“Okay, God,” he said. “I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let me have it.”
He grabbed a beer, returned to the living room, switched on his TV set, and settled down to wait.
It was several hours before anything happened. In fact, Henry was on the point of dropping off when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his right calf. He looked down and saw a small yellow bump forming, exactly where he'd estimated New Zealand should be. When events occur, act quickly, God had said. And this was it. His first job. His very first event.
Henry took a pin from his first aid kit, burst the bump, and mopped up all the gunk that pumped out of it. When it was empty, he applied TCP, stuck a plaster over the wound, and waited.
The TV news came on. The second item was a rushed report of a volcanic eruption in New Zealand. There was confusion amongst the experts. The initial stages had been very violent, but activity had almost instantly subsided. A baffled-looking professor of geophysics came on the screen, his hair an Einstein halo. He seemed almost angry. “I don't understand what's going on here,” he kept saying. “It doesn't make any sense. This thing should have been another Mount St. Helens, but somehow it's just... stopped!”
Henry looked down at the plaster on his leg. He patted it gently.
“Well what do you know?” he said. “It works. It really works.”
He sat up in his chair and looked around the room.
“Okay, God,” he said. “Where is she?”
There was a noise behind him. He turned. Doreen was standing in the doorway, her head cocked to one side, a huge grin on her face. His chest got tight.
“Henry Gray,” she said. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look? What's with all the lines? You look like Spiderman on bath-night.”
He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Doreen shook her head and came walking towards him. She wasn't fully materialised yet, and as she crossed the room he realised he could see through her. Still, a semi-transparent Doreen was better by far than no Doreen at all. She stopped in front of his chair, bent at the waist, and planted a kiss on the top of his bald head. It was like being touched by the frozen shadow of a feather.
“Cat got your tongue?” she said. “What on earth do you think you're doing?”
He reached out a hand and moved it through her.
“I… I'm saving it,” he said.
“Saving what?”
“The Earth,” said Henry. “I just stopped a volcano in New Zealand. It's a kind of magic.”
The air inside Doreen's outline felt cold and a little thicker than the air outside, but that was about it. Still, he loved the feel of her, however slight.
“Oh my,” said Doreen. “How long have I been away, Henry? It doesn't seem long enough for you to go senile on me.”
“You've been dead four years, Doreen.”
“Dead?”
Henry nodded. “Dead. And I've missed you. I've been ill and I've missed you – I can't tell you how much. But I'm better now, and you're back.”
Doreen looked down at him. Something dawned in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, frowning, her head cocked as if she was listening to something. “Yes, I understand. A kind of magic. We're back on stage again, aren't we?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “A bigger act this time around. Bigger part for you, too, my love.”
He felt a sudden burning sensation on the inside of his left thigh.
“Henry,” said Doreen, “your leg's on fire.”
He looked down and checked his map. “It's that drought in Namibia,” he said. “The little they've got left is going up in flames. Quick, put your hand on my leg.”
Doreen raised her eyebrows.
“Hurry up,” said Henry. “People are dying.”
Doreen reached out and rested her cool hand on his thigh. The fire went out. The pain in his leg vanished.
“Well done,” he said. “You're a natural.”
“You know, if we pour a glass of water over your leg, I think we can put an end to the drought.”
“Good idea,” said Henry. “Worth a try, anyway.”
Doreen patted his thigh and moved her hand up and down. She was rather more solid now, and Henry felt things stirring.
Doreen coughed. “Aren't we a little old for that kind of thing, Henry Gray?” she said.
Henry grinned at her. “You're as old as you feel,” he said.
“Well, I don't feel dead,” said Doreen. “That's for sure.”
Henry grinned wider. “Oh, I think we can forget about death, you and I.”
“Can we?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “God's little helpers on earth, that's us. God's little trouble-shooters.”
Doreen laughed, low and breathy.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“You know what God wants to fill the world with, don't you?”
“No, what?”
“With love, Henry. With love. He's always going on about it.”
“You're right,” said Henry. “He is.”
Doreen nodded and moved her hand a little higher up his thigh. Henry felt his eyes growing wide. Doreen winked her old, sexy wink and kissed him.
“So… it's been a while,” she said. “What do you say we make a start?”
Table of Contents
The Teenager
By Bridget Livermore
United Kingdom
Who is he?
Head down, shoulders hunched, eyes warily scanning the bustling crowd from beneath the carefully sculpted fringe, gelled to within an inch of its life. Occasionally pausing, silently, sullenly scanning the shop windows. She follows at the obligatory distance, ready with her purse and accepting that no interaction is possible.
The teenager is out shopping with his mother.
Testosterone coursing through his gangly body his head automatically turns to steal a glance at the pretty young girls giggling and whispering in their mini skirts. Sensing his mother’s private smile, he turns scowling at her, disgust oozing from every pore.
She brightens again seeing the bold “Sale” sign pasted across the window of Primark. Her hand feels for her purse as she prepares to go in. The teenager slouches right on by towards the neon sign flashing above Groovy Teens. The rhythmic thumping beat of sound, reminiscent of his CD collection at home emanates from the open doorway.
With a sigh she follows, her expression carefully neutral.
Suddenly she glimpses the son she once knew as he meets up with his own species. Identically dressed, desperately pursuing their own individuality they communicate together, laughing and jostling amicably. She instinctively hangs back, she knows that no sign of her existence must be evident, now more than ever.
Time passes and he appears from the bowels of the shop. A series of grunts, intelligible to only the experienced ear, informs her that the time has come for her to execute her duty, her reason for being there. A pair of trousers, several sizes bigger than ones worn by his father is thrust into her arms.
“Have you tried these on love? You’ll need a belt with these won’t you?”
Another look of disgust mixed with something that could be interpreted as pity is flashed at her from beneath that ridiculous fringe. Resignedly she takes the trousers over to the cash desk and pays someone dyed, pierced and painted beyond human recognition.
The teenager waits outside, slouched carefully against the window until his bagged and paid for purchase emerges, attached to his mother. They make their way back up the busy high street and into “Pete’s Piercings”. Having been made aware for many long months that she is the only mother in the history of existence who has made her offspring wait until his fifteenth birthday to have an ear pierced, the day of reckoning has finally arrived.
She watches as he chats lucidly and comprehensibly to Piercing Pete and, only she notices the carefully masked, fleeting nervousness that crosses his face, before the gun does its work.
Piercing
complete, she notices the new saunter as they walk to the car and the stealing glances at the glinting reflection of his new earring in the shop windows.
Safe within the private confines of the car, she tells him he looks smart. He tuts, eyes rolling, visibly flinching at her choice of words.
Later, as she puts his old trousers into the washing machine, a week’s worth of “treasure” falls from the pockets. A piece of Blu Tac, a rubber band, three Polo Mints, a straightened out paper clip, a shred of copper from the Science lab at school, a length of pipe cleaner and a half chewed, no doubt hastily extracted piece of gum.
Who is this person, half child, half man?
Still my boy.
Table of Contents
One Small Step
By Toby Allen
United Kingdom
Imagineer this.
The suspension bridge, late at night, floodlit. In the harsh light the structure shows its age. It looks frail and old, the girders criss-crossing the light like rusted knitting. As one, the lights trained on the bridge swoop down, illuminating the rectangle of air between the bridge, the walls of the gorge, and the valley floor. The swathe of floodlight falls the 250 feet from the bridge to the river in 4.0 seconds and stops dead on the landing zone. The floodlight disappears. Darkness.
Then the lights burn back onto the bridge, scything through the ironwork. From the bottom of the gorge you can just make out six small silhouettes on the near side of the bridge. They begin to edge out into the light, and we see that they are made up of three pairs, each pair made up of one man in black, the other in a primary coloured jump-suit. Black and yellow, black and red, black and blue.
The crowd at the bottom of the gorge go wild. There are probably 10,000 of them along the valley floor, all yellows, reds and blues; t-shirts, caps and slogans: “Any Colour As Long As It's Blue”, “Red Alert”, “You Say Yellow, I Say Goodbye”.
The blacks walk along the bridge, the colours shuffle. Each pair is followed by their own spotlight tinted yellow, red and blue (like the kind you used to get in discos, only harsher). Yellow has further to go to his station on the far side of the bridge than Red in the middle and Blue on the near side, but their walks are timed so that the three pairs arrive at their stations at exactly the same time.
It is 250 feet from the bridge to the river. Or 4.0 seconds.
The whole thing is perfectly choreographed.
Commercial break.
Ariel taps me on the shoulder.
- My money's on Yellow. Who you going for?
- I'm not playing.
- Sure you're not.
- Rules are rules.
- What does it matter? It's not like we have inside information or anything.
- You know the score: those involved in the program can't play.
- Okay, but in your head, who'd you go for?
- I don't know.
- Oh come on. All this work, weeks of preparation, you must have given it some thought?
- Don't be shy. Who? In your head?
We got Maria interested now. Oh great. She's leaning forward from the seat behind.
- I haven't thought about it.
- Oh come on, don't tell me there's been nothing going on in that dark little broom cupboard you call a mind?
- I don't know, maybe Blue.
- Because?
- Don't know. Something about him.
- Like what?
- Large forehead. Brains. Probably been planning it for weeks.
- How can you tell?
- Way the hood fills out around his temples.
- You picked him because of the shape of his head? That's how they used to hunt witches for fuck's sake.
Ariel leans over to her, puts his hand on her arm.
- Personal experience, Maria?
She looks at him like she wants to pluck him from her nipple and dash his brains out.
The atmosphere has not been good between them for a while. Not since they started fucking at any rate.
The three men in black kneel in unison behind their primary-coloured partners and begin the complex preparations. They remove the ankle shackles and in their place wind round soft padded fabric. Around this they fasten and tighten the elasticated harnesses and attach them by a metal hoop to a thick cord. We see close-ups of the three metal hoops snapping together in quick succession: first yellow, then red, then blue. Always the same order, the same ritual.
Once this is done, on a signal from the director, the men in black stand up behind their coloured partners. They take care that their faces are shielded from the cameras by the wide hoods worn by the colours in front of them (they do not want to be typecast; one of them has an audition with Disney next week). In the tinted spotlights, it is difficult to tell apart the three blacks from the coloured’s shadows. Then they guide the men in their charge forward, shuffling, to the edge of their stations.
The crowd goes quiet. One man in a yellow bandana shouts "Go Yellow" but he tails off before he finishes, silenced by hostile glances, and the penetrating stare of a five-year-old girl with banana-blonde hair sat on her father's shoulders next to him, in an oversized t-shirt bearing the words “Red Sky At Night”. At this point the only sound is the helicopter hovering overhead, a camera out of each side trained on the bridge, preying.
In unison, Yellow, Red and Blue raise their arms to the horizontal. Legs together, arms outstretched, haloed in coloured spotlights, they are three florescent cruciforms on the crumbling iron.
The Christian fundamentalists won't like the imagery, but the whole thing is synchronised to perfection.
Commercial Break.
Maria taps me on the shoulder.
- Taking their time aren't they?
My mistake. It's Ariel, not Maria.
- It's part of the ceremony.
- Yeah but we might be losing viewers. Concentration spans and all that.
- They've got to do the checks, make sure there are no fuck-ups. This is going out to a global audience. And it's live TV. So no-one dies that isn't meant to.
Maria gets up, smiling to herself.
- Real-time.
- Sorry?
- We're not supposed to call it "live" anymore. Felt to be a little, you know, inappropriate?
- OK. It's real-time TV. So no fuck-ups.
Ariel leans forward.
- Talking of fuck-ups, I heard this story about a jump organised as a birthday treat for a Japanese worker. His office building had thirty floors. So they multiplied the height of each floor by the number of stories, factored in the length of stretch a body his weight would cause on the bungee, and worked out how long the cord would have to be.
- And? What went wrong?
- He died. Hit the ground. Intestines came out through his arse.
Maria comes back with three white ribbed plastic beakers.
- So, what went wrong?
- They miscalculated.
- Too heavy?
- No.
- Too tall?
- In a way. The building was twenty-nine stories high, not thirty.
- How come?
- Japanese buildings don't have a thirteenth floor. Unlucky for some.
- I'll say.
Maria hands me a beaker. It is champagne, not water.
On the bridge Blue's arms are beginning to sag. In the five minutes of commercials his shoulders must have tired. It's a sign of weakness and it could be crucial. The public pick up on things like that.
Maybe the crowd are thinking about Blue's posture when a shapeless mass of yellow explodes onto the far gorge wall. It takes them a fraction of a second to realise that what they are looking at is the hooded head and shoulders of the first man, filmed from the helicopter overhead, magnified hundreds of times and projected across the valley. Slowly their eyes decipher beneath the yellow hood the profile of a nose pushing through the fabric, and the
pulse of cloth in and out to the man's quickened breathing.
This is the first time they have seen a close-up of any of the three, and the scale of the image forces them to consider the enormity of what they are witnessing (at least that is what it says in the program notes).
The rock-face darkens, and a neon-yellow word bursts onto it.
RAPIST.
Six huge letters full-stopped by a dark outcrop of rock.
The crowd is silent. They look around through the chinks of their eyes, gauging each other's reaction, trading glances and complicity. A woman with bad mascara takes off her “Going to Kill the Yellow Man” baseball cap and holds it to her chest.
Next, a huge red hood is blasted onto the gorge wall. It is a little misshapen from the contours of the rock-face, and its point is off-centre, almost jaunty. It is shaking noticeably. The rocks darken.
PAEDOPHILE.
The man with the little girl on his shoulders in the “Red Sky at Night” t-shirt turns to look at the rock-face. He is wearing a matching red t-shirt with the words “Parent's Delight”. He holds his daughter's hands in his own to steady her, but he still manages to raise his middle finger at the faceless image on the far side of the valley. His daughter (please tell me it is his daughter?) copies the gesture. Four rows back and to the left a group of women hold up candles and black and white photos of children. They set their jaws under a “Better Dead if Red” banner.
Finally, the image of the blue hood, swaying on its shoulders, the head inside tilted up to the sky in defiance. Or perhaps in prayer. Then, as before, the felon's title. A huge blue
MURDERR.
Something is wrong. The blues in the crowd squint and frown, checking they read it right. In less than two seconds the projection is adjusted, moved a little to the right, and the missing E emerges from the fold in the rock that had swallowed it.
The blue MURDERER remains on screen for another eight seconds before we cut back to a wideshot of the bridge, the three dots of colour evenly spaced along its dark span.
Bar the minor technical hitch with the missing E, the whole thing is realised flawlessly.
Commercial Break.
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