To Have It All

 “The path to ones truth is fraught, but  worth it.”

There was once a noblewoman, Valera, who thought she had everything in life (and who knows, maybe she did). Because she was beautiful she was well thought of, and married a rich man of high standing.

One day Valera heard that the old wise woman was visiting the village to share her wisdom, so she disguised herself so no one would recognise such a noble lady visiting the low villagers. At the end of the old woman's speech the Valera, despite herself,  put up her hand and spoke. “I have heard all that you say, but I don't understand how one such as you can have all the answers when you have nothing. Look at me; I have a husband who loves me; I have wealth (more than I know what to do with) and am adored for my beauty, and loved by all. Surely I have all the answers.”

The old woman pondered this and then said, “No, not yet you don't… but you will, soon.” And the crowd dispersed, laughing at Valera's obvious bemusement and as they departed Valera felt a stirring in her stomach and tingling over her face, as if she had been stung by a nettle but she slept soundly that night thinking no more of it.

The next morning the mirror brought forth the face of a complete stranger. Where once was a maiden, beautiful and fair now showed a drawn and haggard face; the features on one side drooped as if it was wax melted by a candle flame.

She tried to scream but only an unholy moan escaped her formless lips. The housemaids that came to seek the source of distress turned and fled in horror at the intruder who sat at their mistresses bedside table now.

The husband, who was made of sterner stuff (as men were back then) could not bare to be seen near her. He called for a physic but not even letting nor leaching could cure her. Valera could not even communicate to him, barely able to make anything more than a grunt or groan now.

But her husband didn't even care, for in truth he had been unfaithful to Valera for a long time and now he finally had the excuse that he'd been looking for. Having heard of his wife meeting the old woman (despite it being frowned upon) he accused Valera of trafficking with the Devil. As the evidence was so obvious and there were no other reasons why she could be so cursed, he divorced her easily leaving her with no money or means.

The church, which Valera had always kowtowed to, banished her, not only for trafficking with the Devil, but for being divorced as well and her friends paid her no heed; so she was ostracised; banished to the far woods where no one would see her again.

And so she stayed for many years.

Life was hard, but not impossible. In everything Valera did surprised her  and she found herself capable of more things that she had ever dremt of. Always she had let her husband tell her things, do things for her and always they had been wrong. (back then it had mattered not for they had been so rich) But now she realised that she was wise in her own way.

Valera was resourceful and carved a new life for herself, she taught herself to talk again by listening to the sounds of the animals and birds; taught herself how to weave by the birds and their nests and taught herself to prepare food by learning what berries and roots were safe and good to eat.

Valera had no money but soon her weaving became known and people traveled far and bartered with her; and whilst she wove for them they would speak to her and ask her many questions. She would reply and explain the ways of the wood to them and the people would leave warmer but also wiser as well.

And soon the people came just to hear her speak and she thought nothing of it.

But the story does not end there. Fate is full of quirks and twists and turns.

And just as things seemed happy ever after for her once husband, he soon realised what he had let go in divorcing such a woman. News finally reached to him of the wise woman who spun tales as intricate as the weaves in her hand, that lived in the farthest reaches of the wood, and he knew it was his once love. And he knew that she would be his once again. So imagine his disappointment when she refused him; not once, not twice but three times.

Not for the riches; not for the beauty, for medicine could now cure her supposed ill,  and not for the social standing.

“What need have I for riches?” She explained. “I have all I could ever need and more. Are we not all beautiful, especially to those who do not judge? And whilst I sit here with nothing people come to me from miles around for advice. Advice? All I can tell them is the ways of the wood yet they leave content with that. What more could I ask for?”

The once-husband, faced with something far beyond his ken was distraught. “But my love,” he said, anguished, “I don't understand how you can be like this. I have it all and am offering it to you on a golden platter. I don't understand at all.”

“No. You don't understand it.” The once betrothed replied. “..... But you will, soon.”

NUTS

So you want to know about the worst date I ever had, eh? Well, that’s quite easy under the circumstances; I’ve not been on many…. The shortest of those was less than an hour, would you believe. Don’t laugh, it’s true! It was a blind date, and how I wish it had stayed that way. It had been organised through a friend of a friend so it was never going to amount to much…. She was half an hour late, blubbery like a beached, depressed whale, and seemed as unimpressed with me as I was with her. I ordered her a drink – a glass of beer (though it may as well have been a bucket) which was downed instantly as she started to moan about her ex, who she’d seen the night previous. She was still suffering from a hangover and mumbled something like an apology before taking off, leaving me to nurse my flat Pepsi. She’d been there less than 10 minutes. Short but definitely not sweet!  But that wasn't my worst date by far; but ran true to course for the rest.

In my dating life I'd stumbled upon a few theories about online dating; about the people that filled out profiles on those dating sites and how they did not actually want to meet others. They tended to fall into three main categories.

They put no effort into their profile. It had the meanest amount of information about their tastes, personality, and a couple of inappropriate photos of them downing pints of sangria

They put too much effort into their profiles; so much so they ended up as a mission statement of intent. Invariably the profiles would be split into sections like an employment contract: “I will…… You will….. “ I’d often reach the bottom of the profile and end up with a migraine. It was a shopping list of wants and desires they wanted fulfilled and nothing short of a cross between Stephen Hawkins-ian intellect and an Adonis body would have sufficed. There were others who considered themselves ‘deeply spiritual’ and so far up their own arses that the only way they’d ever see the light again was if they had the shits! These were people who were so 

conceited that they saw themselves far above the world and the lowly troglodytes around them… You know the type: beetroot tea drinking, tree shagging, opinionated bitches. 

Everyone else -and what a mixed bunch this was. From the train spotters to the game players. Many of these were asking for the world too and not willing to put anything of their own into the mix. Some of the profiles were written by their friends  and others looked as if they’d been cribbed off other people’s!

But on that fateful day... what ended up being the worst of my dating experiences... I thought I'd hit the jackpot.

Helene was different. Her profile photo was of a woman who loved to smile; a natural energy  with an open personality. She had varied interests, loved dogs and seemed to have similar tastes to me. What was even more remarkable was she wanted to meet!

We were to go on a walk round a local wood right in between where we both lived, and it was a wood I knew quite well so I was happy, having a little local knowledge. She wanted to walk the dog and saw it as a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

We met on time and she was remarkably like her photograph -somewhat of a rarity these days.  Thankfully, Helene said how easy it was to recognise me -not sure how many other obese bespectacled chaps there were in the woods that day, so it wouldn’t have been too difficult! 

Her dog was an absolute delight -Sparkles; a dopey beast that took an instant dislike to me and just yapped endlessly. We started walking at a frenetic pace which made it difficult, but not impossible for me to converse and I had a very bad feeling this would be a test of endurance and attrition. She was charming if a little naive -she tended to see the best in people at all times which I found a little tiresome after a while, just as I’m sure my constant derision became irksome to her. I noticed that there were several occasions where the pace suddenly increased and I can only be thankful that the terrain was level; had we been going 

up hill and down dale I’m sure she would’ve lost me quite easily.

So far nothing too untoward; it was a genuine date; pedestrian and dull; but one that could still have swung round had we found that spark; that one bit of commonality needed to move us beyond the growing belligerence. Then we encountered the squirrel.

Or more importantly, that damned dog Sparkles encountered it. I’ve always known squirrels to be swift and fleet, highly aware of their surroundings. All I can say is this particular one must have had advanced senility. Sparkles was definitely not the brightest dog I’d ever met; it hadn’t mastered the concept of fetch, nor heel -in fact, the only thing it could really do was annoy me constantly. We first heard an unholy squeal and the dog leapt out of the bushes with this poor squirrel hanging from its jaws, still twitching. Helene praised the dog and was all for just leaving the poor creature to die slowly. 

“You can’t do that! It’s inhumane!” I snapped, aghast that she could be so thoughtless.

“It’s only a squirrel!” She replied, a bemused expression on her face. “If you care so much, you do something about it.” The look of derision on her face was maddening. 

I was now struck with a quandary. If she wasn’t going to do it then I had to. The only trouble was I had no way of knowing how to do it. For all my bluster and prevaricating I was a townie and just wanted to walk away myself, but I couldn’t. There was no rocks to bash it’s head in so I tried stamping on it’s head…. But I missed, it suddenly got it’s second wind and started trying to move away from me. This caused Helene to laugh out right and I blushed. This was getting nowhere. I needed to do something fast, so I bent down, hoping to snap it’s neck… And the fcking thing bit into my hand, right between the thumb and the forefinger. Couldn’t it tell I was trying to help it?

I yelled and dropped the squirrel, managed to kick it away before it got the taste for blood and tried to find a handkerchief. My hand bled profusely, and Helene showed a little concern; asked if I was alright. I calmly replied that I was fine, it was just a scratch and thought that it might be a good opportunity to walk back to the car. The dog looked up at me with 

bemusement and all I wanted to do was kick it hard. The walk home was slower, thankfully, and I tried my best to keep up a conversation; all the time wondering whether squirrels had rabies.

After half an excruciating hour later we finally got back to the cars. Helene thanked me for an amusing date (her exact words) and drove away. I never heard from her again -she didn’t even bother texting me to find out how the bite was! I drove to the hospital and waited in A&E amongst the assorted sports and DIY related incidents. The receptionist had a hard time keeping a straight face when I explained what the nature of my injury was and had to ask for further clarification. When it was finally my turn to go and see the triage nurse I unwrapped my hand and the nurse asked what had caused the bite. I could tell that she was expecting a dog, cat or even a rabbit. 

“A squirrel.” I said.

“What?” She exclaimed and laughed, before apologising both profusely and genuinely. I then explained what had happened, the date and all. I could see the funny side of the mis-adventure (I still do!) and was pleased that it had cheered her up no end. She thanked me for recounting the experience -I had been her first squirrel related incident – and hoped that I would have better luck with women in future. She was actually rather beautiful and truly seemed to care about my predicament… but wouldn’t you know it? She was married as well! Nuts!!!

Time of the month

1)

I was in a quandary; it was the wrong time of the month and yet if I didn’t act upon my impulses Simon could quite literally get away and I couldn’t have that; he was far too delicious looking. He wasn’t my normal sort; thinner, more bookish than normal but there was something vulnerable about him that made me want to mother him before…. well; teach him about the birds and bees. I met him at one of those dreadful speed-dating events. It was a new town for me and I needed a quick fix and this seemed to be the best avenue. My hopes weren’t high and I really just wanted something to tide me over.

Meeting Simon changed all that; he seemed far too innocent to just waste on a cheap thrill. He seemed captivated by me; but then that was quite unfair on my behalf, he never really stood a chance. He was thin, rakish, more like Harold Lloyd, even down to the same glasses -I even made the comparison upon chatting to him but he had never even heard of that glorious silent-cinema comedian… but then why would he? (I had to be careful here; I was letting my excitement make me tongue tied, like a smitten teenager and I was far too experienced for that!) The speed date with him went far too quickly and when the time finally ended I just wrote my name and number on the palm of his hand in slow, luxuriant strokes. I felt his eyes on me for the rest of the night and just bathed in his gaze. He was going to be one to savor for sure… 

But that did mean I had to sate myself with something else and, luckily, Rob ended up being the ideal candidate. He was totally unremarkable; a wise guy, always talking about himself..He smelt very heavily of cheap aftershave and the grease in his air looked like an environmental disaster.. But beggars can’t always be choosers. He was very easy to lay claim to and never seemed to bat an eyelid until the very last moment, but by then it was far too late. 

I thought of Simon the whole time.

2)

Simon rang me two days after the speed dating. He was very hesitant when he rang and I gave him my sexy, full bodied voice. Rob was proving to be very difficult to forget -like acid reflux, he just wouldn’t leave me alone. I wanted to see Simon though -the longer I left things the more chance there was that he would lose interest or I had to move towns again. I could only stay in one place for so long. I felt bloated and sore but if I likened it to the time of the month then I’m sure Simon would understand. I had to take the chance with him; I’m sure whatever happened I would be able to deal with it.

We arranged to meet that evening; go out for a small meal and then… well, I knew what my plans were going to be. I only hoped that I would be feeling better by then. 

Six hours later and I felt quite a bit better; I still felt tender in places and had an upset tummy still. I also felt nauseated now but couldn’t pass up the opportunity that presented itself. I met Simon at the local pizza restaurant and sat down to a really nice meal. I explained to him that I was on the ‘time of the month’ and he tried his best not to blanche. I had him pegged at being single a long time as most men just ignored such a sentiment rather than blanching so noticeably. He was very sweet afterwards and didn’t comment about me eating only a small green salad. I said that normally my appetite was far more.. insatiable and I smiled at him. He blushed… Oh, I was so going to enjoy him!

He offered to drive me home and, of course, I accepted. I asked him if he minded helping me to my front door as I was still feeling a little faint (a pure lie, of course) and then invited him in. He was very reticent, walked in and sat in the middle of my plush sofa, with his legs tightly touching and both hands grasping his knees for all that they were worth.

I took my coat off and showed off my purple dress which was tight-fitting in the right places and 

long flowing like a lilac waterfall. I sat next to him and almost regretted it as my tummy felt very sensitive to the touch. I still felt bloated and would normally just lie on my bed until it subsided; however I knew that I couldn’t do that here.

There was just something about Simon; I had to have him but I had to be careful -I still felt rather sensitive. Perhaps if I was gentle, found a way to.. tenderise him first... I knew that I only had a limited window of opportunity to act; he was a flight risk. I knew that he found me attractive but probably thought of me out of his depth and if he left tonight then he would probably never want to see me again and I just couldn't countenance that.

I faced him and smiled. "Don't be shy, Simon... It's ok, I know you like me."

He blushed... bless him, he actually blushed. "Well... that's true. I do like you but I really don't know what I'm doing here... I'm not sure I'm good at ... relations."

"Relations? is that what you call it?" I laughed, but in a seductive way. He was so sweet, I didn't want to hurt him in any way. "Why not call it sex? Making love... Is that what you'd like to do with me?"

"If I knew how then I would be all over you, I'm sure... but I don't want to waste your time; you'd only be disappointed with me." He moved to get up, I could see that he was actually being quite candid with me.

"What if I told you that none of that mattered to me? What you just told me is so important and means that I can be so gentle with you... I could teach you so much, Simon; if you just opened up and let me." I moved closer to him and let him feel my breath on his neck and face. He blinked and licked his lips. He sat back down, and I leaned closer to him still. "Lovemaking is something that's best savored; taken slow. Do you want that? Do  you want me, Simon? Because I want you..." What happened next caught me by completely by surprise.

 3)

It was like a cork being shot out of a bottle after so much pressure had been building up; I was totally unprepared for it... He was like a different person; unfettered. He suddenly caught a glimpse of his own libido and embraced it. Simon pushed me back on to the sofa and followed, his mouth seeking mine; his tongue flowing into mine. It was so unexpected and did so much to get my juices flowing.... however he was a little too enthusiastic and pushed too hard into my abdominal region. What happened next was so regrettable and all I can see is the look of horror on his face .

It was disgusting, truly and I did everything I could to stop it... To be honest, there wasn't that much left of him but it meant dislocating my jaws in order to regurgitate what was left of the body -just a few of the larger bones; the gristly and hairy bits (I hate the hairy bits!) Rob was still only partially digesting from the day before, which was causing the cramps; but Simon was too important to me. I felt so ashamed and felt sorry for Simon as well; I truly did want to take him to the heights of heaven before eating him. The colour had drained from his face and his mouth was open so much it was like a caricature. I quickly closed my mandibles and smoothed the skin over. Normally I would have reverted to my normal form but I just couldn't. I still felt bad for him....

"I'm so sorry; you were never meant to see that..."

"Were you going to eat me too?" He whispered, trying to regain whatever sanity remained in such a situation. I nodded. "But not before fucking me?" I smiled to myself; it seemed that something had come from tonight; Simon had found a bit of strength after all. Such a shame it would come to nothing. I nodded again, with a sad smile. "But now you're... just going to eat me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to happen like this... ."

"But why? Why did you want to sleep with me?"

"As strange as it sounds, I like you... Really like you. I wanted to take you to heaven before you 

died. Normally I just kill without hesitation but I wanted to show you the best time of your life, as only I could have done... but..."

"But what?" Simon replied, hesitating. "I mean... as you were going to kill me anyway.... is that heaven thing totally off the menu?"  I knew there was a reason why I really liked him....

The Unforgotten

1)

Yvonne was more manic than usual; her normally fiery red hair blanched back to its usual bland blonde for this auspicious occasion, and she was dressed almost in the same clothes as she wore that first broadcast. Her thick, black polo-neck sweater both hid the bruises round her throat as much as protected her from the cold ire of the weather and the many skeptics of the show: Ghost Haunters. 

She always liked the play on words, but Owen had always seen it as cheapening the brand –whatever that meant. But it was her money that had been used to kickstart the programme so she had the last word… back then, anyway. She also wore black leggings and a midi-skirt. She still wasn’t comfortable showing her legs off so much but Owen said that it appealed to a certain demographic -of which he was no longer part of. This was going to be the make or break; a last ditch attempt to make this programme, and their marriage work (although he wasn’t aware of that part of the arrangement). 

Once upon a time she actually believed in what she was doing; she actually thought that they would be able to uncover  proof of the veracity of life after death. Now she was reduced to the comic relief; the scream queen of the show… and now she had even been replaced in that role by Helen! 

Yvonne even remembered the exact moment when her dreams were shattered by Owen -it was during the second season just before Desmond had become the ‘medium’. In front of the camera’s Owen always appeared so supportive and upbeat; challenging the ghosts and apparitions to do their worst which would always freak Yvonne out; so much so that she confronted him at the end of one particularly traumatising show. She asked him why he taunted them so much, to which he simply laughed in her face, deriding the fact that she still believed in that kind of crap. Time had not been any kinder in the succeeding years and Yvonne was now wondering whether any of it had been real.

2)

Owen, on the other hand, was aware that this 10th Anniversary edition of Ghost Haunters (dear god, what a diabolical name!) was the end of an era. It was no coincidence that he’d brought Helen along for this ‘adventure’. She’d given him an ultimatum that she wanted him to end the flogged marriage. Owen was surprised that the marriage had lasted 9 years.

He first met Yvonne on the set of her previous television programme -a mix of children’s television, the board game Guess Who and the quiz show The Weakest Link. Ten kids had to guess the celebrity speaking by creating an identikit picture in the same vein as the board game. It was a crazy concept and wouldn’t have worked except for Yvonne; she was really beautiful in a neurotic, scatty way; flaunting a girlish sexuality she never knew she had. Owen knew he had to have her and spent ages worming his way closer to her.

His final break came when the quiz show finally fizzled and she was left without a project to go to. She was scatty enough to believe in ghosts and hauntings; all that kind of crap. Ghostwatch had just been on the BBC and caused an overnight sensation with so many people believing it was real. Owen had almost believed but he recognised the actress playing the mother and everything else fell into place: Throw enough money into it, make it seem as realistic as possible and ground it in emotional realism then people will believe anything. Just like the original stage magicians understood it was all done with smoke, mirrors and plenty of misdirection. At this stage the ‘found-footage’ horror hadn’t been thought of so Owen’s radical idea of having everything being shot as though by hand-held cameras was revolutionary and when he worked everything out he approached Yvonne with the idea. She fell for it.. And fell for him, which is what he ultimately was after.

Although he hated the name of Ghosthaunters it did add a bit of quirkyness to the proceedings, grounded the show in normality and was easy to remember. It was actually a genius name, though he’d never admit it to her face…. And for a while it really worked. It was all crap, of course, something that he never believed.. But then he didn’t need to. The main thing was that the audience did. In the first season they were able to coast on novelty.  They occupied small venues that were known to be haunted; camped out with the owners permission and set up enough jump scares to keep audiences happy. Obviously he’d kept Yvonne in the dark about what was going on -her reactions were always priceless. The queen of the scream. It was clear though that she no longer enjoyed it and he now had come to loathe her. 

The Desmond debacle had soured everything and he blamed Yvonne for finally getting rid of him; even though he had leaked the information to the press. Owen wanted a character arc though. He wanted Desmond to have some time off and come back spiritually refreshed and a ‘true’ psychic. The British public loved a sob-story, after all, and they would have been watching with bated breath to see if Desmond would be back to his old tricks again before being shocked by the technical brilliance of his predictions… but it never happened; and the show was never the same again.

It had limped along for years. Even the so-called demonologist, Bob Cowley, hadn’t left any lasting impression. They lacked the budget for demon-manifestations and many people asked what was the point of having him on the programme -truth be told, he was there to do the actual research and set up the more  elaborate set-pieces.. (and to be fair, he was very good at that, and knew exactly how to time it to maximise Yvonne’s reaction!).

It had been Yvonne’s idea to hire a professional skeptic in the form of Simon. Owen had been dead set against that, especially after the debacle and fallout from Desmond, but Yvonne explained that the key term would be ‘hired’. Simon wouldn’t really be a skeptic, he was an old contact from her previous job -an out of work actor who would just pretend to be a skeptic, just as they were ‘pretending’ to be ghost hunters. She deliberately emphasised the pretending.

He couldn’t pin down the time when his disappointment with Yvonne grew to actual loathing.  It was gradual really, in the years that followed Owen lost all respect for her as a presenter, an actress and finally a spouse. He was now trapped; where once he had plans to become something big in the television world, he was now the straight man in a farcical live-action Scooby-Do series. 

He couldn't believe he actually regretted the first time he hit Yvonne. He was drunk for the first time in years and she’d never seen him like it. It was just after Desmond's funeral and she couldn’t understand why Owen was crying when he came back from the pub. Owen reacted out of drunkenness he would tell her later, crying for forgiveness afterward but the truth was he had been bottling it up for ages. That she believed him was a testament to his acting skills and for a while the marriage just simmered before the next bust up.. And the next after that. Yvonne was too scared to make anything public and made a habit of wearing demure clothes that revealed none of her bruises.

Ten years and he'd finally had enough. Helen had convinced him to face Yvonne on camera and then just walk away. It sounded good to him.

3)

"Welcome to a very special program of Ghosthaunters. My name is Yvonne Hardacher and this is our tenth anniversary special, and to celebrate we're re-visiting the very first place we ever investigated: Crowley Hall. It was at one time a National Trust property but now just a derelict with a whole history of ghosts, apparitions and spooky occurrences. As usual we've got the whole team with both Bob Crowley, our resident demonologist and our newest recruit, skeptic Steve Buschell."

The afternoon had barely struck four and it had taken them the first few hours setting up the camera's and mixing desks. Bob had worked with Steve, who was responsible for miking the place up, to ensure that all the rooms were wired and 'boobied' in Owens terminology. Everything had been set up so doors banged on command and both Bob and Steve either carried objects to throw, or knew where the stage props were for later. 

No one else knew, not even Owen -it  was necessary to ensure that their reactions were genuine. Owen seemed more pensive than normal, didn't want to get involved with the pre-show camaraderie as he normally did. For some reason he hung around Helen, who was the newest recruit.

Yvonne looked askance at them constantly and it was obvious she was uncomfortable having Helen around.  Steve  had only been with the team less than a year but even he felt awkward about the arrangement; but it wouldn't matter soon. Things were going to happen later that would  make this anniversary edition definitely something to remember.

"Before we go any further," Yvonne continued, speaking into the camera which was currently being held by Bob. "Can anyone remember that first night? The first broadcast? I was so nervous." 

"The way you wore your hair back then, love, I'm not surprised. " Owen chipped in and Helen laughed into her hand like a schoolgirl.

"Now, that's not nice, Owen." Yvonne complained, shocked by the edge in Owen's voice. Where had that come from? He was supposed to recall one of the events that they'd encountered. Steve chipped in to her defense.

"Don't worry, Yvonne. He's only jealous -back then he actually had hair, after all. He must be finding things a bit drafty tonight."

"Just watch it, Steve." Owen snarled before realising this was being caught on camera.

"I do remember the first time we had one of the doors slam, Yvonne." Bob continued. "It was the door to the kitchen and we knew that it had a mind of its own anyway, but when it slammed we were all shook up but you screamed like a right one!" Everyone laughed.

"And the legend was born." Owen chipped in, sarcastically. Yvonne tried to ignore him but Steve saw she was hurt.

"Tonight we're hoping to re-create the magic of that first night and go deeper with our new insights and technology. We've got Bob who knows more of the history of this place, and Steve to debunk his wilder stories." Yvonne carried on, trying to maintain her composure. "What we're going to do now is just walk around the property first whilst its light and we can familiarise ourselves with the layout and then later we can turn the lights out. Now, before we go any further I have to stress that this is now a fully abandoned and derelict building. It's also been condemned  and some of it has rotten floorboards and some rooms have no floors at all so we're all going to have to be careful and look after each other."

4)

Whilst Bob gave his normal preamble about the history of the building and the ghosts that supposedly haunted the place Yvonne found herself thinking inevitably about Desmond who had been the fourth member of the team at the start of it all. At that time he was just the camera man and it was only later that he developed into the role of team psychic. It was after he had visited a holistic fayre that he'd been introduced to the idea and he felt drawn to it; suggested it to Yvonne, who had liked it. They were all aware that they were sitting on a potential gold mine because no one else had thought about an actual series about Haunted places and back then there were no other tv psychics -Desmond wanted to be the first. Owen thought it was a crap idea but back then he was just the silent partner. 

There was only one small problem, Desmond was an abysmal psychic and couldn't get any feelings about the first two places they visited. His attempts at using the Ouija board  were problematic and boring and threatened to derail this fledgling program into a laughing stock. (how ironic was that?) Owen suggested that Desmond could either make it all up or do research before the show and then use creative license to spin a yarn that the viewers at home could believe in. Yvonne was dead set against this but Desmond, although initially siding with Yvonne, soon saw the more lucrative side that Owen was suggesting. That was the first step on that slippery slope that led to ruin.

Bob had finished his preamble and they all split up into groups. Owen thought it would be a great idea to have Sandy and Helen take the most haunted area of the property. Sandy was grounded and knew there was nothing to worry about; Helen was a complete contrast -she was actually a fan of the series and believed everything she heard and saw. She jumped at the slightest provocation and, since she'd started, ratings had gone up quite a bit to see what kind of a farago she'd create. Her screams and juddery personality made for great viewing.

Owen, Yvonne and Bob went together to the basement, which had a bad reputation; whilst the others were conspicuously absent to create all the shenanigans. Everyone had handheld cameras with a narrow field of view, which was perfect to hide things that Owen would use later on. Once again, Yvonne was blissfully unaware what was going to happen, but this time Owen and Bob had concocted a rather nasty story thread . Bob was aware of Owen's infidelity but knew where his next paycheck was coming from so had kept quiet for months.

Yvonne knew that Bob was just a jobbing actor, but also knew of his past (something that Owen wasn't aware) and consequently would never allow him to be alone with Sandy. Yvonne warned Bob once but that was enough; this was going to be payback though.

5)

The camera had been recording for a few minutes and Helen was walking up the stairs in front of Sandy. Every creak of the stairs made Helen squeal in fright; every mote of dust in the air made her whirl around in shock. This is going to be an arduous evening, Sandy thought. What the hell did Owen see in her?

When they finally reached the hallway and walked into the nearest room they did what was expected of them and just stood still for a bit, barely breathing. It was important that the camera picked up the baseline quiet so any sound would be amplified. Steve was somewhere around and it was important that they ignore him. Sandy found it easy but Helen just jumped at everything.

"What the hell does he see in you?" Sandy finally muttered after Helen almost leaped into her arms when she caught sight of her own reflection in one of the few remaining windows.

"What did you say?" Helen snapped, pushing herself away.

"How long do you think this can go on between you too?" Sandy asked.

"What's it to you? Who do you think you are?"

"Yvonne's friend. I've known her a long time and I won't see you hurt her."

"You want to be careful -point your nose into things that have nothing to do with you and one of us might end up an actual ghost!" Helen threatened. And it was then that Steve chose to throw the wrench into the room making them both bolt for the stairs, shrieking like schoolgirls.

The basement was very small and had once been a wine cellar, though Bob was explaining how it had once been used for more nefarious purposes. Although it had once been a National Trust place it had been a stately home apparently owned by a very questionable person who was part of a black magic lodge.

"That can't be right, Bob." Yvonne questioned. "That never came up when we were here last."

"Do you honestly believe that, Yvonne?" Bob replied, raising his eyebrow. "I'm not sure the National Trust would ever have admitted that to you; it doesn't exactly paint them in a great light..."

"So how do you know about it?" She asked.

"C'mon... think about it." Owen chipped in, using the camera to focus on her puzzled face. "He's a demonologist, after all." The camera had a light attached. It wasn't very bright but it was enough that they could make out where they were in the room.

Yvonne almost let the cat out the bag by saying the truth, but knew that Owen was just trying to trip her up for some reason. Something was going on, he was being really nasty to her. "Ok, then. What happened?"

"It was a ritual sacrifice, normally a woman. They'd take her down, leave her alone in the dark so she'd never know what was going to happen to her." Bob was relishing this and Owen was making the most of every micro-gesture of fear on Yvonne's face. She knew it was false; knew there were no such things as ghosts but she had no idea what was going to happen next. "Normally they'd use this." Bob stated, holding up a stone knife he'd fashioned himself. It was as blunt as hell, but she didn't know that. Just then Owen turned the light out and Yvonne screamed despite herself. Bob had lunged at her just as the light went out and she stepped back, twisting her ankle as she did so.

The light snapped on all of a sudden and she was splayed out on the floor, rubbing her head. Owen and Bob were laughing their heads off, the camera still pointing at her.

"Bastards." She spat, despite herself.

"Careful now, there might be kiddies watching." Owen retorted and walked up the stairs with Bob, leaving her there sobbing. What was going wrong?  She didn't want to carry on anymore; everything felt as if it was all falling apart. Just then she felt a soft presence behind her and a hand  pressed lightly on her shoulder. She didn't jump because if felt familiar, although it shouldn't have done. "It's all going to be ok, pet." Desmond whispered to her, but it couldn't have been.

6)

Ten minutes later they all converged on the ground floor again. Sandy looked shaken and Yvonne saw Helen pull Owen to one side and mutter something. It was then that she realised what had been going on. She cursed herself for being so blind and wanted to have it out with Owen right then but he already suggested that he was going up with Sandy, whilst Helen and Steve would go into the basement allowing Yvonne to recover from her 'fall'.

Yvonne wanted to call him a rat bastard but thought better of it. She was aware that Bob was going down into the basement with Steve and Helen for some reason; which suited her fine because she couldn't stand Bob. It gave her time to think back to Desmond once more. She still felt guilty for what had happened to him, despite trying to talk him out of it several times. He was too enamored with his own fiction and played too much into the theatrics of the psychic role he was creating. Into the third season and it had almost become the Desmond show and Owen was becoming sick of it and given several warnings that it wouldn't be tolerated but Desmond ignored him.

Owen was very sneaky and started feeding duff information to Desmond; names that were really acronyms of rude words and vaguely licentious facts. This all prompted Desmond to behave like a caricature of himself and it all accumulated when Owen sent an anonymous message to the local press that Desmond was either making stuff up or had done an impressive amount of research to make his psychic readings more professional and believable. The press, understandably, jumped at this and set Desmond some obvious tests, all of which he failed miserably -which, of course he would.

Yvonne was forced to fire him because of the scandal; it seriously threatened to derail the series, which she still believed in. Owen had told her none of what he'd done and she was horrified by what had happened. Desmond was a broken man afterwards and no one wanted to touch him; he was the subject of ridicule wherever he went and he could never go back to being an actor again,

He cut all ties with the show and with Yvonne, and the next she heard about him was when the news reported his body had been found in his home, after overdosing on sleeping pills and whiskey. She wasn't allowed to the funeral for some reason, but Owen went and came home crying, absolutely drunk. That was the first time he'd ever shouted at her and he actually told her what he'd done. She was speechless and sickened. That was the first time he lost his temper with her and although the slap had been brief it had nonetheless been painful and left her reeling. Owen apologised that night, but that was the one and only time. The beatings continued.

Upstairs Owen made sure that he was between Sandy and the stairs. He waited until they were alone and deliberately kept the camera off this time. He wanted to keep this as brief as possible.

"If you want to make it out of here in one piece then I suggest you keep your mouth shut." He said very calmly to her. "Yvonne will find out when I'm ready to tell her. If you say anything to her about this or about Helen then there will be one other ghost haunting here. Got that?" Sandy could barely nod. She'd seen the bruises on Yvonne's arms and throat at times but had never said anything. Owen was a dangerous man and she had just found out how far he would go. She watched as he walked down the stairs letting the light drain from the room around her.

7)

It took Sandy a few minutes to come down and meet up with the rest of the group again in the great hall. Yvonne saw Owen come down alone and walk to the corner where Bob and Helen were and then Sandy walked down in tears. Steve rushed over to her, concerned and Yvonne went over to them, hobbling a bit still. 

Steve had managed to get the truth out of Sandy what had happened, despite herself.

"This is an all time low, even for you, Owen." He snapped.

"You going to believe her or me?" Owen replied, belligerently. "Who I sleep with is up to me."

"Who said anything about that?" Steve replied, almost triumphantly. "She just said you'd threatened her."

"Bastard." Owen snapped.

"You're the rat bastard, Owen." Yvonne responded. "I can believe I've spent so long with 

you, and for what? So much for the anniversary edition!"

"Are you kidding me? Grow up -this is dynamite! I've been filming everything. It may be the last episode but it'll be the perfect swansong!"

KERRASH!! The bottle exploded millimeters from his head, sending shards spiralling out. Luckily only Owen was cut by the glass and he looked at Steve.

"I didn't bloody throw it!" Steve shouted, shocked as much as the rest of them. 

"Who the hell threw that then?" Bob exclaimed, wiping the spilled liquid off his suit. 

Suddenly they were aware of a light at the end of the room, someone was standing there. It was actually three people, just silhouettes, but it was obvious that they had thrown the bottle. The team were now in a great deal of trouble -they'd never thought of the possibilities of squatters!

Bob, Owen and Helen just ran off through the nearest door, leaving the rest of the crew to the mercy , but they hadn't kept an eye on their surroundings and hadn't realised that they were running into the dilapidated part of the building where they'd been warned off. None of them were paying any attention to where they were going and it was Helen who fell first. The non-existent floorboards were no longer holding her weight and she fell with full force, with Owen right on top of her. They never stood a chance and the fall was impressive. Bob stopped in time and looked in horror at the bloodied, broken heap below them, unaware of the squatters who were walking behind him.

8)

Yvonne, Steve and Sandy just held each other. They didn't know what to do; they didn't know how many squatters were left in the building let alone what was likely to happen. Sandy looked around her with one of the few torches left and recognised where they were; the front door was just in the opposite direction from where Owen had run, but  it was also in the direction from where the bottle had been thrown. 

They were too tired and scared to run and it would be hours before it became light again. Steve was all for creating a diversion so the two women could escape but Yvonne had seen enough hurt and pain for the evening. She just wanted to leave and got the three of them to walk calmly to the entrance, holding the remaining torch in the least threatening way she could think off. 

Sure enough the entrance was less than twenty feet in front of them, but as they got closer they could see the three squatters from before.

"I'm so sorry we've invaded your space. We had no right to do so and we're all so sorry. Please just let us go and you'll never hear from us again." She said as calmly as she could, her voice wobbling as much as her legs. She tried walking as slowly as she could to the door.

"You're Yvonne.... Hardacher, aren't you?!" One of the squatters exclaimed, walking into the light. Yvonne nodded in a daze. "I remember you from kiddies television! I used to love watching you.." She blushed despite herself. Another one of the squatters, a woman this time said, "You do that Ghosthunter show, don't you? Is this one now??" The woman was almost beside herself with the prospect. "Does that mean we're on television now?" The third one said and actually tried to smooth his hair straight. 

"You can be if you want to be." Steve said, despite himself. He could scarcely understand what was happening.

"You're the skeptic, aren't you?" The first one said and Steve wanted to crawl under a rock.

"I was.. but I think Yvonne's making a believer out of me." He replied.

"Well, before you all go I've got one thing to say to Yvonne that will make you all believe." The third squatter remarked. They were almost at the door and Yvonne was about to turn the handle. She turned around and looked puzzled. 

"This is from Desmond?" The squatter said. "He says to keep your chin up, pet; and don't stop believing."

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...