Author: Alexander Fawn

As a species they had just about everything going for them.

Their world had plenty of land for farming, the potential for an equal sharing of food was open to them, and there was enough wealth to go around for all. On the face of it, it was idyllic. There was so much that was plentiful, an abundance of everything. There was no need for anyone to worry about anything. However, ‘what could have been’ and ‘what was’, were two completely different things. The former did not allow for the all-pervasive push for more. More land, a great deal about land, more food, and more money. A never-ending striving for a bigger house, a nicer car, more expensive clothes, luxury travel, better quality food, and a better and more prestigious job. The people simply want more. There is no end to it.

Their masters, those who have all of these things and more, find that this endless craving quite naturally brings about a condition that is much to their liking.

This world is not far from home.

They never told anybody about the airport incident.

Why should they? There was really no point, and when you think about it, they did nothing wrong. They were just an innocent couple returning from an overseas holiday. You could say they were mister and misses nobody. That’s not to say they didn’t enjoy their annual break; they did. Taking two weeks out to travel away to somewhere different was a yearly event that they looked forward to. They always brought something home with them; sometimes a trinket or two, sometimes clothes. On this occasion he’d fallen in love with, and had bought, a jacket. It was a subtle shade of green with what he called football buttons. He liked it more than she did, but he had got his way. After a few remarks about its unusual colour he had deliberately bought a red handkerchief to stuff in its pocket. It certainly made him stand out in a crowd and she was fairly understanding, after all, they were on holiday.

Anyway, the incident, it happened just after they landed. They had collected their luggage and were set to go when she needed a toilet. They found one and he sat looking after the cases. It all happened so quickly. She was only just out of sight when it happened. He had picked up a paper someone had left on a seat and had barely read the headlines when the woman appeared. She was attractive, expensively dressed and was carrying a large handbag. To his surprise, she approached casually and stood in front of him. Smiling, she seemed to admire his jacket before taking the seat next him. She sat for a moment or two before she unzipped a piece of his hand luggage, removed a parcel from her handbag and dropped it in.

He was amazed at how quickly she had done the whole thing. It left him in a stunned silence. Then, without turning her head, she whispered, “Tell your people the governor is pleased with the service they provided.” At that, she stood and slowly walked away. He watched her go, gawping. He sat, still trying to take it all in. He peered down. The parcel was a bit bigger than a house brick. He put his hand in and lifted it a little. It was heavy. Something told him it was money, bank notes, lots of them, cash, payment for a service provided. He had time to turn it all over in his mind very carefully before his wife returned.

He saw her strolling back and patted the seat. She sat down, seeing that he had something to say. Quietly, he said, “While you were gone, something absolutely amazing happened.” She turned to look at him. She could see he was serious. He then recounted the incident as precisely as he could, before suggesting that they leave without delay.

When he’d finished, she said, “Shouldn’t we report it or something?”

He looked around and sighed. “What’s the point? Who’re we going to tell?” He shook his head slowly. “The only way any of this doesn’t go badly for us, is if we get out of here without anything else happening. D’you see what I mean? We should accept what has happened and just go.”

At that moment, she surprised herself with how tolerant she was being, first the jacket and now this! “OK,” she said, “if you think that’s best.”

“I do, but we need to move slowly, you know, normal, nothing unusual, just picking up our luggage and leaving the airport.”

As bartenders go, he was very popular.

Always willing to stop and talk. To pause just long enough when the place was busy and to share a drink and a chat when it was quiet. Naturally, being located across the street from the football stadium, those that regularly visited the pub had a predictable preference for talking football. Discussing the way a game went, how it should have gone, or the good judgement or otherwise of a particular referee. There always seemed to be a great deal to talk about, regarding the sport itself, the players, the team managers and owners, the rules, the price of admission, and so on. The bartender was always there with a knowledgeable contribution. He would dissect games with the best of them. He knew all of the teams, along with the names of most of the players within them. He knew the names of the coaches and the managers, along with their histories. It’s fair to say that he did very well for tips.

After closing time each evening, when he and the pub owner had cleared away, he left for home, taking his secret with him. It was safe.

No one would ever think to ask if he actually liked football.

He sits on the front porch, taking in the sounds of the neighbourhood.

In his rocker, with eyes closed, he swivels his head to take in any new sound that the world has to offer. He can hear a magpie’s song, the cry of other birds, and through the trees he hears the whistling of the wind. There is the buzz of an occasional fly, the drone of a highflying airliner, occasional voices from the street, the yapping of distant dogs and the jangle of wind chimes. He strains to hear the crackle of a backyard bonfire and the distant hum of vehicles.

He isn’t blind, he just enjoys listening.

The detective’s flagging career was noticed by his fellow officers.

He was beginning to wonder if he should have stayed in uniform. It wasn’t a bad life and generally speaking he received a lot more respect out on the street. He was considering requesting a transfer back to uniform when the golden opportunity to turn it all around fell into his lap. The station had been buzzing with a case for a number of months. Four serial killings and a task force of detectives put together to solve it. Of course, he hadn’t been asked. Meanwhile, he’d been given a robbery to investigate. The break-in took place only a couple of blocks from his apartment. He was there, questioning neighbours when he met the man that would boost his career.

At first, he didn’t want to answer the door, but the detective heard noises coming from inside so he persevered. Eventually, a very nervous man opened up and the detective went in and began asking his questions regarding the robbery. He answered all these, but he was obviously hiding something. The detective looked around and figured the man was an illegal immigrant. When confronted with questions about his nationality and status the man broke down. The detective said he had no choice, he would have to report it. It was then that the man asked if he could do a deal. If the policeman let him stay under the radar he could provide him with valuable information about the killer. So, after negotiations and assurances were given the man came up with a full report on the man committing the murders.

It turned out that he knew the killer quite well, he thought he was a bad man. He went on to provide the killer’s name and address, some of his movements on the nights the crimes were committed and the location of at least one of the bodies. The detective said he was grateful for the information, saying that he’d keep his name out of his report. He also said that he would see if permanent residency could be arranged and that he’d be in touch in the next few days. The man was delighted with the idea and would wait for his call.

Back at the station, over a couple of days the detective became something of a celebrity. The reports he handed in were written to show that he had done a lot of digging and following up of clues. With the information he gave to the task force the criminal was charged and being held in custody. The detective let a couple of days go by before he contacted his informer. He arranged to meet him on the following evening on a local building site where they could meet privately. He told him that he’d kept his name out of the reports and had made some progress with arranging his permanent residency. He would bring papers for him to sign.

The detective knew only too well that should his witness ever talk about the part he played in the affair, his newfound status would soon vanish. However, this would never happen. The fact that the man was about to have a city skyscraper built on top of him would put paid to that.

It was just a small piece of metal, lost among the pebbles on the front drive.

It was aware of a break. Only just aware, as it now took on a new and most separate life, and whatever its old life was, it was gone. Being hidden by earth and stones it was not likely to move around very much. Having thought that, the tiny item wondered why such a notion should occur to it. Maybe it had once been a part of something that moved. It knew it was small, not quite square and made of metal. Not that it really mattered now; what it was or what it had been. It would just lie here now, getting used to its new existence; although, it was curious…

Time passed, as time is apt to do, even for an apparently irrelevant bit of something. The day was losing its sun and there were comings and goings at the house. At the front door, looking out, the man called over his shoulder, “Is the lad home?” The woman inside, busy unpacking her weekend shopping replied. “No. Still out on his bike. He said he wouldn’t be late.”

None of this was of any interest to the piece of broken metal. In fact, the mere fact that it was just lying on the ground with little prospect of moving was taking on an annoying aspect regarding its current situation.

A short time later the boy returned, bringing with him a sound. A repetitive clicking, becoming louder as he approached. For the tiny piece on the ground this brought about a revelation. In an instant it realised that it was a metal tooth broken off the bike’s chain cog. It was thrilled with the newly found knowledge of where it came from, but at the same time saddened by the thought that it had been separated.

The boy knocked and his father came out. “My bike isn’t working properly,” was his glum greeting. His father looked the bike over. “There’s your problem’ he said, pointing to where the tooth was missing. “Can we fix it?” said the boy. His father shook his head. “Not really son, it’s pretty old. I think we need to get you a new bike, don’t you?” The boy clapped and grinned. His father went on. “We’ll take it to the recycling plant and buy you a new one at the same time.

The bike itself, being the larger of the two things separated, and with a greater sense of discovery, wondered where the other part was. It began taking in the other’s presence. Fortunately it was close. It could be managed…

When the time came, the bike was wheeled out to the front of the house where the utility vehicle sat. Quite naturally, it happened that the front tyre ran over the broken tooth, snagging it in its tread. Hence, it was all loaded into the back of the vehicle. They were happily together again.

Needless to say, the humans involved knew absolutely nothing of any of this. This sort of thing had always been, and will continue to be, totally beyond their understanding. There is little doubt that they will remain forever utterly oblivious to such things.

It had been exactly six years ago, six happy years since that moment.

Although she may not have said it in so many words, she was aware of the fact that life’s vacillations were inevitable. Back then, it had been a strange time for her. A time when she had uttered that terrible curse while staring into her bathroom mirror, wishing him dead. Then, days later, the police report, with the witness’s statement that showed how it had been that precise moment that the truck and ended his rotten life. It had marked the end of his violence, the end of hiding the evidence of his brutality. It had been a beginning. A fresh start. She had been forty when it happened. Since then she had enjoyed her new life; living alone. Being very much her own person. The intervening years had been good.

Now, with all the anguish behind her, more and more, she felt that it was time to let a new partner into her life. Someone special. No violence or brutality, but someone considerate and loving. The simply stated logic of her thoughts had surprised her, but naivety would play no part in what she was about to do. She would take hold of the unknowable, and use it. She would make a wish, a very private one. She needed her fortunes to move from curse to blessing, and for this she needed a wish.

Looking back, as she often did, there must have been something really special about that moment. Just knowing that was enough. There was no need for her to understand it. It seemed strange to think that such knowledge was irrelevant, but it was. She knew the time to the exact minute. The instant that she had cursed and the moment he had died. Now, staring up at the clock, it would be that very moment again… when she would make her wish.

She had excused herself to take a call.

He sat at the table wondering how long she would be. He knew that their regular time together was limited. She had finished her drink. He had hardly touched his. It was as though there was a chance that the activity of drinking could lead to him missing something. Missing time with her. She was beautiful and these brief encounters allowed hardly enough time to fully appreciate the fact. He stared at the napkin with her lipstick on it. He wanted to pick it up and kiss it. He also noticed the scratch mark on the edge of the wooden table. It was almost a letter ‘s’. He tried to think of someone he knew whose name began with an ‘s’. He couldn’t. He felt sure she wouldn’t be long.

He looked up at the ceiling and saw an air vent with tiny square holes in it. He wondered whether there were any spiders living in there; and did they come out at night looking for food? A woman appeared, entering from the other side of the room. It wasn’t her, but she wouldn’t be long. She would want to get back to him as soon as possible, he knew that.

He was wondering what she would say if he suggested they make a change and go out to a restaurant sometime. He was thinking this when he caught sight of the paint that was peeling on the side of the nearby tea trolley. He couldn’t help wondering why it was peeling in that one particular spot. He couldn’t see any reason for it. Not knowing that, bothered him, but his attention was quickly grabbed when he saw her returning, closing down her phone as she approached. His heart leapt and his face lit up.

She returned his smile as she stood at the table. Then, nodding, she picked up his papier-mâché frog and said, “That’s very nice, Tommy.” Putting it down, she picked up his folder and put it in her case. With another smile, she said “I have to go now, but I’ll see you again next week.”

He watched her go.

The man in the white jacket and trousers stepped forward. “OK, let’s get you back to your room.”

The woman who lived alone at number thirty-four was a nasty piece of work.

She had caused so much trouble and bad feeling in the street for several years. Gossip, particularly vicious gossip, was what she liked to spread. It was a wonder that anybody ever listened to her prattle on, but they did. That was the trouble. Once they had started, the rumours just grew. The woman who lived at number fifty-seven with her family in the same street, had often had bad thoughts about her. Of late, they seemed to be getting worse, and louder. Yes, louder, she thought. They were voices now, or maybe several voices, it was hard to tell. They would tell her to do things that she was sure she would ordinarily not even consider thinking about.

The real trouble began one afternoon coming back from the shops, she noted that the woman’s car was not in the carport. She paused, looking at the concrete lion that was mounted on one of the gate columns. It wasn’t cemented in place and she considered pushing it off. She went to move on when a voice said, ‘Go on, do it.’ So, she did. It went with a crash, but didn’t raise any attention. She hurried home.

She had trouble coming to terms with the fact that she’d actually done it, but at the same time was really surprised by how good it made her feel. Of course, she made no mention of it. Nothing seemed to come of it, and the statue wasn’t replaced. The next thing that happened, quite late in the evening, after her children had gone to bed, the voice, probably the same, was suggesting she take the can of weedkiller from the shed and pour the contents over the woman’s front flower bed. At first she was shocked that it had entered her head, but the voice became more and more insistent. Finally, telling her husband that she needed to sort items for recycling, she went out and did exactly what had been suggested. She had found the experience gave her such a wonderful thrill.

It was well over a week later, when the flowers were all dyeing nicely, that she heard the voice again. It was the same voice, she was sure of that now. However, this time it was really troubling. It was the desire to burn the woman’s house down! This thought was completely preposterous and she could never do such a thing. But, as before, over a number of days the voice became more commanding and the idea more appealing. The voice had told her several times how it should be done… in the early hours, petrol used for the mower, where to splash it, how to arrange the quickest getaway, everything.

So it came to pass that, in the middle of the night, the sound of sirens sounded in her street. Many of her neighbours came out, some in their dressing gowns, to watch the firemen try to get the blaze under control. However, the fire was so widespread that this was going to prove impossible. The best they could do was stop it from spreading to the nearby properties. The woman that owned the house had suffered badly from smoke inhalation and was taken away by ambulance.

It was well over a month later, when the affair had died down, that the voice returned. Over the weeks that she’d heard nothing, she felt a strange sense of loss creep in. She was almost asleep when she heard it. She slid gently out of bed so as not to wake her husband. Silently, she went through to the lounge where she settled into her armchair. It seemed to her that the voice knew what she was doing, being prepared to wait for the right time to talk. She sat listening carefully as the voice introduced itself as Beelzebub. It said how pleased it was with what she had done so far. It explained that this was only the very beginning and how it would be. It stated that there were far greater, more exciting, and much more important things that lay ahead for her.

When it had finished, she felt very tired. She returned to her bed soundlessly. She lay for a while considering the thrill of it all. Then, she turned over and went back to sleep.

He knows they are keeping him safe here.

His walls are white. Nothing on them. He likes them that way. He has vague memories of being in rooms with cluttered walls. Messy bric-a-brac signifying nothing. There is no visible pollution in his place. Just a beautiful whiteness surrounding him, keeping him safe. Allowing him to dwell on what is truly significant. In this place, what he sees and what he hears is safe. Here he has only significant sounds. Those that burgeon with meaning. None of those he has left behind. He has never been disturbed by traffic sounds. There has been no honking or squealing tyres or revving engines. He has no idea where his room is, within the building. He cannot remember the start of it. He may have been sedated the day they brought him in.

His head turns slightly to better his listening. He can hear them now; those significant noises. Sounds that would mean nothing to many. The rhythms of footfall. The feet that pass, just beyond his door. Sometimes clicking, sometimes thudding. The steps of men and women. Different sounds, different shoes. He knows them all. He also knows that with the sounds, and with the moments that pass, there is a great renewal of things, with everything changing with each moment. He loves the sounds; they are of great comfort to him.

He knows that these things would not be noticed, would have no significance for those who dwell on the outside. Such things would be considered mundane and without meaning to them. They would be irrelevant and unnoticed within their realms of random cacophony. It is a manmade complex and busy world, created by those who live in it. Those who have been conditioned since birth to accept, to ignore, and to allow the corruption of it all. He knows he no longer has to tolerate the incessant contamination that runs riot in that other place.

He knows they are keeping him safe here.