Read Grey Mars and other Short Stories. Page 4

Part Three – Home

  1

  Eddie put the quad into gear and started out of the Compound, braking suddenly as a tumble-weed scuttled across their path. Bob's voice crackled in his ear.

  “Why's he want her back so bad, anyway?”

  Eddie turned unnecessarily to Bob. “Because he loves her, stupid.”

  “No, he used to love her, not now though. They haven't been together in god knows how long.”

  The quad veered past rocks and out onto the plain, dust from its tires blowing in front of them. “He still loves her. You ever been in love, Bob?”

  “Sure.”

  “No you haven't.”

  “Well, I never saw much point in it.”

  “I suppose that's one of the reasons they sent you here.” Eddie looked at the pink clouds on the horizon. “But really, if you had ever been in love, you'd know what I was talking about. You'd know why Frank acts so crazy. It's burning him up.”

  “Why? Have you?”

  “Yes, I have, but that's all gone now. Long time ago. But Frank and Elena, they're entwined.”

  “Eddie, you should be a poet.”

  “Shut up. Point is, he can't let her die out there alone.”

  Bob fiddled with his visor. “So why isn't he going out there after her himself?”

  “Well,” Eddie manoeuvred between two boulders and drove on towards the canyon, “that's the question, isn't it?”

  “I'd be going after her myself if it was me in his place.”

  “Suppose we all misjudge things sometimes. He'll probably set out after us in half an hour.”

  “He's nuts,” said Bob. “What you fancy doing when we get back? Beer and a film?”

  “Yeah, why not. I think I've finally got used to the taste of that slop Adamson brews.”

  “You got any matches on any discs?”

  “Any what?”

  “Football matches.”

  “Oh. No, never had much time for sport.”

  “I miss footy, Eddie. Never thought of that when I signed on. No more footy.”

  “You must have thought about it. We went through six years training and evaluation.”

  “Well, I miss it anyway.”

  “Frank’s got some matches on disc. Let’s watch ‘em when we get back.”

  “Thought you weren't bothered about football.”

  “I can watch it if there's nothing else on.”

  Bob leaned back in his seat. “Ah...life's not so bad really, is it?”

  Eddie turned to look at Bob. “You're kidding, aren't you?”

  Elena reached the first oasis thirty-seven kilometres due east of the compound.

  The first signs of it was a solitary cactus reaching up from the desolate red dust towards the pink-grey clouds. She pulled the quad to a halt and got out to get a better look.

  “Oh,” she whispered, daring to walk close to it. Two feet taller than her, the cactus towered and seemed to sway as the clouds beyond rolled by. So majestic, so wonderful. She couldn't remember the last time she had looked at something this natural. It held a hypnotic quality for her.

  Some time passed and she simply stared. Was it moving? No, of course not. It was a cactus. Must be the wind. But still, it was moving. The head seemed to pulsate slowly, like something inside was trying to get out.

  Elena stepped forward, within touching distance, and reached a gloved hand out towards the head. Definitely some movement. Beneath the skin, like a slow-motion bubbling. The vibrations were getting quicker, more excited, and then she remembered what she'd read.

  “Holy Jesus!”

  She turned and almost fell, stumbling back towards the quad. She couldn't get there fast enough, she wouldn't make it. She heard the sickening squelching behind her.

  But she did make it and pulled the door shut behind her before daring to look back at the giant cactus.

  Even now, the head was exploding, spraying its parasitical baby spiders all around, thousands of them, bright red and scurrying in every direction as they landed. Some hit the ground mere feet away from the quad. Elena switched on the engine and drove forward, away from the nightmare birth.

  God, she hated spiders. She came to a halt half a mile away and the shivers convulsed through her body as she imagined being covered by the hellish red creatures.

  Nature was nasty, even on this dead world. Now she saw the reality in what the doctor had said. Keep away from the oases.

  She certainly would.

  Driving carefully, Elena skirted around the oasis as the plants came into view. She headed towards the distant silhouetted mountains, the clouds brushing their peaks as they raced by.

  The sky was beginning to darken.

  Elena leaned back in the driver's seat with nothing on her mind but smoking and getting some sleep. She rolled a cigarette of Bill Adamson's weed, licked and sealed the paper, put it to her mouth and lit it. She inhaled deeply, held the raw smoke in her lungs, and let it out with a cough. It was always rough to begin with, but once the fumes began to smooth out she would be able to relax and drift into sleep.

  By the third pull she was on her way.

  She stared through the dust and grime that was caked on the windscreen, over the red sandy flats toward the fading shadows of the Rockwell Mountains. They were near but seemed so far away. Her brain seemed to float around inside her skull. She yawned and opened her eyes to find it was no longer almost dusk, but midnight.

  Her head throbbed and she reached for the flask of water. After swilling down a mouthful she strapped on her helmet, grabbed the half-finished bottle of whisky, and opened the door to step outside into the cold Martian night.

  She looked up at the sky. No stars, only cloud cover. It was pitch black, the only light being that which fell out around her feet from within the quad's cabin. The wind whipped up a gust and a tiny tumble-weed jumped up and bounced off the perspex visor of her helmet. Lucky. Elena turned and climbed back into the quad. She sealed shut the door and the atmosphere and air-pressure hissed and equalised to her level.

  When the light flashed on the dashboard, she took off her helmet and breathed deeply.

  “Ohhhhh god,” she felt empty inside, like a vacuum was dragging at her stomach. She took a mouthful of whisky and it burned on her tongue, then she swallowed it and tears welled up in her eyes.

  Dr Coutard awoke at the sound of knocking on his door. He had been dreaming about something, after falling asleep in his armchair yet again.

  He got up with some difficulty and went to the back door that connected his home with Elena's.

  Opening the door, and blinking to clear his eyes, he saw Frank there, holding a box.

  “Hi Doc,” Frank said.

  “Bonjour, Frank. Come in, come in.”

  Frank walked in and put the box down on a table. “There's food in here, cans and whatnot, the stuff they send from Earth. But I want you to run some tests, because there's something wrong. I don't know what, but haven't you noticed we've all been getting worse lately?”

  “Worse?”

  “Poor health, and it can't be just because of where we are. Our minds have been affected too. Elena's lost it completely. I've sent Bob and Eddie after her.”

  “She has gone to the mountains.”

  “And you think that's normal? It's dangerous to leave the compound on your own. Not only physically, but mentally too. Despair can be a killer.”

  “Do you think the food is tainted?”

  Frank opened the box, taking out a can of beans. “That's what I want you to find out.”

  “Bring it over here. I shall have a look. Merci.” He took the can from Frank and opened it with the ring pull, then used a small spatula to take a sample, which he placed on a microscope slide.

  “I haven't told this to anyone, but I have been receiving messages from Earth.”

  Dr Coutard stopped and looked at Frank. “Earth?”

  “Not from the ruling authorities, but from a certain Doctor Dreiser.”

  “
Ah, Dreiser, yes. A good man, brilliant mind.”

  “What he has to say is a little disturbing. Very disturbing.” Frank paused, the doctor waited. “They want rid of us.”

  “Who do?”

  “The Rockwell Administration. Ever since Rockwell died, the administration has been run by Charles Porter. It seems he was responsible for the insemination débâcle, and now he wants to erase his mistakes.”

  “To wipe us out, you mean. With poisoned supplies?”

  “Yes, that's why I need the test.” Frank went to the window, opened the blind and looked out at the other domes in the dark Compound. Above, the clouds were moving through the night, and he watched the dim, swirling shades of grey. He recognised the dome across the yard as Bill Adamson's old abode. Bill had left the Compound two years back, and made himself a home in the desert where he grew his weed and rye. A strange man at the best of times, Bill had always preferred solitude. So much so that he now had no contact with the rest of the settlers. He would leave his whisky and weed in a sealed container every month or so, out by the Compound gates. And Bob and Eddie would take Bill's supplies to his isolated home and leave them in a similar manner beside his front door. Nobody had spoken to Bill in years. Frank often wondered how he was doing.

  “Mon dieu!”

  Frank turned around, closing the blind. “What is it?”

  “I can not be sure until I do a proper analysis, but it seems there is mercury present in the food.”

  “Mercury.”

  “Oui. Small traces.”

  “I wonder how long they've been doing this?”

  Eddie Makombo slammed the hood shut on front of the quad and turned to look around him. Night had fallen while he had been fixing the engine, and the temperature had plummeted. He walked around to the back of the vehicle and threw the tool bag into its compartment, then opened the door and joined Bob inside the cabin. He switched off the light above his visor and equalised the atmosphere.

  They both took off their helmets. “That took some fixing,” Eddie said. “Timing belt had come off. Anyway, it's okay now.”

  Bob showed Eddie the map he had been studying. “I think she'll have gone here,” he said, indicating a section of the mountain range rich in underground caves. “She believes there's a hidden Martian city, right? So I reckon this is the best place to look for her. Also, Adamson lives out this way, so we can call there and ask him if he's seen her.”

  “How long has it been dark? I kind of lost track there.”

  “Hour or so. Let's grab a few hours and carry on at dawn.”

  “I'll go for that.”

  Bob reached for the sleeping bags on the back seat and passed one to Eddie. They took off their shoes and Bob climbed over into the back. Eddie pulled the sleeping bag up over himself and used a spare jacket for a pillow as he lay down across the front seats. “Shall I see if I can pick up any music on the radio?”

  “Why not,” Bob yawned. “See if you can get a classical station.”

  Eddie switched on the radio and turned the dial. White noise hissed and crackled, hints of music and voices beneath it like ghosts. He turned back at the mention of the word “colony” being spoken in urgent tones, and tuned in on the frequency. It sounded like a recorded message. The voice carried on. “...ministration are reneging on their original plans.” Crackle. “...word out to the rival companies, but I have no proof. Beware. We will attempt to send help, but the Administration are trying to wipe away their mistakes. They may go to great lengths.” Crackle. “...is Doctor Daniel Dreisser, attempting to contact the Martian colony. This message is a recording and will be broadcast as a loop for as long as possible.” More crackling, and the sound began to fade. “...danger since the death of Gerald Rockwell. The Rockwell Administration are reneging on their original plans.” The signal was lost amid resounding static.

  After a while, Bob Johnston said, “Now what the hell was that about, do you think?”

  Eddie looked up through the windscreen at the dark skies moving overhead. “I'm not sure I want to know. I wonder if Frank caught that transmission?”

  “I knew it had to come, though.”

  “What?”

  “They're going to wipe us out. I knew it had to happen, sooner or later. It probably costs a fortune every time they send a supply ship to us. And they get nothing for it. There's no reason to keep us alive.”

  “But what are they planning? Do you think they're gonna blow us up or something? Why not just leave us? We'll all die off before long anyway.”

  “Maybe they don't want to wait that long. You hear that about sending help? Probably a rival company who's had enough of the Administration's high and mighty attitude. Rockwell's dead now, and the goodwill that went with him. People don't trust his replacements, and why should they? They aren't Gerald Rockwell, in the end.”

  “But surely, he must have chosen his replacement carefully. They wouldn't just kill us off.”

  “People are sneaky. Anyone can pretend to be something they aren't. And some people are so underhanded they can even fool a genius. No, Eddie. It doesn't surprise me at all. In fact, I don't know why it's taken them so long.”

  “I can't believe it. No, Bob, I refuse to believe it.” he turned off the radio and stared up at the clouds.

  Elena woke with a hangover the size of Texas and reached for her water bottle. She scrambled out of her sleeping bag and pulled on her boots, then took out a grain bar. Wolfing it down, she then clambered over to the makeshift toilet in back of the quad.

  Later, lying down on the back seat, she considered things.

  What did she think she was doing? It was crazy. There was no Martian city, there was no way home. There probably wasn't even any Kundulu, just a figment of her strained sanity. No one else had ever seen him.

  She should turn around and go back to the Compound.

  She sat up, and put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. What to do?

  A glow worked its way into the edge of her vision and she looked up. Kundulu was in the front seat, not looking at her, but gazing out into the desert dawn. He spoke.

  “It used to be so different, so full of life and colour.”

  “What did?” she asked.

  “The dawn. It seems so dead now.”

  “Isn't everything dead? Aren't you dead?”

  “Not everything stays dead.” He turned to look in her eyes, and she felt dizzy. “Two are coming to kill you.”

  “Who? Two what?”

  Kundulu began to fade.

  “Kundulu? Two what?” But he was gone. She felt shock. Why had he left, if she was in danger? Who was coming to kill her, and why?

  She looked over at the mountains, still black silhouettes in the brightening dawn. Climbing over into the front, she started up the engine.

  Within thirty minutes, Elena came upon a ramshackle dome. It looked as if it had been cobbled together by hand, from any old bits and pieces that had been lying around. Next to the dome was a greenhouse made from dirty sheets of perspex that looked crammed full of plants.

  This must be Bill's place, she thought.

  She hadn't seen Bill in years, and she kind of missed his cantankerous ways.

  Stopping the quad before the front door, she suited up and got out.

  There was no doorbell, or anything of the kind. Of course there wouldn't be. He didn't want visitors. She tried knocking, but the padding on her gloves made no sound. Shouting wouldn't work either.

  Walking around to the rear where the greenhouse was, she saw a shadow behind the murky, streaked panes. Turning her radio on, Elena said, “Bill?”

  The shadow froze.

  Again, “Bill? It's Elena. From the Compound.”

  Bill's voice crackled back to her. “Elena? What are you doing here? I mean, I'm sorry, hello. Are you outside? I'll come outside.”

  The shadow inside moved towards the door and came out into the morning stillness. She noticed then that there was no wind, for the first time
in, well, ever. Not even a breeze.

  Bill looked shorter, and bent. He moved with apparent difficulty, but she could not see his face.

  “How are you, my dear? It has been so long.”

  “You moved out here to get away from people didn't you?”

  “I always have time for you, Elena.”

  “Flirt.”

  Bill laughed hoarsely, and his mirth turned into a coughing fit. He stopped walking and grabbed a hold of the fencing beside the door. After a while, he calmed down and stood a little straighter, looking at Elena. She could just about see the top part of his face through the dusty visor, and he looked like death.

  “How are you, Bill?”

  “Top of the world, my love, top of the world. And you?”

  “Mustn't grumble.”

  Bill chuckled gruffly. “Are you alone? You're a long way from home.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Let's go in. My coffee is running low, but you're most welcome.” He led the way around to the front door, and she could see he moved slowly and in pain.

  “Thank you, no. But I'd like to use your facilities if I may.”

  “Of course.”

  Inside, she de-helmeted and scanned the room. One empty chair with arms, the entire room filled with broken junk, papers, gardening equipment, pots and pans, pieces of machinery. It seemed that everybody's home was the same here on Mars.

  Bill took off his helmet and hung it on a hook. Elena was shocked. Bill had lost most of his hair, and what was left was white. His grey beard straggly and lank, the cheeks on his face dark and sallow. And his eyes, now she could see them clearly, were bloodshot and tired.

  He smiled, and his teeth had all but gone. “Through there,” he said, indicating a door at the side of the room. “I'll make a drink.”

  When she came back, Bill had cleared a space for her on one of the chairs, and had a cup of steaming black coffee held out to her. “I made you one anyway.”

  She took the cup and sat down. “Thanks.”

  “So how come you're out here all on your lonesome? That's kind of dangerous, you know.”

  “I'm looking for a city.”

  “Are you, indeed?” He took the other chair.

  “It's in the mountains.”

  Bill looked at her with wet, red eyes. “Oh, Elena my dear. You've lost your mind.”

  She said nothing, just sipped her drink.

  “There is no city, you know that,” he continued. “Is it a death wish? I can understand if it is. Why do you think I moved out here?”

  “I thought it was because you liked the solitude.”

  “I want the planet to finish me. I am too cowardly to take my life, so I try to make it easy for Mars to do it herself. Himself. I don't know.”

  “Itself. Mars is a planet, not a person.”

  “And like fools, we thought we could live here. We should never have come.”

  “Well, I'm on my way home. I'll soon be leaving this world.”

  “You are much braver than I am, Elena.” He grabbed the arms of the chair and hauled himself to his feet with a wince. “Let me give you something.” He opened a cupboard and Elena caught the whiff of something strong. Bill reached in and took out a plastic bag, filled with leaves. He handed it to her. “Extra strong. I don't believe Frank would approve, but it will make things easier for you. And take a bottle of whisky on your way too.”

  He began a coughing fit and pulled a rag from his pocket, holding it to his mouth. He finished coughing, but his eyes were streaming with the effort, and as he pulled the rag away, Elena thought she saw blood. His breathing was heavy, laboured.

  Elena put the bag into her pocket and went over to Bill, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks,” she said, and then hugged him.

  “Ah, get away with you,” he said. “Don't forget your bottle.”

  Frank hadn't slept. As the morning gloom became lighter, he lie in his bed staring at the plastic ceiling. Outside it seemed quiet, almost deathly in its silence.

  Mercury.

  My god, he thought. Mercury.

  They were done for, all of them. Just a matter of time now.

  He wished he'd gone out with Bob and Eddie after Elena. After all, he couldn't be sure how much longer they all had.

  Last night's message from them hadn't been too promising. The quad had broken down, causing a delay of hours. He hoped he would hear from them later in the day.

  Maybe he would drive out to the supply ship. God knew what else they might have sent.

  “A bomb to blow us all to hell,” he said aloud, his voice sounding empty.

  Maybe that would be better. He looked toward his window blind, then reached up to open it. From where he was lying, he could see the clouds. They moved at a sluggish pace, slower than he had ever seen them. That's odd, he thought. Well, different, at least.

  He threw off his blanket and swung he legs around to sit up and look outside. The world was as grey and dull as usual. Over the yard, he saw someone tending their patch. It was Reiner, the German biologist. He moved with apparent difficulty, as if trying to pull out plants whilst underwater.

  What's the point? Frank thought. You'll be dead soon.

  Frank got up and went to the mirror, looking at his face to see if it was worth shaving. He decided he may as well. It might make him feel better. His eyes were bloodshot and bagged from lack of sleep.

  Lathering up some soap, he spread it on his cheeks and jaw, then began to shave. As the razor scraped bristles away, he thought that his skin seemed looser than before. And more grey. Definitely more wrinkly than last week.

  He wasn't ageing very well at all, and he felt old too. Aching bones, cracking joints, sagging skin. Was his hair turning? Wouldn't surprise him.

  He nicked his chin with the blade and it wouldn't stop bleeding.

  Eddie pulled the quad to a stop in front of Bill Adamson's home, and he and Eddie helmeted up and got out.

  Eddie looked around him at the deathly stillness, no dust blowing, no tumble-weeds moving, only the slow moving mass of dark clouds overhead. They made the desert seem even more lonely.

  “I told you, Bob. No wind. Can you remember the last time there was no wind?”

  “Creepy. I don't like it. It's a bad omen.”

  Eddie snorted laughter through his nose. “Well, let's go see Bill.”

  Bob followed to the front door and Eddie turned back to him. “No bell. Have you anything we can rap on the door with?”

  “He'll not hear it. I'll walk round to a window.” He went to a window and peered in through the dust and grime, knocking his helmet against the perspex. “I think I see him. Hard to tell. Oh yes, there he is. Looks like he's telling me to go away.” Bob waved his hands about. “We need to talk to you.”

  “He can't hear you,” Eddie said.

  “I think he's suiting up.”

  A minute later, Bill's outer door was opened and the old man stepped out onto the red sand. “Go away,” he scowled. “You're supposed to leave my supplies by the door.”

  “We haven't brought supplies.”

  “Well, go back for them, you morons.”

  “We're looking for someone. Elena. Have you seen her?”

  “If I wanted to chat with anybody I'd move back into the Compound. But I don't, so get lost.”

  “We need to find Elena.”

  “No you don't. Leave her alone.”

  “She might be in danger.”

  Bill Adamson laughed hoarsely, and coughed a few times. “We're all in trouble here,” he managed to say. “Why don't you just let her get on with it.”

  “Get on with what?” Bob said.

  “Why do you think she came out here? Let her go.”

  “Bill,” said Eddie, “if you know where she's gone, just tell us.”

  “No. she wants to end it in her own way, with some dignity. I won't spoil that for her. Where's Frank? Is Frank with you?”

  “Just us.”

  “We
ll, why don't you just go back and tell him you couldn't find her.”

  “We have to find her.”

  “Go back. And stop bothering me.”

  “Has she been here?” said Bob.

  Bill's gaze jumped involuntarily to his left, and Eddie was quick to pick up on this. He looked around and saw quad tracks ten or fifteen feet away. There had been no wind to blow them away.

  “She hasn't been here,” said Bill. “Now go away!” He went back in through his front door and sealed it shut, coughing painfully.

  Eddie walked over to the tracks. “Yeah. Towards the mountains, like we thought.”

  “Big place, the mountains,” Bob said.

  Eddie and Bob stood still, looking at the dark mountains in the distance. Bob spoke again. “Never thought I'd say this, but I sure as hell miss the wind.”

  “Yes. It's too quiet, like a grave.”

  “Don't say that, Eddie. Don't say that.”

  Dr Coutard pulled himself up from his armchair to answer the urgent knocking on the door from the corridor connecting his rooms with that of Elena. It could not be Elena, could it? The knocking was far too forceful.

  He opened the door to find Frank Jacobs standing before him once more.

  “Hi Doc,” Frank looked troubled, his hair awry and his eyes puffed up from lack of sleep. He had a razor cut on his chin which was still bleeding, slowly. “I'm worried about Elena. And Eddie and Bob. I sent them out after her but I've heard nothing since last night. I think maybe I should go out there myself. Perhaps I should have done that in the first place.”

  “It could be interference.”

  “Maybe. I don't know. Still, I'm gonna go myself. It's driving me mad sitting here doing nothing. You mentioned she said about the Rockwell Mountains. Is there anything else? Are you certain she wasn't specific about location?”

  “Very vague, I'm afraid, Frank. Very vague. I can give you no more information. And I assume you know of all the dangers there are in the desert.”

  “I ought to, by now. So should Bob and Eddie, which is why I'm concerned. Did Elena seem paranoid in any way? Has she been hallucinating at all? Well, I mean on top of her Martian ghost fella.”

  “I believe she is as sane as any of us. But I suspect she has taken with her whisky and smokes. Coupled with the remoteness from the Compound, the use of any or both of these may cause a looseness in her sanity. The desert is a lonely and desperate place.”

  “You don't need to tell me, Doc. Why do you think three of us go when we salvage the freighters? The trip isn't hard, one person could do it. But like you say, it's a desperate place.”

  “Do you have company for your journey?”

  “I'm going alone. Hate to do it, but I have a terrible feeling. I don't think there's enough time to prepare someone else. I'm all ready and setting out right away.”

  On his way, Frank stopped at the supply ship out in the desert, just for a look.

  He got out of the quad and walked up to the airlock.

  It was open.

  Frank stood a while, staring at it. He had closed it when they returned with the first load of supplies. It had to be kept shut when they weren't collecting, to keep the sand out. What had happened?

  He looked down and saw tracks. Footprints.

  Wiping his visor with his glove, he took a closer look at the tracks. What the hell?

  There had been no wind. Could they have been his tracks from before? No, the wind hadn't died until this morning. He stared at them, more than a little unnerved in the uncanny, deathly silence.

  He followed the footprints a while, and saw that they disappeared into the distance. Whoever had made them was on their way to the Compound.

  He ran back to the quad, being careful not to lose his balance in the low gravity. He climbed in, leaving his helmet on, and turned the quad around.

  Driving at top speed, avoiding rocks as best he could, twenty-two minutes later he skidded to a halt before the compound gate. He got out to open it, noticing that the footprints led into the yard.

  He walked into the centre of the Compound lot, and turned slowly, searching. The wind was picking up, he saw dust devils forming at points around the yard.

  A small tumble-weed bounced past him, followed by a larger one.

  He looked to the clouds in the direction they were coming from, faster now, up to their usual velocity.

  Storm in the distance, heading this way. He could see the billowing clouds of dust rising. Not be long until they hit here. He searched the ground frantically, and saw the last traces of the tracks blow away.

  They went in the direction of Bill Adamson's old condo.

  Frank crouched low, hoping it might make a difference, and headed towards the abandoned dome.

  Elena was almost blind drunk when she crashed the quad into a ravine. Her seatbelt saved her from being thrown around the cabin with the rest of her stuff.

  “Oh, hell.” She grabbed her helmet when she heard the hissing and the warning light flashed on, beeping. Sealing the helmet tight, she kicked open the door when it stuck halfway and clambered out onto the rocks.

  Sand and rocks tumbled down below her into the crevasse, disappearing into the dark shadows. A massive boulder had stopped her descent, but had smashed the front of the quad. One front wheel was hanging at an angle. Well, that was that, she would have to walk the rest of the way. She reached in to grab her back-pack and some flasks of water, and clambered up to the top of the slope, causing a small avalanche behind her.

  When she got to the top, dust had settled thick on her visor. She wiped it with her sleeve and looked out at the mountains, which could be made out vaguely, rising high against the night clouds, almost on top of her.

  Still a few miles to go. This was going to be tough. She lost her balance for a moment and almost fell backwards into the darkness. She sat on the sand a waited till she sobered up a little.

  The sky was a little brighter when she woke again, still in a sitting position on the floor. She was freezing cold and her head throbbed and her eyes were painful. Stupid! Stupid to get drunk out here in the middle of nowhere. And then to drive! What was she thinking?

  She looked up at the side of the mountains before her, a patch of sunlight landing on the red ridges. It faded away as the clearing in the clouds closed up and they got thicker.

  Well, nothing for it but to press on. She wished Kundulu was still here.

  Five miles on, the backpack weighing heavy, Elena came upon the broken corpse of the British Beagle lander, lost in the early days of remote Martian exploring. The oxygen that had been seeded into the atmosphere had begun the rusting process and the Beagle looked very sad and forlorn, squatting in the middle of the Martian desert.

  She wiped dust from the nameplate and circled the wreck, jumping back with a gasp when a spider scuttled out of the framework to hide beneath the broken wheels.

  “Fine, you can have it,” she muttered, and carried on towards the foothills.

  Acid rain began to fall, not heavily, but she could sense a wind brewing. Wind would make the rain deadly. Elena pulled out her umbrella and faced it against the rain and wind, then headed towards a cluster of overhanging boulders. That would do for shelter. As freezing drops hit her leg, she felt her temperature begin to drop.

  She jogged the last few yards, her backpack bouncing on her shoulders, and sat down under the stone shelter. She took off the pack, got out a thermal blanket and wrapped it around herself, feeling warmer instantly.

  The day was marching on, though because there was no sun, she didn't know how long until dark. Hopefully, she would reach the mountain entrance by then, assuming the rain stopped. If not, the thermal blanket would keep her warm through the night.

  After an hour, Elena realised she would be spending the night under this rock, huddled against the stone away from the wind and rain as it blew either side of her. The sky was getting darker, and she felt herself drifting, the howling of the wind and spattering of raindrop
s echoing in her mind.

  Where was Kundulu?

  There was a sound of thunder, and then something else, a grinding noise nearby. It sounded like pebbles falling onto rock.

  Then a deafening crash and a blinding pain in her leg shocked her awake. Elena screamed and tried to move away, but something held her fast. Through tear-streaked eyes she managed to focus on the thing that held her down. A chunk of rock as big as her torso had come away from the ledge above and landed on her left thigh.

  Drunk, she fell into a fitful sleep, and the pain became a dull grey feeling at the back of her mind.

  The canal water was clear, not like canal water at all, and it rippled crisply as she steered round a bend. The large yellow sun felt warm on her neck and a flock of birds flapped up from the grassy bank into the clear blue Martian sky.

  Martian? Yes, it must, for this was her home now. She adjusted her position on the bench and a sharp pain in her leg made her gasp, drawing in the cool, oxygen-rich air.

  Kundulu spoke from behind her as he watched the water. “The perihelion storm is approaching. Five days, it will be here. You will need shelter, or the dust will flay you alive.”

  Dust? But the land was so green and beautiful. She closed her eyes as the breeze picked up. It ruffled her hair a little. She smiled. “Why would I want to go home when it's so lovely here?”

  “Home,” Kundulu said.

  She turned around to say something, but Kundulu was gone.

  The greyness at the back of her mind began to throb.

  6

  There were no more stones within her reach. She had flung the last one and watched it hurtle and spin feebly and slowly toward the horizon, falling short and sending up plumes of detritus that became little dust devils that skittered away in the wind.

  Another shock of pain raced up her thigh and she winced. Christ, I wonder if it's broken. Didn't matter, really. She was stuck here anyway, waiting only to die of suffocation or cold, occasional delirium sending her into spirals of feverish heat. A dizzy spell hit her that felt like drunkenness, and then paled again. She thought she heard an engine somewhere. The pink sky was getting a little darker, edging towards purple. She closed her eyes.

  7

  Spinning wildly, she clung onto the rock as it hurtled round the Sun. The asteroid had a nine and a half minute rotation period on its axis, and sunrise would be in one. The stars above her were already being faded out by the oncoming giant ball of fire that seemed like it was literally feet away. They moved through the sky like in a dream into the light, and the freezing, all-too-brief four minute night would in seconds be replaced by glaring, burning daylight.

  Scant millions of miles from the surface of the huge yellow sun, inside the orbit of Mercury, it seemed Elena could never remember days that were longer and cooler, and nights that were not so icy and sudden. It was like a fever. She had to cling onto the rock to avoid being hurled into space. All day and all night, such as they were.

  The stars whirled around her in the dark, the giant sun scorched her as it passed through the day. Never ending madness. When would she be free of this place?

  Elena gripped the rock as the searing brightness moved up over the close horizon and began to burn her within her compression suit.

  She woke up and thought she was still dreaming. Frank was sitting beside her, on the sand, holding her gloved hand in his. He had wiped some of the dust from her visor. “Hey,” he said. Twilight was approaching, the sun was turning purple from scattered dust in the atmosphere.

  “Frank. What brings you to a place like this?”

  “Oh, you know. Sunday stroll.”

  “Sunday, is it? I never know anymore.”

  “Let's say it is. I'm sorry, I broke the spare oxygen cylinder I brought. Slipped on some loose stones on the way down from the quad.”

  “Well, not to worry. Think you can move this?” She indicated the boulder that was crushing her leg.

  He stood up and reached for another stone that was the size of his head. He put it next to the larger boulder and bent to get his hands underneath. Grunting, he managed to lift the weight off her leg, and kicked the smaller stone underneath. “Hmmm, seems I can. Let's try and get you out before it all slips.” He got behind Elena, grabbed her by her shoulders and dragged her back like she was so many feathers. She grunted as pain shot through her body. He sat her up against a giant rock.

  “You've put weight on,” he said.

  “Cheeky. Brought any water? I'm parched.”

  He got out his flask and attached it to the nozzle on her helmet. She turned her head to suck the liquid through the tube. “Ah, that's the old stuff,” she said. “That Adamson's whisky doesn't half dry you out.”

  Frank checked the gauge on Elena's air tank. “Oh, that's just great, that is. You've got about half an hour's air left.”

  “How much you got?”

  “Enough to get me back, but not enough for us both.” He disconnected a tube from his tank and attached it to Elena's.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Equalling our supply.”

  “Idiot, why? You won't have enough to get home.”

  “I'll stay here with you then.” When it was done, he sat next to her and leaned back on the rock.

  She knew what he was doing, and it didn't surprise her. She didn't know how to feel about it.

  “Clouds are clearing,” he said. “Look, up there you can see Phobos, it's floating on the top of the atmosphere. You know what it means, Phobos?”

  “Course I do, Frank. I'm not stupid, it means fear.”

  “No, you're not stupid. You managed to get rid of me, probably the smartest thing you've done.”

  “Oh, I dunno about that. Are you scared?”

  He turned his head to her. “What?”

  “It means fear. Are you scared? We're both going to die here in a few hours.”

  “Cheerful sod, aren't you. Anyway, it's probably a blessing. We were all dying slowly anyway, and at least this way I get to choose the manner of my death.”

  “Sounds like you've been watching too many Japanese films, Frank.”

  He let out a laugh and looked up at the moon. “Does look pretty freaky up there, doesn't it? All mis-shapen and hanging like a giant hovering potato. ”

  They watched it for a while, floating ominously up there on the edge of the atmosphere.

  “Thanks, Frank. For coming after me, and everything. I feel a bit silly now.”

  “Well, I had a few hours spare.”

  She sighed and looked out across the dark red sands. “Kundulu promised me freedom, but all I got was this.” She indicated her broken leg, and the desolation around them. “I must have been insane, listening to him.”

  “I told you, Elena, you were losing it. We're all going mad here.”

  “And you’re just as mad for staying with me.”

  “Yes I am. Did he promise you freedom? Were those his words?”

  “No. He said I'd find my way home.”

  “There you go then.”

  “Oh, very deep and philosophical. That just sucks. I wanted to go home home, not die instead. That's not home.”

  “Is he still here? Give him a piece of your mind.”

  “No, he disappeared when I got drunk. Funny that, isn't it?” They watched as the clouds thinned and the evening got darker. Up in the sky the glint of the man-made satellites and giant mirrors in orbit around Mars made her insides feel unsteady. She had the butterflies. “He wasn't real was he?”

  “Your Martian prophet-ghost? Probably not.”

  “Damn. If I'd known that, I'd have stayed in the Compound.”

  “Well, your brain probably wasn't working right. Nobody's is. Mars is dead, nothing can live here and thrive. Never could. Mars was too small to hold life. Way I understand it is that it couldn't hold onto the gases ventilated from the volcanoes. And there's no tectonic recycling, so the atmosphere just got locked in carbonate rocks. The air thinned and the harsh sun
light destroyed all the liquid water.”

  Elena looked up into the twilit violet sky, the clouds were all but gone, only a few left scattered above the horizon. Left of Phobos was the orange-brown glow of the gas giant Jupiter.

  “I have no idea what you're talking about,” she said. “Wish I had a telescope, get a good look at those satellites. Thanks, Frank. For the air, and for coming after me. For everything.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “I never did stop loving you.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and went quiet.

  “I guess it was the same for you, eh?” But Frank said nothing. She sighed. “Just say it Frank, and stop being such a bloody man.”

  “Do I have to say it? After all this?”

  “I'd like you to.”

  “I bet you would.”

  She scraped up a handful of dust and let it sieve out of her glove. It blew away in the breeze. “Cold out here, isn't it?

  Frank said, “Sure is,” and craned his neck to look high into the darkness. Night had fallen all at once, and the temperature was plummeting. “It's the same as Earth.”

  Elena turned her head to him. “What is?”

  “The view. The stars. It's the same as Earth, except for the moon and a couple of planets. Look, all the constellations are the same.”

  “Well, they would be, wouldn't they.”

  “But I never thought of it. Did you?”

  “It's not often we get to see them for the clouds. Speaking of which, the last clouds are just fading away over there. What's that one, the turquoise one? Got to be Earth.”

  “Yeah...”

  They were both silent for some time, gazing at the sparkling dot of light that used to be home. Frank shuffled up close to Elena and wrapped his arms around her. It wouldn't be long now. She didn't really feel the cold anymore, just a strange detachment.

  “I do love you, Elena. Time to go to sleep now.” They moved their heads closer until the visors clunked together. “Goodnight.”

  “Night, Frank.”

  And they held onto each other in the freezing desert and they watched their home world fade into darkness.

  The Anniversary

  It’s been a decade now since I brought the wife out to these woods so I could bury her and get her out of the way.

  Don’t ask me why, but here I am on the tenth anniversary of that night, trying to find the very spot. Stumbling around among the fallen leaves and broken twigs.

  Ten years ago…

  It feels like some kind of weird dream now.

  My whole life has been like that ever since that day. Like a dream. No real substance to anything I experience.

  When I eat food, it remains tasteless on my tongue. I breathe air and there is no oxygen in it. I sleep but I’m half awake. I wake but I am still half asleep. Every day the darkness seems to close in around me and people become more distant. All my memories blur into one, focused around that fateful day ten years ago when I disturbed the fabric of creation by taking the life of another person and burying the proof.

  I know, I don’t need telling – this is guilt calling.

  The woods are dark this afternoon, like they were back then. The weather is chilly, the leaves crunch under my boots. Naked branches point at me accusingly. Through them I watch a raven swoop against the grim sky, ruling his kingdom. I notice I have stopped so I pick up my pace before night falls.

  It’s so hard to pinpoint the exact place. But I left a marker at the time. Nothing conspicuous, just a chop in the trunk of the nearest big tree. But all the trees look big tonight and I can’t find the grave.

  We’d finished the job, Sam and I, the big fuel station robbery, and the wife had found out about it.

  Corrine and I had been separated some time and she had no claim on me, but she wanted a slice of the action. Trouble was, I knew it wouldn’t end there. It never did with Corrine. She would want more and more and would squeeze me dry till it was all bled out of me.

  How had she found out? I didn’t know, but what I did know was that she had to be removed from the equation.

  The way to remove Corrine from the equation was to take her out to the woods and shoot her.

  Needless to say, first we made her dig her own grave.

  She was a mess, crying through her mascara and making her face an ugly pattern of black streaks. She was covered in the soil and mud that clung to her sweat-stained clothes. Her nose ran and her mouth dribbled as she sobbed.

  But I didn’t care. I’d done bad things before, I was hardened. And besides, I hated the bitch. She was getting her just desserts in my book, so her crying and pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. And Sam, well, he was an evil bastard anyway.

  But he was my brother and I loved him.

  I suppose that he’d always led me astray, all my life. A bad influence, my mother used to say. But he was a loose cannon and I had to be there for him whenever he went crazy. I was the only one who could cool him down, the only one he would listen to.

  I knew he’d have no qualms about killing Corrine because he simply didn’t give a damn. Human life meant nothing to Sam. I was the only one he ever cared for, I think. I like to believe he cared for me, anyway.

  After all, we were blood.

  So there I was, ten years ago, holding a gun and watching Corrine dig her own grave as the skies grew dark.

  Once or twice she looked into my eyes, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get the odd nostalgic twinge for our long lost love. A pining for better times, before the rot set in. But not enough to change my mind. I was holding the gun and I would do the killing – because it was necessary and because I wanted to.

  “Jim,” she said to me. “Jim, you’re not really going to do this, are you? It’s just a sick joke, isn’t it? Come on, it’s gone on long enough.”

  “Just dig,” I said.

  Sam said nothing, he just stood watching, expressionless, like a damned zombie.

  “I’m so tired. Please, Jim.”

  “You’re talking like I care, Corrine. After all the things you’ve done to me. I think you’re getting off lightly with a quick death.”

  “You call this lightly?” She was on the verge of hysteria. I thought I’d better watch what I say till the grave’s finished. I didn’t want to have to shoot her and dig it myself.

  But she wouldn’t be quiet. Corrine kept on at me and I had to remind her of a few things. Sam kept quiet through all this.

  “You think what I’ve done is worse than the things you do?” she cried. “You’re a thief. You’re a killer. I’ve never done anything like that!”

  I waved the gun at her. “Sam’s the killer, Corrine. And anyway, I never did any of those things to you, did I? I always treated you right. And how did you repay me?”

  “That was a stupid mistake! I told you that. You’re the one I love Jim, you always were.”

  “Which, I suppose, is why you slept with Don.” Don, my cousin. Now dead – guess why? Sam’s a good brother – he couldn’t bear to see me hurting.

  I kicked some soil back into the hole, for spite. “No,” I continued. “You only ever loved the money I could make. Which is why you want half of it now. But you know what? I’m sick of giving you my money. You’re getting nothing more from me except a bullet in the head.”

  “Jim…” and she sounded so pathetic.

  “For five years you bled me dry, Corrine. You used me to get what you wanted and when you left, you left me with nothing.” Yes, she was a great manipulator. She was smart and she always got the better of me. She could talk me around every time. Not this time though.

  I looked over at Sam. He was leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette, watching our drama unfold with apparent disinterest.

  “So, it’s all about money…” Corrine began.

  “No, it’s all about getting you out of my life for good. How did you find out about this last job, anyway?”

  She looked at Sam, and for some reason alarm bells rang in my head.
Something was amiss here. She noticed my expression.

  “He’s not as smart as you, Jim,” she smiled, and I hated her dirty smile. “He probably doesn’t even know he let on.”

  I turned to Sam, who was looking at me without knowing what had just transpired, and then I stared daggers at Corrine. “Bitch.”

  I stumble over a hole hidden in the leaves and land on my hands and knees amongst the soft damp mulch. As I pull myself to my feet I notice a V chopped out of the base of the nearest trunk, weathered now and almost indistinguishable from the bark.

  “I’ve found it,” I call back, and my companion’s footsteps crunch closer toward me.

  The grave. The grave where I hid my sin, so long ago. I feel a comforting arm around my waist as I close my eyes, tears trying to escape the emptiness in my soul. My throat hurts as I remember the shot echoing through the woods, tree to tree.

  The shot had taken me by surprise. The loudness of it, the bone-jarring force of it. That sound seemed to change the world.

  It took some seconds to comprehend the situation. Sam was lying among the leaves, blood splashed up the trunk of the tree beside him. The gun in my hand, pointing at him. My mouth hanging open.

  And then Corrine had spoken, her voice shaking. “Oh God, Jim. Oh Jesus.”

  I looked at her. I let the gun fall from my grasp. She let the shovel fall from her hands, the shovel she had swung at me without warning, knocking the gun towards my brother. My finger squeezing at precisely the wrong moment.

  My brother falling.

  My brother dead.

  I stared at him. He didn’t move. At all.

  Corrine clambered out of the hole and touched my arm. “Jim…”

  We held each other, watching the body, shivering as darkness fell.

  Some time later, Corrine spoke. “We have to bury him.”

  I turned to her, but all my anger was gone. I felt only cold and alone. We watched each other, faces like stone. She passed the shovel to me.

  Corrine rests her head on my shoulder over my brother’s final resting place. We do not speak. Now I’m here, I don’t know why I came. I still feel the same empty guilt I’ve felt for ten years. Corrine and I hold each other as we did that day.

  Then we turn and find our way back to the car, forever entwined, for good or bad.

  I feel so cold. We hug each other for warmth, but there is no real love. There is no hate. No words to say.

  There is nothing, really.

  Just darkness all around.

  An Ending in Tokyo

  Nakata rings me in the early hours and says, “It’s okay to kill a murderer, isn’t it?” He’s distraught, drunk. “I mean to say – he would not stop killing. I have saved lives haven’t I, by taking his?”

  My third month working with the Tokyo police force and Nakata is my partner, my buddy. It’s early Saturday morning now, about two, and on Friday night he shot dead the notorious child killer Sandez, a Spanish-American.

  Nakata’s first kill.

  I remember mine. New York, winter, street punk who had a needle. He came at me and I wasn’t taking chances. One bullet in his chest ended his time on earth there and then. I was twenty-two.

  A killer at twenty-two, standing in the snow with a smoking gun.

  I’d been on the force a year and often thought how I might feel when the time came to take a life. If it ever came. I’d known guys nearing retirement who’d never shot anyone. Other guys, younger, had done it many times, hardened to it. They didn’t care. Or at least, appeared not to.

  But I did. I didn’t want to have to kill a person.

  Maybe I didn’t have to shoot him, I could have used my unarmed combat training to disarm him, but I wasn’t risking Aids. So I shot him. Bang, dead. And it never affected me in the way I thought it would.

  I refuse to hide behind my badge. I will not morally justify my actions. What it was, I took a life to save my own. It’s happened a few times since. I cope with it, I sleep nights. Because I’m still here.

  But Nakata, he’s a different case. Sensitive guy, probably in the wrong job. Nakata won’t sleep, I know that. He’ll blame himself and question his motives and pray to his god. He’ll ask whether he has the right to take a life, even if it means saving the lives of others. Should he have that responsibility?

  I could argue that, yes, he does have that responsibility. As soon as he joined the police he took on that obligation. Protect the innocent, even at the expense of your own soul. We are God’s cruel enforcers.

  Instead, I say to that lonely, frightened voice, miles away in the night, “Never forget how you feel right now, Nakata-chan.”

  He says nothing. I wish I was the one who had shot the child-molesting bastard. But I wasn’t. And I’m not about to let this one incident destroy a good man.

  Sandez was one sick mother. I’d been chasing him a year in New York. We tracked him to Tokyo and I went there. The Japs didn’t like the idea of a foreign child killer on their turf so they co-operated. Gave me a partner and a car, a desk and free rein.

  In fact, the Japanese don’t really like foreigners of any kind in their country, which is why over ninety per cent of the population are what you might call true Japanese. Of what’s left, less than half are Westerners.

  Sandez proved surprisingly difficult to find, given the foreigner situation. He must have had help.

  But three months later we found Sandez and took him down. Or rather, Nakata took him down.

  We grew close as friends and colleagues during that three months. The Japs never gave me a hard time on the force and they were always polite. It’s what they pride themselves on. But I got the feeling, I dunno, like I was a gaijin. An outsider, which I was.

  But my friend Nakata Endo treated me like a brother.

  Family name Nakata, personal name Endo. They don’t use their personal names like we do, not even with friends. He is Nakata-san, or to those close to him, Nakata-chan.

  Nakata showed me all the best parts of Tokyo. He took me to the National Museum, the Imperial Palace and around the Tsukiji Market, biggest fish market in the world, shopping for seafood. Hell, what a place that was. I couldn’t get the stink of fish out of my nose for days.

  We went to bars and sang karaoke and drank sake.

  But the place that gave him most pleasure to show me was Senso-ji Temple, built around the golden image of Kannon, which was supposedly found in the river. Nakata loves this place, though I have to say, temples leave me a little cold. Too much like churches. Except that the Japanese aren’t as easily offended if you commit a faux pas in one of these places as our Western clerics are.

  You know, the Japs consider the major characteristics of Westerners to be laziness, dirt and superstition. This certainly summed up that son of a bitch Sandez, always mumbling into his rosary beads, the freak. I mean, what goes on in a mind like that? Twisting religion into such a mutation?

  It’s good that Sandez is dead. This way he won’t ever get out to start his filthy work over again. I’d have shot the bastard anyway, even if he hadn’t pulled his gun. But that’s me. I don’t take risks, not with kiddie killers. Son of a bitch can fry in hell.

  “Listen Nakata-chan,” I say, “I’m coming over. Don’t do anything stupid. Drink some coffee. Promise me?”

  A pause. “Okay,” comes the almost whispered reply. “Bronson-chan?” It always makes me smile, the way he says my name.

  “Yeah?”

  “I haven’t eaten. Please bring food.”

  I pick up noodles from a Thai take-away and make my way to Nakata’s place across the city. The noodles smell good, there on the passenger seat. I wish I’d bought enough for two.

  I drive along Shuto Expressway and I hit the gaijin clubbing district of Roppongi as my cell phone rings. It’s Nakata, so I pick up, holding the phone between my shoulder and jaw, trying not to hit anyone as I steer through the mass of drinkers.

  The O-Bon Festival is in full-swing tonight, the Festival of the Dea
d. I see paper lanterns bobbing all around, even the gaijin join in the fun. O-Bon, when ancestral graves are cleaned and offerings of food and flowers are placed before the family altars to welcome back the souls of the dead.

  “How you doing, my brother?”

  It starts to rain without warning, heavy, like it does in films. I hadn’t seen such rain in Tokyo and reckoned it was something that never really happened. Don’t know why. Not when they get earthquakes and eruptions and tidal waves and all sorts of stuff. But tonight it rains like a movie and my windshield wipers struggle to cope. Paper lanterns collapse and die as their flames are snuffed out.

  “I have disgraced my family,” says Nakata.

  This is serious.

  “My father taught me all my life never to kill. Never to take a human life. To follow the teachings of Siddhartha. I have condemned my soul.”

  Think, Bronson. “You took a life to save lives, you know that.”

  “That is not an excuse, not a reason.”

  “Would you rather I was dead? Because I would have been. He was going to kill me.”

  “I have ruptured the fabric.” Of the Universe, he means.

  “Sandez was doing a hell of a lot more rupturing.” Silence. The wipers scratch across the windshield and my teeth grind in response.

  I speak again. “You killed him, yes. But that’s something you have to learn to cope with, Nakata-chan. He wasn’t worth a damn, anyway.”

  “Everyone is worth a damn.”

  “Some people are beyond redemption.”

  He says nothing. “I got noodles,” I say, “can I share them with you?”

  Another pause. “Yes.”

  I will soon be going back to New York, back home, and I’ll miss Nakata. He’s a gem, bound for greatness. He may never make a great cop, he’s too good for that. But he’s smart and quick, got strong moral fibre and he will someday make a great something, but I don’t know what that something will be. I’ve just got to get him through this black patch.

  He’ll make it, he’s got a head on his shoulders. I know I’ll keep in touch once I get home. I’m terrible at doing that normally, but Nakata is one of those people you want to keep. So I’ll stay in touch.

  Be nice to remain here. There’s a certain peace in Japan that’s completely opposite to America. Just as violent and nasty and riddled with all the worst crimes, but I feel a tranquillity here. Perhaps it’s Nakata’s influence. That Zen-like calm. I think about honour a lot. Would be nice to stay.

  As I leave Roppongi I drive around a group of dancers that the rain could not disperse and I’m finally through the crowds and heading out towards Nakata’s home. I should have picked up the noodles out here, they’ll need reheating now. I try to call my buddy but the phone cuts out as the battery dies. The car wipers seem louder than ever.

  Four minutes later I’m parking outside his place. The lights are on. I grab the take away and run through the rain, hunching my shoulders like it’ll keep me dry.

  It’s cold. I shiver, and shake the drops from my hair as I ring his doorbell. Water trickles down my spine inside my coat and my trousers are soaking up to the thighs. I wait.

  All of a sudden something occurs to me. I try the door and it’s unlocked. Course, he knew I was coming and it’s torrential. Wouldn’t keep me waiting out here.

  I curse my stupidity and go in, squeezing rain from my hair and kicking off my shoes. Wonder if I can arrange some kind of transfer, find a place near here? Nothing to go back for, really. This case has ended here, in Japan, and so has my desire to go home.

  Also, I’m looking forward to Nakata’s poetry reading in a couple of week’s time at the Moon-viewing celebration. He read some to me last week, his work in progress. I couldn’t understand a damn word, but I liked the sound of his voice. It should be good – poetry, sake and friendship.

  I can hear restful traditional Japanese music as it floats down the stairway and I follow. “Noodles!” I shout. “Hope you got two plates.”

  At the top of the stairs I reach the doorway to Nakata’s living room. It stands ajar and I can see the framed kanji on the wall that depicts eternal existence and peace. I love Nakata’s home. Spotless, peaceful and clean.

  When I push it open the first thing I see are the dark red stains on the cream rug.

  “Oh Jesus no.” I drop the noodles, they make a mess on the floor. I look at the mess but I’m still seeing the bloodstained knife in my Japanese friend’s cold hand.

  I can’t bring myself to look back at the prone figure slumped forward sitting cross-legged on the red sheet that was white. His hands reaching out to me palms up, begging forgiveness. I try to speak, but words fail me.

  The first thing that occurs to me is to call in and report the incident. My cell phone is dead.

  I go to the house phone, avoiding his body and trying not to step in any of the blood.

  As I report in, I stare absently at the soroban, the customary abacus, and for some insane reason my mind is overtaken with thoughts of how traditional these people are and yet how modern too.

  I can’t help looking round the room at the sake-server, the kanji on each wall, the fantastic sound system and television. Nakata kept this place tidy. He even washed the sake cup he'd been using.

  The only mess he’s left is himself.

  There’ll be no moon-viewing poetry. No more visits to the holy temple, no more karaoke.

  I walk to the window and look out through the streaked glass at the house across where an O-Bon celebration is taking place inside, away from the rain and the blood.

  I raise my hand to the cold glass pane and emptiness threatens to suck away my guts. I am far away from home.

  I decide to take the soonest available flight back to New York. Japan has lost its magic, and it feels like there is no safe haven anywhere.

  I belong in New York. It’s in my blood.

  Frankie

  I'm a killer.

  No ifs, no buts, that’s the short and long of it. A killer.

  I hang my head in shame every night and worry myself to sleep, though I rarely sleep these days. The Family could find me at any time, and I have to keep Frankie safe.

  Frankie’s a charming kid, you’d like him, but he can also be a real pain in the backside. I suppose that’s kids for you, though. And I knew all that before I decided to take him on. It’s a big thing, looking after a ten year old, you’ve no time for any life of your own. But if I didn’t watch out for him the Family would get him. And we can’t be having that, can we?

  I pulled into the motel car park just after ten-thirty pm and left Frankie in the car while I booked a room. Nasty places, motels. I don’t know what it is about them, I just find them creepy. And this one was no exception. Clean enough, but with an air of guilt that won’t go away. And I know all about guilt.

  “Room for me and my son, please.” That’s all I asked for, and she looked at me like I was some kind of bug. God knows what she thought, I don’t even want to guess. But that just shows what kind of people they get around here.

  “There a TV in the room?”

  “That’s extra,” she told me. So I said OK and paid extra. Everybody wants extra.

  “There a bar?”

  “Cross the road. Pig & Whistle.” Charming lady. I went back to the car.

  “Hey, Frankie…” But Frankie was flat out, so I carried him to the room and put him to bed. I sat for a bit and flicked through the channels, but nothing was on. Nothing good, anyway. I was dying for a drink.

  I looked over at Frankie’s bed for a while and decided it’d be okay if I nipped out for a swift one. I thought about waking him up to tell him but I just sneaked out instead.

  The bar was fine. Nice atmosphere, but a bit overdone with the pine. Still, better than all the chrome you seem to get nowadays. All the new pubs, at least the ones where I live, are like a flashback to the eighties. The eighties were terrible and just because they happened over two decades ago doesn’t make them a
ny better now.

  I ordered a pint and a cigar for later and surveyed the room. Theme pubs, they’re worse than eighties bars. And they all seem to play the Eagles. Ah, good old modern uniformity, you can go anywhere in this country and not feel lost.

  The barman rang last orders so I decided to get another one in before heading back.

  It was then that I saw Val.

  There I was, sitting at one end of the bar, glass half-raised to my lips, and there she was, at the other end, looking straight at me. Her stare sent needles through my guts and I stopped breathing. Her beautiful red lips were set firmly together and I forced myself to look around the room.

  They weren’t here a minute ago, but they were here now. Seven of them. I had to get out quick. But my legs were frozen and I hadn’t started breathing yet and I was sweating and needed the toilet. Blood pounded in my ears and all of a sudden I let out a gasp and ran for the door.

  I couldn’t go back to the motel. I wouldn’t have time to get in, get Frankie out and escape in the car so I had to take a risk. It was possible they didn’t know where we were staying, so I had to lead them away. A long shot, but all I had.

  My thoughts were all scrambled as I ran and a million voices jumped into my head, all shouting for attention. I had no time to listen. No time to ask how had they found me, no time to think. Only time to run.

  It hurt, running. My chest tightened and my throat became sore as I gasped lungfuls of cold night air. Instinct kept me going. I knew, without thinking the words, that I had to run in the opposite direction and double back somehow and hope they hadn’t found the boy. I was fast, they would never catch me. No one ever can.

  I looked back. They were crossing the road! They knew! I would have to go back and try to fight them off, though I knew it would be all in vain. Seven of them. What could I do? Some of them would have to die, like before. There was no way I was going to let the Family take Frankie. No way.

  I launched myself across the road and was hit by a taxi.

  Next thing I know this big fat guy with a messy beard is leaning over me. “You okay?” he says. “You just ran straight in front of me.”

  I know I did, that’s why I got hit. I told him to go away and dragged myself to my feet. I hurt all over and there was a screaming pain in my left shoulder that worried me. I started for the motel and fell over onto my side. I cursed the ground and carried on, staggering like a drunk. I heard someone yell for somebody to call an ambulance and another voice telling me to come back, I could be hurt.

  Well, I was hurt, but I’ve been hurt before.

  I ignored the agony as best I could and made it to the motel. The receptionist was stunned as I ran past and looked like she wanted to say something, but I ignored her. I got to my room. The door was open, light pouring out and a shadow pasted on the corridor wall.

  I had no weapons, I had nothing, and I had no time to think.

  I burst into the room, pushing aside big Malcolm and yelling. Then I stopped in my tracks as I saw the body of Frankie lying on the bed. He wasn’t right, somehow. The Family members all turned to stare at me.

  “You killed him!” two of us said. The other one who said it was James, Frankie’s older cousin, and he was saying it to me. I didn’t understand. I studied his bearded, lean face and went for him, hands around his throat.

  We fell to the floor, scuffling. He tried to prise my fingers away but I was too strong. Other hands grabbed and pulled at me and then something heavy hit me on the temple.

  I found myself against the wall and the pain came rushing back. The pain was in my head and everything became fuzzy. They were talking.

  “What do we do?” Big Malcolm asked.

  “Well, what do you think we do?” This was Val, her voice filling the room like a lovely Angel of Death. Sweet death.

  “Val’s right,” said James. “We can’t let this lunatic carry on.”

  “But he’s family!” Malcolm protested. I always liked Malcolm.

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm. But look what he’s done now.”

  They were going to kill me, I knew. I couldn’t remember any more, everything was muddy and hurt. James spoke again.

  “Two of you get him, I’ll take little Frankie. I don’t need to tell you to keep out of sight. We’ll get back to the farm and take care of business there.”

  I felt big hands lift me up and I saw James kneel beside Frankie, holding his head. “I’m sorry, little Cuz,” he said to him, “I’m so sorry.”

  And they took me back to the farm for the final time.

  Retribution

  He came in smelling of prairie dust and horse-sweat, his silhouette jet-black against the blinding afternoon sun. And I knew death had finally caught up with me.

  I didn't go for my guns because I didn't have them anymore.

  James Finlay stood watching me, his eyes bloodshot, his moustache long and unkempt, his clothes dusty and worn. For a long while he stood there. That was all. Just stood there, weighing me up. His hand rested on the handle of his gun, and what came next was the one thing I hadn't expected.

  I didn't die in a hail of bullets. James Finlay made no move to kill me.

  Instead, he walked across the creaking floorboards to my table and picked up an empty glass and the whiskey bottle. “You mind?” he said, and poured himself a shot. Didn't drink from the bottle – poured it into a glass like a civilized fella. Then he sat himself down on the spare chair and took off his hat.

  I couldn't speak, so he began it. “Bill,” he said.

  A shiver went right up my back. “James.”

  I turned my eyes away from him and looked out the window, the brightness bleaching out all detail out there beyond the wooden walls of my house. Minutes before, I had heard the thumping of hooves outside, and I'd gotten a feeling. A dreadful, black feeling.

  “So this is it then,” I said. “Judgement day.”

  “Guess it is.”

  “I suppose I knew you'd track me down eventually,” I said, looking at him.

  He placed his hat on the floor and took another sip of whiskey. I needed a stiff drink myself, but I couldn't move.

  “You know,” he paused a while. “I’ve thought about what I’d say over and over.” He stared at the floor. “Now I can’t remember any of it.”

  He leaned back and sighed. Years of tension seemed to drain from him and he visibly shrank, almost melted into the seat. “God, Bill,” he sighed. “Now I’m here.”

  Eventually he found the words. “Japanese fella, name of Sagawa, once told me something. Told me love an’ hate are the same thing.” He stopped for a second when he saw my eyebrows raise a little. “Yeah. I always reckoned he was talking horseshit.” He took a breath, leaned forward stiffly, and cradled the glass in both hands. “Don’t make sense, does it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he insisted. Told me a story to illustrate the fact.” James had another small sip of the scotch and turned the glass in his hand, appreciatively. “Good stuff.” He carried on. “So anyway. Two Samurai, back in old Japan. One had been wronged by the other. Spent years chasing him to get his revenge, get his honour back. Storms, earthquakes, they didn’t matter to him. He had to find his enemy. Seven years, it took him.”

  James leaned back again, a painful look flashing across his face.

  “Anyway, he became obsessed, spent everything he had trying to find this guy, spent all his time thinking about him. There was nothing he did that wasn’t aimed at getting his vengeance.” He took another drink. “Total obsession.”

  After a while, he carried on. “That’s what Sagawa meant. You love someone, you spend all your time thinking about them. Same when you hate someone.”

  I still couldn’t move from my seat. “Well, James. You got plenty of reason to hate me.”

  “And then some.”

  “In my defence, I’m a different person now.”

  “Oh, aren’t we all, Bill. Look at me. I’m a shadow of the man I was. First
I lose my wife, then I lose everything else trying to find her.”

  “Yeah.” I looked at the floor, wishing it would swallow me up.

  “How is she?” he said.

  “Died on the trail some years back. Never made it this far.”

  “Christ. We all lost out then.” He blinked around the room. “Least you got a nice house to live in.”

  Yes, at least I had that. Somewhere to live. Cold, empty bed to sleep in. I turned my head to see the framed photograph of Eleanor up on the wall, and James followed my eyes.

  “More than I’ve got,” he said. “Bill, I’m getting old. I don’t want this thing to go on longer than necessary. Just one thing.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Destroying your life, getting the woman we both loved killed. Turning my own life into a damned desert.” I groaned. “Hell, James, what do you think?”

  He got to his feet and put his hat back on.

  “Think I’m gonna have to finish this for good.”

  I closed my eyes. I still couldn’t get up, but didn’t really want to. I wasn’t going to fight back. Had to take what was coming. I screwed my eyes tight.

  James carried on talking, voice disembodied in my head. “I’ve chased you god knows how many years, Bill. I lost count. Only one thing mattered during that time.” There was a clicking sound that I took to be his gun. “You dying.”

  I shuddered. “Best get on with it then.”

  I felt drunk, swaying about in the darkness. If I wasn’t sitting, I’d have fallen.

  “Reckon so. Only one way this should go. Law of the West, ain’t it, eye for an eye? Way things are says I got to kill you.”

  “Eye for an eye,” I repeated. I felt dizzy.

  “But I’m tired, Bill. I’m just not so sure anymore.”

  I waited for the end.

  Would I hear the shot? Would I know when death hit me? Would I be aware that things had come to an end? I waited. The floorboards creaked.

  I heard the horse snuffle and whinney, and then it rode away.

  When I opened my eyes and looked up, James Finlay had left. Left me with my life.

  I don't know why. Maybe the hot desert sun had burnt away all his hate. Maybe seven years of chasing me had made him forget how he'd felt to begin with. Maybe finding out that Eleanor was dead made him realise the futility of it all.

  Or maybe he realised he had a choice after all. He could kill me and have his revenge. Or he could forgive me.

  Maybe all he really had to do was find me.

  Lesley's Death

  If I hadn’t have shot Lesley, I would have married her. But shoot her I did, and she had it coming. With her beautiful red lips and azure eyes, she could have any man she desired. She was a terrible whore, flirting her slinky body and long soft hair. I often wished my heartache would come to an end, that she would stop attracting the avaricious attentions of other men. And one cold winter night, it did.

  One cold winter night, everything ended, and things begun too.

  I took her for a drive. We walked in the woods like children up to no good, laughing as we searched for the thing I said I would show her. And then I showed her, and she saw I really was up to no good. As she turned and ran I shot her in the back of the head, twice. The second time from point blank range as she lie on the rotting leaves, probably already dead. I was proud of the first shot. I drew the gun, bang! Down she went. What a feeling.

  But before I shot her, before she turned and ran, I told her a few things. I told her what I thought of her, the hussy.

  It took ages to bury her. I had to go all the way back to the car, get changed and bring my shovel. I must have been digging all night. And as I dug, I thought about Lesley and how she so often broke my heart.

  I thought about my jealousy and how she played on it, chatting to other men in that much too friendly, knee-touching way she had. How she would smile at them and her eyes would sparkle and I knew the men could see she was coming on to them, making me out to be a fool.

  But I’m nobody’s fool and I see everything. Sooner or later she would know that, and then she’d be sorry, the bitch.

  I dug and I dug and I thought about the time I caught her with her own cousin.

  I walked in, rain dripping from the brim of my hat, and there was Steven in the kitchen, fridge door open in his hand and staring at me like some kind of moron. In his boxers. And nothing else. Then Lesley came down, naked but for a bath towel wrapped around her, all sweetness and light with some cock and bull story about being caught in the rain and having to change. Sure.

  And what was Steven doing here? Visiting, while I was out working. Not on an evening, when normal people visit, but in the afternoon. When I was at work.

  I said nothing. I put the kettle on and we all had a cosy cuppa, Steven in my bathrobe. We sat and we talked pointlessly, and all the time I watched. I saw how they looked at each other, how closely they sat on the sofa, how often they touched whilst laughing. Hand on knee, hand on hand, leaning into one another to give a friendly, intimate push of the shoulder. They knew each other well, they were closer than Lesley and I had ever been. They were just like lovers.

  I could fair smell the sex on them.

  We were to marry eight and a half months after that day and make our co-habiting official, but I decided she was going to die instead. From then on it didn’t matter.

  She could see I was no longer troubled by her flirting and so she stopped. But I had already made up my mind. Was it my imagination or was she kinder to me after that? Was she sweeter and more attentive? I don’t know, but to be truthful I didn’t give a damn. It was all over.

  As I shovelled, dirt covered my sweaty face and it felt like I was inhaling pure soil. I paused for a breather and looked at Lesley’s empty shell. There was no expression on her pretty face, she looked quite innocent. I laughed. I didn’t stop laughing for quite a while, and then I commenced digging.

  “I mean, why did you do it?” I said aloud. I stopped again to look at her. “I gave you everything. Okay, I never had much to give, but you got all that there was. I don’t know, some of you women are never satisfied.” Digging again, I carried on my rant. It was more or less the same conversation we’d had just before I shot her. I repeated all the same questions.

  “Why were you always wanting other men to notice you? Don’t I give you enough attention? Don’t I make you feel good?”

  “It was a bad time,” she had said, tears streaking her make-up and her breath making her lovely chest rise and fall. “I wasn’t happy, we weren’t happy! You weren’t happy. We argued all the time and no, you didn’t make me feel good. Not at that point. I just wanted to know I was beautiful, to feel like a woman.”

  “So you looked to other men for that!”

  “I didn’t want to. I wanted it from you, but you gave me nothing. I felt so lonely all the time. It’s nice to be noticed, you know. It’s a good feeling to realise that you’re still attractive.”

  “I always tell you how beautiful you look.”

  “But you never make me feel it, Danny. When we go out all you do is sit there and not talk. What am I supposed to do when people speak to me, tell them to go away?” She pulled her coat around her tightly.

  “Yes,” I said flatly. “When it’s a man.”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman. I was only ever talking.”

  “But they didn’t know that. As far as they were concerned, they were in with a chance.”

  “They were never in with a chance!”

  “Just like Steven?”

  Lesley had stopped in her tracks. “What? Steven? What’s Steven got to do with all this?” She did a good impression of innocence, I’ll give her that.

  “You know Steven, your cousin?”

  “Of course I know Steven.”

  “I caught you, remember?”

  “Caught me? What are you talking about? Nothing happened. When?”


  “’Hi, honey, we got caught in the rain’,” I mocked in a girly voice. “Rain my arse. I could tell a mile away.”

  Lesley stared at me. “God, this is what this is all about.” Then she put on the act. “Danny, please! Nothing happened, you have to believe me. He’s my cousin, for God’s sake. Danny.”

  I aimed the gun at her head. “Better run, Lesley,” I smiled, “you’re nothing but a cheap, lying, filthy whore.”

  I laughed to myself as I dug, and ran the dialogue through my head again, smoothing it out, making the words neater and less hysterical than they actually were. I was becoming calmer, more balanced, and Lesley was taking on an almost evil aspect. Lesley had been lying through her teeth, but I was too smart to be tricked.

  I looked again at her body, stuck my shovel in a mound of soil and leant on it with my hands as I talked to her. “So, my darling, now you know the price of betrayal. How do you feel about that?”

  Maybe it was my mind playing funny buggers with me, but I swear she said, “What do you think?”

  I laughed at my hallucination. “Jesus and Mary , I need a drink.”

  “You always drank too much,” said Lesley, standing in front of me, beside her own dead body. It was unmistakably Lesley, looking as gorgeous as ever, and it seemed quite natural. I carried on the conversation as I lifted the shovel and continued to dig her grave.

  “Well, you were the one who drove me to it. You never gave me a minute’s peace,” I told her.

  “And you never gave me a chance.”

  “For what? What did you need a chance for? You had nothing to prove, all you had to do was let me know you loved me.”

  “Of course I loved you, Danny. You’ll never have any idea how much.” I looked at her body, lying twisted on the ground, and grinned. “Well, that’s true I suppose. I'll never know now. Hard work, digging. Wouldn’t like to do it full time.”

  “You never loved me. You only ever wanted to own me, to tell me what to do. I should have left you a long time ago.”

  “Well, it would have saved all this.” I indicated the corpse and the grave. “Better get on. I want to be out of here by sunrise.”

  It was quiet for a while but when I looked up from my work, she was still there. This troubled me. And there were tears in her eyes.

  “What,” I said. “Are you staying around to haunt me? To make me feel remorse for killing you?”

  “Yes,” she looked at me. “But quite honestly, I don’t see you feeling guilty for a long time yet, so maybe I’ll come back then. I want to be around when that happens.”

  I was going to ask her why, but she said, “So I can forgive you.”

  I realised I was standing with a shovel full of muck half way out of the grave, so I emptied it and carried on. I felt a pain in my heart. “Oh Lesley, why couldn’t we get on? All I wanted was to be happy with you.”

  But when I looked up again, she wasn’t there.

  The hole was deep enough. I coughed up some filth and spat it out, and then dragged her clammy body into its final resting place. I made sure her back was straight and her arms were folded over her breast. I closed her eyes and said, “Rest in peace, Lesley.”

  I looked around and saw a lonely red flower glowing pale in the shaft of moonlight through the trees. I plucked it and planted it between her fingers, kissing her tenderly on the forehead.

  By the time she was covered up the birds were singing their dawn chorus. I leant on my shovel, tired out and breathing heavily, smiling at the trees. Then I went back to the car, cleaned my face and hands with some wipes, and changed into my proper clothes. I shoved the dirty ones into a black bag and sat behind the wheel, taking a deep, deep breath. My legs felt weak, my back was stiff.

  I put my hands on the wheel and a great despair fell upon me.

  There was emptiness and darkness all around as the sun rose into the trees. My guts tore themselves apart. Grief stuck in my throat like a stone.

  “Oh, God.” And I cried and I cried and I cried.

  Mickey's War

  “Michael, get in bed now, it’s almost ten!” Mum’s voice drifted up from the living room over the far away sounds of TV music, and eleven year old Mickey Sharp sighed. He put down his Future War weekly and lay back in his bed, staring at the painted clouds on his ceiling as the summer daylight ever so slowly crept out of his room. The loneliness of another night threatened with its silence.

  He watched the sky darken through his open curtains. The clouds outside moved no faster than the ones on his ceiling, which now seemed to dance in the twilight, making his eyes and head dizzy. He was wide awake and felt he would never be sleepy again.

  It had been another bad day at school but at least the weekend was here, when he could stay home or maybe play with his friends. Just his friends, and not that pain in the backside Donut Jackson. His window was open and he could still smell next door’s cut grass. Mr Bateman would be round in the morning to do theirs.

  He sat up and looked out at the street below, seeing a man walking a dog. It wasn’t properly dark yet and the way the man walked he looked like Dad. How he glanced at his feet every so often and scratched his nose. The coat he had on was the same shape as Dad’s, but it was getting too dark to see the colour. Dad’s was brown suede and Mickey loved it, it was so cool. Even now, it was downstairs, hanging in the closet.

  Mickey could see Venus shining like a beacon above the hills. Venus, the first and brightest star in the night sky, second planet from the sun, the morning star. Mickey lay back on his bed and thought about space, the endless light years and adventures to be had. He could see stars on the ceiling and they began to swirl as his space helmet became heavy. The planet was cold and grey and this spacesuit was too thin to keep him warm. He walked away from the ship into the dense undergrowth and came out the other side to see a crooked tower of glass reaching far into the night, all broken and corrupt like the tower of Babylon, reflecting the heavens in a disjointed way. Funny he hadn’t noticed this tower when he landed.

  He knew he shouldn’t go towards it but he did anyway. There were strange sounds coming out, clanging sounds that echoed fear across the now barren landscape. Stars lit up the night and the coldness of the ground sucked the warmth from his body. He turned and ran away from the sound of the harrowing scream that escaped the tower but then he found himself inside the tower, running through black corridors with Dad behind him, protecting him.

  Mickey had to find a way out, get Dad away from the war, from all the killing and pain. The floor was sticky and he couldn’t keep running, but he was too frightened to turn and shoot, his arms wouldn’t work, and what if they took the gun off him? Suddenly Dad swept him up into his arms and Mickey was in the ship again, lying in the hold, airlock slamming shut with finality. But Dad … Dad was…

  Mickey felt he’d hit ground and woke up with a shudder, sweating. He stared around in the dark, not daring to move his head until he realised he was in bed and it was the middle of the night. He looked out at the first wisps of light on the eastern horizon.

  He sat up and felt a big hollow gape in his stomach. When would Dad be back? He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes.

  The sun was shining like a good ‘un as Mickey and Crofty raced across the park. They shouted and fired their machine guns at Grainger and Skids making “ak-ak-ak” noises all the time. Grainger and Skids ran straight into them and everyone ended up in a pile, covered in grass stains. Mickey and Crofty got up and got to the old broken walls where a battle could be fought properly.

  He’d had to hide his gun at Crofty’s house ever since Dad went away to war. Mum would freak out if she could see him now, but she couldn’t so it didn’t matter. He aimed carefully at the top of Grainger’s head that was sticking over a wall and he yelled as a stone hit him on the back of the neck. He spun round.

  “You’re in my place, Mouse-boy” Donut Jackson said with what Donut Jackson thought was wit. Mickey. Mouse. Hilarious. Mickey stared at him for a few seconds
trying to decide what to do. Should he fight? Donut was alone and Mickey had his mates. But he would still be on his own because they were probably too scared of this fat bully to join in. And what if Donut’s mates turned up? Besides, what about on Monday at school? Hell to pay, that’s what.

  “Don’t just stand there, you little mouse, shift!” Donut yelled.

  “Get lost Donut, you fatty!” Skids called. He could never hold his tongue.

  OK, it’s on, Mickey thought, no going back now. I’m gonna get beaten to a pulp.

  Crofty stood up, ready for a fight. His best mate, Crofty was. Mickey stood up too, and both sides tried to stare each other out. But Donut was staring out Mickey, not the others. They’d never got on, not for years, he and Donut. But since Dad was posted to the Gulf Donut had made a beeline for Mickey, hitting him, saying he would have a dead father before Christmas, calling him Mouse boy, and worse. Mickey felt weak and useless when Donut was around, he was sick of being bullied. Sick to death of it.

  Something changed in Mickey at that moment and he went for the bully, head first. Donut wasn’t expecting this and was winded. Mickey fell on top of him and all his rage poured out as he kept hitting him in the head and chest. Donut rolled over, trapping Mickey beneath his weight and Mickey caught a glimpse of Grainger and loudmouth Skids legging it across the field.

  Suddenly, the weight was off him and Donut and Crofty were rolling down the banking towards the old wooden fence. Crofty got to his feet first and scrambled up onto the field. “Come on!”

  They both ran, leaving Donut huffing and puffing after them, finally giving up and shouting that they were dead at school on Monday. Mickey didn’t care, he felt great. His knuckles hurt and he fell laughing onto the grass, Crofty sitting beside him, elbows rested on his knees. “Well, that’s done it,” he said.

  “So what?” Mickey laughed.

  “So what? So we’re dead. They’ll all get us. Fleabag, Harrison, the lot.” He was right, but right then and there Mickey couldn’t care less, because he had stood up for himself at last. He couldn’t wait to tell Dad. They got up and walked towards Mickey’s house.

  “Does it scare you?” Crofty asked, after a while.

  “Does what scare me?”

  “That your Dad’s in the Gulf. That he might not come back?” He had probably been wanting to ask this for weeks.

  “I dunno. I’ve not thought about it. But he’ll come back.” He stared across the road at a curious horse poking its head over a fence, and tried to squash the feeling of heaviness in his gut. He’ll come back.

  “What if..? Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Crofty started to kick a pebble along as they walked. When they got to Mickey’s house they hid the guns in the bushes as the post woman came out of their garden. For some reason, Mickey started to feel anxious. He walked up to the front door, held out his hand and opened it. He was shaking and his eyes felt heavy, blood pulsing behind them. Inside, Mum was opening a letter. Mickey stood watching as she read silently, and then she fell to her knees. He couldn’t move for a second, knowing that the letter must be about Dad.

  “Mum?” he heard himself say. “Mum?”

  Mum dragged her eyes away from the letter and finally focused on him. She was crying. He daren’t ask.

  “It’s your dad,” she sobbed. “It’s your dad!”

  He turned and ran without pausing for breath, pushing past Crofty and heading down the street, eyes streaming from the rush of air hitting them. He heard his mum call after him but by now he was in the next street, still running. He wiped his eyes so he could see and when he reached the green he threw himself down and lay gasping at the sun and trees and birds above, throat hurting, eyes stinging. There was not enough air for him and every breath felt a huge effort. The grass was cool on the back of his hot head and his mind was a whirl of sounds and movement, every voice he knew jabbering on at the same time.

  After a while he calmed down and just lay staring at the clouds, fluffy and white. They were free from care. Mickey felt a heavy sadness over his whole body and didn’t want to move. He noticed Crofty was sitting beside him but ignored him.

  Dad… Oh, Dad, what’s happened? Why did you go?

  Mickey thought about all the things they’d done together, when he and Dad would play soccer in the garden, wrestle before tea, go on walks down the old railway track. They’d watch a John Wayne film together, Mickey thinking it was the coolest thing to do. He liked how Dad made his porridge for him on cold nights in winter, how he’d fix his bike, the way he talked to him, calmly, like there was no rush to do anything. He loved the way Dad made the house feel, like it was safe, complete, warm; alive. Dad would drive them when they went on holiday, he was the one who would go on the rides with him. Mum never liked to. He bought him comics and sweets. He was Mickey’s dad, and no one else’s. He was Mickey’s mate. How would he cope if he never came back?

  “Michael?” It was Mum’s voice, soft and gentle. “Michael.” She was kneeling beside him.

  “What?” he thought he was going to blow up. What had happened? He didn’t want to know, but at the same time he wanted to know. Why would Mum react like that? It must be bad news. It must be bad news.

  “He’s coming home! Michael, he’s coming home!”

  Mickey didn’t know what to do. He wanted to cry, to scream and yell, to run and jump, to go and beat up fatty Donut, to laugh. He sat up. “What?” But he didn’t need to hear it again. “When?”

  “In two weeks. It’s over. He’s coming home!” Mum reached over and touched Mickey’s shoulder. That was all he needed. He burst into tears and hugged Mum for all he was worth. Dad was on his way back and they’d be able to do stuff together again.

  “Can I buy him a John Wayne dvd?”

  Mum laughed through her sobs. Okay, but it’ll have to be a western.”

  They sat like that for what seemed to be ages, then got to their feet and walked back home. Crofty was nowhere to be seen, but Mickey liked that, just him and Mum, walking home.

  And Mickey liked the feel of the warm sun on his neck. It reminded him he was alive.

  Grave

  Damn weather's got no business being so sunny while they're burying my mate.

  It sears down on us and burns our necks as we stand there watching the pallbearers lower the coffin gently down into the hole. It seems to bleach out everything else and all I can see is the casket and the stupid bloody false grass lying around the top of the hole.

  Shouldn't be sunny. It should be pouring down to lament the passing of a great man.

  I look down at my feet, at my uncomfortable black shoes and I try to stop my insides from welling up. I take a deep breath and am fascinated by the blades of grass poking up around my shoes, tickling the bottom of my trousers. I tug at my tie a bit and suddenly people are grabbing soil from a tray that the vicar is holding, and tossing it into the hole, onto the coffin.

  I move with the people next to me, some of whom I know, but we don't speak, we barely acknowledge one another. It's all too much.

  And then it's my turn and I reach into the tray, pick up some dry soil on my upturned fingers and let it fall onto the dirt-covered lid, all that way down in the ground.

  I want to say “goodbye old buddy,” and my lips move but no sound comes out. My voice won't work at this vital time and I feel ashamed that I let down my mate, always so vocal. I try to comfort myself with the thought that if he's anywhere now, he probably heard my thoughts, and he's saying back to me, “cheers, buddy,” just like when I bring him a pint from the bar. Or if he's lucky he won't be bothered about all this nonsense, he'll be having a great time somewhere else. Playing ping-pong with Jimi Hendrix.

  But all I can think of is that massive brain lying there in that coffin, rotting away. All those years of learning, all that general knowledge, all that applied knowledge and specific knowledge gone forever. What was the point?

  Why do we bother learning things? Why bother doing anything, creating anything, when a
ll we're going to do is die at the end of it?

  I look up and see that the people are dispersing, and my head feels hot in the sun.

  I exchange a few words with an old friend who I haven't seen in years, but it all feels hollow.

  Then I'm back at the church, and someone offers me a lift to the pub in one of the funeral cars.

  “Good service,” someone says, and I think, yes, it was alright. But it's not until later that I realise that they missed something.

  “When I die I want Jimmy Cliff's Many Rivers to Cross playing at my funeral,” said Mark as he picked up the remainder of his pint of beer. He drained the glass just as I got back to the table with three fresh ones. I put them down, the head of the middle pint dribbling down the side of the glass. I massaged my fingers after my heroic endeavour of carrying a trio of pint pots. “Cheers, buddy,” he said, reaching for one.

  I sat down and Dave pulled the other glass towards him. “Thanks, mate.”

  “Ah, the beer that cheers,” I said, and took a gulp. “Have I missed anything?”

  “Oh, it's all happening here,” Dave said. “We're talking funeral songs. Not decided on mine yet.”

  “Well, I won't need one, 'cos I plan to outlive the lot of you,” I said. “Can I have your jazz collection when you're gone, Dave?”

  “No, I'm having everything buried with me.”

  “I plan to go out in a big explosion,” said Mark. “There'll be nothing left to bury.”

  “I hope not,” I said, “I intend to dig up both of your skulls and put on a puppet show. I've got the hats made up already.”

  And so on.

  Everybody forgot.

  His death had been unexpected, a shock. Nobody remembered in their grief to play the one song he always said he wanted playing when he died. I felt angry at the injustice, but I had been part of it. When Handsome Ken had phoned me for my input on the funeral arrangements, my mind went blank. I suppose everybody's minds had gone blank.

  I remember the morning that I heard the news. I remember it like it was today.

  Late Monday morning, I wasn't at work. Still in my dressing gown and watching telly. My mobile rang and I saw it was Maria, one of Mark's work colleagues. I answered and almost said something that might pass as wit, but I didn't. It seemed odd somehow, her calling at this hour.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi Chris, I'm afraid I've got some bad news. They found Mark's body at home this morning.”

  I almost laughed. She was joking, wasn't she? No, she sounded serious. It must be a different Mark. There was no other Mark. Okay then, I misheard her. But no, she was going into detail about how he hadn't turned up for work and nobody could get him on the phone. So someone had gone to his house.

  My voice sounded tinny as I told her that I would inform his friends that I knew.

  I turned off my phone and stared at the wall. All at once I felt cold.

  Had I just dreamed that?

  So here we are, the sun shining bright as we make our way to one of Mark's favourite pubs to get drunk in his honour. Everyone saying how great a guy he was, how he influenced them, how he always had time for people, how much fun he was. I agree, but I seem not to be able to speak. And when we get to the pub I order my pint and can't drink it. I stand there like a dummy as everyone else chatters away, summing up the life of a man who was like the rest of us, but somehow better.

  “Hey, Chris.” Handsome Ken, Mark's dee-jaying buddy. (“He's quite handsome in a certain light,” someone had once said of Ken, and so the name stuck.) “How's it going?”

  “Alright, Ken.”

  “We're doing a charity thing in Mark's honour. For Billy Bragg's guitars into prison charity.”

  “Yeah, I'll contribute to that.” I have no idea what he's talking about. I'll look into it later.

  After a while, I leave the pub quietly, and head off home, taking off my tie and stuffing it into my suit-coat pocket. My god!

  It's gonna be a strange old world without my pal.

  Retribution – A Tale of Grey Mars

  A storm was on its way when James Finlay caught up with me.

  The outer door clanked open and there he stood, his grey pressure suit covered in red desert dust. His filthy visor had smear marks on it where he’d tried to wipe it clean.

  I stayed put in my chair as he sealed and de-pressurised the airlock compartment. He opened the door to my living room with the slowness of a dream as he manoeuvred his heavy Martian suit.

  As always, something seemed to fall within the mechanism as the door swung on its hinges. Nothing works properly on Mars for very long. Everything breaks.

  He closed the door, having to push until it latched on and hissed, then turned towards me and began to undo the straps of his helmet. He seemed to take forever.

  Another hiss and a pop, and his head was free to breathe in the musty, acrid air within my own personal condo. He looked very much the worse for wear, unshaven chin, large overgrown moustache, and a thick mop of dishevelled hair. His eyes were bloodshot and tired.

  “Jesus,” he mumbled. Then looked straight at me and pulled out a pistol from his suit-holster.

  And I knew death had finally staked its claim.

  But he didn’t shoot me down like I was expecting, like I’d been dreading for so long.

  He just stood there. Looking at me. And what came next surprised me somewhat.

  He looked around the room, dropped his helmet on the floor, held the gun down to his side and walked over to a cupboard. He opened up the door and found a bottle of Scotch there.

  “You mind?” he said, without looking at me. He holstered his gun, took off his gloves and picked up a glass, a real Earth glass. He poured it half full without me even answering.

  I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t speak.

  He turned to me again and a shiver went right up my spine. “James,” I managed to say, and my voice trembled and stuck in my throat. I turned my gaze away from him and looked out the window. Beyond the pressurised perspex, the distant Martian sun beat feebly down onto the desert compound I’ve never called home. The day was dim, as always, the perpetual storm clouds hanging over the horizon, making their sluggish way towards us. Threatening death with fork lightning and paint-stripping winds.

  Two hours earlier I had watched as the supply ship broke through the clouds created by its arrival, lightning sparking from the hull as it plummeted towards the desert landing spot, and I’d had a feeling. A dreadful, black feeling.

  “Must’ve hurt, that landing,” I said.

  “Wrapped myself up in packing. Wasn’t hard. Hardest thing was getting up to the Station.”

  The Station. The satellite Hope's Dream, orbiting Earth from where they hurled the unmanned supply ships in our direction. Earth’s salving of their own consciences, keeping us alive after they’d left us stranded out here.

  Abandoned colonisation. Mankind’s golden dream left unrealised.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “Get onto the station? Or find out where you were in the first place?” He took a swig of the whisky. Real single malt Scotch. “You know me, Bill. Obsessive. You knew I’d track you down eventually.”

  “I suppose I did. So, this is it then. Judgement Day.” I needed a stiff drink myself, but I seemed to be fixed to my seat.

  “Guess it is.” He moved to the other chair and sat down in it. “I’ve thought about what I’d say over and over.” He looked at me again. “Now I can’t remember any of it.”

  He leaned back and sighed. Years of tension seemed to drain from him and he visibly shrank, almost melted into the seat. “God, Bill,” he sighed. “Now I’m here.

  “You know,” he paused a while. “Japanese fella, name of Sagawa, once told me something. Told me love an’ hate are the same thing.” He stopped again when he saw my eyebrows raise a little. “Yeah. I always reckoned he was talking crap.” He took a breath, leaned forward stiffly, and cradled the glass in both hands. “Don’t make s
ense, does it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he insisted. Told me a story to illustrate the fact.” James took a small sip of the scotch and looked at the glass appreciatively. “Good stuff.” He carried on. “So anyway. Two Samurai, back in old Japan. One had been wronged by the other. Spent years chasing him to get his revenge, get his honour back. Storms, earthquakes, they didn’t matter to him. He had to find his enemy. Seven years, it took him.”

  James leaned back again, a painful look flashing across his face.

  “Anyway, he became obsessed, spent everything he had trying to find this guy, spent all his time thinking about him. There was nothing he did that wasn’t aimed at getting his vengeance.” He took another sip. “Total obsession.”

  After a while, he carried on. “That’s what Sagawa meant. You love someone, you spend all your time thinking about them. Same when you hate someone.”

  I still couldn’t move from my seat. “Well, James. You got plenty of reason to hate me.”

  “And then some.”

  “In my defence, I’m a different person now.”

  “Oh, aren’t we all, Bill. Look at me. I’m a shadow of the man I was. First I lose my wife, then I lose everything else trying to find her.”

  “Yeah.” I looked at the floor. The cold, dull metal floor.

  “How is she?” he said.

  “Died on the way here. Never even made it. Radiation got her.”

  “Christ. We all lost out then.” He looked around the room. The room full of broken, repaired, salvaged junk. It looked like a workshop. “Least you got somewhere to sleep.”

  Somewhere to sleep. Cold, empty Martian bed. All alone and so far from Earth.

  “More than I’ve got,” he said. “Bill, I’m getting old. I don’t want this thing to go on longer than necessary. Just one thing.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Destroying your life, getting the woman we both loved killed. Turning my own life into a damned desert.” I groaned. “Hell, James, what do you think?”

  He got to his feet and began to put his gloves back on.

  “Think I’m gonna have to finish this for good.”

  I closed my eyes. I still couldn’t get up, but didn’t really want to. I wasn’t going to fight back. Had to take what was coming. I screwed my eyes tight.

  James carried on talking, voice disembodied in my head. “I’ve chased you god knows how many years, Bill. I lost count. Only one thing mattered during that time.” There was a clicking sound that I took to be his gun. “You dying.”

  I shuddered. “Best get on with it then.”

  I felt drunk, swaying about in the darkness. If I wasn’t sitting, I’d have fallen.

  “Reckon so. Only one way this should go. Law of the New Frontier, isn’t it, eye for an eye? Way things are says I got to kill you.”

  “Eye for an eye,” I repeated. I felt dizzy.

  “But I’m tired, Bill. I’m just not so sure anymore.”

  I waited for the end.

  Would I hear the shot? Would I know when death hit me? Would I be aware that things had come to an end? I waited.

  But when I heard the door open I looked up. He shut it behind him, strapped on his helmet and flicked the pressure switch. The outer door opened and he stepped out into the wild Martian desert. The storm was on its way, and dust blew into the compartment. I saw a flash of lightning some miles away just before the door locked shut with a hiss.

  Through the other window I could see a few splats of rainwater as they hit the Perspex. Rainfall echoed over the metal roof, getting louder.

  The storm was here and James Finlay had walked out into it.

  He’d be dead within thirty minutes.

  I probably had another ten years to endure.

  Afterword

  Some of these little adventures were originally written as comic strips and adapted into prose. Some were not, and all were written in various places over a fairly long period of time, whenever the fancy took me. I am not a professional writer, obviously, and I only write when the things in my head have to come out. I am inherently lazy, you see. Over the course of more years than I'm going to admit to I haven't completed a whole lot of work. I like to think of it as minimalism.

  Others from this collection have been previously published. “Mickey's War” was published in My Weekly sometime in 2005, but I stopped sending them stuff after I realised that they were changing bits of the text for no good reason, just so some sub-editor could justify their pointless job. Pah! Fools! Destroying my precious work! Don't they realise that every word and sentence is torn screaming from my tortured brain?

  The story “Retribution” was originally written years ago as a little western. As an exercise, in preparation for writing “Grey Mars”, I rewrote it as science fiction. There are a couple of deviations from the basic concept of the Grey Mars storyline, but nothing that really matters. Maybe it doesn't work as well in its second incarnation. I'll let you, dear reader, decide.

  “Grey Mars”, by the way, was intended as a novella, but ended up as a short story. At the last minute, I decided to include it in its current form, though I do plan to expand it at some point, as I have more ideas that I want to include. I've also been working on ideas for a graphic novel of the story with artist Andrew Dodd.

  I'll stop waffling now, as this afterword is in danger of becoming longer than some of the stories. All that remains is to thank my good friend Nick Warren for helping me adapt the format of these stories so they could be published. Check out Nick's horror novel Dark Trinity, his collection The Seventh Sense and also his kids' books.

  And special thanks to Dave Archer for designing me the rather nice cover.

  Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net
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