Author: Alexander Fawn

He had missed his bus out of the city and had half an hour to kill.

The nearby café was still open. It was a cold night. At least he’d have somewhere warm to wait. He went in, bought a coffee and sat down with it, taking his time. He looked around. Only two other customers. He supposed that the place was winding down for the day. A television hung from the ceiling. It silently showed a tennis game in progress. Suddenly, the game broke off for an item of breaking news. A full head and shoulders photograph of a man appeared, filling the screen. No sound, just a mugshot with a caption saying wanted for murder. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

It was a picture of him!

It certainly looked like him. Same hair colour and style. Same facial features, even the mole on his chin and the other by the side of his nose. Even he would have to say that it was him!

He instinctively looked around. He surmised that he was the only one looking at it. Then, the caption banner beneath rolled to say that the public should not approach him, as he is armed and dangerous. This picture was replaced by the newsreader, again, with only subtitles. He was saying that a woman had been attacked earlier in the evening. She had left the theatre and was walking to a taxi rank when she was dragged into an unlit doorway. She was robbed of her diamond necklace, stabbed and left for dead. When medics arrived at the scene, resuscitation was not possible. The newscaster went on, but the man had stopped reading.

How was this possible? This had definitely been his picture being broadcast on live TV. Was this some identical twin that he was never told about? Could it be a clone of himself or some kind of doppelganger? Another me, coming from some alternate universe, some parallel existence? So many possibilities. He knew that all of this was perfectly ridiculous, but he didn’t know what else to think. Was he being set up? If so, why him? He was a nobody!

Just then the television screen went black and the lights flicked off and on again. The man at the counter smiled and nodded, indicating that he was about to close.

He stood up and walked slowly to the door. He had no choice but to show himself in public. Outside he buttoned his jacket up and thrust his hands deep into his side pockets. It was at this point that he was confronted with yet another possibility; this one far more horrifying than anything he’d thought of so far.

This came about as his fingertips came to rest on what felt like a necklace!

The pastoral scene that adorned the wall of the alley was vibrant with colour.

The beauty of it would go largely unnoticed, located in a dead-end service lane well off the beaten track of shoppers and city folk. The artist, a girl in her early twenties, had always been talented. She had shunned the prospect of Art College, preferring to work her pictorial magic on any wall that presented itself, regardless of where she found it and without conscious care for who found it. She had always know that the lifestyle that came with her activities was not one that promoted good health. It had been a chosen life. Handouts and food scraps were all that fuelled her passion, and this winter in the city had been particularly hard. Survival was not at its best…

The truth of this could be seen by the bundle of rags at the foot of the fresco. The discarded takeaway food container and the empty choc milk carton that lay beside the bundle were the last. Although the morning sun crept along the wall, it heralded no life.

The bundle did not move.

It may be unkind to say that the lad wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but it would be true.

He was standing on the railway platform in the city reading the notice. It told customers to speak up if they are aware of anything they regarded as strange. If it seemed in anyway unusual, they should say something. In large, bold letters it read, ‘Reporting anything unusual won’t hurt you’.

The lady standing nearby looked nice. He went over to her and in a low voice said, “Birds don’t urinate”.

She was startled and said, “I beg your pardon.”

A little louder, he said, “I’m letting you know that birds don’t urinate.”

Her face turned red.

He shrugged. “I’m just letting you know… I’m… reporting it.”

Although the poster had clearly stated that it wouldn’t hurt, the woman walloped him on the side of his head with her handbag!

It had been yet another hectic day in the despatch office.

She had stayed back to clear the paperwork after a late delivery came in. It was one that was due to go out on the following day. This is why she was riding on the late bus, feeling exhausted. It was going to be a late night. She would make sure she got a good night’s sleep tonight. Suddenly, as she considered this, a gentle smile flickered across her face as she thought about her small but homely flat that waited for her; waited to provide her with the sanctuary and comfort she needed. She had only moved in a few months back, but had made it her own special place very quickly. It had been more than a year since the divorce and apart from staying with her fairly stressful job, she hadn’t looked back. Life was good.

It was dark by the time she swiped her card to open the gate. As she approached her block, she was surprised to see that a light came from one of her windows. She stopped for a moment, confirming that it was coming from her living room. She had always been careful about switching everything off when she left in the mornings. Was this a home invasion? She doubted that she would leave that particular light on by mistake. Did she have the right window? She briefly considered reporting it to the police, it would only take a call on her mobile. Then, she imagined how embarrassing it would be if it turned out that she had simply forgotten to switch the light off.

Riding up in the elevator, she went over her morning movements trying to remember whether anything unusual had happened. She couldn’t come up with anything. At her door, she hesitated a moment, then let herself in. In the tiny entrance hall she could see a glimmer of light coming from the direction of the living room. She pushed the door open slowly and stood gawping. There, on her lounge, casually reading the latest copy of her Tiffany Magazine, was none other than Richard Gere!

She couldn’t speak; she just stood gaping. He lowered the magazine and looked up. He could see that she was in a state of shock. No doubt, it was because he felt bad about giving her such a unexpected jolt and wanted to make her feel more at ease with his being there, he held up the magazine, saying, “Tiffany, my middle name.”

At that moment, she was thrown forward when the bus came to an abrupt halt. She squinted through the window at dark and unfamiliar surroundings. As the conductor made his way to her she knew he was going to inform her that this was the end of the line.

She looked at the time.

Her late night just got later.

He simply loved working with wood.

He often found that he had difficulty describing the sheer joy he experienced when working with wood. He would spend hours in his well-appointed workshop out the back. When it came to top quality carpentry tools it had to be a tradesman’s utopia. Whatever he was making, he delighted in the beauty of the grain, with its never-ending variety of patterns, the streaks and the swirls of darker veins that ran through each piece of timber and how this changed with every cut of his saw or slice of his chisel. He would often be completely mesmerised by the way that shavings peeled away beneath his chisel.

He loved the way sawdust would accumulate across his bench. He would sweep it up carefully each time and keep it in tiny jars. Each one having its own quality and colour from each of his woodwork projects. He adored the way the aroma of it all filled his nostrils. He would often become quite heady with it.

Most important of all… the fact that he could never make a decent job of anything he made, never bothered him… not once.

He was completely engrossed in the short story he was reading.
The preface to the story had explained that the writer had been high on some drug or other when he wrote it. The story involved a young man staggering along a city street late one night looking for a taxi. It described how the writer had based the idea on a time when he was high on some drug or other when on holiday in Ibiza, a city known for its vibrant nightlife, a popular destination for partygoers from all corners of the globe and often referred to as the party island. It happened at a time when he had stumbled out of a night club, being high on some drug or other, and found a man wandering around in a haze, apparently high on some drug or other, trying to find a taxi.

Apparently, at the time of the incident, despite being high on some drug or other, he had returned to his hotel to write a story based on the event.
Reading this story with great interest, despite himself being quite high on some drug or other, he found it engrossing.

He’d been working on the project for several years and it was finally ready for a test run.

He wanted to share the moment with his friend from the inventors club, who knew what he’d been working on and had come up with a number of ideas and suggestions throughout its development. This was his alpha version. The software program he built would allow access to all worldwide financial systems. These could be displayed simultaneously while using inbuilt binary analysis subsystems that enabled a user to receive instant graphs that compare international stock exchange data. He had included a basic glossary so that many of the program’s features could be activated by using voice control. Two special voice command features were included, known only to him. They were ‘H7Q’ and ‘H7Q4’. The first voice command was what he used to start the program, much like a password. The second would only be used as an emergency shutdown.

This counter command was incorporated should anything go wrong. It would instantly shut down the program, ensuring that no other alterations could be made before any bugs in the coding were fixed. It would shut down for twenty four hours while problems were being resolved. A problem may take many hours to fix. The whole thing contained a vast number of lines of code; the final number to be determined when he was confident that every aspect of the program was working and no further bug fixes were needed. Over time, several sections had been run individually to check on their performance, but tonight would be the first time the entire program would be activated, and he wanted to share the moment with his friend.

Although his fellow inventor was mainly involved in things mechanical, he had made some useful suggestions about the use of graphics for the main menu screens. Besides, this would be a very special moment and he was really excited that they were going to witness it together.

At last, they were standing side by side, in front of the system’s large screen.

Doing his best to remain calm and professional, he said to his friend, “Are you ready?”

The other nodded enthusiastically.

He switched the microphone on and said, “H-7-Q.” At this, the screen lit up with a very impressive opening page.

His friend was impressed and while staring approvingly at the screen, asked almost absentmindedly, “What was the H7Q for?”

He was finding the narrow lanes difficult to navigate.

Junctions kept appearing with no indication as to which way to go or which way was out. He wanted to get out, that was for sure. It gradually dawned on him that it was a maze. Yes, that’s why it was so difficult. He was in a maze! He looked up, as though looking up into the sky would help! Nevertheless, after staring into space for a few moments, he saw something. Great moving shapes became visible. Then there was recognition; followed by confusion, followed by annoyance. Two large eyes were looking back. In that moment, some strange element of communication took place.

These humans, he thought, they’re are supposed to be so much smarter than us, but they certainly lack the most common social graces. How hard would it be for him, having a bird’s-eye view as it were, to help me out of here? These people are positively unhelpful!

The old man was sitting on the front porch smoking his pipe when the boy came by.

Always feeling he could rely on his grandfather to listen to his troubles, he sat down and explained how he had been playing in the park, kicking his ball around with his mates. The boy got teary when he explained that he left it under one of the park seats while the three of them went off tree-climbing for a while. When they returned, it was gone!

“Probably pinched, but we didn’t see anybody,” the boy said, looking up at his grandfather with wet eyes.

“Ah! Well, sorry to hear that son,” he said, patting the boy on his knee.

“It was my favourite ball; cost heaps.”

The old man sighed. “Never mind; there’ll be others.” He sat puffing on his pipe for a while. “There are all kinds of losses, you know. Why! In this street alone, I could give you examples”. He fell silent while he knocked out his pipe. “Yes, four cases come to mind.”

The boy sat back ready to listen. He enjoyed the old man’s stories.

“It happened to that nice young woman up there at twenty-eight. She’d had a visit from her sister and her husband. After tea they said how much they enjoyed her casserole. She was flattered and said they were welcome to take what was left over and they could enjoy it all over again. When the time came for them to leave, the woman said that the dish had cooled and why not take it as it is and return the dish next time.” He shook his head. “It was a beautiful looking pot with a flower design on the sides and on the lid. It was a bit of an heirloom apparently, passed down a couple of generations. She knew how precious it was. Anyway, that’s what they did.” He shook his head again. “Sadly, on their way home they had an accident; a minor one at first. They ran into the back of another vehicle and when they got out he engine caught fire. They stood on the side of the road watching when the tank went up. In no time at all, the thing was a blazing inferno!”

“Wow! Said the boy.

“Wow indeed! You see how these things can happen? She lost her dish.”

After a brief pause, he went on. “Then there was the retired guy at number fourteen, who spent so much of his time writing short stories, then taking them to the local pub and reading them to his fans. It was just a small group of half-a-dozen people who drank there regularly. Once a week they’d sit in the corner while he read to them. Anyway, he’d been ill for a long time, then suddenly it got worse. He was told that he didn’t have long to live. Naturally, his fans said how sad they were when their meetings stopped. Then, right out of the blue, he got better! The funny thing was, after letting people know the good news of his recovery and how they could continue with their evenings, he turned up at the appointed time to find that none of them were there! They had all started drinking somewhere else. He couldn’t understand why.” He nodded at the boy. “There you are, you see. He lost his audience.”

He scratched his head and went on. “I don’t know whether you know this, but the man at number seventeen is a heavy drinker.

The boy shook his head.

“No, perhaps you wouldn’t. Anyway, he got so drunk that one evening he staggered into the local library. People that had been sitting quietly reading looked up with a start when he banged the door open. He went up to the girl at the enquiry desk and ordered a gin and tonic. When she refused to take his order he started yelling at her, demanding she get him a drink. She tried to explain where he was, but he obviously didn’t understand and became really aggressive. It took two of them, the manager and one of the men that had been browsing books, to throw him out!” The old man snorted. “I hear he went back a couple of days later to apologise, but they didn’t want to know. He lost his library membership.”

After shaking his head slowly, he looked up. “Probably the worst and most tragic was the case of the old lady over there, at number four. Sad case. With her husband gone, and her forty-something year old son, as mad as a March hare still living at home. This son of hers had been getting really frustrated with a neighbour’s dog. It kept coming into the front garden, braking plants and digging holes. It turns out that she was out late one afternoon when the nice little delivery boy came delivering the local paper. It was getting dark and he was half way up the garden path when the son grabbed the shotgun and opened the front window. The woman arrived home only minutes later to find her son standing over the body.”

The old man sniffed.

“She had lost her favourite delivery boy.”

The youngster wriggled around on the seat. He looked up wide eyed at the old storyteller.

“Is any of that true Grandpa?”

“Uh? Well, whether it is or it isn’t, make the most of it. They tell me I’m no longer able to look after myself. They’re putting me in a home.”

He sniffed again.

“They say I’m losing my marbles!”

The two men sat in silence.

Outside, an early evening storm seemed to be brewing. Inside, the father thought about what his son had said. He thought about the consequences that may well follow, if any.

A distant, gentle roll of thunder penetrated the silence of the room.

The son also sat thinking. He couldn’t think of anything meaningful that he could add. He turned to look at the darkening window.

A light rain was now splashing against the glass.

The father slowly put down the newspaper he’d been reading.

Thunder sounded again, this time with a boom.

The son watched, as his father removed his glasses, noting not for the first time how carefully he placed them down. In his eyes, his father had always been a wise and prudent man. He considered the differences between them. There seemed to be a wide gap, something that went beyond the obvious differences in their age.

The rain began pelting against the window now and the occasional flash of lightening lit the back garden.

The father went to the window and looked out for a while. It was obvious that a summing up of what he’d been told was running through his head.

Thunder clapped loudly somewhere overhead and the relentless rain still pounded the side of the house.

After peering up at the sky, the father closed the curtains. He gave a barely audible groan as he sat back down.

Another clap of thunder.

The son leant forward slightly, as if there was something he wanted to add, but instead, he lowered his head with a sigh.

As time passed, the rain began to ease and the sound of the storm fell away.

The father picked up his glasses and his newspaper. He sat regarding his son for a few long seconds before returning to his reading.

The rain had stopped and only distant rumblings could be heard.

The son sunk further back into his chair. He watched his father for a while. It was as though they had come to some tacit agreement that there was nothing more to say.

Soft rumblings told him that the storm had nearly passed.