Going Back (The Moon Can’t Wait)

Friday 1200 Zulu
“We’ve lost contact with South Pole Base.”
This was big news. I could only speculate why Mission Director Lavrov was telling me first – if I was the first.
“Who’s this ‘we’?”
“Both us and Mission Control on Earth. All radio and data contact, telemetry, complete works became silent at 0900 Zulu, Friday.”
“The Sat links?”
“Both Sat links to us and direct feeds to Earth. Whole show went off at once. No warning, no prior emergency, nothing. Just like somebody pulled plug on entire base.”
“What does Mission Control say?”
“Somebody’s got to get ass down there and find out what’s happened.” I don’t know why, but I always find it amusing when Russians try to use American slang. Especially when agitated. “Assuming worst, till we know better.”
“When do we go?”
“We can’t prep a sub-orbital flight in under four weeks – ”
“Four weeks?” I was surprised. “Why the delay?”
“The Selena is undergoing routine overhaul and maintenance. Right now she’s lying around in Engineering Bay in about three thousand pieces.”
“Why is the car always in the shop just when you need it?” I said. Perhaps my levity was out of place. Certainly, Lavrov scowled at me.
“So we are sending team in one of the Marathons,” he added, somehow coping with his bad mood – at least he was regaining his fluency in English – “along with trailer carrying supplies for every kind of eventuality. That’s another reason for going by lunar surface route – bigger load.”
“But the surface trip from here to South Base is over five thousand kilometres – and that’s not counting the detours around craters. Especially as you get nearer – it’s, what?  –– like a thousand kilometres of Himalayas.”
“It’s been done before – and that was before rougher sections were bulldozed to make causeways and cuttings,” said Lavrov. “About the same as crossing the Sahara, end to end.” His expression had not improved any, so it still didn’t sound like some kind of picnic he was suggesting. “You can average 40 kilometres an hour which means 140 hours to get there – about six Earth days. Which is just as well as it’s only seven Earth days till Lunar night on the Earth side.”
“So who’s going on this jolly jaunt?” I asked. It was a safe bet I already knew one person who would be going. John Patterson. Me.
“Jim Sellars, Dr Li, Françoise Lagrange from medical and Ajali Ndege. Then there are two newcomers. Dr Ahmed Zubaydi and his assistant, Ibrahim Rashid.”
Newcomers indeed – I recognised their names from a recent passenger manifest, but knew nothing else. “Who are they?”
“They came in on the last trip from South Base before the Selena went for her overhaul.”
“What are their specialities?”
“Apart from having visited South Base and seen how it was just days ago?” Lavrov picked up and glanced at a slim folder for several seconds like he had never read it before. “Dr Zubaydi was expert in geological survey – oil prospecting, I gather – before he joined our team.” A pause. “Rashid is – ah – his right-hand man… been with him for years. Deputy-Directory Kennedy at South will have done a more thorough debriefing, seeing as they were joining his staff. They are visiting North just to get to know whole operation.”
“And who else?”
“And your good self, of course.” He still didn’t stop scowling.
“Why just seven of us?”
His scowl worsened, if that were possible. “If nothing serious has happened, there will be plenty of people there who can take care of themselves.”
“And if it is serious?”
“You won’t need more than seven of you.”
He filled me in on a few other details for my own speciality. “One last thing,” Lavrov added. “Keep in touch with us here at North Pole Base, every six hours. You know the protocol.”
I nodded. I knew the protocol. “Anything else?”
“Get back in one piece.”
I’d kind of planned that already.
Friday 1600 Zulu
Let me introduce you to a Marathon. It’s one hell of a bit of kit. It has twelve wheels, six in the forward tractor unit and six in the so-called trailer which was attached to the tractor by a fully sealed gimballed mid-section, like a flexible bus, although it could be jettisoned in an emergency, such as sliding down a crater wall and the like. It was unfair to call it a trailer, as drive went to all of its six wheels, just like the forward unit, which in turn wasn’t really a tractor in that it didn’t pull anything. In fact, each wheel has its own drive motor which could be cross-linked to any other wheel in case any motor failed. It could carry up to sixteen people, suitably equipped, though, on this occasion the rear unit would be full of stores with no passenger space. The whole thing weighed twelve thousand kilos on Earth, or just two thousand on the Moon. All of them were nick-named the “recreational vehicle” or “RV” by everyone that used them, both at North Pole Base where I normally spent my time, and at South Pole Base. There were five on the Moon in all with at least two stationed at each base and the fifth as a kind of spare. Each one cost one point eight billion dollars. Some RV.
The reason for always having at least two at each base was for contingency. Contingency and redundancy. When you live on the Moon you never adopt the mode of thought, “What if something goes wrong?” It’s always: “When things go wrong, I can do so-and-so.” There’s always a back-up, a spare, of everything from a spanner to a spacesuit. The only exceptions at all were the Selenas – the sub-orbital spacecraft – and the Atlases, the Earth-Moon shuttle/cargo craft – it simply wasn’t feasible to have duplicates of these hugely expensive transporters at both bases – we shared one a piece at each base with at least one either on Earth and one en route – four in all – and this was thought sufficient. That had worked out well, I couldn’t help thinking, considering the current circumstances, but then no-one had anticipated a whole base simply shutting down like a blown-out candle. As for our Selena, giving it regular and thorough maintenance was our way of covering our asses. That had worked out well, too, again given the same considerations. I can be quite cynical when I put my mind to it.
Considering what was about to happen, I was probably justified.

This is the opening of my novella which came out today, December 7^th, available at Lulu.com

Looking for Blues

Blue greys, blue haze, blue rays, blue jays,
Blue cables, blue tables, blue green, blue sheen,

Blue circle, blue square,
Blue birds over, don’t know where;

Blue Bols - umbrella drink,
Pot the blue then pot the pink

Blue Mondays, Ruby Tuesdays?
Don’t step on my blue suede shoes days.

Blue blokes telling blue jokes
Blew away in a puff of blue smoke;

Midnight men in midnight blue
For a midnight rendezvous

Blue oyster, blue mink,
Blue eye shadow, what d’you think?

Powder blue, Navy blue,
It’s all over baby blue;

Beryl, Cobalt, Aquamarine
Royal blue blood in a blue veined queen

Blue is the colour, what’s your game?
Georgie meets an old blue flame

Blue smarties, blue material,
Blue mints or mint imperial.

Blue with cold, blue with mould,
Blue ribbon, go for gold:

I don’t care if Monday’s blue;
The runaway train she blew, she blew:

Blue flies on blueberry pies and
Blue eyes on blue horizons;

Blue workers, blue collar,
Another day, another dollar

Blau punkt - blue spot.
Blue arrow, blue dot

Blue bellies, blue jeans,
St Louis blues in New Orleans

Bluebottles in my beer,
Blue tooth buzzing in my ear

Blue velvet, blue moon,
Creatures from the blue lagoon

Into the blue, out of the blue,
Up the blues and up yours too!

Sky blue pink with yellow dots on
Elementary my dear Watson.

© Dave Carr

How My Father Saved The World

Today, as we remember the 70th anniversary of the start of World War II, I can exclusively reveal a little-known fact. Not only did my father fight in the World War, he started it. And I can prove it. Well, almost.

Arthur was raised by Methodist parents in the rural fens of East Anglia. Many of his other relatives worked the land. I’d say they were farmers, but I’m not sure any of them actually owned any farms – in fact I’m not sure they owned anything, they were so poor – but they did do some farming. He left school at the age of fourteen to deliver milk, 14 hours a day from a ten gallon churn, something I would blanche at even now. Not surprisingly, he must have wondered whether there was a better life. He had one abiding interest – football. His parents’ best offer was that he become a Methodist minister.

He was talent-scouted and offered a contract with Peterborough United, then, as now, known as The Posh. The scout duly went to Arthur’s house to obtain his parents’ agreement. My grandfather literally chased him off the premises. Not only did he regard alcohol as a sin, along with sex, stealing and murder, he evidently thought football was the Devil’s handiwork too. My father was denied the opportunity of playing the game he loved, and for money too. Imagine that, today. Some parents probably would sell their children to a football club.

A few weeks later, World War II broke out. Coincidence? I think not. Two days after that, he enlisted.

That this son of the soil, when answering the call to arms, chose the Royal Navy, bearing in mind few duties took battleships into the heart of East Anglia, surely confirms it – he had planned all this to get as far away from his kin as possible.

He was assigned to HMS Dainty and ended up in the Med. The ship’s company, officers excepted, were designated "HX," which meant service, "for the duration of hostilities plus six months." My father later found out that the crew were almost entirely orphans – no family of any kind. They never received letters from home, they never sent letters – indeed some of them could barely read or write. Even at Christmas, they had no parcels or gifts. I bet my father felt he fitted right in. They must have been a tight-knit group.

Less than two years in, the Dainty was hit by a 1,000 pound bomb and sunk in Tobruk harbour.

Earlier on, they called in at Malta, where, to my father’s amazement, left-overs from the ship’s mess were sold as food to the locals. It’s not they were inescapably poor, it’s just that they gave all their money to the Church, who in turn used it buy gold statues for the places of worship. I think my father’s view of religion must have become even more jaundiced at that point.

I once asked him if he was terrified at the state the world was in at the time and what the future threatened. He said, "No, no. It was all great fun, really exciting. I was in charge of the ship’s launch, taking things ship-to-shore and back. I was seeing parts of the world I barely knew existed." It can’t all have been fun though. Not all of his friends came back. But I can see how a lot of it was.

The highlight of every day was the rum ration, served at seven bells, or eleven in the morning to you and me. This was 50% alcohol watered down two to one, which still makes it a heck of sight stronger than a Bacardi Breezer. Perhaps this is where the expression, "to knock seven bells out of someone," comes from. His poor dad must have been spinning in his pulpit. As if this was not enough, there was shore leave and, on one particular occasion, the following occurred. A rating, climbing back on board from a night ashore, inexplicably slipped and cut his head open. The ship’s surgeon was summoned, a new man, unversed in the ways of sailors, who brought his medical kit with all its contingency items to put a bandage around the skull of the injured crewman. When the medical officer went to retrieve his bag, a large bottle of surgical spirit had vanished. He daren’t say anything as he would have been in as much trouble as whoever had appropriated it.

What does surprise me is that not only were this semi-soused lot allowed near guns, and by that I mean artillery, they were actually got to fire them at things from time to time. And on one occasion, they managed to hit a submarine, which had unwisely taken a sojourn on the surface. Fortunately, the Uebi Scebelli was Italian, and on the other team. This was the 29th June, 1940, and is where my father’s world-saving activities really began.

As my dad watched the damaged submarine before it was scuttled, he noticed that something in a small case, about the size of a portable typewriter, was concealed in a kit-bag and brought on board the Dainty in some secrecy. It later transpired that this was a copy of Enigma, the Nazi coding machine used by all the Axis forces. Being able to break secret messages so that you always know what your enemy is about to do is a tremendous advantage to you and is one very significant reason The Allies eventually won the war.

My father therefore feels, with some pride, that he played a pivotal part in this victory over the evil of fascism. I haven’t the heart to tell him that the British already had copies of the Enigma machine from even before the war. The Polish Cipher Bureau, which for years had been monitoring German radio traffic, had deduced from scratch how the Enigma was built and had made their own copies. It was capturing copies of the code-books which gave the daily settings for all Enigmas that mattered most after that. When Poland was threatened with invasion, in August 1939, they sent a copy of the machine to London for the British to use. Code-breaking was carried out at Bletchley Park throughout the war and was indeed instrumental in assuring victory, especially during Operation Overlord, the liberation of western Europe.

But my father was not to know that. He played his part on the chessboard of history as much as anybody. What he did was important and, under slightly different circumstances, could have been monumental.

So when you see all around you as in a mess, don’t think there is nothing you can do. Some action of yours might just help save the world.

After all, my dad did.

The End

Going Back (The Moon Can’t Wait)

Friday 1200 Zulu

We’ve lost contact with South Pole Base."

This was big news. I could only speculate why Mission Director Lavrov was telling me first – if I was the first.

"Who’s this ‘we’?"

"Both us and Mission Control on Earth. All radio and data contact, telemetry, complete works became silent at 0900 Zulu, Friday."

"The Sat links?"

"Both Sat links to us and direct feeds to Earth. Whole show went off at once. No warning, no prior emergency, nothing. Just like somebody pulled plug on entire base."

"What does Mission Control say?"

"Somebody’s got to get ass down there and find out what’s happened." I don’t know why, but I always find it amusing when Russians try to use American slang. Especially when agitated. "Assuming worst, till we know better."

"When do we go?"

"We can’t prep a sub-orbital flight in under four weeks – "

"Four weeks?" I was surprised. "Why the delay?"

"The Selena is undergoing routine overhaul and maintenance. Right now she’s lying around in Engineering Bay in about three thousand pieces."

"Why is the car always in the shop just when you need it?" I said. Perhaps my levity was out of place. Certainly, Lavrov scowled at me.

"So we are sending team in one of the Marathons," he added, somehow coping with his bad mood – at least he was regaining his fluency in English – "along with trailer carrying supplies for every kind of eventuality. That’s another reason for going by lunar surface route – bigger load."

"But the surface trip from here to South Base is over five thousand kilometres – and that’s not counting the detours around craters. Especially as you get nearer – it’s, what? – like a thousand kilometres of Himalayas."

"It’s been done before – and that was before rougher sections were bulldozed to make causeways and cuttings," said Lavrov. "About the same as crossing the Sahara, end to end." His expression had not improved any, so it still didn’t sound like some kind of picnic he was suggesting. "You can average 40 kilometres an hour which means 140 hours to get there – about six Earth days. Which is just as well as it’s only seven Earth days till Lunar night on the Earth side."

"So who’s going on this jolly jaunt?" I asked. It was a safe bet I already knew one person who would be going. John Patterson. Me.

"Jim Sellars, Dr Li, Françoise LaGrange from medical and Ajali Ndege. Then there are two newcomers. Dr Ahmed Zubaydi and his assistant, Ibrahim Rashid."

Newcomers indeed – I recognised their names from a recent passenger manifest, but knew nothing else. "Who are they?"

"They came in on the last trip from South Base before the Selena went for her overhaul."

"What are their specialities?"

"Apart from having visited South Base and seen how it was just days ago?" Lavrov picked up and glanced at a slim folder for several seconds like he had never read it before. "Dr Zubaydi was expert in geological survey – oil prospecting, I gather – before he joined our team." A pause. "Rashid is – ah – his right-hand man… been with him for years. Deputy-Directory Kennedy at South will have done a more thorough debriefing, seeing as they were joining his staff. They are visiting North just to get to know whole operation."

"And who else?"

"And your good self, of course." He still didn’t stop scowling.

"Why just seven of us?"

His scowl worsened, if that were possible. "If nothing serious has happened, there will be plenty of people there who can take care of themselves."

"And if it is serious?"

"You won’t need more than seven of you."

He filled me in on a few other details for my own speciality. "One last thing," Lavrov added. "Keep in touch with us here at North Pole Base, every six hours. You know the protocol."

I nodded. I knew the protocol. "Anything else?"

"Get back in one piece."

I’d kind of planned that already.

Friday 1600 Zulu

Let me introduce you to a Marathon. It’s one hell of a bit of kit. It has twelve wheels, six in the forward tractor unit and six in the so-called trailer which was attached to the tractor by a fully sealed gimballed mid-section, like a flexible bus, although it could be jettisoned in an emergency, such as sliding down a crater wall and the like. It was unfair to call it a trailer, as drive went to all of its six wheels, just like the forward unit, which in turn wasn’t really a tractor in that it didn’t pull anything. In fact, each wheel has its own drive motor which could be cross-linked to any other wheel in case any motor failed. It could carry up to sixteen people, suitably equipped, though, on this occasion the rear unit would be full of stores with no passenger space. The whole thing weighed twelve thousand kilos on Earth, or just two thousand on the Moon. All of them were nick-named the "recreational vehicle" or "RV" by everyone that used them, both at North Pole Base where I normally spent my time, and at South Pole Base. There were five on the Moon in all with at least two stationed at each base and the fifth as a kind of spare. Each one cost one point eight billion dollars. Some RV.

The reason for always having at least two at each base was for contingency. Contingency and redundancy. When you live on the Moon you never adopt the mode of thought, "What if something goes wrong?" It’s always: "When things go wrong, I can do so-and-so." There’s always a back-up, a spare, of everything from a spanner to a spacesuit. The only exceptions at all were the Selenas – the sub-orbital spacecraft – and the Atlases, the Earth-Moon shuttle/cargo craft – it simply wasn’t feasible to have duplicates of these hugely expensive transporters at both bases – we shared one a piece at each base with at least one either on Earth and one en route – four in all – and this was thought sufficient. That had worked out well, I couldn’t help thinking, considering the current circumstances, but then no-one had anticipated a whole base simply shutting down like a blown-out candle. As for our Selena, giving it regular and thorough maintenance was our way of covering our asses. That had worked out well, too, again given the same considerations. I can be quite cynical when I put my mind to it.

Considering what was about to happen, I was probably justified.

End of extract

The Moon Can't Wait is now available from http://www.lulu.com/product/file-download/the-moon-cant-wait/15545187?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/2



Identity Crisis

In this world of computer banking, plastic money and internet shopping we are constantly being reminded to protect our pins and guard our passwords. Well I’m not as good on my pins as I used to be and if I have more than one password to remember I'm completely stuffed. Identity theft is on the increase. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I find that my identity has been stolen by none other than that great British institution BT. Or was it Cellnet or O2. They do seem to keep changing their own identity. What do they have to hide? Perhaps it's to sidestep the number of complaints? 'The in trays are full again. Time to re-brand.' That thieving little prancing piper has disappeared and quite probably is wanted for theft all around the country, if my experience is anything to go by.

I've had a mobile phone account since the time you had to drive to within 20 miles of Manchester to ring someone up. Provided they also lived in Manchester or London, that is. The trouble was, they have always had my name down as Mike. Looking back this doesn't seem so bad, although my name is not Mike. There was always an element of confusion when I had to speak to anyone about my account. After several years however, and during one of these confusing conversations, when I was asked to confirm my name, I decided to explain that although they had me down as Mike, my name was in fact Dave. Perhaps I didn't explain it very well. Perhaps the computer system didn't allow first name changes. Perhaps the administrator was having a bad day. Suffice to say that my name is no longer listed as Mike on the mobile phone account. I am now known as Unknown. Every month I receive a statement addressed to Mr. Unknown Carr. Worse than that in fact, they haven't even spelt unknown correctly, missing out the first n. I’m a lost soul wandering the shadowy basement tapes of the computers of a corporate machine. A nameless fish in a faceless pond.

My first thoughts were to correct this error but this would inevitably involve another of those conversations, probably preceded by a good deal of button pushing and listening to Enya. On the other hand, I thought, perhaps there could be some advantage in being Mr. Unknown. It does have a certain mystique to it. International man of mystery - Mr Unknown. Maybe I could even one day become referred to as 'The Great Unknown.'

Perhaps I would be able to open a bank account in the name of Unknown. They wouldn't believe me of course but I could take in my mobile phone bill to confirm my name and address. There must be a benefit to be had. A credit card perhaps? I could run up some horrendous bills and simply deny all knowledge. I'm sure others must have played the system. Johnny Cash for example. "Let’s see now - concert at the Hollywood Bowl. That'll be three hundred thousand dollars, please. Just make it out to Cash."

I thought about ordering a gravestone in the shape of a mobile phone simply bearing the word 'Unknown'. In Paris the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is visited by thousands.
‘The Tomb of the Unknown Mobile Phone Customer’. Well you can’t argue it doesn’t have a ring to it. But there again, I can’t see it being much of an attraction.

To be quite honest, I'm surprised that the post office actually delivers my phone bills. I suppose I could send them back marked, ‘Unknown at this address.’ If I wasn't already paying by direct debit, that would be worth a try. Still, the court case might have been interesting.
The case of BT verses the Unknown.

I wonder what the passport office would make of it. I might get some strange looks going through customs. On second thoughts I'd probably find my house swarming with MI5 officers if I tried to obtain a passport under the name of Unknown. Or worse still, wind up in some eastern jail trying to explain it away. "It was all a big mistake - honest. Just ask BT. Ring their call centre - India something or other isn't it?"

No - on reflection, I can’t actually think of any real benefit to being completely nameless and obscure.

“Hello, BT? - I’m more than a number in your big yellow book. My parents gave me that name in good faith. It’s mine and you’ve no right to take it. I want my identity back. What? OK I’ll hold.”

Papa Oscar Echo Mike

Mike was a Romeo, I met him one November
Looking for a Juliet as far as I remember;
He was a kind of Alpha male, who drove a Ford Sierra,
I prefer a man in Uniform but they're a good deal rarer.
He said he liked my dancing shoes and would I like a Foxtrot.
We checked into a cheap Hotel and soon he found my hotspot.
I read him like an X-ray but he held me fascinated;
He could have won an Oscar but the film would be X rated.
I started craving spicy food from India and Nepal;
I put on weight, a Kilo; that's not like me at all.
Victor at the Golf club said "My boy you'll have to marry her."
Mike screamed and threw his arms about just like a Zulu warrior.
He said "You see, I'm not quite ready yet to be a Papa."
I called him a Charlie and he called me a slapper.
But it takes two to Tango as I really ought to know;
I Delta blow for women's lib and told him where to go.
He joined a Yankee sailing crew, leaving for Quebec;
My scathing cry of 'Bravo' seemed to Echo round the deck.
He runs a place in Lima now, it's called the Aztec Bar,
Drinking Whiskey, playing cards - I said that he'd go far.

Cossacks

Three flicks of scarlet dulled by snow grey breath,
Three gradual paladins drip with grizzly death;
Three ululations twisting through the wind,
Three doves to pacify, bring the melting spring.

Once far too often, cossack tipped his lance;
Once on a dream-wave peace fought with chance;
Once through a bow of light scattered bands
Hope's glow rekindled a time shattered land.

The Last Judgement - Bosch

Squat hooded rider, whip in hand astride
The giant red robed rat he drives through hell;
Panniers of petty sinners either side
And everywhere is death’s rank, putrid smell.
As Christ sits calmly judging all who died,
Evil destruction tolls the ghastly knell.
A hopeless clamour as the wrong abide
To hear the human clapper strike the bell.

A wheel turns, so the clockwork crone partakes
Of flesh from souls, the judge smugly forsakes.
Smoke from far, dying cities fills the air,
Where patient ravens thrive upon despair.

Hacked off limbs and heads lay side by side,
Cruel demons chanting, calling all are welcome
To this acrid waste, hope cast aside;
A nether land with hideous tales to tell;
A place where pilgrims learn the price of pride
Eternal damnity for promised souls that fell.
For those who failed the judgement and were tried
Amongst the grotesque evermore shall dwell.

conjunctivitis

Conjunctivitis

My heavy lidded red eye
Reminds me of the bull’s eye
I tried to dissect at school; but couldn't.
It was the lashes which made me heave.
Grotesquely, pathetically human,
Winking at me in its tray of brine.
The smell of dead eye balls lingered
In the class lab for weeks.

My swollen eye weeps all day,
Tissues like blotting paper
Soaking up tears.
While its twin stares, unmoved,
Embarrassed with this
Over spilling of grief.
Not sure what to do
With this surfeit of emotion.

It feels as though grit
Has scorched the surface,
Worse than having my feet
Desanded,
Or having a bath with
Sunburnt shoulders.
My lashes sticky and encrusted
Become inseparable in sleep.

I imagine an almost painless
Operation.
I tip my head and with a
Gentle nudge my wounded eye
Slops, blancmange like, into
A glass blue cup of eye solution,
Like a tired pedal boat
Bobbing on a sleepy lake.

I wait a while until the
The stinging ceases,
Let the lotion ripple
Its lullaby of love on all
My woe and weeping.
Patient, I will bide my time
For tenderness to travel and
Dissipate the darkness.

Gently my eyelid closes
On the empty socket,
Of a temporary night.


Jacqueline Pemberton

Black and White

It’s black and everywhere is white.

Or is it white and everywhere is black?

I can’t figure it out. It’s black everywhere and it’s white everywhere.

I look up and it’s black. I look in the distance and it’s dark, nothing is clear, but white specks are floating into my vision. They scurry, form shapes, re-form and disappear, only to be replaced by more phantom figures. I look down and it’s white everywhere. My feet stumble in the white.

The white around my feet crumbles and swallows my feet as I try to move. I breathe out and my breath clouds, mixing with the swirling phantoms. It is snowing and it’s very late at night and I don’t know where I am going. What am I doing? What am I about to do?

What have I just done?

Was it right? These things are never black and white.

This is one of my clearest memories of being at North Riding University. The winters were always severe. Snowfalls would sometimes cut off the new campus from the rest of the country, especially, it seemed, at week-ends. Menial staff like cleaners and porters would be trapped, and have to sleep in the main refectory or the chapel till Monday. On this winter evening the snow is more hideous than ever. It is so cold and ice-sharp, it is dry and doesn’t even have the decency to melt on your exposed flesh of your face, till your skin burns and you cannot feel the cold anymore. It dances around me furiously, piling into my eyes as it gathers, onslaught upon onslaught from an unseen black canopy over head.

The centre of campus, the piazza, is totally deserted. Lamps burn pointlessly overhead, illuminating a dazzling, deserted tableau.

I stumble on.

Almost miraculously a figure appears in the distance. Small in stature yet definitely male, he makes his way directly towards me through the driving snow. His hands are thrust deep into the pockets of a duffel coat, though the hood is down and his head is bare in the outrageous blizzard. I can see his close-cropped red hair – coupé en brosse as the French would say, and red stubble of beard – it is the only colour in this monochrome scene.

"Are you Malcolm?" he says, almost conversationally.

"Malc," I nod, correcting. "Call me Malc."

"My name’s Chris. We spoke earlier. Have you taken any pills?" He has the politeness to grin slightly as he asks.

"I can’t remember," I mumble. "I’ve been out in this – " I shrug, indicating the whirling ice-flakes. "It’s been so long," I add after a pause. "Yet, I feel so… hot."

"Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Dizzy? No… no, I don’t think so," I lie. I’ve taken some tranqs, but that’s understandable.

"It’s been five minutes since you called the Nightline office. You said you hadn’t taken anything then. Just that you thought you were going to. That’s why I came out to meet you." He almost laughed. "Lovely night for a walk, eh?"

"No, not dizzy. Just hot. Here," I tugged at the clothing at my neck, "let me take my scarf off."

Nightline was a little organisation run by the Students’ Union. It was there to help member students through the night when ever they had problems, like an essay they couldn’t finish for a nine o’clock deadline, or an impossible finals exam coming up – that would be usually in the summer term, of course, though some schools had mid-year class tests. Also, other problems, like money worries, late grant checks back then, difficulties with parents, fear you were on the wrong course, love affairs running less than smoothly – in fact anything that could disturb the student psyche, a student-based version of The Samaritans. They were said to be particularly keen on helping undergraduates talk through their sexual orientation – nothing like becoming queer to excite the would-be psychotherapeutic volunteers that would stay up all night once or twice a term to run the Nightline service, from the VP-Internal’s office in the Union. Their busiest time, and type of call, though, was always during exams, or the suicide season, as it was known.

I flapped inanely at my coat, trying to find a pocket. "Could you take this?" I said at last, handing him the scarf. I am a personification of confusion.

"Sure."

Despite his casual, amiable manner, I knew he was studying me closely.

"There is something else," I said. "My girlfriend."

"What about her?"

"I think I may have… harmed her."

"Harmed? In what way?" said Chris.

"A bad way."

He remained calm, but it was with a hint of effort, of self-control. "Where is she?"

I told him the room address in the hall of residence at the east end of the campus. Sure enough, his demeanour descended from controlled calm to the edge of agitation. The snow dramatically raised its dervish dance around us as we headed out into the frigid night.

We get to Marion Harding’s room and the door is ajar. We step inside and Marion is sprawled in an ugly fashion on the floor of the cramped bed-sit room. I am all confusion and unable to explain what might have happened. Chris is bent over the body as police from the North Yorkshire Constabulary arrive. I am suddenly the model of clarity and perception. "He did it!" I exclaim. "I saw him strangling her. He’s the one I called you about. Look – her scarf is hanging from his pocket!"

There, on the nightstand, is a sad little epitaph to the recently deceased. Marion’s diary, open at today’s page and, in her handwriting, the note: "Meet Chris tonight." It is there, in black and white.

When I graduated from NRU in Business Studies, it was an easy step to take a job in London, just after the Big Bang of deregulation on the stock market and financial institutions. It was easy to make a killing here too. I dutifully became obscenely wealthy and, as the Eighties segued into the Nineties and the bubble subsided, I quietly stepped back from coke-fuelled trading in the City to semi-retirement in my Docklands flat. The only thing I really lacked was a partner, a girl by my side. But the only woman I had ever loved had turned me down back in my college days because she was already seeing a sociology major called Chris, who, amongst his many good works, volunteered for the Nightline service at NRU. The only woman I ever loved was Marion Harding. I found out, one winter’s evening when my heart could bare the pain of rejection no more, when Chris was on duty at Nightline. I gave her one final chance to reject him in favour of me. She failed to do so and I took the only course of action I could see open to me. If I could not have her, then nobody would. It was a choice as clear as between night and day. Framing Chris was an exquisite bonus. He had the means, opportunity and possible motive – an arranged meeting to break up with him and go out with me, perhaps. He was sentenced to life. Or as good as, in this penal system.

Now I sit in my apartment, staring at the ancient brick architecture and genuine maple floor and gaze blankly across the river, and I wonder what it has all been about. Light floods the open plan room but not my dark secret. How life would have been different with Marion at my side, when there is a knock at the door. Callers are unusual, but I answer just the same without hesitation.

A figure stands there, bent and with lined face. "Remember me?" he says.

No, I do not, and say so. I expect an explanation. There is something vaguely familiar about the close-cropped red hair. He hits me suddenly with something so hard, all I see is a flash of light. Though I know I must be falling, it is as if the floor pivots up to meet me in the back. I am dazed and confused and can find no breath.

"Perhaps you remember this," says the red-haired figure now kneeling on my chest. "This scarf is just like Marion’s. The one you planted on me all those years ago. The one you strangled her with and used to send me to prison for life!"

He is looping the scarf around my neck. I can hardly breathe as it is with his full weight upon my chest, and the blow to the face moments earlier – what did he hit me with? There is blood in my mouth and I feel terribly hot.

"They say life should mean life," he says – I’ve not a clue what he’s on about – "in your case, it will do!"

The scarf slithers around my throat and he tugs it tighter still. I can get no air and my lungs are exploding. At last, I suddenly realise who he is and why is here and what he wants.

Just as everything begins to go black.

Maybe it is what I want too.

The end.

P.S. VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITE ENDING!

Someone made the suggestion that this story could satisfactorily end about half-way through this 'full' version, at the point with the text: ' It is there, in black and white' as the final line. What do YOU think? Please leave comments, and a vote, if you have a preference, and we'll find out what the public wants!

Let me Count the Ways

In age, as in childhood, it seems to me, pleasures are generally of the simpler and more wholesome kind; while those of the middle years are often complicated by emotion and relationships. The pleasures of old men (and I assume old women) tend to be singular, solitary and often incomprehensible to the wider world.
And by way of example I can do no better than draw your attention to the compost heap at the bottom of my garden. More accurately I should say heaps, since I have three of them. Not that I am boasting you understand, but I must admit to a little frisson of pride to think that in one respect at least, I have more than the average man. And as you’ll appreciate, no two compost heaps are alike, so in the unlikely event that I ever get bored with one there is always another available for my delight and delectation.
So perhaps you’ll indulge me while I wax lyrical and count the ways that I do love my compost heaps.
To begin with, I belong to the post war austerity generation; a generation saddled with the conviction that to throw away food, any food, is just plain sinful. One of the consequences of this is that we baby boomers feel compelled to take those bendy carrots , wilting radishes and shrivelled turnips and make them into wholesome, nourishing soup. OK, so it gives gruel a bad name and the family refuses en-mass to go near it and it sits festering in the fridge for the next six weeks. The point is we haven’t thrown stuff away and God, do we feel virtuous.
But if you have a compost heap, and I think you’re probably ahead of me here, there is a guilt free alternative.
All that suspect vegetable matter, those baked beans lying blue and forgotten in some rarely visited corner of the fridge, not to mention the half ton of bruised windfall apples your in-laws gave you; can all be despatched with a clear conscience to the compost heap. Nothing is being thrown; it is all being recycled. You can bask in that ever so pleasant ‘holier than thou’ glow knowing that your new-found Green Credentials are shining out like a beacon in a world of waste.
Now, as far as the maintenance is concerned, there is something immensely satisfying about pulling on the boots and announcing with the air of someone about to set off for the south pole, that your ‘going to turn over the compost heap’ and ‘that you may be gone some time’.
I suppose this is as close as most of us get to being in touch with the land. Even if, like me, your efforts at horticulture leave the garden looking like the Gobi desert with an acid rain problem, you can still produce good compost. All it takes is patience and an awful lot of potato peeling.
Of course, the real pleasure of the heap is to be had in observing its slow, relentless alchemy; the living ferment which lies at its dark heart. It is the irresistible power of infinitesimal organisms toiling in immeasurable numbers; the writhing broil of happy worms and the silent creep of fungi pushing their filaments into every foetid recess.
And after all the rotting and turning over and waiting you get to the finished product which of course is not the pure crumbly tilth you were hoping for. It is full of stuff that shouldn’t be there.
Take avocado stones: in our house avocados are an occasional constituent of salads; they are not what you would call an everyday staple. Yet the heap does not lie. There can only be one explanation for the vast number of stones and that is that someone is living with a serious avocado habit and probably needs counselling as a matter of urgency.
Then there are what you might call the prodigal son moments, the unconfined joy at being reunited with those potato peelers, knives and spoons which have gradually disappeared over the previous year. And of course, there are always the completely inexplicable items like next doors house keys or a tin of sardines or a used condom.
But the thing that really gets me is the corks. Why does my wife insist on putting corks in the compost? They don’t rot. They sit around in the necks of bottles for years precisely because cork doesn’t rot. Of all the organic materials on God’s earth, cork is the one which most resembles the permanence and indestructibility of granite. So why does my wife imagine that putting them in a compost heap for six months is going to bring about any measurable degree of decomposition - particularly when they’re plastic.
Right, having got that out of my system, let me move on to the fact that compost heaps by their nature are always changing, they are never the same two days running. Every time you visit your heap there is something different and fascinating going on. Alright, you’re always greeted by the same friendly cloud of fruit flies but get past them and you could, for example, find yourself with a particularly fine example of pin mould growing on that gravy you disposed of last week. Or it could be a solemn convocation of slugs, gathered one assumes, in quiet contemplation of the inexhaustible bounty of their little four-sided universe.
Then there is always the possibility of something even more exciting. I once lifted the lid off one of my heaps to find a rat. It stared at me and I stared at it in mutual disbelief. Needless to say the rat recovered its wits before I did and scampered off towards the stream. It was followed by a spade which fell pathetically short – a gesture of impotent rage if ever there was one. But before the rat slipped into the water, it stopped and turned and I could have sworn that it raised two claws in my direction.
So, if the preceding encomium has persuaded you to think seriously about the joys of compost, remember; a heap needs constant attention, it is for life not just for Christmas. Personally, as I shuffle off into my dotage I expect my compost heaps to continue to provide me with comfort and companionship; an ever present reminder of the fate that awaits the mortal remains of us all. In fact, when the time comes I think I would like to be buried under my compost heap. For as Genesis reminds us: ‘compost thou art and unto compost shalt thou return’. At least I think that’s what it says.

Conversion Piece

If a metre has feet, how hard is a yard?
How long is a song with a beat?
If the rhythm’s trochaic, does that make it archaic
While iambic pentameter’s neat?

Now a stanza’s a verse – or is it the reverse?
And a pair of lines is a couplet,
Or, to my surprise, a tiny bra size
Where a heaving breast is an "uplet."

You can alter the metre with extra feet or
Putting the emphasis on a different syllable,
Or you can make the verse blank
By having it not rhyme.

Is this a conversion, imperial to metric?
Ounces to grams, how I feel, oh,
A certain nostalgia, not for this strained neuralgia.
{Is Ezra} Pound nought point four of a kilo?

How I wi’sh I could di’sh out some li’nes that are swi’sh
In a plán with a scán anapéstic
Wĭth no ri’sk of a mi’ss, and a-bánging my fi’st
And a dri’ft to a fi’t anaph’láctic

Nów must I énd wĭth ă li’ne that’s dacty’lic
Hów I dĕsi’rĕ I wás ŭnstrěsséd
Twi’stěd up sy’ntăx to fi’t ĭn ă rhy’me
Using this schéma ŏf tálk distrěsséd

But

When the tutor insists on a poem
There’s no point in "if," "and" or "but"
And no use to flinch ‘cos if you give an inch
They’ll always insist on a foot

Vacuum

(Space colonists fear only one thing)

The stars jabbed out of the blackness of infinity from every direction. They were above and, as above, so below. They were to port as to starboard and ahead as aft. They freckled the face of the endless night and tried to pierce the eyes of the lovers, but the lovers only had eyes for each other.

Albion was looking into Roxette’s eyes with keen adoration as she was telling him the news of the forthcoming grand festival.

"So we are all to congregate in the hanger decks and try to make it as much of a celebration as possible."

"What? Isn’t that a bit… well, tacky, under the circumstances?"

"Don’t you see what my father is trying to do?" said Roxette. "It’s to boost morale after everything that’s happened."

The stars swam dizzyingly all around them outside the Observer Dome as the great craft rotated. It was the only sky that Albion and Roxette had ever seen throughout their lives.

"This was your father’s idea?" said Albion.

"Well – now that the crew of the Argo are joining us on the Prospero for the rest of the mission, he felt as captain that he had to make their arrival into some of occasion. Don’t worry – he’s going to say something about the other crews that… were lost. But he thought if that was all he did everyone would be miserable for another couple of light-years and he didn’t want that. So – we’re having a big bash."

"I should hope he does say something," said Albion. "What happened was tragic."

"I know," said Roxette. "But at least we know we are safe on the Prospero. Our cargo hold door has been double-tested and there’s no flaw. And we found out that the Argo’s door was faulty before it blew, so we do have something to celebrate."

Albion was coming round to Roxette’s view, but he still remained to be completely convinced. "A pity no-one found out before we lost the other two ships," he murmured.

"It’s a pity there was a design fault at all! Just think how lucky we are that, as flagship, the Prospero is built differently."

"That’s true," he shrugged, "otherwise we would have had it. We’re only just reaching half-way."

"My grandfather told me of the festivities they had on Earth when the fleet was launched. I don’t know how they could they have made such a huge mistake."

"We don’t know what Earth was like, come to that. Neither of us have ever been there."

"I wonder what the new world will be like," said Roxette. "That will be something to celebrate for sure."

"Just so long as we get there," said Albion.

"Oh, stop being such a junk-dump!" she said.


The small fleet of four huge spacecraft had set off from the closeting comfort of Earth orbit for their exoplanetary destination two generations ago, the fusion-powered ion drive engines thrusting the ships at a steady acceleration, such that inside the craft, the feeling was exactly like the gravitational pull on the surface of their home planet. Within a year, they were close to the speed of light, though the convoluted warping of space and time, as described by Einstein’s theory of General Relativity, meant that this velocity was only approached but never reached. The one thing that was simple to understand: they would never be going back. Families set out on that stupendous journey, of such stupendous duration, that the parents would age and die, while children would be born and grow to take their place. At least, that had been the mission plan. Half way through their transit to their new home, a second Earth orbiting around the star Tau Ceti, the ships were to turn about face – no problem in the lifeless vacuum of space – and fire their engines forward as brakes, to bring them to a timely halt at their destination.

But not all had gone to plan. Sealed inside the enormous containers, ever to be held with means neither of ingress or egress to the airless void save for inside a full, hard-pressured spacesuit, the fecundity of the travellers had fallen well below expectation. A full complement of passengers was 500, expected to be reached as journey’s end approached. However, not one ship held even a hundred as mid-point neared. Then disaster struck.

The first ship to fall victim was the Mexico. The demise was as sudden as unexpected. A catastrophic failure of the hull, and the one thing feared by any who ever ventured into the void of space befell all on board, the loss of life-giving air to the unfillable vacuum of space. With no time to don pressure suits, death was swift. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. Blood was its Avatar and its seal – the redness and the horror of blood. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim as the nitrogen in the tissues boiled through the skin, shutting him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the process, were the incidents of half a minute.

At first the survivors on the other three ships, the Prospero, the Argo and the Calypso, thought that the Mexico had been prey to the most extravagant bad luck, a one-in-a-million chance encounter with a primordial chunk of space débris. Then barely had the shock and the grief at the loss begun to subside when the Calypso’s automatic monitoring systems detected that its hull too had been compromised, only this time without the explosive, balloon-like bursting that had laid waste to the Mexico. This time the true fault was identified – the massive hatch to the cargo bay, that would have been opened to unload the myriad items required to colonise and populate a new world, was found to be terminally compromised about its edge, its seal ruptured. Too late – the loss of air so rapid, that all had perished before they could evacuate in shuttle craft or in emergency pressure suits to the two vessels gliding alongside.

Now forewarned, the crew of the Argo, identical in every way to its two sister ships, checked and eventually yet with haste identified a profound error in the construction of its own cargo bay door. Only the Prospero, with a slightly more elaborate and different design, offered refuge. The Argo was abandoned, and all of the remaining colonists joined together on the one sound craft for the final years of their fated journey.


"I presume you will be accompanied by Albion at tonight’s festival?" said Captain Prospero. The ship he commanded was named after his family.

Roxette fidgeted uncomfortably. "Are you sure this festival is the right thing to do, dad? I mean, some people might think it’s a bit in bad taste. Do we all have to go?"

The Captain faced his daughter and studied her gravely. "Yes, everyone. In all the time since I took over as commander of this mission from my father, I have never instructed passengers of this vessel in a more important duty."

"But it seems disrespectful to the dead," said Roxette.

"It is in honour of the dead that we celebrate. In that, and a restatement of the mission. You do understand?"

Roxette Prospero looked levelly at her father. "I suppose so. It’s not as if we have any option."

Captain Prospero frowned. "What do you mean? I’m not going to force you to attend if you would really prefer not to. But it would seem strange to the rest of the crew if my daughter were not there."

"No, dad. I meant: it’s not like we can turn round and get back to Earth. We have to go on."

"Life has to go on. Our life and our future lie ahead of us – something which is true for anyone. I was wondering – have you and Albion ever considered the idea of getting married?"

"Dad!"

"One day you may take over this command. One day when I am too old. It would be beneficent to yourself if you had someone, such as I have your mother, by your side to share in the burden of command, Roxette. Someone such as Albion, for example."

"Oh, dad! Is our whole future planned out for us?"

"The future of all of us," said Captain Prospero, "is in the stars. It has always been so."

"But it is not set, is it, dad? We still do not know what the future is."

Prospero knelt down at his daughter’s side. "My darling daughter, I am determined to make the festival as exciting an occasion as possible. There will be no shortage of stores from which to prepare a banquet. There will be actors playing skits, dancers, comedians, musicians. All these and security inside our spaceship home. Only outside will be the limitless vacuum. But perhaps you can help me."

"In what way?"

"The hangars, where the shuttle craft for planet-fall lie sleeping, offer plenty of room for revelry but are joyless in their appearance. I am thinking of decorating them, each with its own colour-scheme. One is to be blue, lit with blue lights, to suggest the oceans we long to see, the next exotically in purple, the next green, with green illumination to look like inside a jungle, the fourth orange, the fifth white and the sixth violet."

"It sounds a bit gaudy," said Roxette. " Are you sure you’ve an eye for this sort of thing?"

"Well, exactly," he allowed a modest grin. "And I’m sure it’s something that runs in the family. So I was wondering – maybe you could suggest the colour scheme for the last hangar."

Roxette reflected. "How about… black?"

"Black?"

"Yes. Black velvet, like a dreamless sleep."

"That sounds a little… moody."

"No – it will be romantic. Black with red lights, a passionate scarlet, a deep blood colour. So that people who want to get close can do so in an intimate setting, not in a bright glare. That is what you want, isn’t it?"

Captain Prospero was dubious. "Perhaps we could have a big digital clock at one end, with a red display, counting off the time to our arrival at our new home."

"Yes," said Roxette. "After all, you do want us to look forward to raising our children there."

"Perhaps – who knows? – tonight would be good time to announce a forthcoming marriage?"

Roxette regarded her father strangely. "Perhaps."

Everyone was to wear fancy-dress, costumes of their own making. The anticipation that would build in such preparation would heighten the excitement, Prospero thought. No-one was to remain at duties. Prospero alone would man the bridge, watching the festivities from the cameras mounted on the decks.

"All seems to be going well," Albion said to Roxette.

"Things have livened up since the music and dancing began," she replied.

"And since your father suspended restrictions on alcohol. I’ve never seen so much booze. Amazing how quickly people forget."

"Don’t be harsh," said Roxette. "It helps melt their hearts."

He turned to her. "Lucky we don’t need it."


From the bridge, Prospero watched, content that his instructions for a joyful occasion were going to plan. There were to be generous prizes for the most inventive costumes awarded at the height of the evening. It was then that he spotted something on the blue hangar’s monitor that appalled him. Some idiot had thought it would be amusing to come dressed in a pressure suit, the sort that would be worn in an emergency evacuation of a stricken craft. The very suit the kind of which the poor souls of the Mexico and the Calypso had been so grievously unable to don before they were overcome.

Furiously, Prospero hurried down to the blue hangar, but the callous fool in the suit had already left for the orange hangar.

"Master-At-Arms?" Prospero addressed a man dressed as a cowboy.

"Sir?"

"I know you’re not on duty but – somebody has come in a really offensive costume. We need to remove him before he upsets everyone."

"Where is he?"

"There he goes – into the next hangar!"

Prospero called his master-at-arms, though not dressed for duty, to come with him to catch the offensive culprit. The figure passed between other party-goers, all of them falling silent. Captain Prospero and the Master-At-Arms followed but could not catch him as he slipped between the crowds from one hangar to the next. At last, he arrived at the final hangar, with its black fabrics and scarlet illumination. Albion and Roxette were there, hand in hand, watching on.

Prospero strode to the middle of the deck. "Who is that idiot who has come here dressed so distastefully?"

The figure turned slowly to face Prospero. The gold-tinted visor was drawn down on the face-plate of the helmet, the thin film of metal hiding the visage within.

"Master-At-Arms, grab that man."

The Master-At-Arms however, hesitated.

Prospero turned on him. "Unmask that vile interloper!"

"Sir, I…" the master stammered and fell silent.

"Very well," said Prospero, "I shall do it myself!"

He reached forward and snapped back the all-concealing visor.

Instead of someone he recognised, he saw a face, contorted and twisted in a rhesus of agony, fluids bubbling from the bulging eyes, blood sweating from skin and oozing from the nose and mouth, as one dying in the final stage of catastrophic decompression in the vacuum of space.

Prospero fell back, a vaporous shriek wretched out of him as all air was torn from his lungs. He collapsed to the black-clothed deck, dead. Roxette screamed, and threw her arms round Albion, his name dying on her lips. He grabbed at her before he too succumbed. Within scarce a beat, those nearest likewise crumpled as the atmosphere ceased to exist, throats ripping, eyes exploding. On it went like a wave through the whole flux of people inside the spacecraft, and the digital clock stopped and its glowing ember lights went out. And now was acknowledged the presence of the vacuum. It had come like a thief in the night. And darkness and decay and the vacuum held illimitable dominion over all.

The end.

Hero

I wanted to be Bruce Willis;
A hero in a vest.
I went and bought a string one,
Marks and Spencer's best.

I put it on and instantly
I realised my folly.
I looked like Rab C Nesbit;
A bitter pill tae swallae!

Changing Channels

So? – what have you changed for the New Year?

Mike stepped inside the apartment, and listened. He could have sworn he’d heard a faint noise, muffled, distant, but now it appeared to have stopped. "That fridge’s getting noisy. I suppose we’ll need a new one soon."

He immediately started hunting for the remote for the TV. As usual, like all remote controls, it had attempted to secrete itself under a cushion. He was wise to its ways, however, retrieved it, aimed the priceless gadget at the set and pressed ‘On.’

He was waiting patiently for signs of life when the hallway door opened. "Good grief! Spencie! I didn’t know were home. Why didn’t you answer when I called out?"

"Called out?" Spencie looked startled, and her eyes darted round the room. "I didn’t… didn’t hear you."

"How come you’re not at the office?"

"Took the afternoon off. Things to do. Anyway, how come you’re home so early?"

"The international’s on live. England against Belarus. The kick-off’s four o’clock, so I thought I’d sneak out of work and catch it. I didn’t expect you’d be in for dinner till it was nearly over. Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You seem a bit feverish."

"Do I?" She put a hand to her cheek, her fingers fidgeting upwards to cover her eyes. "I’ve just been doing a spot of gardening. Potting some flowers. In the bedroom. Why don’t you come and see?"

"That’s alright," Mike laughed, in the way that she had once found so appealing. "I wondered if you had a secret lover in there!" He moved closer to her and put his forehead against hers. "Hey, toots," he said, mock-Bogart, "I thought I was all the man you could handle."

She seemed to relax into his arms. "Why don’t you come into the bedroom anyway, and let me…" she brushed his cheek with her mouth, "… check?"

"Well, swee’heart… – what is wrong with this damn remote?" He suddenly snapped his attention to the still-silent television. "The game will have started! I think we’re going to have to get a new TV. And a new fridge too. I’m sure I could hear the thing buzzing when I came in."

She stared at him coldly. "The batteries have probably gone."

"Again?" he said, exasperated. "They’re always packing up. I can’t change channels on this stupid TV without the zapper." He snapped the cover off the back of the control and again he looked puzzled. "The batteries really have gone! There aren’t even any in here."

Spencie licked her lip and took his hand. "Maybe you don’t need to watch football after all."

Mike looked back at her, adoringly. "Spencie. Darling… It’s a qualifier – I’ve got to watch it. Have we any spare batteries?"

She pivoted on her heel and stamped off up the hallway to the bedroom. She returned, jackboot, and threw a pair of Energizer Extra Power at him. "I shall get a bunch of spares tomorrow," she announced, as if making a manifesto commitment, then retreated back to the bedroom, closing the door sharply.

It wasn’t until half time, with the score still nil-nil, that he wondered what she was doing in there.



There was an atmosphere in the apartment after that. Christmas was coming. To Spencie, this meant: presents, wrapping paper and decorations. To Mike, it meant a crowded fixture list in the Premier League. Negotiations were entered into, and a rapprochement was achieved – Mike would go shopping anywhere Spencie wished as long as this didn’t coincide with Manchester United playing at home. He would not attend away matches as long as highlights were shown.

It came to the Saturday before Christmas. Both had had a good day – a pile of purchases lay on the throw-rug before the couch, and Mike was secretly relieved to have an excuse not to travel to all the way to Fratton Park.

And so they ended up on the couch, Match of the Day seemingly sinking into the background as the two of them demolished a bottle of Pinot grigio. Even the highlights had lost relevance as Mike had already accidentally seen the results in a branch of Currys.

"I was wondering," said Spencie in her curiously circuitous way, "whether we might be thinking of an early night."

Mike looked at her and seemed on the edge of a decision. "And Carrick keeps feeding Ronaldo down the channels," the commentator was saying, "but the Portsmouth defence is holding firm."

"Well, change it," Mike yelled at the TV, "cross to the other wing!"

Mike wondered later at what point in the evening Spencie had gone to bed.



It was already dark on New Year’s Eve when Mike let himself into the apartment, with his now customary sheepishness. Spencie had become so volatile these days, so unpredictable, he had to be ready for anything. And, on this occasion, he felt pretty sure that he was.

Spencie confronted him in the lounge. "I was wondering when – or if – you’d turn up. Thought perhaps you had gone to see your precious United."

"Don’t be daft, pet – they don’t play on New Year’s Eve."

"I sometimes think you love Man United more than you love me."

Under his breath, he muttered, "I sometimes think I love Man City more than I love you."

"What!?" she bellowed.

"I said Man United aren’t as pretty as you."

"How can I be compared with a football team on the basis of who’s prettier!?

"Come on, Aspen," – he knew she hated it when he used her formal name – "change the record: ‘you’d rather watch a game than make love.’ When have I ever said that?"

Spencie seemed to coil like a serpent and hissed, "Do you know what is the one time each year we don’t make love?"

"When your mother visits?"

"No," she retorted, triumphant, "when it’s the football season. Well, not any more!" She strode out of the room and returned a moment later with a stranger, another woman, rather plain and shapeless in Mike’s view, with a blunt bob haircut. "Meet Geraldine – my new lesbian lover! So whatever plans you had for this New Year, I think you might have to change them!"

Spencie had imagined her announcement would have the lurid impact of a bomb in a paint factory. But it somehow landed curiously flat.

"I’m not so sure about that," he said, and fetched a male stranger from the entrance. "Meet Gerald, my new best mate. I just came back to tell you – we’re going down Canal Street for the evening to discuss a flat back four and two holding players over a few glasses of Bailey’s."

The End

Author’s note: several people were kind enough to offer constructive criticism of this piece and, particularly, whether the use of the word ‘Lesbian’ was necessary near the end. I myself agonised over this as I am all in favour of letting the reader draw his or her own conclusions and at no other point is gender orientation mentioned explicitly (why should it be?) I came very close to removing the word, but changed my mind, for the following reasons. Firstly, she is not just adopting a new partner, but making (apparently) a major life-style choice - the main interpretation of the piece's title, Changing Channels - as a consequence of her recent relationship. Secondly, she wants to emphasise this point specifically to annoy and prick the conscience of her former partner. Finally, and more trivially, she is probably lying! – she has in all likelihood, neither got a new partner nor adopted a new lifestyle – her outburst is motivated as an attack on her old partner. His response, however, is somewhat different…

The S.A.D. archivist

S.A.D. Archivist

Venetian blind fillets sunshine,
Slices shelves beneath
the seasons.

Slender arms conduct
Post mortems
into ancient books,

Whose orange spines
Crumble like
damp sand.

Blue summer dress
Dreams of
undressing,

Digressing beyond,
Parch brittle
pages,

Bare legs uncross
Yearn to
abandon,

Anaemic scholars,
Whose mucus thoughts,
Cough out words,

She now dissects,
Reflects beyond the
half-blind window,

To summer fields,
Cloudless skies,
Warm skin,
touching.

Jacqueline Pemberton

Face Mask: a free sample

Face Mask – a free sample
‘Positive action for tired,
lustreless, skin.
A re-energised, radiant
appearance,
In less than
three minutes’.
‘Dermatologically
approved, ph balanced
Aqua glycerine
Glutamine, Lanoline’
I snip the corner
of my packet of promise,
Paste salvation over
famished skin.
My face is both
adolescent and old,
Bed-sit and shrine,
Touched too much
and too little.
‘Hypo-allergenic
micro beads
laboratory tested’
Consecrated
by clinical words
I let the mask
mesmerise my pores,
sting my senses,
dragoon my dullness.
Waiting in the wings,
A white, unsmiling clown.
I wipe and wash the
layers away,
A patchy beard of scum
clings to the basin.
Dripping dreams,
I search for a mirror….

Perhaps I timed it wrong?



Jacqueline Pemberton

Seahorses

Tethered, silent seahorses stand,
bridled heads bowed in
obedience to taut high tension reins.
Seagulls circle, laugh at their plight
as hidden riders stirrup their sway to
spur and whip them into commercial toil.
Heavy burdens saddle proud necks as
iron tracks deny freedom to swim
in diamond studded waters and
open seas to escape captivity
and discard the bits that bind.

Home Comforts

I looked down, shuffled my feet, saw the displaced powdered snow that covered my shoes like sifted flour. The air was crisp, a Lalique cloud sky backlit by a hidden watery sun. It was early afternoon yet the streets were unusually quiet as I struggled homewards, arms laden with heavy plastic bags that cut deep ridges, knife sharp, into my hands. The once crisp air began to turn icy, my steaming breath bore witness to it as I raised my head from its snuggled protective woolly scarf, drawn tight enough to keep out the wind’s chilly searching fingers without quite strangling me, to see what I dreaded even more than the snow – fog. Like a lace net curtain it drew a veil across my vision, at first a soft haze then to a theatre safety curtain that defied penetration. I could taste it, dirty, soaking up the oxygen like a hungry beast. I buried my mouth once more into my scarf for protection and felt the warm beads of breath form on its inner surface but the fear of suffocation brought me up for sharp breaths before delving down once more.

My path took me under a railway bridge. I thought I heard muffled footsteps behind me. Someone was following me? I stopped, listened – they stopped - I continued – they continued. I swung around – just a swirl of fog. Was I letting my imagination run away with me? The muffled sound of my own footsteps had reduced to a gibbering wreck. Moving quickly on, my feet began to crunch – no it wasn’t my feet it was the snow – now beginning to freeze it had turned from soft powder to a glittering glistening sugar icing. I turned to look at the footprints of where I’d trod – no unexplained muffled sound now only my own personal crunch. Emerging from under the bridge the steep incline beyond proved difficult. My breath was coming hard and fast at the exertion required to propel me and my load to the top. I could hear my gasps and feel the pain as the piercing cold struck the back of my dry throat.

“Can I give you a hand?” the question had me jumping out of my skin as I turned sideways to search out its source.

“I said, can I ......?” Before the repeated question ended I‘d spun round to find a middle-aged lady standing behind me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you!”

“You didn’t, I mean, well you did - it was just that I didn’t see you.”

Where the conversation went from there I can’t properly recall. It seemed to dip and rise on a wave of many topics and in such a short time. All I know is that having climbed the hill and turned a few corners we’d somehow arrived at my destination and I felt safe and strangely comforted.

“Well, better be getting on, nice to have this time with you.” She smiled and for a moment I thought I saw a fleeting sadness cross her face.

“Yes, same here. Do you live nearby?”

“No, just keeping a long held promise to visit my daughter – make sure she’s OK.”

“And is she?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I believe she is” she said as her eyes pooled with tears.

I watched her walk away, turn and there on the edge of vision her smiling face and waving hand defied the fog to hang for a second or two longer before completely claiming her. With hand on gate, I stood dwelling on her kindness, intuitiveness, consolation and elusive familiarity. What had we talked about to display these qualities? The fog began to lift as soft snowflakes dusted my hair and face. I turned once again to catch sight of my unexpected companion but she was out of sight. I looked down at clearly defined footprints – my crunch. Only my crunch!