18:21 Tuesday 12th April 2016
“How are you feeling today Helix?”
The voice rang through the chamber like a clamour of bells. Helix looked up and saw Gwen approaching. He smiled.
“Better.”
“I’m glad,” Gwen replied, standing at the perimeter, looking in. She sat down in her customary chair and pulled out her notepad. Helix watched her cross her legs and take off her glasses.
“I wanted to talk about your dreams today Helix, is that okay?”
Helix nodded. He liked talking to Gwen – she made him feel happy.
“What did you dream about last night?”
“A boy. Running through a park. He dreams of the sea.” Helix replied.
“Would that be…” Gwen checked her notes, “Michael Thomas? We got to him in time, Helix. Were there any others?”
Helix shook his head. There were no others. Not now, anyway. There would be more. He knew this. He was watching them. They didn’t know it. But he was. Always watching. Dreaming.
“Good Helix, I’m glad.” Gwen scribbled on her notebook and looked down. She always found it difficult to look at him. The transparent cell was eerily lit and it made him look small and weak. She shuddered.
He was dressed as he always was – in that hideous costume they’d made for him. It was yellow, white and red. There were still holes in it, big sooty patches and tears across it. The blue cape was a tattered remnant. This was the way he’d looked when he arrived.
“How is your brother, Gwen?” Helix asked, standing up and walking to the wall of the cell. She smothered her feelings and fought internally with her racing heartbeat. He put his hand against the invisible wall and watched her, his eyes empty and cold.
“He’s doing better.” She replied neutrally. Her brother was a vegetable, she thought bitterly, hooked up to a life support machine buried deep in the complex. They liked to keep Helix’s victims close by for observation.
“I’m glad,” Helix replied – his hand pressed against the reinforced glass, as if he was feeling out for her. “I hate what I have become.”
Periodically he had these moments of melancholy, where he slipped back to reality and felt as the old Helix would. Then, he would drift away again, his feelings evaporating into the unknown, his soul lost somewhere to the ether.
“Don’t say that Helix. You’re perfect.” Gwen replied. Her instructions were quite precise on the matter of responses and Gwen practised them endlessly.
“Perfect.” He repeated, airily.
Gwen stood up. She’d got what she needed from the boy and she couldn’t stand to be in his presence much longer. “I will see you soon, Helix.” She said politely, standing up.
“I know, Dr Gwen.” Helix replied. “You will come back the day after tomorrow and we will talk again. Our usual topic. Amongst other things.”
She nodded and began to walk away, fighting the urge to break into a run.
“You are very pretty,” Helix said after, his voice changing. It was deeper now, it was the voice all her worst fears spoke with. It sounded like her father’s. She felt his leer drilling into the back of her neck. Her insides turned cold. Grief and repulsion grappled for supremacy within her. She felt sorry for the boy – he was only a teenager, barely any better off than her brother in many respects. Certainly, he wasn’t much younger than him.
There were times when Helix said things which seemed to curdle her – looks, moments of absolute evil which seemed to come and go like all of his moods and emotions.
She feared the day when Helix would break out. She knew it would come sooner or later. He’d seen it – he wouldn’t say when – but he knew it was coming. The others told her they were prepared for any eventuality, but she knew that they were kidding themselves. When Helix decides to break loose, no prison cell in the world will stop him, she thought.
As she reached the door, she heard weeping from behind her. His mood had shifted again. She turned around and watched him, leaning against the door handle. She liked watching him cry. The hunched figure folded on the ground, trapped in a glass cage, lit from all around by piercing light and that tattered cape spilling from his neck like a shroud.
She smiled and thought of her brother. It was these moments that kept her coming back. Somehow watching this shell of a lad crumble under the weight of his own guilt and fear was enough to calm the knot of anger in her chest that demanded his blood on her hands.
Shaking, she opened the door and stepped out, closing her feelings away, locking them in the room with devil called Helix.
Wednesday, 11 April 2007
ASBO-Boy - Suspected Other: Part 2
23:13 - Monday 11th April 2016
Pellets of foam exploded around Mike as he dove into the nearest bush. The high wall of the Brynmill Ward loomed above him.
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
The bushes quickly swelled with expanding foam suppressant as the pellets followed him in, pounding against wall and tree. Through the gaps in the bushes beams of piercing white light fractured into pieces.
He needed to get home and he didn’t think he was going to make it. He backed up against the wall and began to follow flush with it, away from the light.
“He’s moving away!” Shouted one of the Hounds.
They were on his scent like animals. Dimly he saw figures moving in the dark. You heard stories about them, how they were worse than the Pigs. Treacherous swine. Turncoats.
A helicopter thumped above him, its light flushing through the bushes as fast as he could run. There were voices following him in the dark. Young, broken voices. He shuddered.
The Hounds were notoriously Others. Captured, subverted and rewarded with PROBOS. They were scum.
Mike’s hands found a gap in the wall. It was a split that had been covered with wire mesh and hidden by the trees. The walls were old these days. Built to protect an ailing society from itself, so they said. Keep the good ones in and the bad ones out, so the papers reminded them. Bollocks, Mike thought.
Closing his eyes he began to squeeze through the gap. His skin began to seep water, he felt his body easing its way through the narrow space.
On the other side he spilled out of the gap and into Singleton Park. Momentarily the sounds from beyond the wall dimmed. Mike looked around – he’d only ever seen it from outside. Only University Students were allowed in now. Only Society’s approved. He thought about tagging some trees, but then he was reminded by a burst of thunder from the helicopter.
“There he is!” Came a cry from the Wall. Mike looked behind him, a crouched silhouette was sitting atop the twenty foot wall.
Mike pulled his hood up and ran out onto the grass. He was exposed here and the light of the helicopter was on him in seconds. It didn’t take the hounds long to alight the wall and give chase. Mike glanced behind him – they were dressed all in black, their faces hidden.
I wouldn’t want my face seen either, he thought as his legs pounded into the soft, even grass.
He laughed, wondering how long the chase would last – would he be able to reach the other side before he was caught. It was unlikely. But there was always a chance – he wasn’t exactly normal - he’d gotten out of tighter squeezes before.
Beneath him, Mike began to feel the grass change texture. It was turning white.
The grass began to crunch – but before he knew what had happened, Mike was sliding across the ground, up to his elbows in snow. He ground to an embarrassing halt as several Hounds descended on him.
He felt his soaked hoody begin to crunch and freeze. Mike looked up, frightened and dazed.
“We’ve got him.” The Lead Hound shouted, his voice high and uneven.
Within moments, Officers descended from the helicopter and bound him in cuffs and suppressant.
One of the Officers spoke quietly with the lead Hound.
“How did he get through the wall?”
“Squeezed through a gap.” The Hound made a gesture with his fingers. The Officer nodded.
“Wrap him up tight boys. Let the station know: Suspected Other.”
**
BANG!
The magistrates hammer fell – Mike sat up in his seat, shaking with fear.
“Michael Thomas, you have been found guilty of Vandalism. Upon your restraint, Officers delivered the verdict of Suspected Other. At Cocket Police Headquarters you were subjected to Anbaric Radiation and found to be Positive Other. It is the judgement of this body of Magistrates to sentence you with an Anti-Social Behavioural Order. You will be taken forthwith to Sandfields Borstal and committed to your First Cycle of detainment.”
The hammer fell again and Mike flinched. Distantly he heard crying coming from the direction of his parents. He didn’t look up. He’d finally pushed his luck too far.
Pellets of foam exploded around Mike as he dove into the nearest bush. The high wall of the Brynmill Ward loomed above him.
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
The bushes quickly swelled with expanding foam suppressant as the pellets followed him in, pounding against wall and tree. Through the gaps in the bushes beams of piercing white light fractured into pieces.
He needed to get home and he didn’t think he was going to make it. He backed up against the wall and began to follow flush with it, away from the light.
“He’s moving away!” Shouted one of the Hounds.
They were on his scent like animals. Dimly he saw figures moving in the dark. You heard stories about them, how they were worse than the Pigs. Treacherous swine. Turncoats.
A helicopter thumped above him, its light flushing through the bushes as fast as he could run. There were voices following him in the dark. Young, broken voices. He shuddered.
The Hounds were notoriously Others. Captured, subverted and rewarded with PROBOS. They were scum.
Mike’s hands found a gap in the wall. It was a split that had been covered with wire mesh and hidden by the trees. The walls were old these days. Built to protect an ailing society from itself, so they said. Keep the good ones in and the bad ones out, so the papers reminded them. Bollocks, Mike thought.
Closing his eyes he began to squeeze through the gap. His skin began to seep water, he felt his body easing its way through the narrow space.
On the other side he spilled out of the gap and into Singleton Park. Momentarily the sounds from beyond the wall dimmed. Mike looked around – he’d only ever seen it from outside. Only University Students were allowed in now. Only Society’s approved. He thought about tagging some trees, but then he was reminded by a burst of thunder from the helicopter.
“There he is!” Came a cry from the Wall. Mike looked behind him, a crouched silhouette was sitting atop the twenty foot wall.
Mike pulled his hood up and ran out onto the grass. He was exposed here and the light of the helicopter was on him in seconds. It didn’t take the hounds long to alight the wall and give chase. Mike glanced behind him – they were dressed all in black, their faces hidden.
I wouldn’t want my face seen either, he thought as his legs pounded into the soft, even grass.
He laughed, wondering how long the chase would last – would he be able to reach the other side before he was caught. It was unlikely. But there was always a chance – he wasn’t exactly normal - he’d gotten out of tighter squeezes before.
Beneath him, Mike began to feel the grass change texture. It was turning white.
The grass began to crunch – but before he knew what had happened, Mike was sliding across the ground, up to his elbows in snow. He ground to an embarrassing halt as several Hounds descended on him.
He felt his soaked hoody begin to crunch and freeze. Mike looked up, frightened and dazed.
“We’ve got him.” The Lead Hound shouted, his voice high and uneven.
Within moments, Officers descended from the helicopter and bound him in cuffs and suppressant.
One of the Officers spoke quietly with the lead Hound.
“How did he get through the wall?”
“Squeezed through a gap.” The Hound made a gesture with his fingers. The Officer nodded.
“Wrap him up tight boys. Let the station know: Suspected Other.”
**
BANG!
The magistrates hammer fell – Mike sat up in his seat, shaking with fear.
“Michael Thomas, you have been found guilty of Vandalism. Upon your restraint, Officers delivered the verdict of Suspected Other. At Cocket Police Headquarters you were subjected to Anbaric Radiation and found to be Positive Other. It is the judgement of this body of Magistrates to sentence you with an Anti-Social Behavioural Order. You will be taken forthwith to Sandfields Borstal and committed to your First Cycle of detainment.”
The hammer fell again and Mike flinched. Distantly he heard crying coming from the direction of his parents. He didn’t look up. He’d finally pushed his luck too far.
ASBO-Boy - Suspected Other: Part 1
Mike’s hands were still covered in paint when they slung him into the TARDIS.
His head banged against the cold white wall and he slid to the floor. The doors were closed roughly behind him and he was left to stare at the enamel white surfaces of the boxy, street corner prison.
He knew it’d be useless, but he struggled anyway. Typically, the pigs had done their job well. Not only was he bound by the cuffs, but they’d coated his arms in suppressing foam which seemed to have hardened and gained weight. Unable to stand, Mike just sat there on the cold, hard floor, with the smell of sick and bleach in his nostrils.
Exhausted, terrified and lulled into a stupor by the gas that was mixed in with the ventilators, Mike seemed to float into a languid broken sleep.
Suddenly, there was light and noise all around him. He opened his eyes to be blinded by the open doors. It was morning and every muscle in his body was aching. Once again he’d awoken to find himself soaked to the skin, his clothes stcking to him like clammy paper.
Two burly pigs leaned in, gripped him under the arms and dragged him out into daylight. His teeth immediately began to chatter. They wiped their hands on their trousers and looked away. They were wearing standard issue visors – to break eye contact - but he could tell they were avoiding his gaze anyway.
The two officers went about their work briskly, updating their PDAs with the TARDIS console. They were dressed in heavy, blue flak vests and were carrying side-arms and batons. Humming nearby was the transport van.
“Fourteen, male Caucasian by the name of Michael Thomas. Address: 42, Beechwood Road, Uplands. School: Bishop Gore State Academy. Apprehended and detained at Uplands Police Box 16, Monday 11th of April 2016 at 23:53 hours. Charged with vandalism. Suspected Other. Picked up for Processing, Friday 12th by Officers Paul Hinchely and David Jones at 9:15 hours.”
Mike listened to the last twenty four hours of his life get read out. But he didn’t hear much of it after the comment Officer Hinchely made about him being a Suspected Other. Too late now. Hadn’t been much of a secret – nobody naturally sweated as much as he did. Maybe they’d adjust his sentence… No chance, he told himself. It’ll be Borstal for you.
When the Officers were done they checked the foam suppressant, wrapped a Processing tag around his neck and opened the back of the meat wagon. He sat down roughly next to the rest of last night’s pickings. Drunks, disturbers of the peace, asbos. What would his parents say? He wondered vaguely, trying to convince himself that he didn’t care what they thought.
It was all bollocks.
**
At Cocket HQ the meat were unloaded and separated into categories of offence. The older drunks and parasites of Brynmill Park were carted off to one lot of cells and the asbos were rounded up and sent another way. Officers Hinchely and Jones politely asked that he follow them down a third route.
He was led to a large steel door which swung open after a lengthy verification process. Inside, the walls were enamel white like the inside of the TARDIS and the air smelled vaguely similar; bleached and alive with the stench of fear. Mike was frogmarched up to a window. Behind it sat a tall woman dressed in an insulator uniform who towered over him like a giant insect.
Officer Hinchely repeated the clinical summary of Mike’s life while the Officer behind the glass nodded and in-puted data on a screen. When the report was complete, the door on Mike’s right opened and she waved them on.
Mike was led down a long corridor to a hole in the floor. A ladder descended from the ceiling and the Officers set about melting the suppressing foam. They unlocked the cuffs and handed him a black, fitted skin-suit.
“You can change behind that.” He was told and directed to a screen. Slowly and shakily he began to undress behind the screen before putting on the skin-suit. The foamy material grafted to his skin and was unnervingly comfortable to wear. After he was done he was directed to descend the ladder and await instructions.
The ladder led to a spherical room with smooth enamelled walls. When he was down, the ladder ascended from the room and a seal came down to fill the hole, completing the sphere.
Mike had never been particularly claustrophobic but he hoped to all that was just and holy that this wasn’t going to be his cell.
“Don’t be afraid,” spoke a gentle female voice from an unknown source. “We’re going to administer a little test and then you can be Processed.”
The room began to glow and throb. Mike started to feel dizzy, his knees began to wobble. Unsteadily he sat down. He felt drunk all of a sudden, then sick, then euphoric.
His limbs grew weak and he slid to the floor, distantly he felt his body become wet and clammy again. Everything became soft and he felt like he was spreading across the floor, pooling in the centre of the room.
Slowly, the throbbing lessened and he seemed to return to normal. Within moments the ladder dropped down and he was instructed to climb it once again. Vaguely he remembered being guided to a cell. This one wasn’t spherical, but it did have the enamel walls - that didn’t matter now though, all he wanted to do was sleep.
The room faded away and was replaced by a vast, dark ocean. Mike drifted on the surface, the water lapping at his feet. It felt good. It felt real.
His head banged against the cold white wall and he slid to the floor. The doors were closed roughly behind him and he was left to stare at the enamel white surfaces of the boxy, street corner prison.
He knew it’d be useless, but he struggled anyway. Typically, the pigs had done their job well. Not only was he bound by the cuffs, but they’d coated his arms in suppressing foam which seemed to have hardened and gained weight. Unable to stand, Mike just sat there on the cold, hard floor, with the smell of sick and bleach in his nostrils.
Exhausted, terrified and lulled into a stupor by the gas that was mixed in with the ventilators, Mike seemed to float into a languid broken sleep.
Suddenly, there was light and noise all around him. He opened his eyes to be blinded by the open doors. It was morning and every muscle in his body was aching. Once again he’d awoken to find himself soaked to the skin, his clothes stcking to him like clammy paper.
Two burly pigs leaned in, gripped him under the arms and dragged him out into daylight. His teeth immediately began to chatter. They wiped their hands on their trousers and looked away. They were wearing standard issue visors – to break eye contact - but he could tell they were avoiding his gaze anyway.
The two officers went about their work briskly, updating their PDAs with the TARDIS console. They were dressed in heavy, blue flak vests and were carrying side-arms and batons. Humming nearby was the transport van.
“Fourteen, male Caucasian by the name of Michael Thomas. Address: 42, Beechwood Road, Uplands. School: Bishop Gore State Academy. Apprehended and detained at Uplands Police Box 16, Monday 11th of April 2016 at 23:53 hours. Charged with vandalism. Suspected Other. Picked up for Processing, Friday 12th by Officers Paul Hinchely and David Jones at 9:15 hours.”
Mike listened to the last twenty four hours of his life get read out. But he didn’t hear much of it after the comment Officer Hinchely made about him being a Suspected Other. Too late now. Hadn’t been much of a secret – nobody naturally sweated as much as he did. Maybe they’d adjust his sentence… No chance, he told himself. It’ll be Borstal for you.
When the Officers were done they checked the foam suppressant, wrapped a Processing tag around his neck and opened the back of the meat wagon. He sat down roughly next to the rest of last night’s pickings. Drunks, disturbers of the peace, asbos. What would his parents say? He wondered vaguely, trying to convince himself that he didn’t care what they thought.
It was all bollocks.
**
At Cocket HQ the meat were unloaded and separated into categories of offence. The older drunks and parasites of Brynmill Park were carted off to one lot of cells and the asbos were rounded up and sent another way. Officers Hinchely and Jones politely asked that he follow them down a third route.
He was led to a large steel door which swung open after a lengthy verification process. Inside, the walls were enamel white like the inside of the TARDIS and the air smelled vaguely similar; bleached and alive with the stench of fear. Mike was frogmarched up to a window. Behind it sat a tall woman dressed in an insulator uniform who towered over him like a giant insect.
Officer Hinchely repeated the clinical summary of Mike’s life while the Officer behind the glass nodded and in-puted data on a screen. When the report was complete, the door on Mike’s right opened and she waved them on.
Mike was led down a long corridor to a hole in the floor. A ladder descended from the ceiling and the Officers set about melting the suppressing foam. They unlocked the cuffs and handed him a black, fitted skin-suit.
“You can change behind that.” He was told and directed to a screen. Slowly and shakily he began to undress behind the screen before putting on the skin-suit. The foamy material grafted to his skin and was unnervingly comfortable to wear. After he was done he was directed to descend the ladder and await instructions.
The ladder led to a spherical room with smooth enamelled walls. When he was down, the ladder ascended from the room and a seal came down to fill the hole, completing the sphere.
Mike had never been particularly claustrophobic but he hoped to all that was just and holy that this wasn’t going to be his cell.
“Don’t be afraid,” spoke a gentle female voice from an unknown source. “We’re going to administer a little test and then you can be Processed.”
The room began to glow and throb. Mike started to feel dizzy, his knees began to wobble. Unsteadily he sat down. He felt drunk all of a sudden, then sick, then euphoric.
His limbs grew weak and he slid to the floor, distantly he felt his body become wet and clammy again. Everything became soft and he felt like he was spreading across the floor, pooling in the centre of the room.
Slowly, the throbbing lessened and he seemed to return to normal. Within moments the ladder dropped down and he was instructed to climb it once again. Vaguely he remembered being guided to a cell. This one wasn’t spherical, but it did have the enamel walls - that didn’t matter now though, all he wanted to do was sleep.
The room faded away and was replaced by a vast, dark ocean. Mike drifted on the surface, the water lapping at his feet. It felt good. It felt real.
Monday, 9 April 2007
Sunday, 8 April 2007
Bus Stop Blues
The rain hammered down on the roof of the bus shelter. Rebecca leaned against the perspex and caught her breath. She was drenched, her make-up was running, her clothes were sticking to her and her hair felt like it was melting.
A great start to the evening, she mused, adjusting her denim skirt fiercely.
Sitting at the other end of the shelter was the Lurker. A grimy man in an overcoat who loved sitting in the bus shelter. He was about fifty but he was playing a DS - who did he think he was?
She kept to her end and sat down precariously on the bench. With practised care and attention she began to repair her image. The emergency kit in her bag contained all she needed; tissues, pocket mirror and make-up for re-application.
Outside, shapes continued to walk past in the rain. A couple looked vaguely familiar. She held the mirror up higher so she couldn't see them and continued. The Lurker's DS was making bleeping noises. She ignored it.
"Objection!" The Lurker shouted into the machine.
Rebecca's hand skipped a beat and she drew a line down her nose in eye-liner. Furious, she made her feelings known by huffing and re-crossing her legs. Furiously she wiped away the line with a tissue.
"Sorry," the Lurker muttered, chuckling.
Rebecca ignored him.
"Do you have one of these? It's very good. I've got BrainTraining and Mario and all sorts. It's not mine though, it's my nephews."
Of course it is, you fucking paedophile.
"It does make you sound a bit like a pratt though." The Lurker mused.
"No harm done though, eh?" Rebecca replied, the tone of her voice implying quite the opposite.
"I see you about a lot."
Rebecca's hand froze.
"I used to work with your mother. I know most people around here." The man chattered, "Nobody talks much any more though. Hard to strike up a conversation."
"Doesn't seem to stop you though?" Rebecca replied.
The Lurker laughed, "No, I suppose not. It's good to talk though - as they say. Was it Bob Hoskins who used to say that?"
"Who's Bob Hoskins?"
"BT advert - you know... in the nineties..."
"I think I'm a bit young for that."
"Oh. Never mind then. Still. It's a good motto. People should talk more."
I really wish you'd stop, she thought. Curiosity got the better of her, "Do you really know everybody?" As a keen socialite Rebecca had over a hundred and fifty MySpace friends, a maxed out phone book on her mobile and a social cicrle that included three schools.
"Oh yeah - well, not intimately of course. But I've spoken to most people at least once."
"That's a bit pervy, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Just talking to people."
"Is it? Since when?"
"Dunno."
The Lurker turned off the DS. "So, do you think me talking to you now is pervy?"
"Well, yeah. A bit. You're like fifty or something and I'm eighteen and-"
"You're sixteen. I was talking to your mother last week."
"Oh my God. See? That's pervy. You can't know stuff about me that I don't know that you know."
"So, if you knew that I knew what I know, then that wouldn't be pervy?"
"Yeah."
"Right."
"How do you find things out about people if you don't ask?" The Lurker asked.
"You just don't. Why do you want to know so much anyway - why do you care how old I am?"
"I don't, I just know." The Lurker replied, "Well, think about it - if I wanted to know all about you, I could go online and look at your myspace profile, or something like that. You wouldn't know that I know then, would you?"
"Well, no - but that's pervy too."
"But what about absolute randoms - people from your school - are they allowed to know?"
"Well, yeah - no. Wait."
"So all this information you seem to think is so precious, it's all sacred and only certain people are allowed to know, but if you want, you can see it all anyway."
"No. Wait. You're still older than me, you don't know me, really. Why do you want to know all this stuff?"
"Because it's interesting. It means something to know the people who live around you."
Rebecca looked at him, make-up half repaired.
"That's so weird."
"As weird as going into town, pretending to be older than you are on a night when your mother thinks you're around a friend's house?"
"That's it. I'm calling a taxi." Rebecca got up - part furious, part terrified that he was going to chase after her mother and denounce her to the whole village. "You're fucking a pervert and a freak and I need some space."
The Lurker laughed. Rebecca spun around and pointed her eyeliner at him.
"I could call the police and tell them you're harassing me - touching me and shit. How would you like that?"
"Well, I'll be honest with you Rebecca. I wouldn't."
"Well, yeah, okay then. Keep your mouth shut and your nose out of other people's business."
She stormed out of the bus stop and was immediately soaked again. Instantly miserable and wound up, she sat obstinately on the wall in the rain and grabbed her phone. She was jamming the number 8 for Taxi when she heard the Lurker shout:
"Objection!"
A great start to the evening, she mused, adjusting her denim skirt fiercely.
Sitting at the other end of the shelter was the Lurker. A grimy man in an overcoat who loved sitting in the bus shelter. He was about fifty but he was playing a DS - who did he think he was?
She kept to her end and sat down precariously on the bench. With practised care and attention she began to repair her image. The emergency kit in her bag contained all she needed; tissues, pocket mirror and make-up for re-application.
Outside, shapes continued to walk past in the rain. A couple looked vaguely familiar. She held the mirror up higher so she couldn't see them and continued. The Lurker's DS was making bleeping noises. She ignored it.
"Objection!" The Lurker shouted into the machine.
Rebecca's hand skipped a beat and she drew a line down her nose in eye-liner. Furious, she made her feelings known by huffing and re-crossing her legs. Furiously she wiped away the line with a tissue.
"Sorry," the Lurker muttered, chuckling.
Rebecca ignored him.
"Do you have one of these? It's very good. I've got BrainTraining and Mario and all sorts. It's not mine though, it's my nephews."
Of course it is, you fucking paedophile.
"It does make you sound a bit like a pratt though." The Lurker mused.
"No harm done though, eh?" Rebecca replied, the tone of her voice implying quite the opposite.
"I see you about a lot."
Rebecca's hand froze.
"I used to work with your mother. I know most people around here." The man chattered, "Nobody talks much any more though. Hard to strike up a conversation."
"Doesn't seem to stop you though?" Rebecca replied.
The Lurker laughed, "No, I suppose not. It's good to talk though - as they say. Was it Bob Hoskins who used to say that?"
"Who's Bob Hoskins?"
"BT advert - you know... in the nineties..."
"I think I'm a bit young for that."
"Oh. Never mind then. Still. It's a good motto. People should talk more."
I really wish you'd stop, she thought. Curiosity got the better of her, "Do you really know everybody?" As a keen socialite Rebecca had over a hundred and fifty MySpace friends, a maxed out phone book on her mobile and a social cicrle that included three schools.
"Oh yeah - well, not intimately of course. But I've spoken to most people at least once."
"That's a bit pervy, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Just talking to people."
"Is it? Since when?"
"Dunno."
The Lurker turned off the DS. "So, do you think me talking to you now is pervy?"
"Well, yeah. A bit. You're like fifty or something and I'm eighteen and-"
"You're sixteen. I was talking to your mother last week."
"Oh my God. See? That's pervy. You can't know stuff about me that I don't know that you know."
"So, if you knew that I knew what I know, then that wouldn't be pervy?"
"Yeah."
"Right."
"How do you find things out about people if you don't ask?" The Lurker asked.
"You just don't. Why do you want to know so much anyway - why do you care how old I am?"
"I don't, I just know." The Lurker replied, "Well, think about it - if I wanted to know all about you, I could go online and look at your myspace profile, or something like that. You wouldn't know that I know then, would you?"
"Well, no - but that's pervy too."
"But what about absolute randoms - people from your school - are they allowed to know?"
"Well, yeah - no. Wait."
"So all this information you seem to think is so precious, it's all sacred and only certain people are allowed to know, but if you want, you can see it all anyway."
"No. Wait. You're still older than me, you don't know me, really. Why do you want to know all this stuff?"
"Because it's interesting. It means something to know the people who live around you."
Rebecca looked at him, make-up half repaired.
"That's so weird."
"As weird as going into town, pretending to be older than you are on a night when your mother thinks you're around a friend's house?"
"That's it. I'm calling a taxi." Rebecca got up - part furious, part terrified that he was going to chase after her mother and denounce her to the whole village. "You're fucking a pervert and a freak and I need some space."
The Lurker laughed. Rebecca spun around and pointed her eyeliner at him.
"I could call the police and tell them you're harassing me - touching me and shit. How would you like that?"
"Well, I'll be honest with you Rebecca. I wouldn't."
"Well, yeah, okay then. Keep your mouth shut and your nose out of other people's business."
She stormed out of the bus stop and was immediately soaked again. Instantly miserable and wound up, she sat obstinately on the wall in the rain and grabbed her phone. She was jamming the number 8 for Taxi when she heard the Lurker shout:
"Objection!"
Saturday, 7 April 2007
The Running Man in the Suit
Mr Spencer had been running for nine hours today. He was following a main road – something he hadn't done in a year and a half.
The reason for this was because a car was driving slowly alongside him. Inside was a journalist – a lady in her fifties wanting a character piece for the local newspaper. Mr Spencer didn't mind – he liked company when he could get it, even if those he spoke to so rarely understood.
"How long have you been running?" asked the journalist.
"Twelve hours a day for six years," said Mr Spencer.
"And how do you keep your energy up?"
"I don't know, to be honest," said Mr. Spencer. "I have a big lunch every day, but I think I must be naturally fit."
"And when will you stop?"
Mr Spencer smiled sadly.
"Sir?"
"Pardon?"
"When will you stop?"
Mr Spencer, still running, turned to look at the journalist in the car.
"When I've finished."
-10001-
February 2nd 2001
Six years ago
Mr Spencer walked slowly through the now-empty house. Soon enough, a young couple would be moving in. Good luck to them, he thought. He'd had his chance at starting a family, and he'd turned it down. Only right that a comfy house like this should be a family home.
He'd chosen to wear his suit and sensible shoes. After all, he was hardly going to be comfortable whatever he wore.
He picked up his briefcase. He'd considered taking a rucksack, but had eventually decided on a style-over-comfort policy.
Standing on the doorstep, Mr Spencer looked out over the neighbourhood. It was late, and nobody was around other than a late-night dog walker and a homeless man on a bench.
Mr Spencer approached the bench. He reached into his pocket, and retrieved a five-pound note. He placed it in the homeless man's pocket. Mr Spencer was a great believer in karma.
Well. No time like the present. Mr Spencer looked both ways. To the left, a park. To the right, a road of pubs.
He faced left. Took a deep breath. And started running.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
"Have you ever missed a day?"
"No." Mr Spencer was growing impatient with this woman. She was asking stupid questions.
"Why do you run?"
"Because I have to."
"What happens if you don't?"
Mr Spencer sighed. He'd hoped to avoid this subject. He wanted this to be an article about a curious running man who happened to be in the neighbourhood. But it always came down to his motivation, and he had no desire to lie.
"If I don't run," he said, "The world won't be worth living in."
A pause. The same pause every time. Nobody understood.
"I don't understand," said the journalist.
"No, I don't expect you do."
-10001-
March 13th 2001
Six years ago
Mr Spencer arrived at a bus shelter. By now, he'd managed to block out the physical strain and the constant hunger, but he could never get over the rain.
Sitting down in the shelter, Mr Spencer put his briefcase on the end of the seat. He pulled out his clockwork alarm clock, set the time, and placed it on the ground.
Soon enough, he was fast asleep. But he when he awoke, it wasn't to the sound of an alarm clock.
"I can't believe you're actually doing this," came the voice.
Mr Spencer jumped up.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"You don't have to do it, you know," said the girl. "It's ... it doesn't matter."
Mr Spencer didn't respond.
"You know I'd love to talk to you now," he said. "More than anything. But I really need to sleep. I'm running again tomorrow."
"Why?" wailed the girl. "Why do you insist on doing this?"
"You know why."
"Isn't there anything that'll ... get you off the hook?" she asked, her eyes pleading.
"No. There isn't."
"I ..." started the girl, and then gulped. She was crying. She wiped her eyes, tried to regain control, but the tears came. Mr Spencer saw that she was soaked to the skin.
"You should go home," he said. "No sense in you getting soaked."
The girl cried harder.
"Please," she said. "I ..." She gulped once more. Determined to regain control. "I love you."
Silence. Mr Spencer looked at her.
"I'm so glad," he said. "And I still love you. And nothing in the world will ever change that."
"Then why not come home?" asked the girl. "You've been gone for over a month now."
"I understand your concern," said Mr Spencer. "But I have to run."
"But WHY?"
"If I don't run, the world won't be worth living in."
The girl stared at Mr Spencer incredulously. He lay back down on the shelter bench, and immediately fell asleep. The girl stood up, and returned to her car, crying harder than ever.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
"Do you have any family?" asked the journalist.
"No," said Mr Spencer. "No, there's only me."
"How do you afford to keep going?"
"Word spreads," said Mr Spencer. "People recognise me – the running man in the suit. They bring me food. Some even let me into their homes to sleep. I'm much better off now than I've ever been, really."
"So you have no steady income?" asked the journalist.
"No," said Mr Spencer. "Some companies have offered me sponsorship in exchange for advertising their products, but I think that's rather opportunistic."
The journalist's chauffeur pulled in to allow a lorry to pass.
"Right, Mr ... Spencer, was it?"
"That's right."
"I still don't quite understand," said the journalist. "You run for twelve hours a day, eat a bare minimum, and sleep rough nine times out of ten."
"Yes."
"A good story, certainly," she said. "But it really is lacking something. Could you maybe give a less cryptic explanation for why you're doing this?"
Mr Spencer smiled. Nobody had been so specific before.
"You know," he said. "I don't think I could."
-10001-
May 21st 2001
Six years ago
Mr Spencer heard footsteps behind him. He looked behind. There she was – running behind him.
"Hia," she said meekly.
"Fancied a run, did you?" he asked drily.
She didn't reply. She was struggling to keep up. He looked over, concerned. She looked pale and tired, as though she hadn't slept in months.
"You're not going to stop running, are you?" she said.
"I thought I'd made that clear," replied Mr Spencer. "I'm not going to stop until I've finished."
Again, no reply. She was nursing her side – a stitch.
"Promise me one thing, then," she said.
"What's that?"
"Don't tell anyone why you're doing this."
"Hadn't really crossed my mind," said Mr Spencer.
"People are bound to ask eventually," she said. "A man your age running in a suit all day long. Just ... if you have to do this, if you won't stop, please don't tell anyone why. Please, just do that much for me."
Mr Spencer considered for a moment.
"Alright, I won't," he said cheerfully.
"Thanks," she said. "I have to go. I can't keep up."
"See you!" said Mr Spencer.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
"How often do you change your clothes?"
Mr Spencer rolled his eyes. So close to asking the right questions, but no – curiosity always led people to the strangest questions.
"I always wear the same suit," said Mr Spencer. "I wash it whenever I get a chance, and I have a spare outfit in my suitcase to wear, just in case."
It was as though something clicked in the journalist's mind.
"The briefcase," she said. "What's in the briefcase? Apart from your spare outfit?"
Mr Spencer smiled.
"The whole story," he said. "All the answers, and all the questions. Everything you need to know."
"Why ..."
"So that if I die, people will know why I did it." He grinned. "I don't care for attention right now. But it'd be nice if, after I've finished – one way or another – everyone will read my story, and they'll have an ending."
-10001-
February 2nd 2002
Five years ago
"It's been a whole YEAR, for goodness' sake."
"Here's to many more," said Mr Spencer.
"You can't keep doing this." She was driving next to him, keeping pace. Mr Spencer hadn't heard her cry in months – after a while, she seemed to have run out of tears. But now, once again, she was in tears.
"I wish you were happy," said Mr Spencer. "You know I'm doing this because of you?"
"That's why I'm ..." More tears. Practically choking. "I love you."
"I love you," said Mr Spencer. "Very, very much."
And he kept running.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
The journalist was gone. Good riddance, thought Mr Spencer. He'd hoped for a clever one. He soon found an intriguing footpath leading away from the main road, and decided to follow it.
He loosened his tie, passed his briefcase into his other hand, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
And he kept running.
The reason for this was because a car was driving slowly alongside him. Inside was a journalist – a lady in her fifties wanting a character piece for the local newspaper. Mr Spencer didn't mind – he liked company when he could get it, even if those he spoke to so rarely understood.
"How long have you been running?" asked the journalist.
"Twelve hours a day for six years," said Mr Spencer.
"And how do you keep your energy up?"
"I don't know, to be honest," said Mr. Spencer. "I have a big lunch every day, but I think I must be naturally fit."
"And when will you stop?"
Mr Spencer smiled sadly.
"Sir?"
"Pardon?"
"When will you stop?"
Mr Spencer, still running, turned to look at the journalist in the car.
"When I've finished."
-10001-
February 2nd 2001
Six years ago
Mr Spencer walked slowly through the now-empty house. Soon enough, a young couple would be moving in. Good luck to them, he thought. He'd had his chance at starting a family, and he'd turned it down. Only right that a comfy house like this should be a family home.
He'd chosen to wear his suit and sensible shoes. After all, he was hardly going to be comfortable whatever he wore.
He picked up his briefcase. He'd considered taking a rucksack, but had eventually decided on a style-over-comfort policy.
Standing on the doorstep, Mr Spencer looked out over the neighbourhood. It was late, and nobody was around other than a late-night dog walker and a homeless man on a bench.
Mr Spencer approached the bench. He reached into his pocket, and retrieved a five-pound note. He placed it in the homeless man's pocket. Mr Spencer was a great believer in karma.
Well. No time like the present. Mr Spencer looked both ways. To the left, a park. To the right, a road of pubs.
He faced left. Took a deep breath. And started running.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
"Have you ever missed a day?"
"No." Mr Spencer was growing impatient with this woman. She was asking stupid questions.
"Why do you run?"
"Because I have to."
"What happens if you don't?"
Mr Spencer sighed. He'd hoped to avoid this subject. He wanted this to be an article about a curious running man who happened to be in the neighbourhood. But it always came down to his motivation, and he had no desire to lie.
"If I don't run," he said, "The world won't be worth living in."
A pause. The same pause every time. Nobody understood.
"I don't understand," said the journalist.
"No, I don't expect you do."
-10001-
March 13th 2001
Six years ago
Mr Spencer arrived at a bus shelter. By now, he'd managed to block out the physical strain and the constant hunger, but he could never get over the rain.
Sitting down in the shelter, Mr Spencer put his briefcase on the end of the seat. He pulled out his clockwork alarm clock, set the time, and placed it on the ground.
Soon enough, he was fast asleep. But he when he awoke, it wasn't to the sound of an alarm clock.
"I can't believe you're actually doing this," came the voice.
Mr Spencer jumped up.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"You don't have to do it, you know," said the girl. "It's ... it doesn't matter."
Mr Spencer didn't respond.
"You know I'd love to talk to you now," he said. "More than anything. But I really need to sleep. I'm running again tomorrow."
"Why?" wailed the girl. "Why do you insist on doing this?"
"You know why."
"Isn't there anything that'll ... get you off the hook?" she asked, her eyes pleading.
"No. There isn't."
"I ..." started the girl, and then gulped. She was crying. She wiped her eyes, tried to regain control, but the tears came. Mr Spencer saw that she was soaked to the skin.
"You should go home," he said. "No sense in you getting soaked."
The girl cried harder.
"Please," she said. "I ..." She gulped once more. Determined to regain control. "I love you."
Silence. Mr Spencer looked at her.
"I'm so glad," he said. "And I still love you. And nothing in the world will ever change that."
"Then why not come home?" asked the girl. "You've been gone for over a month now."
"I understand your concern," said Mr Spencer. "But I have to run."
"But WHY?"
"If I don't run, the world won't be worth living in."
The girl stared at Mr Spencer incredulously. He lay back down on the shelter bench, and immediately fell asleep. The girl stood up, and returned to her car, crying harder than ever.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
"Do you have any family?" asked the journalist.
"No," said Mr Spencer. "No, there's only me."
"How do you afford to keep going?"
"Word spreads," said Mr Spencer. "People recognise me – the running man in the suit. They bring me food. Some even let me into their homes to sleep. I'm much better off now than I've ever been, really."
"So you have no steady income?" asked the journalist.
"No," said Mr Spencer. "Some companies have offered me sponsorship in exchange for advertising their products, but I think that's rather opportunistic."
The journalist's chauffeur pulled in to allow a lorry to pass.
"Right, Mr ... Spencer, was it?"
"That's right."
"I still don't quite understand," said the journalist. "You run for twelve hours a day, eat a bare minimum, and sleep rough nine times out of ten."
"Yes."
"A good story, certainly," she said. "But it really is lacking something. Could you maybe give a less cryptic explanation for why you're doing this?"
Mr Spencer smiled. Nobody had been so specific before.
"You know," he said. "I don't think I could."
-10001-
May 21st 2001
Six years ago
Mr Spencer heard footsteps behind him. He looked behind. There she was – running behind him.
"Hia," she said meekly.
"Fancied a run, did you?" he asked drily.
She didn't reply. She was struggling to keep up. He looked over, concerned. She looked pale and tired, as though she hadn't slept in months.
"You're not going to stop running, are you?" she said.
"I thought I'd made that clear," replied Mr Spencer. "I'm not going to stop until I've finished."
Again, no reply. She was nursing her side – a stitch.
"Promise me one thing, then," she said.
"What's that?"
"Don't tell anyone why you're doing this."
"Hadn't really crossed my mind," said Mr Spencer.
"People are bound to ask eventually," she said. "A man your age running in a suit all day long. Just ... if you have to do this, if you won't stop, please don't tell anyone why. Please, just do that much for me."
Mr Spencer considered for a moment.
"Alright, I won't," he said cheerfully.
"Thanks," she said. "I have to go. I can't keep up."
"See you!" said Mr Spencer.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
"How often do you change your clothes?"
Mr Spencer rolled his eyes. So close to asking the right questions, but no – curiosity always led people to the strangest questions.
"I always wear the same suit," said Mr Spencer. "I wash it whenever I get a chance, and I have a spare outfit in my suitcase to wear, just in case."
It was as though something clicked in the journalist's mind.
"The briefcase," she said. "What's in the briefcase? Apart from your spare outfit?"
Mr Spencer smiled.
"The whole story," he said. "All the answers, and all the questions. Everything you need to know."
"Why ..."
"So that if I die, people will know why I did it." He grinned. "I don't care for attention right now. But it'd be nice if, after I've finished – one way or another – everyone will read my story, and they'll have an ending."
-10001-
February 2nd 2002
Five years ago
"It's been a whole YEAR, for goodness' sake."
"Here's to many more," said Mr Spencer.
"You can't keep doing this." She was driving next to him, keeping pace. Mr Spencer hadn't heard her cry in months – after a while, she seemed to have run out of tears. But now, once again, she was in tears.
"I wish you were happy," said Mr Spencer. "You know I'm doing this because of you?"
"That's why I'm ..." More tears. Practically choking. "I love you."
"I love you," said Mr Spencer. "Very, very much."
And he kept running.
-10001-
February 10th 2007
Today
The journalist was gone. Good riddance, thought Mr Spencer. He'd hoped for a clever one. He soon found an intriguing footpath leading away from the main road, and decided to follow it.
He loosened his tie, passed his briefcase into his other hand, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
And he kept running.
Friday, 6 April 2007
Flick Knife
Sarah walked out of the supermarket, her two bags-for-life full of fairtrade produce and Innocent smoothies. It was very quiet outside.
Sarah liked shopping late in the evening. It meant not having to compete with heavy traffic – very handy, since she only had a bicycle.
It was actually quiter than usual today. Not a single car in the car park, and nobody on the pavement nearby. Weird.
And then she heard a sound. A hissing sound, coming from the direction of the garage. She walked towards the sound to investigate.
She turned the corner, and gasped. The garage was a wreck. All the windows smashed, shelves on the inside thrown all over the place, the newspaper stand outside in pieces. She looked around, searching for any signs of life.
There. By the air compressor – which was also in a poor shape. A shape. A figure, lying on the ground, dressed in a pale green outfit.
Sarah approached slowly. The figure tried to say something.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Run," croaked the figure.
Suddenly, another figure appeared nearby. A slim man in a silver tracksuit, with elbow- and knee-straps covered in blades.
"You want to play hero too?" asked the figure. "Didn't run away with the other civilians?"
"What did you do?" asked Sarah, keeping her voice level.
"All of it," said the figure softly, indicating the wreckage. "Our friend Lunar Mist here tried to stop me. But he's far, far too late."
Sarah looked around incredulously. How on earth could one man commit all of this?
"Take a good look, love," said the figure. "This is my city now. It all belongs to me – Flick Knife."
Exposition? thought Sarah. This guy was clearly a symptom of the modern superhero fad.
"So, for starters," said the man named Flick Knife. "Let's take care of our mutual friend." He looked towards the groaning Lunar Mist. He lifted his right hand, and a long blade slid from a mechanism on his wrist. "We'll start by finding out who he really is."
Sarah barely clocked Flick Knife's evident fondness for secret identities, before moving calmly between him and Lunar Mist.
"What are you doing?" asked Flick Knife, danger in his voice.
"I think you'll do it," said Sarah. "I think you'll readily kill this man. But I'm not letting you get a Supervillain Kills Superhero headline. You'll have to kill me first. And we'll see how THAT looks in the papers."
Flick Knife paused.
"Dangerous," he said. "You're assuming I'm a comics fan." He lifted his wrist-blade again. "I'm not. I'm a psychopath."
He slashed the knife dangerously.
Sarah kicked upwards, her walking boot colliding with Flick Knife's jaw.
"And you're assuming I'm cannon fodder."
As Flick Knife reached automatically for his jaw, Sarah punched him in the chest, hooked her leg around his, and pulled. Flick Knife fell to the floor.
Lunar Mist pushed himself up from the ground, nursing his ribcage.
Sarah stood over Flick Knife, gauging his likelyhood of getting up again.
"You have weapons," she said. "But you're still human."
Secretly, Sarah liked playing the superhero.
-10001-
"I can't believe it," said Dave, reading the paper during the tea break. "You actually stopped a proper supervillain."
"Don't call him that," scoffed Sarah. "As soon as you acknowledge these people's attempts at being cool, you encourage more of it."
"Still," said Angharad. "They've got a photo of you with Lunar Mist."
"Which means someone else was around and didn't bother to help," said Sarah. "It's sickening."
"I suppose nobody thinks to help superheroes," said Dave.
"He was flat-out on the floor!" said Sarah.
"I didn't mean Lunar Mist," said Dave, before having a balled-up piece of paper thrown at him.
Sarah liked shopping late in the evening. It meant not having to compete with heavy traffic – very handy, since she only had a bicycle.
It was actually quiter than usual today. Not a single car in the car park, and nobody on the pavement nearby. Weird.
And then she heard a sound. A hissing sound, coming from the direction of the garage. She walked towards the sound to investigate.
She turned the corner, and gasped. The garage was a wreck. All the windows smashed, shelves on the inside thrown all over the place, the newspaper stand outside in pieces. She looked around, searching for any signs of life.
There. By the air compressor – which was also in a poor shape. A shape. A figure, lying on the ground, dressed in a pale green outfit.
Sarah approached slowly. The figure tried to say something.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Run," croaked the figure.
Suddenly, another figure appeared nearby. A slim man in a silver tracksuit, with elbow- and knee-straps covered in blades.
"You want to play hero too?" asked the figure. "Didn't run away with the other civilians?"
"What did you do?" asked Sarah, keeping her voice level.
"All of it," said the figure softly, indicating the wreckage. "Our friend Lunar Mist here tried to stop me. But he's far, far too late."
Sarah looked around incredulously. How on earth could one man commit all of this?
"Take a good look, love," said the figure. "This is my city now. It all belongs to me – Flick Knife."
Exposition? thought Sarah. This guy was clearly a symptom of the modern superhero fad.
"So, for starters," said the man named Flick Knife. "Let's take care of our mutual friend." He looked towards the groaning Lunar Mist. He lifted his right hand, and a long blade slid from a mechanism on his wrist. "We'll start by finding out who he really is."
Sarah barely clocked Flick Knife's evident fondness for secret identities, before moving calmly between him and Lunar Mist.
"What are you doing?" asked Flick Knife, danger in his voice.
"I think you'll do it," said Sarah. "I think you'll readily kill this man. But I'm not letting you get a Supervillain Kills Superhero headline. You'll have to kill me first. And we'll see how THAT looks in the papers."
Flick Knife paused.
"Dangerous," he said. "You're assuming I'm a comics fan." He lifted his wrist-blade again. "I'm not. I'm a psychopath."
He slashed the knife dangerously.
Sarah kicked upwards, her walking boot colliding with Flick Knife's jaw.
"And you're assuming I'm cannon fodder."
As Flick Knife reached automatically for his jaw, Sarah punched him in the chest, hooked her leg around his, and pulled. Flick Knife fell to the floor.
Lunar Mist pushed himself up from the ground, nursing his ribcage.
Sarah stood over Flick Knife, gauging his likelyhood of getting up again.
"You have weapons," she said. "But you're still human."
Secretly, Sarah liked playing the superhero.
-10001-
"I can't believe it," said Dave, reading the paper during the tea break. "You actually stopped a proper supervillain."
"Don't call him that," scoffed Sarah. "As soon as you acknowledge these people's attempts at being cool, you encourage more of it."
"Still," said Angharad. "They've got a photo of you with Lunar Mist."
"Which means someone else was around and didn't bother to help," said Sarah. "It's sickening."
"I suppose nobody thinks to help superheroes," said Dave.
"He was flat-out on the floor!" said Sarah.
"I didn't mean Lunar Mist," said Dave, before having a balled-up piece of paper thrown at him.
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