Author: Alexander Fawn

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.

She had always wanted to take flying lessons.

She went on and on about it. She said that if she didn’t at least give it a go, she would always regret it. So, after a long period of saving up, he saw it as his chance to give her what she wanted. Of course, she was thrilled when he told her. They went to the flying school together to make the booking. When the day came for her first lessen he walked around the small aeroplane, while she filled out all of the necessary forms in the office.

Finally, they emerged and he watched as they made their way to the plane. He stood looking on with a sense of excitement as they began to taxi. He managed to get in a quick wave just before they lifted off.

Five minutes later, the engine fell silent and it began to fall out of the sky. When it hit the ground it exploded, sending up a huge fire ball followed by a cloud of black smoke.

Unseen, he allowed himself a brief smile, before laying on the dramatics big time for the police and the newspaper reporters.

His only regret was about the pilot… He thought he was nice.

It was an unexpected complimentary ticket for a show.

It arrived in her mail with nothing to indicate who had sent it. She was intrigued as it was a performance put on with marionettes; a puppet show. She hadn’t been to one of these since she was a child. She decided to go. Her latest book was doing well and she had hardly started on her research notes for the next one. As a bestselling author, she had done very well out of debunking black magic and its practitioners. As a result of her diligent research she knew as much about the craft of the mystics as they did themselves. She was an expert regarding their rituals and ceremonies, their incantations and spells. Not that any of it was worth a fig. She’d been exposing all such mumbo jumbo long enough to know just how worthless it all was. Nevertheless, it had provided her with a very good living. She checked her busy calendar. Yes, she should take a break.

On the night, the theatre was full. This was obviously a very popular show. She was enjoying the experience of revisiting an art form not seen for so long. It was during the final act that it happened. Quite suddenly she became aware of the puppets hand movements. They were very precise, and as far as she could tell they had been made several times. They were slow, specifically performed motions. The fact was, she recognised them. She was sure that these were hand movements used to cast a spell. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember what the spell was for, but it was a spell.

She looked up into the curtained darkness above the stage. She knew that somewhere above, hands would be manipulating the strings. Twisting and jerking the cross bar, skilfully pulling strings and deliberately causing the puppet, now standing forward on centre stage, to make these carefully chosen movements. She’d seen diagrams of such hand actions a number of times when researching this kind of spell casting. It was annoying that she couldn’t bring details of it to mind. She planned to look it up when she got home. After all, there may be something of a story in it.

That plan, along with any others that she had regarding her future, changed radically that night.

Her recently published book would be her last, and thanking the girl who had directed her to her seat was the very last thing she would ever say.

Showing footprints, making castles,

Filling play pits, bonding walls.

It lines the shore,

And so much more,

It through an hour glass falls.

What movement is there between each grain?

How many, one against the other move?

What location does each one retain?

Such knowledge hard to prove.

–

And being sober, do we know it all?

For this, no case is mounted.

It is part of the great unknowable,

That the grains cannot be counted.

He had been taking his nightly walks through the woods at the back of the house for years.

No matter what time of year, he hardly ever missed. Just a fifteen minute stroll through the dark trees was enough to set him up for a good night’s sleep. In fact, it was because of the countless number of times he had done it, that it made the incident so remarkable. The moon was partly formed on the night and he had paused briefly to find it through the canopy of trees. It was during these few silent and inactive moments that the thing ran past. In the poor light he was just able to make the creature out. It was a hedgehog. Although there was nothing remarkable about that, it was running upright on its hind legs!

It was because of this curious fact that he decided to follow it rather deeper into the wood than usual. For what seemed like the best part of an hour he made his way forward as quietly as possible until he came to the edge of a large hollow. He could hear voices. Looking down into it he could see hundreds of hedgehogs, all standing upright, and all facing a small central group that seemed to be in charge.

It was a meeting, and once he had got over the fact that they were all capable of speech, he began to listen. It soon became obvious that these creatures were planning a major revolt with the soul intention of taking over. Listening to the ideas being voiced, it was obvious that they were dissatisfied with the way humans were running things and felt they could do a far better job of it. The meeting seemed to go on forever, with all present expressing the idea that the takeover should begin as soon as possible.

Finally, with hoots of “Bravo” and “Onward”, the animals dispersed, scampering off in all directions. Some coming uncomfortably close to where he was crouched.

When they were all gone, he laid thinking about the consequences of what he had heard.

Then, a shocking thought came to him.

Who’s he going to tell?