Author: Alexander Fawn

The phone rang.

“Hello

“Yes, is that the man with the answer?”

“Which particular answer were you after?”

“The answer to the Great Riddle, I mean.”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Ah! Well…”

“What is it you want?”

“I want to know!”

“You want to know what, precisely?”

“The answer.”

“The answer to what?”

“To the Great Riddle.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

“Oh! What a great pity; I wanted confirmation.”

“You believe you have the answer then?”

“Yes. I feel quite sure that I do.”

“I see.”

“Won’t you please help me?”

“That I can answer, but only in part.”

“What part?”

“One fifth.”

“Well, OK then; one fifth.”

“Are you sure you want it?”

“If that is all you can offer; yes.”

“Good answer. Depending on your next response, you may receive two fifths.”

“Very well. What is your answer to ‘won’t you help me?’ ”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

“Good response! You get two fifths, but I’m afraid no more than that.”

“Accepted. Please give me two fifths.”

“No, but…”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Good bye.”

“Good bye.”

The phone went down.

It was in the afternoon when the children made the discovery.

“It’s dead,” declared the younger of the two.

They gathered stones and began tossing them at the horse, lying motionless in the field.

The girl peered into its glazed eyes. “It’s very old, it’s probably asleep.”

“Do you sleep with your eyes open?” Came the retort.

“What would you know,” sneered the girl. “You’re just a kid.”

Her attention returned to the animal lying motionless in the bright sun. Flies were beginning to gather about its gaping mouth. “I reckon it belongs to the old guy who lives in the shack up there. You know, they always seem to be together. Dad says they must be good mates because they are never far apart. He must be about a hundred, like the horse.”

“Yeh!” exclaimed her young companion, gazing at the animal’s teeth. “Let’s go tell him. After all, he should be told, don’t you think?” He looked up at the girl with a begging smile that the she was only too familiar with.

She knew he would get a kick out of climbing the hill and knocking on the door of the shack. A place kids didn’t normally go on account of the stories about the old prospector. The word was he had been some sort of toff from a city somewhere but had come out to the bush years ago to get away from it all. His sourness and abrupt manner didn’t make him popular with the local kids.

“I suppose we could,” she sighed, looking up at the small building above the tree line. She hesitated for a moment, and then with a glance between them they both became children again. Running across the paddock, giggling and shouting directions at each other.

They ran along the dry creek bed, shouting hellos at a couple of men fixing fences in the distance, then raced up through the trees to the grass and gauze of the slope below the hut. They arrive at the porch.

“You call to him. He likes you best,” the boy assured his sister.

She climbed the wooden steps and knocked timidly at the door. There was no answer.

“Go on!” encouraged the boy.

She pushed the door open and peered in.

The old man lay on the floor in full view as she entered. His empty eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She shouted to her brother.

“Is he asleep?” whispered the boy.

The girl suddenly felt some new kind of fondness for her brother. She took his hand and squeezed it. She shook her head. “I don’t believe it” she muttered, “both going together!”

Down below in the shade of the trees the two men rested from their fence mending.

“Wasn’t that the Dawson kids that just shot by?” asked one.

“Must’ve been visiting the old bloke on the hill,” replied his companion.

“If they were, they’ll be disappointed,” said the other. “Just saw him ridin’ by a minute ago. Never saw that old horse of his move so fast. It was like it had wings!”

Through filtered bands of strength and opinion

Comes a precious thing.

It is my girl’s everlasting love;

Her growing, loving, sharing thing.

That which makes her, my love, my queen,

And I, a mighty king.

The way that girl’s love is shown to me,

Through bands of light and colour to restrain…

The plain view, objective only from the sight of me,

But trusting always, yes, always,

That which I perceive,

Is my girl’s love indeed.

The man in the suit with a bright blue tie sat on the bench.

The park was emptying of lunch-time office workers who had come out into the sun to eat, mainly from plastic lunch boxes. The day was sunny and the man on the bench figured that this was an ideal spot for locals to get out of their offices for a while. He looked at his watch, then at the old lady he shared the bench with. She wasn’t eating but automatically dipping into a paper bag, feeding the birds. ‘Blue-tie’ hoped she would move off soon as his appointment had come and gone fifteen minutes ago.

 

He could see a figure in the distance, sitting on another bench reading a ‘newspaper’, or at least pretending to. He felt sure this was his contact. Several minutes later the old woman struggled to get up using a cane that he hadn’t noticed before. She moved away down the path very slowly and ‘blue-tie’ saw the other man fold his paper and get up. As the woman disappeared, the younger man with the ‘newspaper’ strolled across the wide stretch of lawn in what ‘blue-tie’ thought was an over-exaggerated nonchalance. ‘Blue-tie’ smiled and mumbled “New boy!”

‘Newspaper’ sat down, leaving a wide gap between them, looking straight ahead. Without turning his head ‘blue-tie’ said “I presume you are my one o’clock appointment?”

With his face still fixed on the park ‘newspaper’ said. “I am, and this was supposed to be an extremely urgent matter. Are you aware of the time?”

‘Blu-tie’ didn’t like his tone. “Of course; I was told that this was to be a Level A1 meeting”.

“In that case, why were you wasting time cosying up with that old bird-feeder?”

The older man smiled. “Now, there’s a term I haven’t heard for a while”. He cleared his throat and injected a little more authority into his voice. “It wasn’t a case of ‘cosying up’ as you put it. The old lady had a perfect right to sit here. As much right as you or I. No words were exchanged between us. Did you expect me to tell her to clear off because I had this top priority meeting with the man over there pretending to read a newspaper?”

‘Newspaper’ wriggled uncomfortably. “I’m sorry; this isn’t going well, is it?”

“No it’s not. In view of the fact that this was supposed to be an urgent Level A1 exchange between your department and mine, I think we should just get on with it. Do you agree?”

“Yes. I agree. In that case… the red flower is wilting” the man whispered.

“Pardon?”

“What do you mean pardon?”

“I mean pardon! I can’t hear you”.

‘Newspaper’ repeated “the red flower is wilting” a little louder.

“The red flower is what? For heaven’s sake man! We are sitting on a seat in a large park that is practically empty. Unless one of us is wired, something that is strictly forbidden by A1 protocol, there is nobody around to hear a word you are saying!” ‘Blue-tie’ wiggled his blue tie and stroked his hair back with his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

“Wilting”.

“What?”

“Wilting. The red flower is wilting”.

“Oh! right. OK. The red flower is wilting. In that case… the last man is back”.

‘Newspaper’ squirmed. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite get that”.

‘Blue-tie’ said “OK. The last man is back”, in a fairly loud voice, then checked his watch.

‘Newspaper’ said in an apologetic voice. “No. That’s not it”.

“What do you mean, not it?”

“That’s not the correct response”.

“You have to be kidding”.

“No. I’m not. I mean, I wouldn’t, kid about it I mean”.

‘Blue-tie’ sat quietly for a full minute. He was obviously the more experienced of the two, but he could see this situation could well become ugly; for both of them, but especially him.

In a quiet voice now, he said “Was I close?”

The other was silent for a while, then said “I can’t answer that. I mean I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know what the protocol is for this situation”. He turned to face ‘blue-tie’ and went on “To be honest with you I haven’t had much experience at this. I’ve only done one of these before, and that was easy; an A3 in an airport. It was very quick; and like I said, very easy”.

“Well, my young colleague”, ‘blue-tie’ began “it does beg me to ask why they picked you for this one?”

“Football… Oh! I probably shouldn’t have said that. I should say that there was nobody else available when the Commander rang”.

The two men were now occasionally glancing at each other.

‘Blue-tie’ said, in a consoling tone “That’s OK. I understand; but you do realise that if I was close, that tells you something doesn’t it?”

‘Newspaper’ thought for a moment, and said “Well, yes, I suppose it does, logically”.

“OK then”, he paused “Was I close?”

“Yes, you were close”.

“Well now, as you know these things are not written down and when my Section Leader briefed me he gave me the line twice, slowly. Now, let me think”. He then said softly “The last man is back”.

“Pardon?”

“No. Just talking to myself. How about this; the last man is black?” He looked at the other who was shaking his head. “How about; the last van is black?” Head still shaking. “The last van is back?” Shake. “Oh! Wait a minute… fast… fast… the fast van is back!”

“Yes!” ‘Newspaper’ raised his hands, as if to clap, then changed his mind and lowered them slowly. “Yes. Thank you”.

“Thank goodness! What’s the message?”

“I’ve been asked to tell you that; big fish is in custardy and is being held at safe house eleven”.

“OK. I am repeating; big fish is in custardy and is being held at safe house eleven”.

“Correct; and following the message I am supposed to state again that this is a Level A1 urgent exchange”. ‘Newspaper’ looked at ‘blue-tie’ with a question in his eyes.

“Don’t worry. It was the old bird-feeder’s fault”.

“What do you mean – her fault?”

“Well, how late did she make us?”

“I’d say about twenty minutes”.

“Right; well, I’ve just doubled the size of her paper bag, and that means she held us up by forty minutes. After all, this is a dedicated exchange point isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course”.

‘Blue-tie’ said “I’ll get this back to my section pronto. Give me a few minutes before you move”.

‘Newspaper’ said “Good to meet you”.

‘Blue-tie’ said “Likewise”, got up and walked briskly away.

‘Newspaper’ sat watching him go, until he was completely out of sight. That was the protocol, and the protocol for a Level A1 was strict; very strict indeed.

Joshua had always been sloppy about computer security in the office.

Apart from being one of those team members that just seemed to get all the flack and ribbing, he was also whispered about because he was not good at socialising with women. For this reason he had been without any kind of partner for some time, and he could see no change in his current lifestyle occurring any time soon.

Richard, on the other hand, was the Casanova of the office; with a string of women, some married, some not. He was also the nastiest, as far as Joshua was concerned. He liked to play pranks on people, and this included the event that was about to unfold on Monday morning. Richard had been waiting for Joshua to leave on a Friday without logging off and his time had come.

On the morning in question Joshua came in and found an email waiting for him from ‘Perfect Match.com’. At first he was confused; strictly speaking the company didn’t allow this sort of traffic on office computers and he wondered how it had got through. It was only an advert, an invitation in fact. He had contacted the site on several occasions at home, but wasn’t expecting anything to show up here.

The date being offered, based on his profile, looked very interesting. In the following days a time and place was arranged to meet up with Rosie, the girl in the photo. Anybody watching Joshua carefully would have detected a certain quiet elation in his demeanour. This, of course, was the case with Richard, who was secretly enjoying what he saw.

The date, Rosie, had suggested they meet at a coffee bar in town, but Joshua had made the brave move of making a last minute request to meet in the local park by the fountain instead. He also apologised for not being able to get there until quite late. Under any other circumstances this would not have been acceptable. However, he was not surprised to receive her agreement to what was clearly an unusual request.

When the night came, Joshua was having to hold down his growing excitement. He had carefully studied the layout of the park’s fountain, the surrounding trees and the nearby seats, set out randomly along the lawns’ edges. There was one that gave a perfect and well concealed view of the fountain.

Joshua dressed appropriately for the evening, packed a small bag with items he felt sure would be a complete surprise, and made his way in the fading light. As he entered the park he was pleased to see, as predicted, the back of Richard’s head and shoulders, silhouetted against the glow of the fountain. He was sitting in the seat facing the fountain, but at a safe distance, set back and hidden from view, a prime viewing spot; also as predicted.

Joshua kept his breath steady and silent. He was crouched now, dressed entirely in black, checking the contents of his bag; latex gloves, a bottle of chloroform, a gauze pad and a scalpel.

Nobody had any idea just how much expertise Joshua had developed in the matter of breaking into, reading and deleting other peoples’ personal emails. There would be no clear motive for what was about to take place, other than several angry husbands of course.

Joshua pulled on the gloves, soaked the pad, picked up the scalpel and crept forward very slowly…

The first thing that you had to say about Wally was that he was an optimist.

So much so, that his continual quotes about optimism would eventually wear down anyone unfortunate enough to have to spend any length of time in his company. He would talk about how, as an optimist, he feels that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and he would tell you that he had developed the habit of looking on the bright side of every conceivable event. In short he was a person who believed that everything was perfect, even the stuff that isn’t.

Anyway, Wally was strolling to the office one morning with a colleague, rabbiting on about how one should always have a positive attitude towards one’s life, about how an optimistic attitude enables one to ensure that one’s life is lived in a way that draws the best results; and how one can do anything one thinks they can.

The traffic was busy and the noise allowed the other to miss a lot of what Wally was saying. He was grateful for that.

Wally went on saying that a true optimist always believes that the best is yet to come; that with optimism one can solve every conceivable problem. He was saying that positive thinking is the key to success in all aspects of life.

Listening to Wally became even more difficult as they started to negotiate workmen repaving sections of the footpath. Wally was unperturbed.

He was explaining that he, as an optimist, makes the best of his opportunities. With this attitude he is able to meet daily challenges with complete confidence. He was saying that taking the optimistic point of view gives one the confidence to know that any truly awful event can always be postponed indefinitely, because an optimist’s glass is always half-full.

The foot traffic was building up and his colleague could only just hear Wally behind him saying that a person who was genuinely and constantly optimistic would see an unexpected opening and go for it without hesitation.

They were getting close to the spot where they usually crossed the road. His colleague turned to check that Wally was still close behind. He peered back down the crowded street, but couldn’t see him. He scanned the other side of the street in case he had crossed early. No, not there.

He could see a commotion back along the path and turned back to check it out. Several workmen stood around looking down at something. As he drew closer he saw that one of them was shouting down an uncovered manhole.

Wally, the eternal optimist, had found his unexpected opening, and true to form and without hesitation, had gone for it!

Tony enjoyed his job well enough, but getting out of the office and sauntering into the nearby park was a highlight for him each working day.

The city was a bustling, noisy place, but he left it all behind as he made his way across the expanse of lawn to the tree-lined area that gave good shade. A good place to eat his lunch and watch people. He had to look where he was putting his feet as he picked his way through the little gathered groups; some sitting, some standing, some just lying in the sun. He had not come here to do any of that; apart from eating his lunch he liked to watch people.

He regarded himself as something of an expert for somebody still in their teens on the subject and activity of watching people. He had been fascinated by this pastime as far back as he could remember. It was a self-evident fact that the more you did something the better you became at doing it. He liked to observe a person’s habits, their body movements, their emotions and attitudes. In a place like this he had so many subjects to choose from. He opened his plastic lunch box and started eating.

As usual, he had a very mixed crowd here today. Most of them were in their twenties and thirties he supposed, and most would be from office jobs around this part of the city. He took the scene in as he created categories in his head. Some would be single; some married. Some would be holding down some sort of managerial position, while others like himself, would be some kind of support staff in an office. As he scanned the park he found his attention coming back to one particular gentleman, sitting at the end of a bench not too far away; close enough for Tony to take in a lot of detail.

He was a distinguished looking man of about sixty. He had a full head of white and light grey hair swept back so that its length came to rest on his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but some sort of dark, safari outfit. He was bent over a large leather document holder with ornate embossing and a dangling leather book mark. It lay on his lap, held with one hand, with the man staring down and occasionally looking up. Tony settled on studying him for no better reason that he was the most interesting subject within view.

He focused on what the man was doing. He would occasionally put marks down, then look up. It was fairly obvious he was sketching or drawing something. He was completely focused on what he was doing. Tony wondered what the man was actually capturing. Was it something here in the environment, or was it something he was clawing back from memory? It was hard to tell, and he knew he would have to see it to answer that.

Each time the artist looked up he seemed to be looking in a different direction, sometimes stroking a small, white goatee beard that Tony could see for the first time. From time to time he seemed to be swapping his pencil and using something small, like a piece of chalk or charcoal, then rubbing across the paper, maybe using his fingers to create shadow or shade.

He wondered how long the man had been an artist and how he had learnt his craft. He might be famous, you couldn’t tell; they didn’t get photographed like film or television celebrities, making them recognisable. No; but he certainly looked professional, famous or not.

Tony realised he had to move. This had been a really interesting lunchtime, with one of the best subjects he had ever been lucky enough to observe. All that remained for him to do was to get into a vantage point, so that he could see what the man was drawing. He would walk across to one side of where the man sat, then turn and go slowly along the back of the seat. As he manoeuvred his way past the bench, he glanced down to see what the man was drawing.

Tony’s heart sunk as he went on his way… he was doing a crossword!

Hey look, that Sussex mist!

It’s back again for eyes to strain,

To lose a dog,

To mock old fog,

To see that fears persist.

–

Hey, feel that Sussex mist.

To loose one’s feet upon the street,

To see a light,

Then lose one’s sight,

That’s the stuff I missed.

 

 

 

The frail old man was very sick.

He had been in this same bed for more than a year, with visitors coming and going; friends and relations, doctors and nurses. Sometimes, just people he didn’t even know. He was old, very sick, and very, very tired of life. He felt he had run his race and shouldn’t have to hang about with no good reason to do so, but he had no agreement on that from anybody. In fact, he had been soundly reprimanded by both staff and family alike for airing such thoughts.

Meanwhile, his old house was being looked after by his kindly neighbour. She said she would go in every week, keep it clean and ready for him when he returned. But, as the months went by it became obvious to both of them that this wouldn’t happen. At the same time she noticed that the noises in the loft were getting worse and she knew that she had a plague of mice to deal with.

As time went on the old man was allowed fewer visitors. The doctors considered that his condition was such that it would not allow too much exertion on his part; they wanted him to take it as easy as possible.

One day the lady climbed up into the old man’s attic and scattered around a few bits of biscuit she had poisoned. She would give it a week to see how it was going.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about fewer people around him. He felt sad that people who cared for him were having to plan their visits more carefully; but on the other hand would have been happy to have none, or more specifically, would have preferred it if he slipped away quietly with no more need for people to make any arrangements at all.

The house keeper went back to the house a few days later, and after having cleaned and dusted sat listening to sounds coming through the ceiling. It was certainly a lot quieter and she was happy that her treatment was working.

He felt that he had become even more of a burden with visitors being restricted on when they were allowed to come and see him. A couple of times a week he went into a wheelchair and was pushed around the wards for a while, supposedly to keep him in touch with other people and give him a change from his usual four walls.

The noises grew louder again on her next visit. She had been sure that some of them had died, but now wondered if they had got wary and were avoiding the food. There certainly seemed to be more of them moving about up there.

When the old man was very young he had become very ill, in fact he had come quite close to death. It was then at a tender age that he found out about his allergy. His system could not tolerate peanuts, and a strict eye was kept on the contents of all his food by his mother.

On her next visit to the house it was plain that her plan had not worked. She realised that she would have to introduce a cat. This would surely do the job.

The constant worries and careful preparations required during the following weeks after the diagnosis of his peanut allergy caused a major disruption to his home life. However, it quickly became less of a burden as those around him accepted the situation. It soon became a regular and quite natural thing to cope with.

From the moment the cat entered the loft the squeaking and squealing began. The animal was definitely a good mouser and she was happy that she had done the right thing.

On the old man’s next tour in the wheelchair, he asked if he could look at the magazines in the shop. With his attendant chatting, the bag of peanuts going beneath his dressing-gown wasn’t noticed.

The cat continued to hunt and kill mice at an alarming rate and the oldest mouse in the attic’s community could see that if nothing was done they would all be wiped out. He searched around and found the largest piece of broken biscuit and dragged it out of sight.

That night, when all residents had been settled down for the night and the night nurse had finished her last rounds, the lights were turned down and the ward became silent.

When all was quiet in the attic, the old mouse nudged the biscuit into a clearing, nibbled it away to nothing, and then squeaked as loud as he was able.

Beneath the covers, the old man nibbled away at the peanuts, one by one.

Of mice and men, sometimes sacrifice can be good.

Technical support problems go back a long way.

They date back to before the communication and industrial revolutions. In fact, to a time when primitive tribesmen beat out a rhythm on a drum as a primary means of remote communication and fire was a new technology.

The following conversation took place, back in the mists of time, as a primitive one-man technical support operative enters the cave of Ug.

Technical Support says: “This ‘Fire Help’, me Groog.”

Ug says: “Me Ug. Help. Fire not work. Feet cold.”

Technical Support: “You have flint and stone?”

Ug: “Ugh.”

Technical Support: “You hit them together?”

Ug: “Ugh.”

Technical Support: “You bang them together real hard?”

Ug: “Ugh. Lots hard. Ug bang thumb twice!”

Technical Support: “What happen?”

Ug: “Thumb go red. Lots of pain shooting up arm. Me get dizzy and…”

Technical Support: “No. No. What happen? What happen when Ug bang flint and stone together?”

Ug: “Fire not work. Feet cold.”

Technical Support: (sigh) “Make spark?”

Ug: “No spark, no fire, me confused. Feet cold. Fire work yesterday.”

Technical Support: (sigh) “You change rock?”

Ug: “Me no change rock”

Technical Support: “You change flint?”

Ug: “Ug change nothing.”

Technical Support: “You sure?”

Ug: “Me make one change. Stone hot, so me soak in stream so stone not burn Ug hand. Small change. It no can keep Ug from making fire. Feet cold.”

Technical Support: (big sigh) “Me take stone away and fix.”