kilam?” the old man asked, smiling. “Tell me, what treasures did you find in the ruins today?”

Kilam took a bit of his yam. The grubs crackled slightly between his teeth, salty and pleasantly sour. “Ah, nothing too marvellous. A couple of knives. Some books. Toys for my daughters.”

Osur raised his bushy eyebrows. “Knives, you say? I could use a new paring knife, if you’ve got one that’d suit. Some choked bastard stole the last Auld blade I had.”

Keh,” spat Kilam. “You go to the watch about it?”

 “You know what they’re like; it’s not worth the paperwork,” Osur scowled. “Probably some skulking squidsucker who took it. If their own folk don’t want them up there, we don’t want them down here. Thieving little wasters.”

Kilam finished his yam, and licked his fingers. Setting his pack down on the bench beside him, he opened it and pulled out the three knives he had found. They glimmered in the bars of orange light cast by the gills of the suncaps around the square, and Osur leaned in to peer at them. One was a small thing, with a folding blade and a glossy green handle capped with golden metal. One was long and broad, with a handle that grew directly from the metal of the blade. The third was about a hand-span in length, with a slight curve to the edge and a handle of dark wood. All the blades had the faint purplish glint of Auld steel.

“That one,” said Osur, gesturing at the wooden-handled knife. “How much?”

Kilam rocked his hand judiciously. “Forty taeli. And only because I like your yams; anyone else would pay fifty.” He was lying; he’d probably have offered forty to anyone who didn’t look like a total fool, but Osur didn’t need to know that.

The old man winced. “Still hard. How about thirty-five and a case of sirequ?”

Kilam licked his lips. “You know me too well, Osur. Fine, done!” He pressed his hand to lips and heart, and held it out to shake. Osur did likewise. “Mind if I pick the wine up later? It’d be Rokun’s blood to carry it with my pack.”

Osur counted out coins onto his counter, the chitin discs clicking sharply. “Any time, Kilam. Don’t take too long though, or I’m liable to forget I traded it to you.”

With a laugh, Kilam swept the money into his purse, and waved goodbye.

A few brief streets later, he came into sight of his home. A flicker of movement flashed across the window upstairs, and he grinned. A moment later the door burst open, and two small girls struck him forcefully in the midriff as they flung their arms around him.

“Dad! We missed you!”

“Did you bring us presents? Was it scary in the gahl?”

He hugged the girls close, going down on one knee to kiss their heads. “I missed you too Milu! Yes, Soshi, I did bring you presents, and it’s always scary in the gahl.”

His youngest daughter pulled back and looked up at him. “Did you see any cutstipe mushrooms? Is it true they grow twice as tall as a man and have stalks covered in spines?”

Kilam smiled at her. “I did, they do, and they have! I’ll tell you all about it after dinner. “Now where is–” he broke off, as his wife appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands with a cloth. “Akae!”

“Kilam! Welcome back!” Tossing the rag aside, she trotted out and pulled him into a hug, careful to avoid crushing their daughters between them. Kilam rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair. He felt a knot in his chest unwind, and his shoulders dropped slightly as some of the tension went out of him.

“Mm, I missed you most of all,” he murmured in her ear.

She wiped at the grey smudges of ash and spores that had marked his cheeks where his mask met the skin. “You look every inch the yellowback hero. Find any beautiful ashland princesses out there?”

“I can’t understand how you can bear to read those trashy novels,” said Kilam, shaking his head. “But even if there were mysterious tribes of savages living in harmony with the insects and the mushrooms, not a one would be as beautiful as you.”

Akae smiled. “Dinner won’t be ready for an hour or two yet. Go have a bath, you shameless flatterer.”

Kilam disentangled himself from the family embrace, and nodded. “That sounds like heaven.” He tousled his daughters’ hair. Dropping his pack in the hall, he headed to the bathroom.

As the tub filled, he dropped his ash-caked clothes in the big stipewood bin by the door. Carved whole from the stem of a great bronzecap mushroom, it had taken him and Akae four days to make. Something caught his eye, and he peered more closely. Marked on the side in intricate pokerwork was a carefully detailed figure of a man in a broad hat and a heavy poncho, with a mask over his face. Underneath was written, painstakingly: “Dad’s Clothes.” Kilam smiled; Milu’s artwork was getting really good these days; he didn’t have to exaggerate his praise any more.

He slipped into the steaming water, and sighed contentedly as his aching muscles loosened, and the ash began to seep out of his pores.

An indeterminate time later, Akae’s voice woke him. “Kilam? Hey, sleepyhead…”

“Mm…”

The door slid open, quietly. “It’s time for dinner.”

Kilam sat up. The water was a cloudy grey, and his fingers had wrinkled. “I’ll be right down. Thank you, love.” He climbed out of the tub, and towelled himself off. Akae had thoughtfully left one of his robes hanging outside the bathroom, and he slipped it on. The silk was cool and liquid-smooth against his skin, wonderful after his grimy, ash-caked gahl clothes.

He followed the delicious scents down the stairs to the living room. The girls were already sitting at the table, and as he entered Akae emerged from the kitchen, carrying a broad platter piled with food. “Mum bought fresh ejanuk tentacles!” exclaimed Soshi, bouncing in her chair.

Akae smiled. “The Ejamei came to trade yesterday. I gave them eight of those Auld steel bearings you found a couple of months ago. I got some starberries too.”

“And people laugh when I say I married you for your mind,” said Kilam. “Nobody can drive a bargain like you, Akae.” He skewered four of the fleshy rings, and dropped them on his plate. Nobody could cook like Akae, either.

Milu cocked her head, inquisitively. “Is that a really good deal, then?”

Akae nodded. “Oh yes. The Ejamei don’t sell much meat to us. Most of the ones they hunt are part of a young person’s adulthood ceremony, and only blood relatives of the hunter can eat them.”

“Ish ‘t true th’t-“ began Soshi. Kilam glowered at her, and she stopped and swallowed. “Is it true that they fly on wings, and throw harpoons at the ejanuk?”

“Yes, it is.” Kilam paused, and took a bite of the meat. It was tender, and had a subtle smoky flavour. “Well, partially. They have these things called vhuae, which are shaped like the scales of a snakefly; sort of flat and oval, with a half-dome at the front to cut the air. They stand on them, and steer by shifting their weight. When they fly in close to an ejanuk, they fire harpoons into it using gas-bows, and hold on until it dies.”

Akae nodded. “It’s very difficult to get it right. They have to be careful where they harpoon it; if they hit the ink sac it will ruin the meat, and if they hit the gas bladders then the ejanuk will fall out of the sky, and be lost in the gahl.”

“And all the while they’re holding on, it’s trying to crush them in its tentacles, or blind them with ink, or pull them into its beak,” said Kilam, taking a crackhopper leg from the platter.

“It sounds really dangerous!” said Milu, her eyes wide.

“It is,” Kilam said, quietly. “I’ve found quite a few dead hunters lying in the gahl.”

“Oh, oh!” Soshi exclaimed. “You promised you’d tell me about the cutstipe mushrooms!”

Kilam nodded. “I did at that! So, you know I went to the Auld city far north of here, yes? Well, the journey is long, but by now I know the route well. However, this time, a pass I usually take through the hills was blocked by a fallen bronzecap; and it had brought part of the hill down with it!”

The girls gasped. Kilam smiled; Milu was growing up, but she wasn’t too old yet to be enthralled by his stories.

“So, I had to find another path. Now, I knew from my second trip out there that the east of the hills is a terrible marsh, filled with jaurili that drone like horns when they fly, and have probosci as long as my forearm. They can drain a quart of blood in a handful of seconds, and I didn’t want to go that way. So, I headed around to the west, which I had seen only from the peak of the hill on past journeys. I knew it was covered in dense spore-growth, and I expected it to be hard going, but I hoped that it would be too thick for any large insects to live there. The descent was awkward, but I made it down in one piece, and pushed on into the forest. The mushrooms were thin-stemmed, greenish things with pale gills, and their spores fell in fine clouds whenever I brushed against them; I had to change the filters in my mask after I got through. Eventually, I reached a place where the growth was less dense, and I could see the city ahead through the ash. As I headed that way, the fungi around me changed, and I noticed almost too late that the stalks had spines! It’s very fortunate that I had been trying to avoid the mushrooms already, or I might have blundered into them. You see, the spines on a cutstipe are not as obvious as you might imagine; they’re quite fine, and translucent like the wings of a jauril or a snakefly. If you walk into them obliquely, they’ll probably break, but if you happen to step into one head-on…”

Kilam stopped, and took a mouthful of his dinner, building the suspense.

“If you step into one head-on, it’ll go clean through you!” he said, making a sudden poking gesture with his skewer. “Now, I had no choice but to make my way through the cutstipes, for that was the only way to reach the city. But what was I to do? I could try and press forward slowly, and trust my skills to keep me safe, but if I should trip… So, I took my khopesh, and I went back and cut down one of the thin-stemmed mushrooms from the forest. Then, holding it by the stem, I pushed the cap ahead of me through the spines! When I came out the other side, it was brisling like a pincushion. In fact…”

He rose from the table, and fetched his pack from the hallway, setting it down beside his chair. Reaching into one of the side pockets, he withdrew a tightly bound bundle. “I brought back some of the spines.”

The girls oohed as he laid the spines out on the table. Each of them was around a foot long; they grew longer, but he’d only taken the tips. “Be careful; the points are as sharp as a needle.”

Akae reached out and picked one up, peering at it. “Hm. These look like they could be quite useful, actually. Would they be good as needles, perhaps? Eating skewers?

 “Maybe.” Kilam shrugged. “There are a dozen there, so you can experiment. I don’t know if you could manage to put a hole in them for thread though, I think they might split. They seem to be sort of fibrous.”

“Thank you, Dad!” Soshi said, hopping down from her chair and running over to hug him. “None of the other girls get to learn about the gahl like this.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome, Soshi. Hey, maybe you’ll become a prospector too, when you’re older.” Certainly, she had the curiosity for it. “And I brought you two a couple of other things, as well.”

He reached into his pack again, and pulled out a small grey box. “This is for you, Milu.”

She opened it, and a faint glow lit her face. “A trapglass? I’ve only ever read about them!” She lifted a six-inch square of shiny black glass out of the box. “Is this the input–”

Soshi interrupted her with a sudden laugh. “Turn it over, Milu!”

The older girl did, and laughed as well. “I can see you tested it when you found it, Dad.”

The other side of the glass bore a slightly blurred picture of Kilam, smiling and holding two fingers up in a V. He chuckled. “Well, I didn’t want to bring home a dud. That image is about ten days old, so it’ll hold them clear for about a week. You clear it by drawing a cross on the picture side with your finger, and then you can see through it again. Hold the dark side facing what you want to capture, and run your finger down the right-hand edge to store a new image.”

Milu held the trapglass up, admiringly. “Thanks so much, dad! This is amazing!”

“You’re welcome, Milu.”

Soshi looked up at him. “What did you bring me, Dad?” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Something that will help answer some of your questions, Soshi,” said Kilam, reaching into his pack again. This time, he produced a dense, matte black tube.

Soshi took it. “Huh, it’s heavy!” She turned it over in her hand.

“It’s an Auld microscope, Soshi,” Kilam said, pointing to the lens set into the end. “Like your magnifying glass, but it can show much smaller things. You see how it twists in the middle?”

“Oh, I get it!” exclaimed the girl, peering into the tube. “It adjusts the focal distance, right?”

Kilam laughed. “Right at once! You’re so quick you scare me sometimes, Soshi.”

His daughter looked up at him, grinning widely. “Thanks Dad. You’re the best.”

Kilam caught Akae’s eyes, and smiled. He knew that sometimes, they all wished he wasn’t gone so often – and that as much as they loved his gifts, what mattered most to the girls was that he had been thinking of them while he was away. But he was back now, and for a few weeks at least, he could spend time with his family, and they could enjoy themselves.

And then, he’d leave again, back into the gahl and the Auld ruins.

The hardship would be easy, knowing that another homecoming waited for him.