by Gareth Wiles
Emily’s mother did eventually prove rather difficult as she advanced in years, as was to be expected. I remembered the speed and ease with which Miss Coombs had been dispatched, and did contemplate a similar fate for her. Luckily, Nature proved to be her assassin and I was spared the onerous indecency of putting her out of her misery myself.
The one true devastation in my life was the loss of Troy. Though Emily followed suit and succeeded him in his loyalty, I was so attached after his decade of service that when the time came to say goodbye I was overcome with grief. He, with his contemplative stoicism as he sat looking out onto the vast countryside beyond the house, was the greatest mind I ever came across. He knew it all, and had life well laid out under his paws.
I thought of Agatha often, and how sadly it had ended for her; but I overcame those feelings of guilt. No longer did I blame myself, and Emily just did as I wished. She was not for challenging my whim, she just wanted to please me. This, even as the years passed, never did thin one bit. There was just one occasion when she tried to probe the origins of Adam, and I had warned her away from prying. She never did query again. She enabled me to continue unmolested by both the law and my conscience for the rest of my days.
And so, here I am at the end of my days reminiscing on a brief, and unfortunate, portion of my early life. Adam would have grown into a fine young man, though sadly he had inherited some of his mother’s headstrong urge for independence and, of course, her sickly body. He had a fit one day and died at fourteen whilst trying to “find himself” out in the fields. Still, all eight of the children Emily and I had together survive to this day. Emily herself also lives, though she spends much of her time sitting very still and very quiet in the corner of the room. She will spend hours upon end just staring into space, occasionally mumbling about “profound difficulties” and the like.
After my brief flash of upset and mischief at the beginning of my life, I have been able to create an entirely new existence free from trouble. I have lived a good life, and reached a vast age. In the end there was no stopping me, for no matter what challenges occurred I was able to overcome them unscathed. I know I only have days, if not hours, left to live, but it does not trouble me. Death is the surest of all life experiences, and the illness that has taken me down is not the most fiendish. The result is the same no matter what gets you, and acceptance of your mortality is crucial. The one thing on my mind as I prepare for the end is if I ever truly felt love for anybody. Looking over at Emily, I think of what Agatha’s opinion of her would have been. All Emily has wanted to do in life is be a wife to a man. Agatha would have seen her as a weak sort of woman, a non-entity with no mind of her own. With that laid out, there is a part of me that feels less connected to Emily because of this. I don’t know why I was drawn to Agatha, other than her physical beauty. The same attributes also drew me to Emily. My brute force was able to crush Agatha’s desire to stretch out beyond the confines of what was expected of her sex. That was her downfall. My downfall, as a man conditioned throughout life to command with strength and deviousness, is mere old age.
As I draw my final breaths, I have the arrogant impression that they are nowhere near my final ones at all. There is the overriding urge to say I can see the large upright box just up ahead of me. Emily has certainly made no fuss of it – not that she has made much of a fuss about anything of late – and I myself am inclined to put it to the back of my mind. Its sudden presence now makes no sense, even though I find myself not questioning the coming of the box. It seems right.
I remember Troy’s last day on Earth all those years ago when I was still a young man as though it was yesterday. I had to carry him out for his daily study of Nature by then, and gently placed him down in his favourite spot atop an old barrel. That day, he did not want to look far out into the distance – perhaps he no longer could see that far. No, his attention was seized by something close by and on the ground. I, curious, trained my own sight and spotted a large dandelion weed growing rather healthily in the path. I had dug it out so many times before, but it just kept coming back. I went then and tried to pull it, but it would not come. The roots were strong, and the leaves a vibrant green. It would go on growing in spite of the war against it.
A Confession, by Jack Ffoulkes
I’ve done a terrible thing, and it’s changed my life for good; or, more accurately, for bad. You could say it has ruined my life, ensuring I will never ever have what I want. It concerns the most perfect of God’s creations on this Earth: Agatha. Had I not acted so foolishly and spoilt what she and I had going, I would not be where I am right now. However, this whole thing did not just involve the two of us. One Darren Aubrey was the third in our triangle, her cousin and, by a twist of remarkable fate, my boss. He is younger than I am by several months, and, knowing exactly where he has come from, it is hard to accept him in this position after a sudden change. He did not help matters with his arrogant air. His greatest tool in bringing about my downfall was not work, though, but Agatha herself. He wanted her, and would not allow me to take her away.
I had, rather foolishly you might say, fallen desperately in love with her the moment I had fixed my sight upon her divine presence; Aubrey had been right in his assessment of her throughout our many long talks. We would speak casually on the factory floor when he worked alongside me, long before his uncle dropped dead, and Agatha was the main focus – that was until I showed an interest in her. His uncle Joe, or Mr Aubrey to me, had apparently promised his daughter’s hand in marriage to “my friend”, and this was the beginning of a very slippery slope into the cesspool of shame and regret I now wallow in. Yes, I had underestimated Aubrey’s cunning in making Agatha believe I had hit him, but that was no excuse for beating him and burning the factory down. I have left him for dead mere hours ago, but had time to think upon my actions. This is my confession that I am as guilty as sin itself for the unspeakable loss of control that resulted in my killing of Darren Aubrey. He was a friend to me, and we part company due to the simplest of disagreements: a girl. Poor Agatha, I think of her now with the rest of her long life ahead of her, and am at least happy that two such cowards as Aubrey and me are no longer in it. I stand here, about to throw myself down into the river, and realise my love for Agatha is real. I love you, Agatha, but we can never be together.
JIM’S A PART OF APART
For me to have felt a part of something in life, I’d have had to have not been apart from things all my life. I always keep myself away, distanced. Goodness knows why. It’s done me no good because here I am, carried off to war and thrust right into the action. Digging trenches sounds like a simple job. Let me tell you it is not. Nor is digging trenches an easy job. This is me being a part of something, something altogether bigger than anything else before it in the history of mankind. A war to end all wars they’re calling it. It is hell on Earth.
They call me twitch – because I have a twitch. When I get excitable it gets worse, hence why it’s going berserk right now. First my eye starts to spasm, followed by my cheek, then my entire face goes ballistic. It’s a terrible nuisance, crippling even. I also cannot help but clear my throat all the time, even though it doesn’t need clearing. I have to be careful however, as I end up clearing it or even coughing when those around me are doing the same. Mimicking the noises of those around me isn’t going to do me any favours in the trenches. We’re all so close, so very very close. Truth be told, this whole situation is downright dreadful. Sixteen of my ‘fellow men’ died in a truly terrible manner yesterday – a heavy downpour quickly filled their section of trench with water and they drowned. So did the rats. The rats are good company.
I am apart from things because I do not belong – neither here in the trenches, nor to anywhere else. My part in the grand scheme of things is so minuscule and insignificant that I feel myself afforded nothing from anyone. My life story, if that is the correct phrase, just doesn’t seem solid or interesting enough to relay to you. Young men like me are getting sent over the
top of the trenches every single day and being instantly slaughtered. I will go soon, and I will not be sorry. There is absolutely no reasoning to it at all; not one that I understand anyway.
I feel so separate from life that I’ve begun to view things from outside my own body, looking down on myself as I go about my daily duties. I look foolish and clumsy, but that doesn’t matter – there are many kinds a weakness on show if you know how to see it. There are cries for mother amidst the blizzard of bullets, and weeping over the simplest of issues that arise such as having to drink dirty water. I’ve also seen the strangest of strengths from the unlikeliest of people, but I simply cannot allow myself to accept it. If I do, I might have to try and emulate them. I’m not a very good performer. I’ve never been good at anything. Despite that, I have the very briefest moments of feeling great. Sometimes I just feel utterly great and superior to everyone else, but it is only a fleeting feeling that is soon replaced by my usual self-loathing.
It might sound like a cliché to say I don’t belong here – in the trenches about to die for a cause I don’t believe in – but I simply do not belong here. There is something else, something more to my life than this narrowness I am being presented with; my trouble is that I cannot put my finger on it. The only thing I can put my finger on is the trigger as I go over the top with my rifle. That is a certain. What if I freeze and cannot fire? No worries – even if I do fire I won’t last long. It is a foolish endeavour.
Just that moment, as I am observing myself from above, a huge vertical slit appears in front of me in the trench. As it opens, emanating a dull purple glow, a scentless breath wheezes out and a hand emerges. I cannot tell whether it is male or female, but it outstretches itself towards me. If I am to take it, will I be pulled through the slit? I step back, folding my arms, and the hand and slit vanish as quickly as they have arrived.
Before I know it I have a rifle in my hand and am being pushed up a wooden ladder. Bullets don’t kill me – men kill me. Men like me, pulled from their lives and sent here to play soldier.
PETER’S TROUBLES
It came as a terrible shock to find myself presented with Him so soon. I was not a believer, but I played along – it was easier that way. If I was to impart one single piece of advice to another human being, it would be to always seek out the easiest option in life. Oh yes! There was nothing easy about coming face to face with the Führer himself.
I was born in 1925 – a good year apparently. Some old bag told me I’d picked an ideal period in history in which to exist. When I questioned her why, she just cackled and danced about on the spot. Stupid bitch. Nevertheless, I felt somewhat pleased with my slice of being for a time, having happily avoided too much trouble as a young boy. Of course, all that changed when I was 14 and the world went to war. We lived on a farm in Wales and quickly found ourselves housing some Italian prisoners of war. Nice chaps, really. Stole some china out of the cabinet, but owned up to it and accepted the lenient punishment. Anyway, things were alright for me for a while in terms of keeping out of the war – both in terms of my age and the fact I was working on the farm. I didn’t do much work; I didn’t need to. We had the Italians to do the heavy stuff.
Things altered dramatically one Monday morning in early 1945 when I awoke to the sight of a balding man standing over my bed. What remained of his hair was fair, darkened only by too much cream which plastered it to his bulging reddened head. The head only seemed so swollen on account of the rest of his body being so thin and lacking in presence. He placed a briefcase on the tallboy next to my bed in the small attic room and opened it, taking out a large syringe. Before I could come too properly, he had stuck it in my neck and I fell asleep once again.
* * *
Adolf Hitler – I was utterly terrified. He stood across from me in the low-ceiling room, staring into a full-length mirror. The only object that separated us was a large, pale chest lying flat on the floor. Several wires and a tube ran from it into an area to the left of me, curtained off and in darkness.
‘I pulled many strings to bring you here,’ he uttered in a low, almost not-there, voice. I felt like my voice would also be as weak; either due to nerves, or the damp air in here. I blinked, trying to adjust to the low lighting. ‘Seven agents died to achieve my aim.’ He watched his own lips as they moved. ‘Their deaths are unfortunate. Good agents.’ His English sounded at the very least understandable. I remained silent and deathly still, not quite sure even what position my body was in or whether or not I was bound. I felt utterly away from myself, or maybe I wished so. I watched in the mirror as Hitler reached into his jacket pocket with a trembling hand and brought out a tattered old notebook. It was yellow, falling to bits. His shaky, clawed hand lifted the thing to his lips and he kissed it as his hunched back quivered. ‘Peter Smith.’ He knew my name, he’d gone to great lengths to bring me here – why? I could not ask him. ‘The Peter Smith. You are the genuine article, your lineage has been traced.’ He now turned to face me, struggling down on to one knee and bowing his head before me as he clutched onto the notebook. ‘Save me, oh Great one,’ he pleaded with me. Just then another man, in uniform and very tall, walked in unannounced. Hitler got up with some effort, screeched something in German to the man, and sent him running with his tail between his legs. ‘Forgive me,’ he uttered to me, the volume of his voice dropping once more. I stayed deadly still and quiet as he stepped closer, as if waiting for me to respond in some way. I knew not how to. His eyes briefly flicked over to the curtain before resting on the object on the floor between us. ‘You have many powers. I know you see the future – you saw me as the murderer of millions of people. Your prophesy is somewhat accurate, though I am not their murderer. I sweep away the worthless filth. I am a cleanser.’
‘You are an opportunist and an arsehole, Adolf,’ I told him. I couldn’t help myself, it just came flying out from between my lips. I awaited his onslaught.
‘You are an affront to nature – to the very fabric of existence,’ he calmly told me back.
He clicked his fingers and the curtain to the side of us retracted. A bright light came on and behind it stood a large black upright box – the wires from the pale horizontal box between Hitler and myself running into the back of it. Next to the box sat a very small bald man in white overalls. Behind him was some kind of control panel with buttons and levers, also connected by wires to the big upright box.
‘What is all this?’ I asked, gaining ever so slightly in confidence following Hitler’s meek reaction to my last uttered phrase.
‘Meet Alois Vadge,’ Hitler told me, pointing at the little bald man on the stool, ‘my chief medical advisor on this special day.’ The word medical was certainly not what I wanted to hear from this man’s lips. We’d all heard the news reports of what he and his Nazis had been up to. Here I now was, waiting to be used in another gruesome experiment. Alois Vadge stayed perfectly still and perfectly silent, save for a slight dilation of the nostrils as they kept the air flowing to his lungs. ‘The third reich is crumbling – it is the story of my life,’ Hitler went on. ‘You work hard for something really nice, only for someone else to come along and spoil it.’
‘Invading Russia didn’t help you,’ I pointed out.
‘A tactical mishap, or divine intervention?’ he mused, tapping his little moustache and swiping his greasy black side-parting back into place. ‘Germany has failed me, I have ordered total destruction of Berlin. The only avenue left open to me is reincarnation and immortality – secrets you hold.’ His trembling, clawed fingers waved in my general direction. He clicked those same fingers and Alois Vadge suddenly sprung up and dashed to the control panel behind him, fiddling with the knobs and levers. The pale box between Hitler and myself began to emanate a greenish glow. Condensation began dripping from it before Hitler leant over and wiped the top. It was misty, but there appeared to be some kind of body in there. Alois dashed across clutching a towel, which Hitler promptly snatched from him. After mopping his sweaty brow with it, a
nd undoing a couple of catches on the side of the container, the two men pulled at the top, breaking a seal as the lid started to free. And then – the smell. A putrid odour raced out as the men pushed the lid aside and peered in. The big black box to the side just stood there, seeming to play no part other than playing host to wires and a tube. I too peered inside to see the image of a very tall and thin man sporting white curly hair. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes deeply set into his skull. His wrinkled hands lay across his chest. He was submerged in ice, which was melting around him. ‘A familiar face, Peter Smith?’
I did not recognise this person, though some far off inclination told me that I should. ‘Who is it?’ I questioned, the horrors that Hitler had planned running through my mind.
‘Nature would have asserted you never see this man again, yet he is before you now ready to be reanimated. He is Thaddeus Hobble, the man who secured your writings so that I could gain everlasting life. He has been dead two hundred years, his body kept frozen in deepest Siberia as per his wishes. My turn on Russia was not all to no avail.’
As the ice melted from his body, Hobble’s hair became limp and fell from his scalp in clumps. His exposed head reacted with the muddy air and blistered, peeling off in patches. Hitler gently patted Hobble’s face with the towel as Vadge reached in and lifted his arm up. He checked for a pulse, looking worriedly back at Hitler, before bending down and pulling the wires out from the container and placing the ends directly onto Hobble’s temples. Sparks flew, some landing in the last of the water as it drained away underneath the inanimate man and causing mini explosions. I kept fixed, still unsure whether I could move or not. Hitler shouted something in German as he dropped to his knees and banged his fists on the floor. All at once the sparks stopped and Vadge leapt back as Hobble’s eyes opened. His lips opened and a gasp of air released itself. Hitler pulled himself up against the container and leant in, his eyes moist and his mouth making some sort of grin. Hobble’s body twitched and spasmed momentarily.