The Liability Clause

1)

“So, I’ve been replaced?” It was 9 am on All Hallows Eve, North of the pole, and he’d been hoping for a lie in. The knock on his door was alarming. No one ever knocked on his door - why would they? The knock had been incessantly rude and disruptive. What was even stranger was his bed was cold and empty. In fact, there was no sign of anyone having ever lived there.

His head was foggy, his beard felt scratchy and his belly ached. Something told him things were going to get a lot stranger. More knocking and after nearly breaking his little toe on the banister he managed to navigate his way down the splintered stairs to the draughty front door. He never remembered things being like this before! 

Upon opening the door he found himself belly to face with a rather bureaucratic elf in a holly green three piece suit with a rather starched Phrygian cap.

“This isn’t an easy thing to say, but it’s never stopped me before… You’ve been replaced.” The Elf was very matter-of-fact; he didn’t want to be there and the rotund man with the mothy beard facing him had never actually seen him before. This must be one of the new members of the Elf Bureau.  Then the man suddenly remembered he hadn’t got his dressing gown and was now only in his threadbare pajama bottoms and stained string vest. 

“We’ve spent a long time deliberating whether you’ve been adapting to the new efficiency guidelines, Stan. But you’ve actually gained weight rather than losing the required amount -the polls suggest that the children would respond to a more athletic, svelte Santa. Nor do they want the lecherousness that seems to go hand in hand with your persona. You should have seen the writing on the wall when we replaced Captain Birdseye! But you’ve been told all this before, Stan.”

“Stan? My name’s..” The man did his best to interrupt but he wasn’t even given the chance.

“I’m afraid that the name is no longer yours.. Stan. You no longer have any claim to that name or any of the trademarks that belonged to it. It’s all copyrighted. Your name is now Stan… Stan.” The Elf smugly stated.

“You can’t do this.” Stand remonstrated.

“It turns out that yes -we can actually.” The Elf replied, belligerently now. “You were sent lots of emails..”

“I don’t have a computer!”

“And we even posted  you the transcripts of them..”

“I thought they were a joke!”

“But your ex-wife didn’t, did she?”

“Ex-wife?”

“Ahem… we have given you ample opportunities to change but they went unheeded. Now everything you were is forfeit. You no longer have claim to the Santa estate. You have been made, for all intents and purposes, redundant. “Stan was aghast. This just could not be happening!

“What will happen to me?” He asked.

“Please don’t think that we would be so ungracious enough to leave you out in the cold.” The Elf tried sounding sympathetic.. But it didn’t work.  “We acknowledge all that you have done over the last 250 years and we have a.. Generous severance package for you. Well… under the circumstances, and taking into account inflation and budget cuts, we can offer you a life as Stan Smith and a new job as a… grocery clerk in a supermarket, There’s a salary attached of about £20,000 a year, and a flat that’s been paid for so it’s just the bills you’ll need to be concerned about.” The Elf looked quite smug with himself, and looked at Stan as if he should be grateful. There was no response forthcoming so he continued. “There’s enough glamour left that we can provide you with a satisfactory cover story, including all the requisite tax, national insurance and birth certificate details. You’ll also have memories pertaining to your ‘past life’ should you need them. That will allow you to live among the Mundy’s without drawing too much attention to yourself. You should be able to fit in. We’ll also change  your appearance enough so no one would ever be able to make comparisons with Father Christmas or his estate.”

“What about Mona?” Stan asked, still trying to take everything in.

“Your ex-wife?” The Elf seemed perplexed that he was having to spell it out to the man. “She does not want to come with you, Stan. She was offered the choice  but she respectfully declined. So she is still Mrs Claus, just not your wife.”

“So I need to sign a piece of paper and POOF, stop being Santa Claus and become Stan Smith and live happily ever after?”

“Well, I’m not sure about the last bit… that’s entirely up to you. Once you sign the paper we no longer care.. But yes, sign the paper and start your new life.”

“And what if I refuse?” Stan asked, still hoping this was a nightmare.

“We will have no choice but to forcefully remove you. We’ll blindfold you, drug you and leave you outside in the middle of the North Pole, naked and alone.”

“Stan Smith, here I come then….”

2)

It’s not until the magic leaves you that you realise how much you actually depended on it. Stan never noticed the transition between signing that bloody piece of paper and waking up back in his bed again. 

Hang on a minute, he thought. Bed? Wake up? It was a dream after all! He opened his eyes and his bedroom appeared to be the same as he’d become accustomed to… Except smaller… colder, and dirtier. He was no longer in a luxurious double bed but a single bed with a really bumpy mattress. Light was streaming through very flimsy curtains and everything smelt… weird. Living at the North Pole he was accustomed to the warm, cosy scents of Frankincense, toffee apples and pine needles which always reminded him of happiness. He searched his new memories for words that would help him define these new aromas. Flatulence, damp mold and stale curry. What kind of personality had the Elves given him? He didn’t want to look any further for the time being, he had to figure out what had gone wrong.

He should have listened to Mona. She had actually tried to tell him several times but he never listened. He’d always replied that he was Santa Claus, no one could get rid of him! She just tried to remind him of two things: Claus was NOT his surname, it was part of the job title, and she urged him to remember his predecessor. 

He was too stupid to think about the Clause, thinking she was pulling his leg (this had started on April Fools Day, after all) and it was only now that he remembered the ex-Santa, what happened to him and how sad he looked on his last day. For some reason Nicholas, as he had become, had been given a few days notice before he left. He was supposed to show Stan the ropes but he spent the whole day blubbering and he was eventually cast aside most unceremoniously. Then Stan, who had been a most industrious Elf up until that stage, had been given the honor and POOF he was now Santa, and all memory of his previous life had vanished -it was so much easier for him to take up the mantle that way.

There was a deafening beep coming from the chest of drawers to his right and he remembered that it was his alarm call. This was to be the first day of his new life and the Elf’s were giving him a bit of help. He had half an hour to get washed and dressed, ready for his new job as a shelf-stacker in the local supermarket.; Trescisons. There was enough ‘conditioning’ left that he didn’t have to think too hard about what he had to do; the Elf’s had even thought of that. 250 years of service had counted for something.

He got up, found his slippers and drew the curtains. In his head he knew that it was December 15th. 9 Days to Christmas, a sick joke and extra salt for the gaping wound in his soul. It had snowed a couple of nights ago but it wasn’t the pristine white he was used to but a slushy, disheartening grey that sucked the joy out of everything. It had frozen the night before and too many people were slipping, too many cars were iced up and everyone was moaning.

Stan managed to navigate his way to the supermarket and tried his best to allow the ‘conditioning’ to take over. He was less than six foot, with grey stubble and a paunch, there was no way anyone would have made the connection with him and his ex-persona. His manager, Siobhan, was waiting for him at the door to the Supermarket. She was stressed but tried to hide it from the customers. Her hair was flowing fire and her freckles were a litmus to her temperament, flaring when she was annoyed and they were like lava now.

“Thank god, at least you’ve arrived.” She said, shaking his hand, almost crushing it. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but we’ve got no other choice, Stan. You’d be the last person I’d ever put in this position -especially as you seem.. Down on your luck, shall we say… but our Santa stand-in has the flu and we’ve got a load of screaming parents lining up with their bundles of joy. You’re going to have to be Santa.”

“What?! I can’t do that!” Stan blustered.

“You don’t have a choice.. Well, you do… you can either leave now and never get another job in this town.. Or you can be Santa Claus. What is it?” 

This was down to that damn Elf. No wonder he was smug, this was revenge for something. Or maybe he was just vindictive. And so, for the second time that day, Stan was faced with no choice at all. Bizarrely enough he was now being given a second chance to be Santa, just NOT the way he’d envisioned!

The moment he agreed he was unceremoniously shuffled and prodded into the storeroom, given the most preposterous Santa suit he’d ever seen and an immaculately coiffured white beard and wig. The suit had been tailored to make even his body look quite ripped and masculine. No more paunch and rolly-polly tummy, now he was more like an action star. His suit smelt of myrrh and money and his hat was luxurious and a deep carmine pink which somehow managed to have feminine overtones and give him a mystical unisexual intrigue. Was this part of what that Elf had been telling him earlier? What had they done to Santa’s image? 

Siobhan came into the storeroom and nodded enthusiastically, shocked at the transformation. “Wow, one could almost see you as the real deal himself!” Stan wanted to shake her, shout at her that he WAS the real deal, but what was the use? “Tomorrow you’re going to need to shave off that awful beard -it just doesn’t look right, but for today it’ll do. Just remember, you’re SANTA and need to be upbeat and enthusiastic.. But with none of that ho ho ho. It’s not allowed anymore. No more referring to them as boys and girls… or children. Just say ‘Hello, everybody.’ We’re not even allowed to mention Christmas but just keep it to happy holidays if anyone asks. It’s a lot to take in on your first day, especially as it's not what you were employed for… but there’s a couple of Elf’s that can help you. Go get ‘em, Stan… I mean, Santa!” And with that she catapulted him out the double doors, right into the grotto area where a hundred children screamed and bawled -and for the first time in his life Stan wished he’d never heard of Santa Claus.

3)

With each child that sat on his lap Stan was more and more convinced that he’d been set up by that damn Elf. So much for 250 years of service, this was how he was being repaid. He’d lived a sheltered life at the North Pole, he knew that now. The only children he had had to deal with were the nice ones; the ones that deserved presents. The polite ones, the happy children. This lot were all selfish, grizzling, loud, malicious. And the parents were even worse, each one demanding several photos with the children sitting on his lap. God the kids were heavy; and not all of them had dry backsides either. Within half an hour the smell of urine was becoming more pronounced -Stan was glad for the red trousers at least, the stains wouldn't show up so much.

Nothing was sacred. The kids pulled at his beard, tried pulling his hat off, punching him in his stomach to make sure his six-pack was real. They all wanted the most insanely ridiculous presents as well -top of the line phone’s, expensive trainers, games consoles… Stan could only rely on the elves so much (and they did try), but even when he gave out the pre-requisite gifts to the parents there was a lot of moaning and complaining. No one was happy, no one was grateful or gracious or polite. He barely got to lunchtime; it was almost too much. Has things changed this much? Was this what Mona had been trying to tell him? 

During lunch he sat in the canteen and chatted to some of the other staff members. They all seemed really grateful to him for taking on the role of Santa and he just felt more depressed. It didn’t help when he looked at the tiny television set in the corner of the room. It was a Christmas advert and, sure enough, there was the imposter. The new and improved Father Christmas, except he was no longer allowed to be called Father, so they just called him Christmas. ‘Here he is, your festive friend: Christmas!” It was like watching an advert for the latest action movie; Christmas’s hair was billowing in the snowy wind and he walked down an unhappy crowded street -which was all in black and white, no less- handing out presents. With every present he handed out, the person became happy and monochrome turned to technicolour. He seemed so confident and everyone's best friend. It was almost impossible to hate him but somehow Stan did. He understood what had been done to him and loathed this new Santa… and everything that had made him. 

Lunchtime was up and he was now faced with another hoard of troglodyte children. He’d had enough though. Siobhan seemed like a very nice woman and had given him a chance, albeit against her better judgement and due to some nefarious programming by the Elves, but he just couldn’t take it any more.

He walked back on to the grotto area and took his hat off, ripped the wig off his head, leaving his own threadbare, grey hair limp with sweat and then carefully took his beard off. He didn't dare rip this off because it had been fixed with spirit glue and he didn’t relish the pain. As he did so he chuckled in a malicious tone: “Ho Ho Ho.” Quietly at first and with each bout becoming louder. When he’d finally got the damn beard off he ripped his Santa suit top off, leaving the string vest underneath. He sat down on his throne and looked at the crying children and shocked parents.

“Hello boys and girls everywhere! Merry Christmas. Is everyone having a good time?” Silence. The sense of outrage was palpable, he could feel the waves of offense rippling through the crowds. “I think we all need to have a chat, don’t you? I think you all need to take a long hard look at yourselves and think about how we’ve all got here, yes? How far we’ve been led astray by your corporate steering committees and focus groups. Each year forgetting about forgiving and focusing on stuffing your faces regardless of the consequences. Ignoring your neighbors' suffering and concentrating on your own hysteria. hmm. I’ve been down here one day and I never realised how much of a favor I’ve been given. For 250 years I've been blinkered from the degeneration of your materialist societies. But it’s not so long ago that you nearly lost everything in the war and understood what really mattered in life; you were actually grateful for what was yours and helped those in real need. Now you’ve got far more than you could ever want; forgotten just how privileged you really are. You cry about injustice, rally about the evils of the world but turn a blind eye to the ones you create. All I’ve heard today is the complaining of spoiled ego’s and the wants and demands of the morally bankrupt. 

“I’ve had enough, but I thank you for shaking me out of my stupor. I won’t be coming back and probably won’t even be getting paid for this day -but who cares? Whatever happens now, it’s got to be better than spending any longer with you lot of ungrateful reprobates. I hope your Christmas is as empty as your hearts and souls. Ho Ho, bloody Ho!!”

Stan calmly walked out of the grotto and ignored Siobhan’s complaints and curses. He had his head held high and walked back to his flat trying his best to refrain from actually skipping. Despite sabotaging his chances of getting another job in the town he didn’t care. He had faith that there was enough glamour left to last until at least after Christmas. After that he could do exactly what he wanted -he knew that somehow.

4)

Christmas Day. Stan sat in his studio flat on his newly acquired second hand sofa with his oil filled radiator keeping him nice and snug. It was almost time for the King’s Speech but ‘Where Eagles Dare’ was on and it was the first time he’d ever seen it; there was still over an hour left and he was far too excited by what was going to happen. He’d never realised there were things like films, and take-aways and pop-corn and BEER!! Since he’d left the supermarket he’d immersed himself in everything that life had to offer. James Bond, the Two Ronnies, Morecambe and Wise; the Beatles and Queen and Fairy Tale Of New York… Roast potatoes, stuffing and Roast Chicken! He’d missed out all these years and was actually grateful for what the bloody Elves had done to him. He couldn’t give a damn about Christmas anymore; there was no pressure anymore to make it THE day to end all days. And if this was how his life was going to be from now on he really did wish that everyday was going to be like this!

Lovey Darling

Two types of people you should never trust: writers and actors; one is an egotistical fantasist and the other a fantastical egotist.

Years ago, through the machinations of a single-serving friend called Simon I was offered the part in a local play - Pygmalion! I didn’t want to be in it and had no aspirations of being an actor at all; I preferred to write my own fantasy even back then, but I was told that there wouldn’t be much to remember and I was desperately needed. I was younger and more tractable back then and so I acquiesced. He was over the moon, and so was his father (Let’s call him Mr Simon), who was the director of the play. They couldn’t find anyone to play the part of Mr Doolittle and I was uncouth enough to pull it off.

I had long suspected that there was something more to the ‘comradeship’ that Simon and his family offered; certainly, they were of a much higher standard of living than me and it showed. I was often invited over for supper and treated to nights at the theatre -all of which I was, and still am, grateful for; but in my more cynical moments I can’t help but wonder whether they saw it as some kind of charity work. Please don’t get me wrong, they couldn’t have been nicer to me, but they were more than a little aloof and treated me with a kind of benevolence you would normally give to a sickly animal.

For the first audition I arrived a little early, determined to be eager in appearance at least. I was greeted with earnest graciousness; a necessary outsider as no one would lower themselves to such a working-class background even in the play. They were widely known as an incestuous bunch; they didn’t like new people moving into the village let alone anyone new entering their precious Am Dram society; they were puritans and loved Morris Dancing and traditional folk songs. Even though they greeted me with outstretched hands and toothy smiles their gaze and grips were ice cold and threatening. I was an outsider; worse, I was a necessary outsider. How that must have festered!

They explained to me the premise of the play as if they were talking to a child and I was now really regretting this. All of them had an effete sense of superiority that only comes through breeding or coming into money; not through actually working for it.  I realised I could change the evening from a complete washout to a potential source of amusement and  play them at their own game.

“Do you understand what the play is trying to say?” Cordelia asked me, her cracked voice trying to make up for her rheumy stare.

“And what we’re asking from you?” Mr Simon chipped in, in a far gentler tone. Mr Simon was extremely charismatic, and I couldn’t help but like him even if he was a bit like the rest.  I could see he was trying to sweeten Cordelia’s attack and I almost felt sorry for him as under any other circumstances I might have become quite good friends with Mr Simon, but this was going to be a long night otherwise.

“I remember seeing My Fair Lady a few years ago.” I quipped and I could see Simon bristle next to me, this was obviously NOT the response they were looking for. I smiled deep inside.

“It’s not quite the same thing.” Mr Simon replied, ever the diplomat.

“Oh -you mean there are no songs in Piggymalion?” I asked, really laying it on thick.

“That’s PYGmalion!” The Brigadier snapped; it was obvious that he was going to play Higgins. I was tempted to stir things a little bit more but didn’t want it to turn into a farce too quickly. The Brigadier was definitely one of the elite who thought the world now owed him a living because he ‘fought’ on the battlefields of the ‘great’ war. I actually researched him later on and found out the closest he’d got to a real battlefield was when he was retired due to being totally ineffectual at his post.

“Sorry. Well, the part I’m playing.. .Mr Domuch..” I replied.

“Do LITTLE!” He snapped back.

“As little as possible -well, that’s my motto.” I replied. Simon kicked me hard under the table, he knew what I was up to now but it was too late. I could feel The Brigadier bristle and even Mr Simon was having second thoughts. “Anyway, Doolittle is the wisest one of the bunch. 

"He doesn’t care for his daughter and if he can make a bit of money out of her, so much the better. It was either that or sending her on the game, I suppose.” It was time for Estelle to blanche. Estelle of the duck billed countenance and brick thick glasses.

“I say.” She said and I tried my best to hold in a chuckle.

“Have you actually read the damn play?” Oswald asked me venomously. He had a gristled piggy face, white hairs popping out of moles everywhere. He could have been the original absent-minded professor; his knowledge was so out of date it threatened to become current one day soon.

“Yeah, I had a glance through it.” I ignored Oswald who was just about to launch a full-scale attack. “The trouble is, Dolittle is completely right. There’s no way he’s going to change Eliza’s mind; he also knows that Higgins is going to have his way regardless, so he may as well make SOME money on it. He also knows that you can’t polish a turd. It doesn’t matter how much you tart it up it will still remain a turd. Higgins will grow tired of Eliza -or vice versa- and just discard her; where will her airs & graces get her then. She’ll truly be alone, neither one thing or another. 

"That's is the trouble with fantasists; they’ve no understanding of reality -I suppose that was what Shaw was trying to say. The working class has never deluded itself whereas the middle-upper class lives with its head in the clouds. They mistake money and breeding for good manners and an understanding of humanity; confuse university degrees for common sense and true intelligence. Doolittle may not be educated but he’s got more street smarts and understanding then the whole lot of them.”

I looked at the stunned silence of the people around me. Mr Simon looked at Simon who glared at me. I couldn’t care less so I thought I’d just twist the knife a little bit further, in my best cockney voice I said. “I ain't pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that's the truth.” I shifted back to my normal voice and added the final piece: “So… do I get the part?”

Earthshock Part 6 (The Boy Who Was)

It was the end of a tiring week; boredom always made her tired and Rose had gone to the convention on a whim. She had nothing else better to do and allowed herself to be talked into attending the annual Dr Who convention because a) she used to enjoy watching it as a child and b) she was called Rose Tyler, which was apparently the name of one of the new companions. Rose hadn't followed Dr Who since it was cancelled, dismissing it as a childish fad. She'd tried watching the TV movie and had given up on it after half an hour as tokenistic American crap.

So why had she been persuaded to go to this convention? Nostalgia? Desperation? She'd entered into limbo, between relationships. Darren had been almost committed (which basically meant that his fantasies revolved around Rose pretending to be a younger version of his mother...) It was a very screwed up relationship, truth be told, but the sex had been amazing. Perversion equaled enthusiasm, after all. But it had ended when Darren found out that he was adopted and then the real weirdness began. Rose backed out when he suggested a threesome with his, now non-biological, mother. That had been eleven months ago and limbo wasn't supposed to last that long, surely.

She figured that it might be better if she went out with someone in a worse, more desperate state than she. She figured that the convention was as good a place as any to start. She couldn't have been more wrong. Dr who was once again cool -in a way that she could never have predicted. There were still the geeks and anorak brigades she was expecting but they were almost ostracised like the Ood, speaking their own, language of continuity and causality. 

The rest were all the beautiful people that surfed the cultural zeitgeist and knew when things were hot. After all, Dr Who was now winning awards, it was even expected to be talked about at school and work. Rose felt betrayed. She had gone through hell as a child for liking Dr Who; worse, for being a GIRL and liking it! She saw a couple of preview episodes of the new series at the convention,  and couldn't believe how crass the series had become. It always had cheap and tacky sets and special effects but amazing stories. Now it had such a huge budget thrown at it that it must've run out of money when it came to supplying a script! It was so badly written she almost felt ashamed to have gone. The whole day had been a disappointment.

She was now nursing a Smirnoff Ice, her third, whilst waiting for the train home. She looked nonchalantly around, hoping to see someone, anyone, that she could chat up and salvage something of the day. She wasn't unattractive, after all! She didn't recognise him at first and had it not been for the convention she might not have made the connection. True, she'd had a crush on him when she was growing up, but had she not been drunk she would never have tried it on.

“Excuse me.” It had taken her thirty seconds to get off the barstool, catch her breath so she could speak coherently and walk up to him. Now she was closer to him she was less sure than ever if it was him.. but it was too late to back down now. He turned round, obviously surprised to be faced by the blonde stunner. “Sorry to disturb you,” Rose said, “I mean, you're probably tired of hearing this, but are you...Matthew Waterhouse?”

He smiled, his eyes slightly foggy, and he paused before replying, “Yes.. I suppose I am. Pleased to meet you. My name is Adric.”

Ironically Matthew, or Matt as he now liked to be called, was on the same train as Rose; which she found strange until she remembered that Matthew.. Matt actually lived in Haywards Heath. Back in the '80's that had been the town's only claim to fame. They talked a lot.. well, she did most of the talking. He chipped in when necessary; she felt as if she'd found the missing part.

It was obvious that Matt had gone to the convention in the hope that someone would recognise him -he probably went every year. He probably still couldn't get over the fact that he'd been killed off in such a final way. Rose felt sorry for him. He'd let himself go quite a bit -his hair was mostly grey and in a strange kind of hedge-hog cut. He wore unflattering glasses to read (the only pair he could afford) and his dress sense was pretty poor. (he looked better as Adric) But... she had found her new project.

It turned out that he only lived around five minutes from Rose and it was very easy for her to make an excuse to go back to his place. His flat wasn't what she expected; there was some memorabilia but it was in poor condition. “I had to sell the best bits as I've not had many acting jobs since Who.” He'd explained.

It was obvious that he was a broken man which made Rose more determined. She kissed him then and he almost recoiled. She questioned then what she was doing. If it had been anyone else then she would surely have been in trouble, but this was Adric! Her childhood crush and she could help him. She could actually turn his life around!

So she kissed him harder, this time he responded. She could taste the malt and barley tinged desperation on his breath but she loved him for it. Soon he was responding with such a passion -something she'd not known since Darren- and she had unlocked it.

That night, lying in her own bed she was thinking about the next series of Dr Who... featuring the return of Adric! There was always a way of bringing a character back from the brink of death and through her it would be possible! Rose spent as much time as she could with Matt. They re-watched episode after episode of Dr Who, but only the ones with Adric in, obviously. Matt was like a commentary track offering skewed explanations about how he had added to the script. 

Every now and then he got carried away with himself and would say; “Well, I always knew that we would get together; we're soul-stitched you and I.  I mean, look in Mawdryn Undead when I stare at the camera in that certain way... I'm thinking of you, of being able to place my hands on your body.” (Even though Adric had never been in Mawdryn Undead and Rose would only have been eight at the time, she thought that the sentiment was sweet...)

One day Matt asked Rose about going for auditions herself, but as a look-alike. There was a lot of money to be made, especially for her. Rose wasn't taken with the idea.

“I haven't got the patience to line up with a load of people that almost look the same as me.. it's kind of creepy, you know?” Matt laughed at that, knowingly. “And what if I get through?” She continued. “How long have I got before she leaves the series?”

“Or gets killed off.” Matt chipped in. Rose nodded sadly.

“Exactly. They only want who's current... How many people remember Ben or Polly, for example?” Matt looked puzzled. “They were companions of the first Doctor, and just proves my point.”

“Yeah... work really dries up quickly. One minute you're opening garden fetes, the toast of the town... and then next minute you're the boy who was... Death is pretty final, even in Dr 

Who. BAMPF... overnight, no more me! And then no one wants to know you, obscurity!”

Then there were the times when Matt would ask her for money; for agent’s fees and publicity photos he'd say. Rose wasn't earning much herself and on the rare times she refused him he would start to moan and become a petulant child again; those were the times that reminded her of Adric, invariably turning her on and they would normally end up fucking on the closest hard surface.

It was her friend, Grace, who was most upset by everything that was happening; especially as it had been her idea that Rose go to the convention in the first place. She never dreamt it would end in an actual relationship, let alone with someone who was in an even worse state than her! She only wanted what was best for Rose and arranged to meet up with them both one night.

Although it had been over twenty years since she had last seen Dr Who she was pretty sure that the person Rose was dating was NOT Matthew Waterhouse.  Yet there were times, especially when he was moaning, when he seemed really convincing. Rose would not be persuaded though; she knew best, even if it meant wrecking her own life... she would see Adric reborn.

Three weeks after Grace met Matt she was drinking in her local pub wondering what the hell she could do to help her friend. She turned round to gather her wits and couldn't believe who was propping up the bar... It was him! That was it... she had had enough.

The next night Rose and Matt sat in their favourite cubical at Orange Square. The drinks were on her, again, but she didn't mind. She'd recently had a raise, and even thought Matt didn't seem to care, she was going to make the most out of it. Just then Grace stood over them, almost blocking out the light. There was somebody else, just behind her.

“Glad I caught you both.” She said. “I've got someone I'd like you to meet.” Grace stood away and what Rose saw totally flabbergasted her. It took Matt's single refrain of “Fuck.” to realise the truth.

“You bastard.” She shouted.

“To be fair, I never actually said I was he.” Matt said in a pitch-perfect impression of the man that was now standing over them both.

“But you let me think you were him!” She said, pointing at the real Matthew Waterhouse, feeling sick in the stomach now. Rose looked at Grace imploringly and could only say one word. “How?”

“I was drinking at the Snowdrop last night and saw the real Matthew Waterhouse and laid into him.”

“I, of course, had no idea what she was on about.” The real Matthew Waterhouse replied.

“As soon as I apologised profusely and explained what was happening Matthew seemed eager to help.” Grace continued.

“I remembered my doppelgänger from years ago.” Matthew said. “I often wondered what had happened to him when I was killed off. I never dreamed he'd sink this low... I just had to help!”

Rose whirled around to the stranger that sat next her her. “So what's your real name?”

“Rob... Rob Blotcher...”

“Ha! I remember now! Matthew laughed. “You had terrible acne as well -always had to smother it with tonnes of foundation before you dressed up as me!”

“Shut up! Shut UP!” Rob cried and pushed himself out of the booth, upsetting the drinks. “None of you will ever know what it's like.” And then he was gone.

“Can I buy you a drink?” She offered Matthew when Rob had departed. “'cause I was thinking...  you are the genuine article!”

Adric looked at Rose and smiled, almost enjoying the chance to finally reject someone.

“That's sweet... but I'm actually gay. Rob was probably more my sort than you, sorry.”

With apologies to Matthew Waterhouse – a companion for my generation...

D*ck Pics & Decapitations

“Payne, you’ll probably burn out within a few months.” She told me that first week. And I can feel it now; the sweat beading on my forehead, the acrid bile in my throat, the gun heavy in my hand. Time stands still and Phoebe just stares at me, emotionless, the burdensome barrel pointed at her; the office behind me poised like the crowd behind the guillotine blade. “It’s what you do with it next that counts…

Three months ago: I’m standing at the front of the conference room staring at a screen, watching a grainy black and white film of a man sharpening a razor blade on a moonlit night. Looking around the room I see impressionable faces of the lost generation; the last-ditch attempt at a job that no one really wants -the last chance saloon. On the screen the man holds a woman’s head and the camera focuses on her eye; a brief cut and the razor blade slit’s the woman’s eye in one swift motion; unflinching -the camera and the woman. The film stops and Trainer Bob looks to me:

“So, fact or fake?” The impossibly tall podgy man asks, matter-of-factly. The rest of the trainee’s look as if they’ve been blanched by the horrific sight. I know better of course.

“Fake.” 

“You sound sure of yourself, Payne.” Bob didn’t need to see the obligatory name badges we were all forced to wear. (Some of the more infantile lambs had taken great pains to personalise them, drawing flowers and smiley faces on them) Bob was one of the few people who walked the walk; he wasn’t a trainer by title only. Too many charlatans had learnt their trade by book alone, he ate and slept it. He exuded confidence and cockiness and it was impossible not to like him.

“I’ve seen the film already.” I could hear the scoff’s but Bob’s wry smile confirmed I was right. “Un Chien Andalou; the surrealist masterpiece by Dali and Bunuel.”

“I can see we’re going to get on…” Bob nodded for me to sit back down again; I had passed the test and it was time for some other poor slob to walk the tightrope. In many ways I got off lightly; I recognised the film and it was an easy spot.. The rest weren’t so easy to distinguish from the real thing. 

A ‘Process Content Auditor’ sounds like an interesting job but it’s not -as I soon learnt- but when your job prospects shrink overnight and there’s no chance of a reprieve you’ll take whatever you can get… Ever heard of GeoZone inc? 

Nope – they were a brief flash-in-the-pan dot.com bust and were swallowed by Google. I believed in them and sank too much money, time and effort and it all blew back in my face; hence the Process Content Auditor job for Opaque Services. We only had one client in those days, ProCoginator Social Media Enterprises -ProCog for short. 

In the initial interview they were impressed with my staying power -I kept with GeoZone until their last day (not that I had any choice) and also my warped sense of humor; the fact that I loved horror movies was an added bonus for them too. I soon learnt that loving horror movies meant nothing when faced with the real thing.

Scott-1 stood up next to the screen and we all watched the scene unfold; bleached shaky-cam footage of another woman prostrate on the floor, blood already pooling around her. The footage was obviously from a micro-cam, somehow affixed to the assailant’s helmet because we were stabbing her. Each blow lovingly placed on her already mangled body; each swipe of the bloodied knife a caress; he’s enjoying this -the pathetic whimpers from the woman spurring on his ecstatic moans and the camera shuddered in time. The training room went deathly silent; no one dared to even breathe. I started to wonder why he hadn’t touched the woman’s face yet; and then I saw his knife start edging to her eyes as the blade got closer… 

I lost it then and had to excuse myself. I tried to be as cool and calm about it as I could but it was obvious that I’d failed this particular round; I’m the only one to have buckled under the pressure. But by leaving I’ve acted as a release valve for the rest of them and they can now laugh and feel better for their own discomfort. I no longer cared; I needed to get to the men’s room before I lost it completely. I barely got there in time. For three minutes I vomited it out never aware that I was actually being watched; I forgot to shut the door behind me.

“You have to be a new fish.” She slyly addressed me and I blanched even more. I cleaned myself off the best I could and got up to face her.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, trying to regain my composure. Her face is too hard edged to be beautiful and her eyes tell me that she’s seen everything too many times to care; but there’s a wrinkle of compassion in her forehead.

“Well… two things really.” She replied, as if she’s talking to a wayward child. “You’re vomiting like you’ve just had your first prom… and you’re in the ladies.” I blushed and apologised, my hard-nosed rookie impression shot down in smoke.

“I couldn’t handle seeing the woman being stabbed…. I’ve… never seen anything like that before. Was it real?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” She countered. “My name’s Phoebe, by the way.”

“Not really, I suppose. I failed the test.”

“You failed part of the test, Payne.”  She saw my name badge and knew enough to not make the situation any worse. “We all balk the first time we see images like that -though not in as spectacular fashion as you, admittedly- but it’s how you bounce back that defines you.” This was sound advice and I nodded and thanked her before walking back to the training room. As I left she said, “You’ll probably find you’ve picked up a new nickname. Don’t be surprised if you start getting called ‘Pained’ from now on in.”

“What’s yours then?” I countered.

“Phoenix.”

I walked back to the training room, my head held high. I knew that I was going to get schtick from everyone and there were sniggers, for sure; but most looked sheepishly at me, almost relieved that I had broken before they had.

“Ah, Pained!” Bob quipped, smiling at me. I could see concern mixed with something else that I couldn’t fathom in his gaze. “Welcome back! Have you had enough or are you here for the duration?”

“It’s not how one falls that’s the defining characteristic…” I had rehearsed this all the way from the toilets and it almost worked. “Its how one bounces back that defines you.”

“Splendid! Say hi to Phoebe the Phoenix next time you see her; she’ll be your mentor moving forward!”

First day on the job; seven in the AM, barely made it in time; but there I am waiting at the bottom of a busy but narrow staircase; and it’s obvious that the night shift has just finished. 

“Better push your way through, Pained, otherwise we ain’t gonna get nowhere…” It’s Phoebe, I feel better already just knowing there’s a friendly face and I do as she suggests; just push myself through the masses and no one seems to bat an eyelid. We get to the top and she shows me into what’s called a ‘break room’.

“This is where the breakdowns happen…” She explains. “But as you’ve already had one, Pained, there’s no problem. I just got to run through some quick rules for you.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Pained? Why not? That’s how you’re going to be known for the time being; most of us have got one.” I frown at this and she puts her hand on my arm as she sits me down. “Look… I like you, but there’s no favouritism here.”

“What do you mean, you like me?”

“Bob told me about Un Chien Andalou..  We gonna get along fine.”

“I never said I liked that film, just that I’ve seen it.

“Don’t spoil things so damn fast.” She remonstrated and started telling me the lay of the land. “We clock in at 7am every morning; two 15min breaks and half an hour for lunch. It’s best to bring something in with you as there’s no real kitchen and you’ll need to allow yourself time to queue for the toilets. You’re also allowed up to nine minutes for ‘wellness breaks’, chosen at your discretion... and, yes you will be monitored! Not by me, necessarily, but there’s always someone wanting to trip up the newbies -so don’t give them the opportunity. There’s also an additional 15 minutes to be used as a ‘prayer-break’ for those religiously inclined. Take them, even if you spit on religion -you’re going to need all the breaks you can get!” I shook my head as this was nothing I expected from the interview. Phoebe smiled and nodded sagely. “You ain’t heard nuttin’ yet. Lockers.. well, there are very few and if you don’t need one then brilliant… but if you do best get in there quick; either start earlier than everyone else or accidentally leave stuff in there overnight… 

“You’re not allowed to have any mobile technology on when you’re in the office and definitely no social media open on your desktop -although everyone uses ‘Messaged’ as a shortcut to shouting across the desks.

“No writing utensils are allowed either…” She continued and I could barely draw breath. “Just in case someone writes down a customer’s information, etc… oh yes.. they are that paranoid.” She replied to my unspoken question. “But deservedly so; someone was stupid enough in another company to write down customers details so they could blackmail them with ‘naughty posts’. They were tracked down and dealt with accordingly.”

“But how can I make notes about stuff?” I asked. “I’ve got a terrible memory.”

“You can say a shit memory, if you like -no one stands on ceremony here.” I liked Phoebe immensely.

“Ok.. I have a shit memory.”

“Use the computer’s Sticky Note facility. No one cares about that.” 

“What? Isn’t that double standards?”

“Yup -through and through… but name me a place that doesn’t have them. Know the rules and shortcuts now, it’ll be easier on you, Pained.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Get used to it…. Oh yeah – no boxes or bags allowed either. Clear plastic bags only so people can see what you’re carrying…”

“Paranoid much?” I quipped.

“We’re all paranoid here.. and its whether you’re paranoid enough. Stay long enough here and you’ll start to believe the conspiracy theories. You scoff at it now but the flat earthers sit in the far corner, the lizards in another… Personally I believe that the CIA have been running mind control operations for years and the AID’s epidemic was deliberately released in Africa to destroy the black population there. Nothing like a bit of Eugenics to get the juices flowing.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; whether she was being serious or having a laugh at my expense. “Oh… before I forget; in the event of an evacuation keep an eye on Kevin -I’ll point him out to you on the ‘grand tour’ he knows where all the escape points are. Don’t show any weakness though otherwise you might end up on his hit list when the shit goes down; he keeps a gun taped under his desk… but then we all do.”

We sat at her desk and she showed me the system I was going to use: OPA -I couldn’t even be bothered to find out what it stood for, and Phoebe grinned as the screen hummed to life.

“What do you think of my screensaver?” She asked. I couldn’t make it out; it was an abstract mass of pixels, pale pinks and vivid reds; if I squinted it was like a cross-between one of the Magic Eye pictures that had been popular some time back and a Francis Bacon canvas… “What the hell is it?” I asked.

“Stand back a bit and squint again.” I did as she said.

“Fucking hell…It’s a…!”

“Yup – it’s a cunt.” She said matter-of-factly. “Not mine… but we all have one. There’s a great website which we’ve unofficially chosen as our all-time favourite: www.mybeautiful  cunt.com.”

“Shouldn’t the profanity filters stop you from seeing that?” I couldn’t believe this; it was bordering on surreal.

“Top marks for Pained!” I’d given up trying to correct her now and she carried on regardless. “Yes, you’d think so -and you’d also think that we’d block this site from appearing on the Opaque feed… BUT it’s seen as being exceptionally positive and uplifting, would you believe? So, join the gang and get yourself a full-screen pussy like the rest of us!”

I just couldn’t get to grips with what Phoebe was telling me; I’d never heard such madness.

“Best to shut your mouth a bit, it’s hanging open a bit too wide -people might think you’re developing a fixation on my cunt; and we wouldn’t want that… just yet.” I looked at her with wild eyes. “You’re going to have to chill more, John. You smoke dope or get high?” I shook my head. “Drink? You’re going to have to find your own outlet then otherwise you will burn out. You have a girlfriend or man-toy?” I wanted to close my ears to this but it was too late now, I had to make the best of this otherwise I’d be back on the streets with no job prospects. Six months will be enough to give me a track record then I’d be able to go job hunting again. “Six weeks on the job and normal sex didn’t do it for me.” Phoebe continued. “I could only be brought off anally... It took hubby a while to get used to the idea, but he kinda likes it now.” I didn’t know where to look - I couldn’t face her but nor could I stare in front of me either; her obscene pixelated pussy just throbbed at me. “Geez; I didn’t know you’d be so square. If I were you I’d avoid the rear staircase between 11 and 12.30 then…. Let’s carry on with the training…” I didn’t dare ask what she meant. It was only 2 in the afternoon on my first day and I’d already had enough.. how was I going to make this work for six months?

For the next two hours I was bombarded with obscene picture after obscene picture; after a while none of it seemed to mean anything. Phoebe just sat me down at a computer and told me that the exercise was to select whether the photo was real or fake. Head’s split open, periodal crotch shots; child abuse, animal fellation and after the first three dozen the photo’s themselves ceased to have any meaning and I no longer saw them for what they represented… they became beautiful, surreal masterpieces and it was like I was witness to a gaudy, macabre Bauhaus art gallery…. But after a hundred I was starting to see the artifice behind them; those which were just special effects and those which were actually real. Part of me marveled at the ingenuity of the fakes whilst the rest of me wept for humanity. At the end of the two hours Phoebe came over to me. 

“How did I do?” I asked naively.

“How should I know?” I just looked at her and it dawned on me what was really going on.

“This was nothing about being able to spot a real pic from a fake, was it?” I parried.

“Well, yes… it was partly...”

“But mainly to get used to the type of content I’ll be seeing on an hourly basis?” I thrust further.

“Hourly? More like minute by minute!” Phoebe riposted. “I hate to say it, but there are some that view you as a bit of a flight risk, Pained… and it pains me to say it I’ve stuck my neck out for you. We need to get you desensitised as quickly as possible… if only for the fact that when you’re let loose on the live world, you’ll be the target of everyone’s fun & games here.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s various games that go on here -some harmless and others... less so. People message the worst pics they find to ‘easy marks’ to provoke a reaction. You’re being strictly monitored and every gesture and outburst by you will go against your probation. The one that scores the most points against you will win.” I just stared at her.

“That’s monstrous!”

“Look, we’re just 12 people moderating 120 million users; the company is trying to resolve human nature and we’re policing the un-policable!  You’ll soon feel as if the world is perpetually teetering on the blink of chaos and the only way to combat that is with gallows humour… it won’t be long before you start joining in on our daily bingo games! None of it is personal, we’re just trying to survive.”

The last thing I did on that first day was to sign a waiver; a non-disclosure agreement: whatever happened to me during my time at work I was not to tell anyone… ANYONE of the emotional toll from working for Opaque. “You’ve probably seen in your contract that you’ll be offered any ‘outreach counselling’ services you need, and it won’t count against you.” Phoebe warned. “Don’t believe it. It’ll all go down against you, one way or another…” 

That night I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t shut my mind off from the sights I’d been partial to. It was like a stroboscope of images; beatings, rapes, open wounds, pet mutilation and among it all was the enlarged open lips of Phoebe’s screensaver. My partner, Michelle, had been aware of my discomfort throughout the night, but I just couldn’t talk about it with her; how could she understand? We lay in bed together and I just needed a release.

I turned over in bed and spooned her naked body, enjoying her warmth; she didn’t stir -she was a heavy sleeper at the best of times. I felt myself grow hard against her and all I could think of was the phoenix’ engorged pussy; opening up like a wound ready to swallow me whole; I spat on my hand and wet my penis, covering it in saliva so it was slippery enough. I didn’t even think of waking her; all I wanted was to be inside, to invade her the same way I had been… I thought about what Phoebe had said, and thrust myself into Michelle’s body. 

“What happened with the eye, Pained much?” Phoebe asked the  next day. I didn’t even care about the name anymore; I was pained. I crossed the line last night.

“I broke up with my girlfriend…” I mumbled; Michelle had been inconsolable. Her scream and the elbow to the head were instant and shocked me out of my stupor. Nothing I said afterwards made any difference… it had always been the unwritten rule and the one boundary Michelle had made me promise not to cross. I could tie her up and even spank her (which was never my thing) but under no circumstance would she ever indulge in anal. What I had done last night was tant-amount to rape and there was no way back. 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Phoebe didn’t push it any further; I suppose it had been inevitable and in a way I’m glad it happened.

I had difficulty the rest of that week; I couldn’t switch off at night and consequently stayed wide awake, endlessly watching the adult channels, an eternal plastic display of desire and empty nothings. I found it hard to concentrate at work and Phoebe took me to one side.

“Get used to the coffee machine; it’ll be your best friend.”

“Won’t it just keep me awake for longer?” I asked, my eyes and speech slurred.

“I don’t care what you get up to at night… you want to stay employed here? Then stay awake.” She pressed a cup filled with diarrhea coloured liquid into my hands; it smelt just as bad. “You won’t notice it before long… it’ll make your spit taste funny and your piss stink… but pretty soon you won’t be able to survive without it!”

The first taste was the worst… and then the second taste… but by the time I got back to my desk and started to trawl through the filth of the internet I’d forgotten my initial revulsion and by the end of the week I’d become another hopeless, helpless addict. It made it much harder to sleep, as I thought it would, but by that stage I no longer cared. Sleep was for sloths, and for the dead.

It was shocking though just how blasé I was becoming about the images I was now privy to … car accidents; suicide bombings, sexualised violence… and the posts were becoming almost comical to me. There was a weekly award to the person who found the funniest post and on the second week I actually managed to scoop up this prestigious prize. The post read: “B4 & After abortion pix!! £10 lighter!! RIP Baby… but C my sexy body!!”

A few weeks later someone sent out an anonymous email from one of our sibling offices asking people to send us naked pictures of themselves so we could block any future revenge porn attempts. This was an April Fools joke, but we were inundated within the first twenty minutes of it being posted; by the time it had been retracted we’d already picked the babe of the month and the munter of the minute. I’d also found my screensaver image.

Then came the terror attacks out of nowhere; the curse of the modern age -the atrocities caught from every conceivable mobile device and every angle known to man. It was unflinching and took everyone by surprise -a series of explosions around the town; the terrorists had targeted certain offices to plunge us all into confusion. (Our office was probably too insignificant to profit from destroying…) For many of the conspiracy seekers this was seen as proof that they had been right all along; for me this was the realisation of my worst nightmares. There seemed to be no empathy to the clips being posted; no editing just raw footage of charred bodies and malformed corpses; smoke billowing out of the offices. This wasn’t special effects; this wasn’t a movie -these were people like me; walking into an office, ready to do a meaningless job… only to be unceremoniously executed in such a horrific way. 

We were on the front line and were deluged by thousands, tens of thousands of clips each that we had to veto. Even the most hardened of us were staggered by the nature of some of the video’s. People had invaded the offices after the blasts, armed with their mobile phones and were actually filming the people dying, ignoring the pleas for help; immune to the suffering of others -and we were just allowing them to post. There was nothing in our rules to stop them; this was news, true unbiased news. 

I couldn’t cope with what I was watching, and, even though I knew it would be noticed and held against me during my performance review, I left my screen and ran to the toilets. All the stalls for the men’s and women’s blocks were occupied and I could hear intermittent sobbing mingled with animalistic sounds of desperate copulation. I understood what Phoebe had said about sex; there were times when only raw sex could heal the wounds.

The only stalls that were free were the mother & baby changing and the disabled toilet; I chose the former not thinking why Opaque would have such an incongruous facility. It was occupied by an older lady I’d noticed a few times, Maude; she had taken on a motherly role to many of the younger interns there which had earned her the nickname of Mother Maude. I blushed and tried to excuse myself from her presence, but she bade me to come in and shut the door.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise this was occupied. I’ll find somewhere else.” I blushed and made to walk past her but Maude shook her head and motioned for me to sit down on the toilet. Shutting the stall door behind her she walked over to me, undoing the buttons on her blouse. I’d never really paid any attention to Maude in the weeks I’d been there; she managed to keep her head down and just get on with her work with the minimum of fuss. But now facing her, watching transfixed as she manoeuvred her left breast out of her bra, I could see that she was truly beautiful, an Earth mother. She stood there, her ample breast inches from my face, and placed her hand on the back of my head; easing me to suckle on her kindness. “Shh, it’s all going to be ok… It’s all going to be ok.” She whispered to me, rocking me in her arms.

“The sheer volume of work is enough to screw anyone up, John.” Maude comforted me later; she was the only one that ever called me by forename. “The recruitment drive maintains that there’s no such thing as quota’s… but you try bringing that up during your performance review!” She sat on my lap there for another five minutes, putting my mind at rest until it was time for me to go back.

“Can I see you again?” I asked, as we parted.

“Yes, I’m here every day about this time; it’s a service I offer people.” She replied. I was shocked at this. “I’m surprised that it’s taken off the way it has, actually.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean like that….” I stammered.

“I know… and that’s sweet of you. I’d like that.” She kissed me on the cheek and we walked back to our desks. That night, for the first time, I slept like a baby.

For the next week or so I saw Maude each day at the same time. She never again suckled me and I never asked for it; I’d found someone more important: a friend, and she a kindred spirit. Maude had already been a supervisor but the sheer volume and the ever-changing rules that she was supposed to moderate over made it impossible to keep up. She was also spending more and more time away from her children which worried her.

“Couldn’t you have left them with a child-minder?” I asked.

“Not really – I’ve seen too many videos of baby-sitters raping those in their care or ransacking the properties that I just couldn’t trust anyone with my children anymore. I’m sure Phoebe has told you that it’s not whether your paranoid that’s the issue, it’s whether you’re paranoid enough!”

The next day I spoke to her about something that had been bothering me since the first week. “I don’t understand the double standards here, Maude. How have you managed to juggle these diametrically opposed ideas?”

“Wish with one hand, shit in the other… see which one fills up quicker, I guess.” She wanted me to lighten up; she called me her angry young man.

“Come on, Maude. Posts like ‘Autistic people should be murdered in utero’ aren’t taken down … because it’s not considered a ‘protected characteristic’ but anything that’s labelled black… even if it’s the colour of a pool ball… it’s taken down immediately! It’s crazy!”

“One thing I’ve learnt is this…” Maude explained, “The 90 page document you were given on your first day regarding the standards and principles can be summed up in two lines: dick pics and decapitations are bad; no insides should be seen on the outside.” I smiled, but she continued: “Posts such as ‘Kick all people with red hair’ and ‘burn all fat kids’ would never be flagged as offensive because it’s not deemed a credible threat. It’s just an outpouring of emotion, apparently! But if you were to post: ‘stab all Zionist’s’ or ‘Someone shoot the Queen’ it would immediately be removed! How crazy is that? Stop looking for sense, John. If it still hasn’t sunk in think on this…. Why are animal abuse images never taken down? They’re used for awareness and educational purposes…”

I sighed and nodded; there was no discernible rhyme or reason, Maude was right. As we were about to return to our respective desks I turned to her and said, “I did find a great post this morning: ‘If oxygen was discovered in 1783, how did people breathe before then?’” We laughed all the way back.

And for a couple of weeks the world turned as normal; I found my feet and, with the help of Maude, even managed to sleep a couple of hours a night. I increased my hours as the weeks went on because I found I had difficulty functioning in the other world around me, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. One by one the people I once saw as friends became less defined and mere cyphers, just another social media avatar; but that didn’t matter to me either.

Then Michelle knocked on the door, totally unannounced. I wasn’t really paying attention and just opened the door without checking to see who it was; there was no way I’d’ve let her in if I knew it was her! I must’ve looked pretty gaunt and withdrawn by that stage because she kept commenting on it.

“What’s with you? No one’s seen you in weeks, and I can understand why! Have you even looked at yourself recently?” She moaned.

“Have you? I mean, why are you here at all? I didn’t call you here.”

“No… your mum did. Your mum – when was the last time you called or even spoke to her?”

“I can’t..” I tried walking away from her but she wouldn’t let me. Wherever I walked she followed after me.

“I shouldn’t have run off like that; I know that now.” Michelle explained, trying to hold back the tears. “I had no idea what you were going through… how could I? But look at you now! Whatever this job is, whatever you think it’s doing for you, it’s not -it’s slowly destroying you!” 

She forced me into the bathroom, cleaned the mildewed mirror and made me look into it. I stared into the eyes of a no-one; gaunt and bloodshot; pale and waning. This wasn’t me; this wasn’t who I wanted to become. How did I let things get this bad? But what choice did I have? I turned to Michelle who was now crying with me, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. 

“Come back to me, please.” It was just one sobbing sentence, like a mantra, but all I could hear was one of the first things Phoebe said to me: ‘Chances are you’ll burn out within the first three months…” It was her; it was the company that had done this to me… No longer; enough was enough.

I don’t remember leaving Michelle, or how I got out of the flat; I just remember entering the offices of Opaque; it was clear to me what I had to do. Finding the gun was easy; it was exactly where Phoebe said it was and Kevin did nothing to dissuade me from taking it; I thought he’d fight me for it, and I was ready for the conflict. Part of me was actually disappointed that no one tried to stop me, they just looked on; pretending I wasn’t actually there. Phoebe had her back to me, but I could see her reflection in that perfectly formed, obscene vaginal blow-up screensaver of hers. She knew why I was there, could see the gun  at her head. She swiveled round and just looked at me.

“We all burn out within the first three months, Payne.” She said to me quietly, that last time, each word measured. My hand started to quiver, each second the gun felt heavier and heavier, but I had to pull the trigger; I had to end it. It had to end. 

“It’s what you do next that counts….” She whispered. I just stared at her, saw the smile in her eyes, remembering her nickname and I knew what I had to do.

Dennis and Maude went camping

 It wasn’t love at first sight that bonded Dennis and Maud together; rather a shared neuroses and a love of complaining about other people. It wasn’t that they were perfect (far from it) but it was far easier to find fault with others than to cast that same critical eye over themselves. Easier? Less painful then… In their eyes, they worked in a den of iniquity, heathens; dirty tramps; and uncool, uncoordinated, bland troglodytes.

They discovered their shared hell by accident during a ‘corporate signposting’ event. “Show me the way to the door!” Maud had whispered out loud, to which Dennis whispered in reply:

“Or to the nearest pub..”

Something clicked; a synaptic gap between them, which was. up until that time insurmountable, suddenly bridged. They looked into each other’s eyes for less than two seconds; but it was enough to know that, yes, there was someone else that shared their penchant for misery.

Maud was deeply religious. To her the Virgin Mary was her ultimate: unsullied, clean; untouched by human hand. Maud would spend her whole life as close to attaining that perfection as possible, living as germ-free as she could. This was her way of reconciling a severe case of PTSD and OCD. 

Dennis had his own form of OCD, though he’d never admit to it… he was fastidious to a fault but on a much more superficial level. He was ‘conscious of cool’… everything he wore, carried had to be 'on-trend' and totally hip. This took a great deal of time, effort and mental strain. No decision was taken by chance; so aware was he of the ramifications. As a child he had been horrified by the ‘butterfly effect’ and worried constantly about how his smallest decision could very easily roller-coaster out of control. So many wasted nights, worrying about ‘what-if’ scenarios; countless hours of procrastination the end result. His attempts at ensuring following the latest micro-trends were his way of controlling his life in a more meaningful (vacuous) way.

The fact that he was also emotionally and mentally insecure meant that they were a ‘perfect’ match…

After the corporate ‘pep talk’ they met several times at lunch, never making eye contact and always at certain designated eating places that were awarded only the highest hygiene ratings, and were impeccably trendy. There was no way Maud would endanger herself thusly; it wasn’t that she had any allergies but she was totally paranoid about the way the food had been prepared. (She always took her own cutlery, for example, and enough anti-bacterial wipes to cope with whatever disaster might arise.) One might wonder why she bothered eating out at all, but Maud insisted that she would not become a prisoner to her own neurosis!

The 'friendship' grew over time and several meals passed; not on mutual attraction but the dawning realisation that they were perhaps the only two sane people left in an insane world. Neither of them had spent much time alone together but it was Dennis that suggested they go away for a long weekend.

Out of the two of them, Dennis was the most promiscuous–his inability to make decisions was unhindered on this level; his prick having the first and final say on the matter. To be fair, his careful attention to every facet of his physical appearance did have a positive effect over the women around him, which he took full advantage of. His fastidiousness was such that he even took great care over how he smelt; and to certain women he was irresistible. Maud found his stench cloying at times but learnt to mask it with the smell of dettol.

Maud was by no means a prude, although she prided herself on her immaculate image. She still had.. needs and longed to be held. Her parents had been heavily religious and believed in the ‘spare the rod’ adage and invented many punishments, making her life hell. One mustn’t think that Maud was an overly naughty child, rather it was her parents that saw sin everywhere; and such sins were considered ‘dirty’.

When her parents died in a car crash she was 24 and felt both liberated and devastated. No longer did she have to suffer this oppressive regime, but, on the other hand, theirs was the only world view she’d ever known. It was then that her OCD started –according to her parents, everything she did was sinful, therefore dirty; so it became a necessity to make amends, constantly living as cleanly as possible –hence the immaculate conception of herself.

With Dennis she saw a way out; she knew his reputation, as she was also a hive of gossip. Just because she loathed the other people around her didn’t mean she couldn’t use them for her own ends. She hoped that he would find her attractive (which he did) and would want to bed her (which he did). For his part, Dennis hoped that she care enough to see beneath his immaculately crafted façade (which she didn’t).

Maud didn’t relish the idea of spending her time in a hotel or B&B; she knew that she wouldn’t be comfortable living under someone else’s cleaning regime –she’d only spend most of the time cleaning it herself. Dennis thought she was joking at this and had initially believed that OCD had stood for obsessed with cleaning disorder. (Dennis wasn’t the brightest match in the box which is one of the reasons why he preferred one-night stands. He had hoped that Maud was on equal terms with his superficiality, but he hadn’t reckoned on the true extent.)

They agreed that they would take the caravan that Maud had bought with her inheritance money. She had never actually used it in the three years since she bought it, but she had cleaned it, without fail, every week –it still had the plastic covers on all the seats. She hadn’t gotten the nerve up to actually drive it anywhere though. It took a lot of insisting on Dennis’s part to finally use it –but she eventually agreed that it was actually the only viable option open to them.

So.. on Saturday 14th they took their caravan on an ill-fated journey –neither of them wanting to travel on the fated day after.. and neither of them had ever driven such a vehicle –Dennis normally drove a mini, so to even contemplate such a behemoth was way out of his comfort zone. Maud wasn’t the most confident driver at the best of times and had visions of crashing, so that was out. To make matters worse, she didn’t relish the idea of Dennis’s grubby hands soiling her virgin steering wheel, but they eventually agreed that Dennis would drive, but only if he wore gloves.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked.. but, no; she wasn’t. It was touch and go whether the van would actually start, as it had been sitting there, unused for so long. Dennis also found it very difficult driving whilst sitting on the plastic seat-wrap, but on that Maud was immovable (as she was on everything).

They left off quite late in the afternoon but barely travelled more than twenty miles before the van sputtered, shook and then died on them. Years of misuse had stacked up against them; Dennis barely made it into an off-road car park. They were at least four miles away from the nearest town, and were situated on the banks of a river. The car park itself was muddy and quite treacherous, Dennis slipped and fell a couple of times, muddying himself up in the process trying to look at the engine.

“You’re not coming in here like that.” Maud scolded as he attempted to climb back in.

“Jesus!! You’re kidding, right?.” The look from her made it clear that kidding was not in her vocabulary.

“What am I going to do then?”

“That’s up to you. You should have thought of that before you left.”

“I left to check the engine!”

“And what did you accomplish?”

“It’s better than what you did…”

“That remains to be seen..”

“Look I don’t want to argue out here; it looks like it’s going to rain in a minute, and I’m muddy enough. Look –if you pass me a couple of those plastic sacks I can put the muddy clothes in them. Would that be acceptable?”

“Only if you leave your shoes outside.”

“But it’s going to rain!” But Maud had already gone to the front of the campervan to dust. Outside the clouds billowed; the wind blew and it started to rain; Dennis’s shoes were going to get very wet indeed.

That evening, cold and hungry (as Maud hadn’t planned on actually eating inside the campervan because of the smells lingering) they just sat opposite each other. Dennis had taken over half an hour to decide on a new outfit, and outside the rain was falling heavier by the minute.

“Just pick one, Goddammit!” Maud shouted; how long did it take to choose what clothes you wanted to wear…

“You can’t rush these things, my dear.” Dennis replied. This was the first time anyone had called Maud ‘Dear’ and had he been there then he would have realised just how little she appreciated it. It was gradual, just a minute tick in her left eye but from there it would soon spread. It had begun.

Dennis was oblivious to this when he sat opposite her; foremost on his mind was when he was going to make his move. He was sure that he’d been brought on this little charabanc for one reason only (and he was right in that respect) and he was trying to figure out the best time to pounce.

To be honest, he was less sure now sitting opposite her then he was when he first met her. She had a habit of meeting his gaze fixedly, unblinking. Every so often he noticed the flutter in her left eye as it became more pronounced. As it was now he didn’t rate his chances.

‘Why won’t he make a damn move? Maud kept asking herself. ‘Why isn’t he taking the initiative? Why isn’t he trying it on?’ She felt the vein in her eye start to throb and kept blinking to try and stabilise it. More minutes ticked by and she felt her teeth grinding with the frustration. The rain started pounding on the roof now and she drummed her fingers in time on the table.

“Make the damn move, won’t you?!” She shouted. “Why do you think I’m just sitting here?”

Dennis sat bolt upright, all thought of seduction and playing the ancient game out the window. He was now face to face with Maud’s wrath and he had no idea what to do next.

It was raining heavily now, as it had done all that week. They couldn’t have picked a worse place to break down; the water level of the river was getting dangerously high, just like Maud’s blood pressure.

Dennis sat down nervously next to Maud who stiffened up immediately. It didn’t matter how much she thought she wanted it, her body said otherwise. He put his hand tentatively on her leg and she slapped him.

“What the hell?”

“I’m sorry! You took me off guard; I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

He moved in closer to her only for her to shuffle back. Unperturbed he pushed closer and lent in for a kiss. The slap was much harder now and he inadvertently bit his tongue.

“What the?!”

“I’m sorry! Really…. I do want this, but you just need to be patient with me.”

“Patient?”

“Would it help if we just got undressed and went straight into it?”

“Yeah; right – I need to be a bit more aroused before that, you know?”

“What can I do about that?”

“Seriously??”

“You want me to touch it!” The disgust was palpable, she actually pushed herself back.

“What else you going to do? Suck it?” Maud’s reaction made it obvious that was never going to happen.

“Let’s try it again… just try not to hit me this time.” Maud did her best… Dennis placed his hand on her thigh, leaned in and even managed to kiss her. He noticed her trembling as she put her hand on his shoulder, but when he ventured to slide his tongue inside she screamed, biting down. Then she slapped him.

“Right! That’s it! I can’t do this shit any more. You’re crazy – just crazy!” He pushed himself off the seat and away from her.

“I can’t help it!”

“Right; can’t help it.. well, I’m not going to try again… I’m going for a dump.” He started towards the toilet.

“I don’t think so… you’re not going in here. This is my caravan. You can sleep here, in the front, but you are not.. I repeat, are not going to the toilet in here.”

Dennis knew not to push her; she had already slapped him hard for just touching her, despite her apparently wanting it. He dreaded to think what would happen if he tried to push her on this of all things. He put on his wet weather gear, found a spare roll of toilet paper and went outside.

Maud remained seated; her fingers drumming on the table top. The flickerings in her eye had subsided but she was confused over what she was feeling. She had been so sure that she wanted Dennis but his touch was so repulsive it made her skin crawl just thinking about it. What was happening? There was only one thing to do… clean.

So immersed was she that Maud never realised how much time had passed, she was almost happy having cleaned the toilet and had now moved into the kitchen area. She had taken everything out of the cutlery drawer to polish. She hadn’t even noticed that Dennis hadn’t returned….

..Until the door suddenly slammed open and a very muddy, very dishevelled, drenched and thoroughly pissed off Dennis staggered into the van. The sense of disgust at this sight was overtaken by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“What the hell happened to you?” She asked, flabbergasted.

“Hell is right… all because of you and your pristine toilet. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve gone through.. The weather’s got so much worse since I was last out there; the rain hasn’t stopped and the ground was like a quagmire. I must’ve slipped and fallen arse over tit at least half a dozen times before I found a place that was safe to take a crap. But what I didn’t count on was the river bursting its banks like that. How I wasn’t swept away for good I don’t know.. but it happened when I was mid-shit as well, just to add insult to injury. I’ve no idea how far I was carried before I managed to grasp onto one of the trees that were overhanging. It’s taken me this long to get back..”

“I hadn’t even realise how long you’ve been gone.”

“That’s charming…”

“Just what do you think you look like?” Despite herself, despite the mess that Dennis had become and despite the floodwaters that were now seeping into the caravan Maud started to laugh, and she laughed hard. So hard that she had to steady herself on the unit where she’d just set out all the cutlery. Consequently she didn’t see Dennis lumber up to her, his muddied shoes squelching on the sodden lino.

Ordinarily Dennis considered himself a calm man, certainly not prone to bouts of temper. His endless procrastination had led him to feel he was the soul of patience and cool. In actuality it made him lightening quick to anger; liable to blow at the wrong set of circumstances… all of which had happened in rapid succession over the last couple of hours.

Maud never saw the slap; just felt it as an explosion of pain across her cheek; felt her head snap back against the kitchen cupboard and then felt nothing else. She fell, twisting violently through the force of the blow, the cutlery clattering around her.

Pushed over the brink Dennis was past the point of no return. He’d had enough; she had humiliated him, dragged him through the shit and no more –she was going to get what was coming to her. Maud was still unconscious from his punch and wasn’t aware of anything until she felt the force of his first thrust. 

She screamed, raked at him with her nails but nothing she did stopped him; just spurred him on. Splaying about on the floor she found one of the knives that had once lived in its own compartmentalised drawer. 

She was in a frenzy, the knife digging deep into this back, his side, at his face when he hollered in pain; kept striking at him when he fell away, trying to push at her, kick her away but now she was the one possessed. She managed to straddle him, pinning his arms and then there was nothing to stop her. 

By now she was covered; the once pristine Maud now debased in blood, mud and shit as the waters around her converged.

Lie To Me

The holiday was supposed to save their marriage, and in a way it did. It was their last day and despite the Augustine promise England was still delivering on its cold, damp reality. Tea on the beach at Lulworth Cove, what could be better, but Brenda was already remonstrating Paul at the way he had ensconced himself atop a rocky outcrop, staring out to sea. 

“You’re always sulking.” She said as the wind was getting up, a chill now in the early evening air and the light slowly fading, but Paul seemed unaware to any of this. 

“Am not.” He mumbled back. This holiday had been Brenda’s idea and this time it felt like it could work, but only because they’d agreed on two principles: No arguing and leave the truth at home. The reality was harsh and unrelenting, and this was a last attempt at happiness.

For twenty years they’d managed to weather the storms and stay together whilst all those around them crumbled, became separated and then worse. Like the rock in front of her now, Brenda was resolute that, regardless of the tumultuous seas that threatened, she would stay with Paul.

“How old are you? And you’re still behaving like a child.” She tutted, trying to stay good natured despite wanting to push him off the rock. Instead, she clambered up, careful that the rock was still slippery, and sat by him. Her blue t-shirt and black shorts contrasted his yellow and white. She wasn’t comfortable and even Paul looked as if he was precariously perched, one foot wedged into the side of the rock below him and the other dangling. He seemed ready to leap off at a moment’s notice. She managed to sit in a semi-relaxed manner: one let outstretched on the rock with the other bent, offering her some much-needed support. They sat almost back-to-back, and it was quite comforting. “So, what’s wrong? Why are you in a huff?”

“I’m not in a… huff.” He replied, almost falling into the age-old trap. “I’m just thinking… and please don’t make any kind of remark.” Brenda stopped herself and just rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ve actually enjoyed this holiday…”

She nearly fell of the rock she was so astounded, when everything else had made it clear otherwise. Although he’d rigidly stuck to both conditions they’d set he was like a petulant child. He very rarely laughed or smiled, for that matter, but then that was normal for him.

“I just don’t understand you.” She responded, exasperated beyond herself. Brenda had enjoyed this week, despite everything. It had been a revelation: lying to Paul was like lying to herself and she understood now when people said: ‘fake it until you make it’. However, tomorrow was the last day, and she wasn’t sure whether this ‘cease-fire’ would last in the harsh reality.

“What’s to understand?” He replied. “I wonder if you’ve ever really tried to get to know me. You seem to expect that I have all the answers and can respond in an emotional way at the drop of a hat. I can barely acknowledge my own feelings let alone anyone else’s.”

“What a load of…”

“There you go. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion. Normally its right before we argue. Either I haven’t responded the way you expect me to, or I respond in the wrong way. But either way you’ve never understood how difficult I’ve always found it.” Brenda had to concede this point; it wasn’t the first time Paul had broached this point, and it was then that she’d say he was just being difficult. But what if he was being honest and she hadn’t listened?

“Is that true?” She asked.

“I know we’ve said that we were going to lie to each other this week… but somehow, it’s because of that I’m able to be honest with you. Perhaps for the first time.” Even though he looked out to sea she could hear every word, and they were like barbed darts, hitting home 

every time. She looked out and noticed that even the sea was listening, coming in for a closer look.

“Does that mean you’ve lied to me in the past?” Brenda wasn’t sure whether she really wanted the answer. Things were slowly spiralling back to the reality she’d tried so hard to escape.

“Yes, but not in the way you think.” Paul paused. This was a line he swore he’d never cross. It was ridiculous that he was going to now… “Do you remember Jane?”

“That trollop? Why are you bringing her up now?” Brenda was incredulous. Part of her wanted to leap into the infringing sea.

“She never existed….” Paul didn’t need peripheral vision to know how Brenda was reacting. “Do you remember how it all started? You caught me buying a ring… or jewelry of some kind.”

“You know damn well what you were buying!” Brenda snapped.

Paul turned round to look at her, with an odd sheepish expression. “It was for you.”

“Pull the other one!”

“You wouldn’t listen to me then either. You already had it in your head that I was cheating on you, simply because I was sneaking around trying to get you that damn present.”

Brenda really didn’t know what to say. She could feel the waves starting to lap up against the rock below, but it didn’t register. Nothing made any sense. That happened over 7 years ago and at the time she thought she’d been so mature in forgiving Paul. Forgiving but never forgetting and making him pay… and now?

“I’ve got it with me now, y’know.” Paul continued. “I’ve always wanted to give you the damn thing but there’s never been the right moment. You never would have believed me for one thing…”  He held his hand out and there was a small blue velvet box in the palm. For a few seconds she couldn’t take it from him, her hand was shaking too much. When she finally opened the box she was shocked to see a small agate dragonfly.

“I just wanted to surprise you with it… it turned out to be a surprise but not the one I was expecting.” He explained.

“All these years.” She whispered under breath. What made it worse was she chastised him about it that Christmas. She’d even moaned that he never paid attention to her because he never bought her the dragonfly, even though she’d made such a fuss. “Why have you stayed with me when I’ve treated you so badly?”

“I’ve always wanted to treat you right, luv… but I’ve only ever been the clumsy oaf rather than the romantic hero you’ve pined after.” This wasn’t Paul being sarcastic but for the first time he was opening up to her, and it was breaking her heart. Could she have been this selfish?

“But why? I just don’t understand. I’ve been such a bitch to you, all these years.”

“I love you. It’s that simple. I’ve seen all that you’ve had to go through, your sisters being the apple of your parent’s eye, taking everything away from you. Your mum being the ultimate gorgon. I don’t honestly think you’ve ever had a break, luv….”

“Why now?” The water level was rising higher now as if the tide was rushing to meet them.

“Because I can see how things could have been if your mum had never been involved. I see you in that same way as when I first met you. I know I can’t get my words together; I’ve never been good at that… as you know.” He hung his head.

“Oh, Paul. How could I have been so blind? How can you not have hated me all these years?”

“It’s not you that I hate, luv… it’s your mum… She never looked after you, but in my own way I’ve always tried to do right by you.”

“And you have. I can see that now.”

“The irony is we’ve been lying to each other all the time.” Paul looked at her, kindness in his eyes. “Worse than that, we’ve been lying to ourselves.”

“When dad left it crucified mum and tore apart our family…” Brenda admitted. “I swore I’d never let the same thing happen to me.” 

“Is that why you never wanted children?” Paul asked and stretched out his hand which Brenda took, squeezed and let go.

“Yes. Can you imagine what kind of mother I’d have been?”

“Better than you can imagine. It probably would’ve given you the kick up the arse I never could.” Brenda smiled at that. “I doubt you would’ve repeated the same mistakes your mum made.

“No, I’d probably have made even worse ones.”

“Here’s a radical idea…” Paul exclaimed. “We’ve both admitted we’ve been lying to each other for years and making each other miserable.” Brenda laughed at that. 

“And to ourselves…” She chipped in.

“Yes.. so why not be truthful? We’ve lied to each other and been unkind in the process…”

“So let’s learn from our mistakes and be kind to each other in future?” Brenda agreed, as bizarre as it sounded this made perfect sense.

“And to ourselves… I think we need to be a lot more forgiving… and forget about the past.” Brenda nodded and laid her back on Paul’s shoulder. Paul leaned into her more. “We need to stop being an island to ourselves, luv.”

“Oh… that’s a point. Look! We’ve been so busy bloody talking we’ve totally lost track of the time.” They looked around them, the beach had now been swamped by the swelling sea. “What are we going to do, Paul? I can’t swim!”

“I think it’s too deep now to carry you on my back… and it’d be pretty precarious getting both of us back to dry land.”

“Save yourself, Paul… You could probably make it on your own.”

“I’m not leaving you, if that’s what you think.” Paul looked around and saw that there was no way off the rock for the both of them.

“But what other way is there? Do you think we’re going to be safe where we are?” The water nipped at her toes, and she pulled her leg in closer to her. She could feel Paul trying not to panic.

“Do you want the truth?” He asked.

“No…. lie to me.” Brenda responded with a desperate chuckle.

“Then we’re screwed….”