Dab Hands - an original screenplay

INT. MAIN HOUSE, DANCEFLOOR - NIGHT

A small island, similar to Brownsea Island. Tonight it’s cut off by a storm. An elegant Georgian house with several large windows and two huge patio doors. A sombre version of Glenn Miller’s “In The Mood” plays. Seven people sit around, staring into space as the rain patters on the window. They seem lethargic and bored.

No one seems that interested in what is happening outside. They ignore the storm. The lights flicker. They ignore that too. The lights go out. The patio doors are suddenly pushed open and 3 women and 4 men stagger in. They are all soaked and wearing life-jackets. The seven people suddenly get up as the music starts the last refrain.

CUT TO:

TITLE CARD:  DAB HANDS (The music suddenly changes to the normal speed and key)

CUT TO:

INT. LOUNGE - NIGHT

Everyone has moved into the large lounge area. The lights are back on now. All the women have been given blankets and towels to dry themselves off. They are drinking tea or coffee. The men are still sodden but drinking either whisky or brandy.

GRANT: I never even knew you could get ship-wrecked in the UK….

RACHAEL: I would hardly call it ship-wrecked… Ryan just proved once again that he had no idea what he was doing!

SASHA: Didn’t stop you following him though. You didn’t try to help out. If you knew what you were doing we would never have capsized.

RACHAEL: I was never in favor of this in the first place!

JON: You’re always so quick to blame others. When are you going to take responsibility for your own actions?

The 6 older people look at each other. They seem to have been forgotten about in the melee. Zoe takes the lead.

ZOE: As long as you’re all ok though. That’s the main thing.

JAMIE: Yeah; it’s such a vicious night, I’m surprised you managed to find us!

RYAN: We saw your lights from the shore. We’re sorry about smashing the windows when we came in like that. 

IAIN: We’ll pay for everything that we broke. We’re just grateful for you.

HELEN: Turn the other cheek, why don’t you. You don’t have to turn everything into a sermon!

GRANT: Not now, Helen. Get off your soapbox. 

(to the residents)

GRANT:  wonder if we could use your phone, or if we could possibly have a change of clothes. Everything we own is on the yacht.

LIZ: I’m afraid that the phone line is out, due to the storm. There’s not much electricity either, this building is on a back-up generator which is independent of the rest of the island…

ALISTAIR: …I’m sure we’ll be able to help you get into warm clothes though. They might not fit properly and won’t be in your fashion but between us we can sort you out. I think it’s best that we split up and put one or two of you up for the night. We might have a bit of tucker that you can help yourself to, if you like?

RACHAEL: That would be lovely; thank you so much. Is it just yourselves on this island?

ZOE: Well, there’s normally more of us but this is off-peak… apart from the six of us there’s only Deidre and Ronald; but they live on the other side of the island. They tend to keep to themselves really…

IAN: Well, how do you want to split yourselves up? Who’s who?

GRANT: Sasha and Jon are a bit of an item…

ZOE: You can come with me if you like… It’s a little cottage with an allotment. You’ll find it very homely.

SASHA: Yes, I felt you were a very earthy woman. 

ZOE: Thank you… I think… Off we go.

Zoe walks off with Sasha and Jon. Rachael looks at Grant and rolls her eyes. As Zoe leads Sasha and Jon down the driveway, they take a left turn beyond the courtyard. 

Helen walks with Liz and they walk out the front door and turn right. The storm has died down now. 

Rachael and Grant walk with Victoria and Alistair and follow the track straight ahead.  Iain goes with Gordon.

IAIN: Peace be with you!

Everyone ignores him. Iain follows Gordon down the driveway. The door closes behind them. Their voices carry back across the courtyard.

GORDON: You’re not religious, are you?

IAIN: I’m born again.

GORDON: Of course you are.

It is now just Jenny and the two men left. 

IAN: Guess that’s time for me. Good night, the pair of you.

Ian walks away down the hall. Ryan is left with Jenny. He has been eyeing her all night. He follows Jenny up stairs. 

CUT TO:

INT. MAIN HOUSE HALLWAY - NIGHT

Jenny and Ryan are standing in an upstairs hallway. There are three doors. The closest is a spare room which Jenny points to.

JENNY: It’s not much, but it will do for you.

RYAN: What happens if I get lonely?

JENNY: There’s some stuffed toys on the bed that will keep you company; should you need some creature comfort. Good night.

Jenny walks away into her room, diagonally opposite Ryan’s room. Ryan walks into his room and shuts the door.

CUT TO:

INT. ZOE’S LOUNGE - NIGHT

Sasha and Jon sit on the sofa. Zoe sits in the lounge chair opposite.

ZOE: I’m an early riser so I’ll try to be careful when I come down for breakfast. 

SASHA: Don’t we get a bed? It’s been a helluva night… I think I might need some loving, if you know what I mean… 

ZOE: You’re here under sufferance. I’m not all that prim but I gather that the two of you are not married. I will not have you acting like a…. What do you call them? Hoe? In my cottage, thank you very much. The sofa is quite comfortable and I hope you both have a good night's sleep. Good night.

Zoe gets up and walks up the stairs, leaving Jon and Sasha grinning mischievously at each other.

JON: Lovely… You really have a great way with words, Sash! I thought she would never go.

SASHA: I thought she would have more empathy. There’s nothing in her at all.

JON: Talking of being in someone.

Jon leans across Sasha and starts stroking her breasts whilst kissing her neck. Sasha moans and then stops herself and Jon abruptly.

SASHA: We can’t do it here. What if she hears something?

JON: She might want to join in!

SASHA: God, she must be sixty and a day! She’s ancient!

JON: Don’t you want to get freaky?

SASHA: Not with someone that close to death! How about we do it in the potting shed?

JON: That sounds evil! We’ll be doing our own potting! Let’s do it!

Sasha and Jon walk out of the lounge, and outside. They cross the small courtyard and walk into the potting shed.

CUT TO:

INT. ZOE’S POTTING SHED - NIGHT

There are lots of rickety tables with rows of pots and flowers. Watering cans and rows of tools hanging on various hooks. There’s a few pairs of gardening gloves near the door and a pair of weighty wellington boots and a yellow sou'wester with a yellow waterproof hood.

Sasha and Jon start to undress. They move a couple of the bags of peat on to the floor to create a make-shift bed. They then drape their clothes on it so it’s not cold or damp to the touch. Sasha drapes herself on the peat bed and entices Jon. Jon leans into Sasha and kisses her deeply. He then mounts her.

CUT TO:

INT. ZOE’S POTTING SHED DOOR - NIGHT

The potting shed door opens quietly and someone walks in. Sasha and Jon can be heard fucking. It’s lurid and undignified. The person puts on the sou’wester and pulls over the hood. They put the gardening gloves on and walk quietly to the tool rack. They pick up a hoe and walk over to the pair loudly humping on the peat.

The person brandishes the hoe as they stand over the writhing bodies. They swing the hoe down in a hard chopping motion and severs Jon’s head. They then chop down several times in rapid succession before Sasha can even scream.

CUT TO:

INT. JENNY'S GUEST ROOM - NIGHT

Ryan is sitting on the bed, stripped down to his y-fronts. There is a dressing gown hanging on the door. He gets off the bed, walks to the door and snatches the dressing gown.

RYAN: Fuck this. I’m horny.

Ryan walks out of the guest room and knocks on the door to Jenny’s room. Jenny opens the door and Ryan just pushes through.

CUT TO:

INT. JENNY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

There is a large bed in the middle of the room. In the far corner is another door to an en suite bathroom. The door is shut. Jenny is being co-erced back into the room and is pushed back on the bed. She whimpers.

JENNY: No… please don’t. I don’t think you understand.

RYAN: It’s very simple, tits. You and me; three minutes to heaven and back.

Ryan walks around the bed, like a hunter. He takes the robe off. Behind him the bathroom door opens. There is a light on. It’s suddenly switched off. Ryan doesn’t notice.

RYAN: We going to do this the easy way or the hard way?

Ryan is about to get on to the bed when he’s tapped on the shoulder. He turns around. Ian is standing there. Ian punches Ryan hard in the stomach and then knees Ryan in the groin.

IAN: Let’s make this the hard way. 

Ian pushes Ryan, who is still doubled up in pain. Ian takes Ryan by the scruff of the neck and almost carries him into the hall. Ian drags Ryan down the stairs, so quick that Ryan can not get to grips with what is happening. Then they are at the front door. Ian opens the door and throws Ryan out.

IAN: We open our home to you and this is how you repay us?

RYAN: What about my clothes? I’m going to freeze out here!

IAN: You should have thought of that before you tried to rape my wife. You wanted it the hard way… I don’t want to see you any more. Come anywhere near this place again tonight and I will make it permanent and there are plenty of places I can hide a body!

Ryan sticks his finger up at Ian before running away into the drizzling night.

CUT TO:

INT. GORDON’S HOUSE - NIGHT

Gordon is begrudgingly showing Iain where he’ll be sleeping for the night. He opens the door and looks into the room. He notices something.

IAIN: I’m sorry, Gordon; but do you have a Bible I can read? I always read the Bible before I go to bed.

GORDON: Do I look as if I’ve got a Bible? The answer is no. I don’t. You’ll have to go without. Abstinence is good for you, after all. 

Gordon laughs as he walks away into his own bedroom. Iain looks as the door shuts.

IAIN (To himself): Strange man… Fancy not having a Bible… Wait a minute. I know where I can get one. We left out bags in the hotel; maybe there’s one there.

Iain walks out of his bedroom, down the stairs and braves the drizzle.

CUT TO:

EXT. GORDON’S GARDEN - NIGHT

Iain can’t tell which way he’s going. Gordon doesn’t have a pathway as such, just a succession of stepping stones leading in a snake-curve pattern. Iain is walking on the lawn when he hears someone walking behind him.

IAIN: Is that you, Gordon?

PERSON IN SOU'WESTER: Turn the other cheek to this!

Iain turns around to see someone standing behind him wearing a sou-wester and brandishing a croquet mallet. They swing the mallet and crack Iain’s head hard, knocking him down.

CUT TO:

EXT. GORDON’S LAWN - NIGHT

Iain opens his eyes to rain falling heavy on his prone body. He tries to move his arms but pain shoots through all of his limbs. There are croquet hoops driven through his wrists and ankles so he can not move. He is splayed out, as if on the cross but on muddy grass. There is a croquet hoop covering his throat and he is having trouble breathing. The rain is entering his mouth and he starts coughing. He tries shouting for help but his vocal cords go into spasm and his mouth shuts tight. As he looks about he can see someone standing close to him. They are still wearing the Sou’wester and they walk closer, holding the croquet mallet loosely. The person stands over Iain before walking away, leaving him to his fate.

CUT TO:

EXT. JENNY & IAN’S GARDEN - NIGHT

Ryan is running, naked, through the garden trying not to slip. He can hear dogs barking in the distance. He stops and listens. The dogs are getting closer. He starts running again. He slips and falls a couple of times. The dog barks are getting closer. It’s still raining and the visibility is poor. He doesn’t see the edge of the cliff until it’s too late. Ryan falls over the cliff. The two Alsatian dogs peer over the cliff with the tongues lolling and tails wagging. They walk away.

CUT TO:

INT. VICTORIA & ALISTAIR'S COTTAGE - MORNING

Rachael wakes up in her own room. Sunlight is streaming through the curtains. It’s a fine day. She gets dressed and looks at her watch. 

She knocks on the dividing door to see if Grant is awake.

GRANT: Yeah; I’m awake and decent.

Rachael opens the door and walks in. Grant is sitting on the bed.

RACHAEL: That’s never stopped me before.

Rachael sits on the bed next to Grant and kisses him on the cheek.

GRANT: Today’s different. It wouldn’t be right. 

Grant kisses Rachael on the lips.

GRANT: Besides, something feels… wrong. I can’t put my finger on it…

SCREAM from outside

Grant and Rachael dash to the window. They see Helen running up the path, sobbing her heart out. Rachael and Grant run out of the room.

CUT TO:

EXT. VICTORIA & ALISTAIR'S GARDEN - MORNING

Helen is nearly at the front door when Victoria opens it. Helen falls into Helen’s arms and cries. She is distraught. Victoria tries to comfort her.

VICTORIA: There, there. It’s alright, pet. Everything will be alright.

HELEN: You don’t understand. Nothing is ever going to be alright. He’s dead!

Rachael and Grant run outside and seek to comfort Helen.

RACHAEL: Dead? Who’s dead, Helen?

HELEN (sobs): Iain is!

Victoria (looks shocked): He can’t be!

HELEN (almost hysterical): He’s on the grass! I found him dead on the grass over there! He’s got things rammed into his feet and hands! He’s dead, I tell you!

GRANT: Show us where he is.

Helen leads Grant, Rachael and Victoria to where Iain is splayed out on the croquet lawn. Victoria, who has been disturbed by Helen’s outburst looks more relaxed and calmer when she sees it’s Iain that’s dead.

CUT TO:

INT. VICTORIA & ALISTAIRS LOUNGE - MORNING

Helen is asleep on the sofa whilst Grant and Rachael sit on a sofa opposite her. Victoria is kneeling over Helen using a warm cloth to soothe Helen’s brow.

VICTORIA: Poor love; she’s had such a time of it.

Alistair walks into the lounge, shaking his head.

ALISTAIR: Bloody phone lines are down still. There’s so many good reasons to live on this island but this isn’t one of them!

GRANT: We can’t help Iain now, but we need to find Ryan; Sasha and Jon. They’re probably fine, but in the light of what’s happened to Iain for all we know there’s a maniac around.

VICTORIA (looks shocked and hurt): That’s lovely. We all put you up for the night and you turn around and make accusations like that.

ALISTAIR: Now, Pet. Don’t be like that. I’m sure that’s not how Grant meant it.

(looks at Grant)

GRANT: (Pauses and then shakes his head): No… Of course not. 

RACHAEL: For all we know, Ryan could have done it.

Grant looks at Rachael askew. Alistair is still staring at Grant.

ALISTAIR: Don’t you think you should apologise to Victoria then? For making such an accusation?

Grant looks to Rachael. Rachael nods minutely.

GRANT: I’m sorry if what I said offended you, Victoria.

VICTORIA: That’s alright; it’s been difficult for all of us. What are you going to do now?

RACHAEL: I think we need to find the other three. 

ALISTAIR: We need to split up then; cover more ground.

RACHAEL: I think that’s a bad idea. We don’t know what’s happened to the others. If we split up, and it is… Ryan, who knows what could happen.

GRANT: I think Alistair is right. He and Victoria can search one side of the island. You and I can search the other.

VICTORIA: I think it’s best that I stay with Helen, just in case she wakes up. Alistair can stay with Rachael and look after her if Ryan turns up. Grant can search the far side of the island. He can pop into Deidrie and Ronald's cottage. Something may have happened to them in the interim!

ALISTAIR: I had forgotten about them in the melee. Would you mind, Grant? Rachael can look after me as we check to see if Zoe, Jenny and Ian are ok.

Rachael nods. They all get up, pair off and head outside, leaving Victoria still kneeling over Helen.

CUT TO:

EXT. ZOE’S COTTAGE - MORNING

Rachael and Alistair walk up the garden path. Zoe is waiting at the front door and smiles at them both.

RACHAEL: Morning. It’s imperative that I know whether Sasha and Jon are awake… Have you seen them this morning?

ZOE: No. I saw them last night before I went to bed. Why, what happened?

ALISTAIR: Iain’s been found dead.

ZOE (momentarily shocked): Ian?

(Calms herself when Alistair coughs)

ZOE: Was it an accident? Things can happen if you’re not careful at night, if you go wandering in the wet. Was that all that happened? What about Deidr…

RACHAEL: (interrupts) It was no… accident. Look, I just want to see if Sasha and Jon are ok.

ZOE: I think I heard them in the potting shed last night. They were… doing things there… 

CUT TO:

INT. VICTORIA’S LOUNGE - MORNING

Helen wakes up and rubs her eyes. She looks around her and realises where she is. She remembers Iain’s body and sobs. She pulls herself together though and gets up. 

HELEN: Hello? Is there anyone there?

FEMALE VOICE: I’m in the kitchen, dear. Are you ok or are you still feeling a bit tender? 

Helen walks out the lounge door and into the hall. The kitchen door is shut.

HELEN: It’s still too much to take in. I can’t believe he’s dead.

FEMALE VOICE: I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea. One lump or two?

Helen opens the door and walks into the kitchen. 

CUT TO:

INT. VICTORIA’S KITCHEN - MORNING

There on the large oak table is Iain naked, laid out with his arms and legs falling over the sides. Holes in his hands where the croquet hoops were. Helen can’t scream. She is about to turn around when she is hit hard twice on the side of the head by a meat tenderising hammer. She falls down on the floor next to the table.

FEMALE VOICE: Two lumps it is then…

CUT TO:

INT. ZOE'S POTTING SHED - MORNING

Rachael walks into the potting shed with Zoe and Alistair behind her. As she walks in she sees two large aluminium shelving racks that have been covered up with green, plastic wrap. There’s a pool of liquid puddled beneath. 

RACHAEL: No… no…

Rachael walks up and unzips one. There are a variety of seed trays and pots. Most of them have green shoots and flowers growing out of them. 

Rachael scans each shelf looking for the source of the liquid. On the middle shelf are ten small pots. 

In each of the pots is either a finger or toe, each one painted black. Rachael chokes back a sob. She unzips the other and there, on the middle shelf, are eleven pots.

ZOE: From little acorns grow great oaks. I wonder what we’ll get from those two?

ALISTAIR: I dread to think!

CUT TO:

EXT. OPEN LANDSCAPE - MORNING

Grant is walking purposely. There are footprints still showing on the grass where Ryan ran the previous night. He walks quickly, following them he comes to the cliff edge. He looks down, being careful not to lose his footing. He sees Ryan’s body and shakes his head in dismay.

CUT TO:

INT. ZOE’S POTTING SHED - MORNING

Alistair and Zoe block the doorway to the potting shed. Rachael is standing in between the two racks trying to keep her composure.

RACHAEL: You bastards! You killed them!

ZOE: (Looks to Alistair) Does she mean me? I could never have done that!

Rachael looks quickly around her. She sees a canister of slug repellent as Alistair walks up to her. He tries to grab hold of her arm. Rachael throws the slug repellent into this face and pushes him to one side. She grabs a three pronged cultivator as she dashes away. Zoe lets her run off.

ZOE: She won’t get far…

CUT TO:

EXT. DEIDRE & RONALD'S COTTAGE - MORNING

Grant runs up to the cottage and knocks on the door. Deidre opens it and is shocked to see Grant in such a state.

GRANT: You’ve got to help me. There has to be a telephone around here or a means of contacting the mainland.

DEIDRE: Come in… come in… of course, let me help you.

Deidre shows Grant into their lounge and sits him down.

DEIDRE: You look terrible. You need a drink. Tell me what’s happened.

Deidre walks to the sideboard and uncorks a bottle. She pours a generous measure into a glass and gives it to Grant who accepts it. He drinks it back and splutters a bit. 

GRANT: Ryan… dead.. And Iain before that… I don’t know how Ryan died, but Iain was murdered… so maybe so was Ryan… I just can’t take it in. I need a phone!

Deidre refills his glass. Grant drinks it again. Deidre sits on the sofa next to Grant and strokes his arm in comfort. 

DEIDRE: You poor thing. You’re in shock… it will be alright.

Grant tries to get up but can’t. His head goes light. 

GRANT: What’s wrong with me?

DEIDRE: It’s ok… it’s alright. Let mummy look after you like I looked after the others.

Deidre strokes Grant's face and arms; down his body and then his thighs. She strokes the inside of his thighs. Grant is unable to stop her. Deidre strokes his groin area.

DEIDRE: Oh, you are going to be tasty… Just like all the rest.

Grant pushes Deidre away, horrified and shakily gets up, out of the lounge chair. He turns around and is confronted by Ronald who is holding a boning knife. At his side are two Alsaitan's.

RONALD: Just think what we can make of him. Look! He’s still got some fight in him!

Ronald pushes Grant down easily. Grant falls on the floor and as he looks at Ronald he sees Rachael standing just behind him, grasping the three-pronged cultivator.

Rachael stabs the cultivator into Ronald's neck several times. Blood spurts out, covering the dog's fur.

RACHAEL: He’s not the only one…

Rachael looks at Deidre.

RACHAEL: Don’t you fucking move. Stay right where you are, bitch.

DEIDRE: I intend to, dearie. But just you turn around. 

RACHAEL: Do you really think I’m that stupid?

Grant looks to the lounge window. Zoe, Liz, Jenny and Ian are standing outside, waiting. Rachael turns to look as well and her hand goes limp.

DEIDRE: You’re not our first meal ticket. We’ve done it so many times before, dear. We’ve become dab hands at it…

FADE OUT:

Effects of a cause

It’s hard to take karma seriously when one is hanging by a thread; suspended, upside down, by a seatbelt. A lifetime of good deeds means nothing when your wife and baby daughter are indistinguishable from the tortured mess of bloodied steel, crushed aluminium and calloused plastic. The lights were in his favor; he had done everything right. Mirror, signal and then crash. The car didn’t even have its headlights on, at this hour!  He found it hard to breathe; hard to believe it had ever happened. Yet the world was now upside down and streaked with crimson pain as everything hurt; it was impossible to tell where it hurt more. He couldn’t move anything, just hang limply; the acrid petroleum sweetness burnt his nose and eyes. At first there was a sound of rushing; a mechanical sound of blood coursing through and out his body and then he saw two dots suspended in the darkness, just hanging there like him. In the distance but coming closer, fast. Too fast. It wasn’t blood he was hearing but combustible engine death. A stacked Russian roulette pistol with no way out except to join the two loves of his life.

At what stage do you take umbrage at randomness? In front, at the junction, another light that was getting ready to red-shift.  She’d been the victim of every red light that Brighton had to offer. Every crap decision from every arse who ever thought today was the day for a Sunday drive.. ON A TUESDAY MORNING! All the bastard cyclists who made up their own rules, wore their own judge, jury and executioner by way of a helmet-mounted camera and wouldn’t let you forget it. All the pedestrians who ignored the traffic lights completely as if they had absolute right of way over everyone else. It wouldn’t normally be a problem; she was a patient woman, she had to be. 

But her mother; hated though she might be… was still the woman that ‘raised her’;  was in hospital and in pain, and needed her. Where was she? Stuck at the mercy of a thousand and one arseholes, bastards and cretins. She’d had enough; surely her mother deserved more.. Surely SHE deserved more than this karmic shit storm that contrived to keep her away. No more. Had she not been so single minded she might have been aware of the blue lights. All she saw was red. A crimson fret that obscured everything else except for the accelerator -she was going to beat the lights this time… and indeed she did. But the ambulance that crossed her path might have had a more important reason to be there; that is until she ploughed into it.

Watch out for the next step. Don’t take anything for granted. What do you get when you put the two together? He was a loner and had loved every minute up until now. He had just started a week's holiday and wanted to christen it by walking around Hartfield, the birthplace of Winnie The Pooh. (Part of the allure of being alone was not having to explain himself to anyone!) 

He had found a walk published in an old issue of the Mid-Sussex Times and had been following it for some time. It had been raining heavily but he was determined not to let that stop him -he could be very determined when it counted. There was also the major benefit that he hadn’t seen another soul all morning! Everything felt really damp underfoot and his boot had stuck a few times but it added to the fun.. Kind of. He had a walking pole with him which he used to test the ground in front of him every so often. He looked at the newspaper clipping, which had gotten a little damp and harder to read and stopped. 

Looking around he had trouble orientating himself. There was a shrinking feeling in his testicles which was more to do with his fear of getting lost than it did being damp and cold. By his reckoning there should have been a style… and fencing. But there was none of that and looking back he even had trouble discerning a path at all, let alone anything in front. It all looked a little too marshy. There was nothing to turn back to and rather than admit defeat he started walking forward at a quicker speed and forgot all about sounding out what was in front of him. 

Suddenly there was no solid ground at all, just a foul smelling mire that swallowed him up to his waist before he had a chance to swear. The cold foul wetness shocked him and was ravenous. Before he had a chance to struggle he was deeper still. What was worse, he couldn’t move his legs or feet; he was stuck and getting sucked further in. He shouted out as loud as he could but his cries were swallowed by the wind and rain. What was worse was he realised that no one knew where he was. He wasn’t due back at work until the following week. He was completely lost and still sinking. All this because he wanted to regain a part of his childhood and play pooh sticks. Winnie was indeed a shit!

Monday’s child is full of grace; and she was so proud of her son.  He was sleeping now; it had taken her a few hours of patient love and constant understanding. Cutting his first tooth, bless him. The room was cold; the furnishing bare and provincial but theirs. Hubby was working every hour God sent them and they wanted for little. They didn’t live extravagant lives but they didn’t want for nout. 

They were provided for and knew that their hardships would be worth it; it had been foretold, hadn’t it? The meek? Well, what were they? She couldn’t stop gazing at his little lordship’s pudgy face; so peaceful now. Many parents would have lost patience or ignored the tantrum and grizzling but how could they? When did they lose empathy? Or did they forget how long they had nursed them in the womb -did they think that their responsibilities ended once they were born? She wondered why many bothered having children in the first place; they couldn’t all be accidents! She looked out the window to the sodden High Street below. She had to remember charity; she had no right to judge others, after all she had not lived their lives… not that she wanted to. She was more than content. Her husband doted on her just as much as he did when they first met, if not more so. He was besotted with their son; the little miracle!

 She saw the petrol tanker on its weekly rounds and wished the driver well in this horrible weather. The roads were something awful this time of year but this driver didn’t seem to notice. He was either late or too cocksure of himself, for he was travelling far too fast for such a vehicle. She was transfixed by it all and it was only the sudden, horrific screech making the baby duet in sudden screeching disharmony that made her step away from the window. She was oblivious to the petrol tanker as it overturned; the back end rolling over, scraping across the curb until it crashed underneath her window, spilling five thousand gallons of petrol. Petrol vapors quickly got into the drains and exploded, sending flames belching forth and manhole covers ricocheting upwards. But she was never aware of any of that, save for the sound of a car backfiring, fractured glass and molten death that engulfed the room.

Turn the other cheek. Everyone is somebody else's brother. Did that make him Cain or Able? He had been given every opportunity to be a shit in his life. He had the talents, had the gifts and resisted them at every turn. He had resisted the Church because he wanted to find his own way and, quite frankly, felt that if one was going to turn to a work of fiction then the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy made far more sense. At least that was funny! He dabbled in the occult and spiritualism but realised that they simply traded in one lot of dogma for another -why did no one want to think for themselves? 

Whilst in the Spiritualist society he had been told he had ‘great powers’ and could either be a medium or a healer. He was intrigued but after going to the first lesson he was disgusted when the first thing they talked about was how much to charge the punters for their services. He walked out, never to return soon after. He’d been walking his own path now for a few years and it had been a really lonely one until recently. That was until he met her. She was sublime: cheeky, intelligent, independent and she also dug him! WOW… (she was stunningly beautiful as well, which went a long way). 

They had seen each other for coffee dates for the last three months; both of them wanted to take things slow to start with: she had been in damaging relationships and wanted this one to work. He was very taken back by this and felt exactly the same. Tonight was the night that he had been invited up to her flat. The first time he had been invited to see her on her own turf, so to speak, it seemed the heavens were aligning in his favor -if he believed in such a thing. It was hard not to though. Ok, he was no longer religious but there were other concepts, such as synchronicity, that did appeal to him. Meaningful coincidences… Thinking of a friend and they ring; that kind of thing. 

And it was those thoughts that were occupying his thoughts as he walked the last few blocks to her place. He’d finally found a parking space and, besides which, the walk would give him time to get his confidence up. He was so wrapped up inside his own transcendental thoughts, looking at the ground in front of him,  he hadn’t noticed the new friends that had suddenly walked up behind him. He was about two minutes away from her flat and looked ahead of him now. The man walked towards him briskly. He tried to avoid him but there were gentlemen either side of him so he couldn’t avoid a collision. Somehow it never happened; or at least not in the way he expected. The man to his right stepped aside and the other slammed into his shoulder as he walked past. “Arsehole.” were the only words he heard, but he felt something else. 

There was nothing in his experience that he could equate to the sensation. It was pain, but sudden, in his gut. A lightening quick, sharp shock and he involuntarily put his hand to the throbbing agony that now spread wetly through his stomach and down his clothes. He had been stabbed. He collapsed, like a drunken marionette and held out his other arm to her flat which was just a few feet away now. They hadn’t even bothered to stop, not even to cross to the other side. They hadn’t even taken anything from him… but at least he knew which brother he was now.

Life is random. If things go well and we survive then someone is watching out for us, or it is good karma. No. Nor do we live under a bad sign, or live wicked lives if things ‘happen’ to us. We try to attribute meaning to these events so we can sleep at night. God must be good; yet how many different religions are there? Can they all be right? If so then surely we must all be going to hell (or are we there already?) How is it we deserve the good things that happen to us but not the bad? Live as if there was no causality save what we bring to the table -there is no cause and effect. Just be aware of where you are; be in the right now because there isn’t any other.

Busman's Holiday

“The wheels on the bus go round and round” until Mr Sachs walked onboard and held the passengers and driver hostage. It was later that everyone else went “wah wah wah”.

1974: A Croatian flight attendant  survived a mid-air explosion in a 747 over Czechoslovakia. The plane broke apart at 33,000 ft and, trapped inside the tail section of the fuselage, she plummeted to earth with a food cart pinning her to the floor of the plane. It was this which saved her, acting like a seat belt. The fuselage struck a heavily wooded, snow covered mountain slope at just the right angle which cushioned the impact. In a later interview she stated that she felt she had been protected the whole time.

19.45. Thomas sits in the back of the bus, admiring Lynda. A distant but oh, so close yearning.  All the way from Midhurst to Guildford. Building up confidence to talk to her. But there could only be a few stops before she got out. The bus was pulling into the Park And Ride. Now or never. 

Mr Sachs had other ideas.  He calmly waits on the pavement by the bus stop. He doesn’t even wait for the other passengers to get off. His intentions perfectly clear.  And when the driver looks to the source of the disturbance he becomes face to face with an old comrade and a new threat..

“Frank… what’s up?”

“Shut the fucking doors”. Frank Sachs replies, pointing the gun at him. He  looks to the frightened passengers. There are ten people on the bus. It had been a long day for most of them and all were anxious to be somewhere else.  “Nobody screams or I shoot. It’s that simple.”

There were no screams. But as the first whispers became audible Frank Sachs walks down the corridor to explain the situation.

“It’s very simple.” Frank Sachs explains. “The bastards sacked me today. Apparently I’ve been ill one too many times for their liking and because I’m dispensably pale and single I have no rights. So we’re all going to sit on this bus until I get my job back. It’s very, very simple.”

Frank Sachs walks back to the driver, John Searle. “Did you do it by the book, John?” 

“What do you mean, Frank?”

“Pressed the panic button, of course. It’s what I would have done in your position… if I had a job, that is.”

“Yes, Frank. I did.”

“So you’re going to remain sensible, aren’t you, John?” John nods. Frank Sachs nods with him.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I will.” Frank Sachs looks John in the eye.

“I don’t think you will, Frank. Not with that anyway.” John replies. John thinks he knows Frank. He’d worked with him for years. John knew nothing.

“Which leg do you favor, John?”  John looks at Frank Sachs quixotically. “It’s ok. I know you’re a lefty.” Frank Sachs shoots John in the right knee. “Unlike the movies, John, there is no blood spatter. Neat, isn’t it?” John screams in terror and pain. The rest of the bus respond in sympathetic resonance until Frank Sachs warns them otherwise. “He’s not in any pain. It’s shock. Don’t believe all you see on television.” He turns to John. “That doesn’t look too bad. I guess I missed the artery, John.” Blood oozes from the wound, a crimson oil seepage. “Take your belt off and make a tourniquet. If you’re lucky you’ll survive the night yet!”

Lynda now sits next to Thomas. Thomas is calm, despite the situation, but he just couldn’t tell you why…..

1999: A Swedish medical student lost control skiing down a steep mountain in Norway and fell headfirst into a frozen stream. She became trapped beneath the ice but found a small pocket of air between the water and ice which kept her conscious for 40 minutes before going into cardiac arrest. The rescue team managed to cut her out 80 minutes later. Although clinically dead she was rushed to the University Hospital of North Norway where the Doctors used a heart-lung bypass machine to pump her frozen blood out, warm it up, before cycling it back into her body. The operation  took nine hours, but she woke up with no brain damage. Upon waking she described the feeling of someone watching over her.

20.10. The curse of modern life: nothing is sacred; no privacy. No common sense and no facts,  no informed opinion, just feelings. Things might have turned out differently had it not been for social media. The police were notified sooner than John’s panic button. One of the bus passengers already texted the police. “We are being held hostage by someone with an air pistol. Please help us.!!”  This was before John had been shot. 

The police arrived and surrounded the bus. They demanded Frank Sachs leave the bus. That demand was ignored, as was the demand to release the hostages. It was at this time that the cavalry turned up. The local press had been informed by another passenger; priorities and the chance of fame and notoriety trumped common sense and the desire to stay alive. At least two of the passengers were filming quite openly, cameras held high like beacons mourning self-respect and understanding. Frank Sachs seemed resigned to this and actively played up to this new found audience. His demands had not changed, he just wanted his job back.

Thomas and Lynda can only watch the morons hold their mobiles like sacrificial daggers, exacerbating the situation. Lynda has Thomas’s hand in hers. She could not tell you why except it feels right, as if she’s known him all her life.

1848: Phineas Gage was an American railroad construction foreman. He narrowly avoided a catastrophic brain injury when a 13lb, 3.5ft  tamping rod was blasted through his skull after an accidental explosion. It entered his left cheekbone and exited with such force that it went through the top of his head and landed 30 yards away. Unbelievably he survived this and, despite having a radically changed personality, he lived another 12 years. When asked how he managed to survive such an accident Gage is reported to have said that moments before the explosion he felt someone push him back a couple of steps.

20.20. The police did not take Frank Sachs seriously due to the hostage account regarding the air-pistol. They knew he could do some damage with such a pistol but it was just a waiting game. A base of operations had been set up in the reception area of the Park & Ride complex, near the toilets. No one investigated Frank’s situation, or his family. So when a man was caught trying to ‘break into the bus’ it was assumed he was another hijacker. The police were quick to tackle the man to the ground and use the taser on him when he tried to get up. Frank Sachs saw all this happening in horror. This was his brother, Bryan.

Bryan Sachs had seen everything unfold on the local news and had driven to the Park and Ride as quickly as he could.  He had not counted on such an oppressive police presence and hadn’t thought through the rationality of his actions until after feeling the tasers sting. Yet no matter how he tried explaining his situation no one would listen to him. Things became exacerbated when Frank Sachs personally contacted the police through his mobile phone. 

“Release Bryan or there will be one less hostage to worry about.”

“Frank. You must realise there is nowhere for you to go. We know that it's not a real gun. It’s an air-pistol. We even know what make and model it is… it’s a BRK Brocock Atomic XR!”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“I’ll release one of the hostages. I’ll show you I mean business.”

Lynda wants to be the one released and almost puts her hand up as if she is back in school, waiting to be relieved. Thomas stops her with a squeeze and a knowing gaze that captures her attention and keeps her calm. Her previous anxieties and crippling fear are gone and she watches the events unfold with a cool detachment. The girl with the mobile phone put her hand up and it was as if she had one top prize on a chat show. The crowd was awed by this gesture and everyone in the bus now felt hopeful. Frank Sachs allowed the door to open and waited until the hostage had passed the threshold. He then shot her calmly in the back of the neck, shutting the doors at the same time as her body fell limp, as if its contract had been cut. No one screamed. They could barely breathe.

“It’s no longer just an air-gun… it’s amazing what one can find on YouTube these days.. Like how to convert an air-gun so it can fire real bullets.” Frank Sachs said smugly. “You have two things to do. 1) Let me brother go. 2) Give me my fucking job back!"

Lynda looked at Thomas with incredulity. It could have been her.

20.50. It had never dawned on the police that they could easily have bluffed their way out of the situation. All it would have taken is one call to the bus company. One lie told by the manager. A fake contract drawn up and then once the hostages were released Frank Sachs’s story could have ended. But that isn’t what happened.

The police did comply in releasing Frank's brother but only because they had planned something else quite spectacular. The SWAT team was ready and would go in with smoke grenades, They had already managed contact with another passenger on the bus; so the next step was to smoke him out.Unfortunately the person they had managed to contact was the driver himself and therefore everything he knew about so did Frank Sachs.

1985: A British climber tried climbing down the 634 meter Sivla Grande in the Peruvian Andes during a blizzard. He slipped on a frozen cliff edge and plummeted 20 meters into a crevasse, landing on a frail snowbridge. He managed to probe deeper and deeper into the crevasse and eventually found a small opening onto the glacier. Over the next 3 days he was without food or water and suffered from intense hallucinations before finally being rescued.  One voice was constant through those hallucinatory times; it was one that told him to keep going, that everything was going to be alright…. And it was.

21.30. By using the smoke canisters, the assumption was that all the passengers would be on the floor, having been told to do so by the informant on the bus. Anyone left standing up would therefore be Frank Sachs and could be eliminated. The police shot a few windows out, threw smoke canisters inside before operating the ‘driver release’ handle on the side of the bus, next to the main door. The door popped open and they saw a silhouette of a man standing by the steering wheel. They took no chances and simply opened fire on the prone body. The body slumped onto the instrument panel. In the bus the other passengers remained deathly quiet. Two policemen walked to the body but neither of them had a chance to inspect it before they were both shot in the head by Frank Sachs.

Lynda wanted to scream and would have done it if not for Thomas. There was a serene look in his eyes. With a squeeze of his hand he motioned for her to be calm. And then he got out of his seat and walked behind Frank Sachs just as the smoke was lifting.

2001: The Canadian was used to scaling skyscrapers and was totally unprepared when he freescaled up the left wall of the Red River Gorge. It could have been, and should have been, a fatal miscalculation and he found himself stranded. The nearest handhold was completely out of his physical reach and his forearms were too full of lactic acid for him to climb back down. He felt a nudge to try something desperate; he knew he would make it: he released his grip entirely and launched himself upward into the air and caught the distant edge with his fingers and held on. Suffice to say he survived and made it back downstairs to tell the tale.

21.31. Frank Sachs heard a noise behind him. He was too preoccupied to understand what was  happening; he was now operating on adrenaline. He got up and turned to see what had made the noise. He was shocked to see Thomas walking slowly towards him with a beatific smile on his face. Frank Sachs first reaction was to shoot him dead but his hand was jolted by something as he fired. It was this muzzle flash that finally gave the snipers outside the bus something to target. Three of them took the fatal shot. Frank Sachs fell dead. Thomas had already fallen on the floor just seconds before the snipers opened fire. But to everyone else it must have seemed that Thomas had been shot multiple times at the same time as Frank Sachs.

Lynda rushed to his side, sobbing with confused emotions. Her life was now inextricably bound to this stranger. Less than three hours ago they had been two disparate people and now he had sacrificed his life for hers. Thomas heard Lynda’s sobs and opened his eyes. Despite the pain he looked into her eyes and smiled. “I’m absolutely starving. When this is all over how about a kebab?”

1999 : A disgruntled bus driver takes a bus and its passengers hostage for three hours with a converted air-pistol. Through poor communications and mis-understandings at least three people are killed. Just as things seem hopeless one of the passengers distracts the hijacker and almost pays the price.  By a pure fluke of fate the shot goes wild and rather than shoot him in the face the bullet goes right through the shoulder, missing all the major arteries. The passenger survives and jokes that his actions were down to a momentary lapse of reason. When pushed he states that he felt someone with him, guiding his actions. Eight months later he is married to the passenger next to him on the bus. That, he stated, was the real miracle.

The Calming Influence

Mondays child was the content baby

Even before Lily became pregnant she knew exactly what she wanted. She knew how social media worked; how easy it was to become popular online; knew how to build a brand around herself; perfect an identity… lie and cheat basically. She was going to film everything in her life through hidden cameras in a way that had never been done before. She had spent so long analyzing the various narcissistic trends that flourished, peaked and died down and none of them had any stay of longevity. Brands troughed because no one understood themselves. That was where Lily was different. She didn’t know much in the world but she knew herself and to what lengths she would go to ensure her ongoing popularity. 

Her first video took the longest to prepare. It needed to be something special; a wow-factor. There were so many maternity videos that were contrived with no backstory, but she would adhere as close as she could to the maxims of naturality and inclusive footage. The first video spanned the initial nine months of her pregnancy. It started with her predatory stalking on various dating websites as she explained the type of man she was looking for: Geeky, enthusiastic, weak, pliant… They would obviously be very grateful for any attention and, if she played her cards right, then it would be like shooting nerds at a convention.

Initially her advances were spurned because she was too enthusiastic. She actually frightened off her potential suitors, mainly due to their lack of confidence; but she hit the jackpot with number four. She eventually shared everything about this man’s life in the video …. She played him along perfectly; they slept together on the first date and he was so grateful. He kept saying how amazing everything was and how much of an angel she was. He was insistent on protection and always wore a condom. She soon insisted on buying them herself, which he was actually relieved about. What he didn’t know was that Lily was making holes in each of the condoms in the hopes that she would get pregnant.

Obviously, all of this was laid bare in the video commentary although Phil was never cognisant of any of this until much later. When it was eventually released everyone thought that it felt amazingly genuine, but few people guessed it was just how real it was. 

Lily wanted a home birth, obviously. He thought she was the ultimate Earth Mother but it was the only way for her to ensure full coverage. At home she could control the lights, everything. And if it looked painful then so much the better; she would get thousands of sympathy posts from empathetic women.  She said that she was opting for a natural birth away from pain killers or epidurals but that was another complete fabrication -she would be, in her own words, doped up to the eyeballs.

How was he not aware everything was being filmed? How did he not know that she was addicted to the dopamine rush that only social media could give? Was he somehow collaborating with her? The sad truth was he was blind to anything but the lies she told him, he was also blind to social media. He loathed it, but trusted her implicitly -she gave him no cause to question her. He didn’t care for mobile phones either; had the oldest Nokia flip phone imaginable ICE only, babe and therefore didn’t understand how nefarious and treacherous such a world could be,  He would find out the sick truth later but by then it was far too late.

He was there for the birth, but only just. He may as well have been a shopfront dummy for all he brought to the day; told where to sit and given stage directions. He just wanted to make her day extra-special as possible and did exactly what was asked of him. The baby was a thing; a prize to be paraded and shown off. She never stood a chance -christened Sindy, she was always in front of an audience from the first minute she popped out of her mother.

Tuesdays Child Gets Ready With Me

Sindy; a sick joke of a name, a self-referential jibe that no one except Lily understood. Sindy was just a toy to her; something to dress up and show off to the world. They did everything together and it’s here that Lily became probably the most manipulative. She bought him his first proper mobile phone with a camera and used everything in her arsenal of nasty tricks to get him to use it, to normalise the process of filming Sindy. “You’re going to miss out on all those wonderful moments when you get older.” Lily would say.

“I’ve got something called memory.” He would reply.

“What about me? How can I share in those times? What if I miss her first words?” She knew exactly what buttons to press; how to make him feel guilty. So much so that he started to get hooked as well. He had no defence against that first powerful hit. Especially when she suggested that they share his first photos of Sindy to other people. It had never dawned on him that Lily had been doing this for months; nor did he question why other people would be interested. He was the proud father -someone that would never amount to much (or so he had told her over and over again)- and upon seeing the first likes and comments on how beautiful Sindy was, he was prouder still. He then became complicit although he never dreamed just how far things would go.

Over the first few years they both posted numerous times a day; he was hooked. This made it easier for her to create content and he helped edit the best footage; picking which camera angles and lighting worked best. Most often he would be behind the camera and they would work out dance numbers. It was even better when Sindy could walk (every attempt at a step was filmed, of course). Up until then the choreography was limited to Lily holding up the child like a rag doll as they danced to songs from Mary Poppins, All That Jazz and Frozen. Each dance garnered rave reviews and thousands of likes prompting them for more and more elaborate numbers.

After Sindy’s first steps she learned to dance; learned to sing. She became a very gifted child which brought joy to millions of people across the world. Lily had everything she wanted. Even he was ecstatic; he was the proudest of fathers. He had the most talented of daughters and a mother that doted on her every whim. They didn’t seem to want for anything as a family either. People seemed to go out of their way to give them gifts! Companies thought he was an amazing dad and wanted to celebrate him -he had an amazing wardrobe and watches -all of which he was eager to show off to other people. “Look at this amazing new….” he would say to his millions of subscribers. “This company is so generous and I’ve never experienced so much quality before.” It never occurred to him to ask why.

He was still stage managed at every step, as was Sindy. But cracks were starting to form the older Sindy became.

Wednesdays Child bears a grudge

They say that technological progress increases exponentially over a smaller amount of time as generations progress.  This was certainly true of Sindy. It didn’t take her long to start questioning why there was a camera pointed in her face most of the damn time. Sindy was deliberately silent all the time those cameras were pointed at her. Brought up with their unearthly presence for so many hours she almost believed that they were watching even when her mother wasn't in the room and so she was very careful.  She could say at least a dozen words and practiced when she was alone in the bathroom; even her mother wouldn't dare to film in there. She was quiet though and knew exactly what she was doing and why. She was thwarting her mother's every attempt to provoke a verbal reaction,.

It was her first birthday, already a special day and this would be a day that Lily would never forget. Lily had been trying to provoke a reaction from Sindy; all she had to do was open her mouth and say one word. It didn't have to be a large word, anything would do. Finally the cake had been cut and Lily was just about to put the camera down when Sindy opened her mouth. Lily held her breath as the momentous moment came.... "NO!" Sindy said with firm resolution and pushed the camera away. 

Lily screamed, despite herself and was grateful that this hadn't been live-streamed. She could edit out her reaction in post. Her father, who acted all shocked, was secretly himself, proud of her. And so developed a new found respect and mutual admiration between Sindy and her father. He attempted to keep everything secret, just between his amazing daughter and himself. They talked for hours (or Sindy listened as he told her stories) whenever mummy went to sleep. This went on for months and in his eyes he should have earned an Oscar for his acting skills because he never let on about their special relationship, as he called it, Lily was better of not knowing. And he was having serious doubts about all this filming she insisted on -he deeply regretted all those videos that he was privy to and wanted to delete them from the account he had set up. He was summarily told that it had been done and he could no longer see the video’s -but once again, due to his naivety he hadn’t realised that all Lily had done was block him from the account.

As time progressed though Sindy made it plain that she no longer wanted to take part in the dance parties; the ‘Get Ready With Me’ shows or the ‘cooking with mother’ skits; and if Lily was honest she had gotten bored with them as well. They were no longer the attention grabbers that she had hoped for, but the hidden cameras were still money-makers. It was then that she heard of the latest trend and knew exactly how to turn it to her advantage

Thursdays Child Listens But Does Not Judge

It was the latest craze to sweep the social media pages. Couples would confess all sorts of secrets to each other but the other COULD NOT judge them. This was hypocrisy in the extreme and made for some hilariously uncomfortable viewings where couples admitted the most outrageous things to each other. It was difficult to know how much of it was scripted and how much was actually genuine, but it didn’t really matter. Lily knew how to make this one uniquely hers.

“I want to play a game.” She told him in front of the camera, the ultimate deer. “You have to promise me in front of all our friends that you are going to listen to everything I say. Listen to whatever I say but you must not judge me. And you have to promise this to me.”

“Of course!” He was so naive it was painful. All around the world, all her fans were watching this; already anticipating. It had been promoted a week before as the ultimate live-stream called “The most uncomfortable of truths”. She began:

“For years.. In fact, ever since I met you; I’ve been filming everything in my life.” His eyes widened. “I filmed every interaction we had online when we were dating; all those emails we shared. All the TEXTing. I recorded all of our date nights on hidden camera’s… In fact I have hidden camera’s everywhere.” He shook his head and smiled, as if this was some kind of practical joke. It was, but at his expense. She clicked the mouse-pad and all of a sudden he could see the extent of her machinations;  the many camera angles flooded the screen and past footage flicked through.  It’s unclear what shocked him more; video footage of the first time they ever fucked or of the birth of his only daughter. “Your turn now, lover.” She said, and smiled at the camera.

He was silent for a while and then replied. “Your daughter hates you, you know… and I can understand why. For the last couple of years we’ve been going behind your back… talking to each other; building a special relationship, the likes of which you can only dream at. You can listen but you cannot judge.”

She laughed and clicked the mouse again. “Who needs to judge. I’ve known about it all along. 

What part of ‘hidden camera’ did you find so hard to understand?” Sure enough, there were images of their hidden, secret chats -thick as thieves. Him acting as Judas but in reality just a goat. He got up and walked out of frame before saying: “Our relationship is still strong… You’ll never take her away from me. Over our dead bodies."

Fridays child has privacy to sell

A strong man would have left at that point. A strong man would have been named; would have had enough sense to see her for what she really was. He would have taken down all the camera's and left with Sindy. And he certainly would have had enough sense to keep a closer eye on Lily.

Lily didn't suffer from main character syndrome, she was the main character and he could only agree with her. He tried to live his own life with Sindy; in the same house as his wife albeit in two separate wings of the house, but it crucified him.

She loved it. She thrived. If one revenue stream dried up  then she could still sell the footage of her past nuptials and there were still lots of people that would pay for previously unseen footage of her daughter. She had also recorded footage of every one of her carnal exploits with him. She released these for free on her newly created OnlyFans page. Her OnlyFans name was Ivy League 69 and soon she had notched up a heavy following. She then started looking for new 'features'; new people she could 'interact' with. 

She was careful initially to keep her profiles separate and even had an intense make-over to distance herself from the 'wholesome mommyness' of before. He was suitably shocked by her new outlook and demeanour when they passed each other in the lounge. He appealed to her to at least visit her daughter; something she had forgotten to do for a couple of weeks since the 'listen & don't judge' episode. Lily realised that she had to be really careful now; she didn't want to be thought of as neglectful but at the same time there was nothing that Sindy could give her 

anymore. Sindy had turned out to be a very bland and uninspired child, despite all the attention that had been thrown at her. He was less than useless. Lily then understood exactly what her next step was to be... and for the first time she fell down at his feet and sobbed uncontrollably. She was so lonely; she missed them both terribly; if only they could forgive her. All she wanted was to be a family again. He wept with her, held her for as much as he could. But like a scorpion, her tail was dripping and quivering, ready to strike when he was at his most vulnerable.

Saturdays child is never getting well

Lily never stopped. Her life was now clearly split between the two lies -her fans and her family. She was constantly run down, feeling tired. Her joints ached; migraines became the norm. She was paranoid that she might be pregnant again but it was just the pressure of trying to poison her daughter and partner pressing down on her,or so she thought.

She had miraculously shown everyone that she could make it as a mother and carer. She still insisted that everything was filmed -a girl had to have some luxuries, after all; but she needed to atone for everything she had said previously. He was overjoyed; Sindy less so. 

Of late Sindy had been developing symptoms that worried him. She'd been getting bad stomach aches for a couple of days, which he had put down to Lily's cooking initially...but then he joined her with the same symptoms which soon worsened with extreme vomiting. That meant it had to be a severe case of stomach flu.  Lily seemed to be ok to him, but what she was keeping quiet was her own feelings of nausea, headache and dizziness.  Lily put it down to the strain of trying to poison them both without them knowing. And the second week things got worse, both complained of burning feet...and anything that touched their toes, even the bed-sheets, had them in agony. Lily just wanted it to be over and upped the dosage even more. 

All of this was being documented on social media, obviously, and it worked. They now had the sympathy vote; everyone was following, messaging them with love and best wishes. Best Wishes! Even when they started looking gaunt and haggard; drawn and wan; no one ever figured out what was going on.

Lily wasn't the best picture of health either. Each day it seemed like a competition as to who looked the worst for wear. She knew exactly what she was doing with Sindy and him, but it never dawned on her that the same could be happening to her!

Sundays child is going straight to hell

It had been a lucky find. Her mother had some locked away in a cupboard in the garden shed for years and had probably forgotten it. Lily chanced upon it during a visit to her mum's after the 'truth and judge' episode; her mother had become increasingly paranoid about rats getting in to attack her and had traps set up all over the place. Lily had had to put up with this aberrant behaviour for years, being careful where she stepped in the house and shed. 

Her mum didn't remember much in her last few years but she never stopped going on about the rats. One day Lily got so fed up with her that she snapped: "Well, why don't you poison them all? It'd be quicker than trying to trap them! They're a darn sight smarter than you!" 

"Hey... that ain't a bad idea, Missy... I've got rat poison... got me some rat poison in the shed!" Lily didn't believe it until she was shown the locked cupboard. She'd forgotten all about it herself, and to her amazement there it was: "GIZMO Rat & Mouse Killer". The box was decayed and yellowed but was tied up in a clear plastic bag like a murder exhibit...

The final piece of the jigsaw. It was too easy. 

It should be stated that Lily, despite being manipulative and media-savvy, wasn't actually that bright. She thought that by wearing latex gloves she would be able to handle the rat poison without it affecting her. She hadn't counted on it being damp and caked together in clumps which she had to break up in order to slip it into their food. She thought she was so careful but wasn't aware of the thallium-laced dust which she was breathing in. The dust got everywhere, it laced her hair which became impregnated in her skin when she showered or brushed her hair afterwards and even coated the outside of her gloves which she then touched when she took them off. 

Near the end of the first week Lily got the shock of her life. Their stomach cramps suddenly abated and they seemed to be getting better. This was the first time she increased the dosage, adding more of the crumbling powder to their food. Then the tremors and pain really kicked in for them both and Lily tried to relax. Well, she might have done had it not been for her own ailments. She'd been noticing her hands trembling for a couple of days but had put it down to nerves. Now they'd gotten so much worse; by the time she realised what was going on it was far too late.

The final days were not filmed. Not for lack of trying, but due to the pain and suffering. Even in his last moments he never had the slightest idea of what Lily had done. By that stage Lily couldn't bring herself to visit them, and when she finally got the courage to go it was already too late; Sindy lay in Phil's arms. It's doubtful they would have recognised her anyway. The thallium had taken its toll on Lily as well; for the last couple of days her hair had fallen out in clumps and she had become haggard; pale and thin. She stifled a sob, whether in repentance or lack of oxygen, as she crossed the room to reach them; and it was then that her heart felt its final influence -a violent convulsion; the ultimate in cancel culture.

You're Safe Now

How long had it been? Legs clutched so tightly; knees underneath his chin, hunched up and cramping. Precariously perched on the sodden pink tasseled toilet-seat cover -he must look absurd, and maybe that was the point. Like a horrified, naked gnome who had lost first his fishing rod and now his sanity. He started shivering uncontrollably again; the weight of the last few days crushing him. He tried crying but the steam had boiled his tears away. His tremors and the sweat which now coated his entire vulnerability made it difficult to stay in one position. He lost the grip on his legs and they suddenly dropped to the wet-room floor. A jolt of electricity coursed through him and he jerked his legs back underneath him and sobbed. What was happening to him? Why?

It had all been so innocent at first. 1313 Birch Drive the piece of paper had said. The tourist Information Centre had spent a while finding the best place for Jon to stay and had finally written it down for him. Jon was embarrassed but didn’t want to say anything as they had been so understanding, so he asked to be shown where it was on a map, which was happily responded to. He was also shown photos of the B&B on the website and it looked perfect.

Jon was only staying for a couple of days in Torquay before moving on. He didn’t know where yet, but that was part of the fun; part of the adventure. He liked his holidays totally unplanned; took the train and arranged his B&B upon arrival. The Tourist Information places were brilliant.

It was only a twenty minute walk to the B&B and he checked the address on the piece of paper before walking in through the front gate. It looked perfect from the outside; homely. Even down to the climbing ivy and well kept front garden. There were a few cheeky seaside gnomes hidden in the undergrowth which made him chuckle.

The rang the doorbell and noticed that it had a flashing blue light around the button -it was one of those Ring-Cams. He introduced himself, explained about the Tourist Information place and was overjoyed when the door opened of its own free will. Impressed, he walked in and put his 

rucksack down before looking around. Everywhere felt odd; homely but clinical. Artificial sunlight portrayed a subtle clean light but without the warmth, The wallpaper was a creamy grey with a creamy orange ceiling. The staircase had the same greyish hue with the creamy orange carpet; just lighter; more gradual.  There was a touch screen monitor on the wall to his left, just over a dressing table. It was flashing with white letters on a red background, it read: “Turn me on”. He chuckled and pressed the screen. Suddenly it filled with writing; green on a red background -it looked like a welcome package and safety briefing all rolled into one.

“I’m sorry.” Jon found himself saying. “I’m somewhat dyslexic. I’m going to have a hard time reading this.” He then heard an auditory click as if a microphone had been turned on. The voice was calming but artificial, carefully modulated to sound less than human.

"Welcome, stranger.. You are very welcome to stay for as long as you like. Everything will be catered for. This is the latest Smart House design so let it do the thinking for you." Jon grinned at this. "Place your hand on the monitor screen and it will take an imprint of your palm. All the doors and fridges, freezers and ovens will recognise your print." Jon was skeptical at first but did as he was bidden, placed his hand on the cool surface of the tablet and watched a fluorescent line run underneath his hand like a photocopier. "Now place your hand on the door and it will open for you; the locks are electric so no need for handles!"

"What if there's a power cut?" Jon asked.

"It depends on which side of the door you're on." The voice replied as the door opened to Jon's hand-print. This was amazing but more than a little unnerving. Jon tried not to be a Luddite; technology was neither good nor bad; it depended on the intent. Technology just sped things up without checking the braking procedure -who would recognise the failure signals before it was too late?

"Your bedroom is on the first floor; third door to your left. The door will be open; the other doors are for the other residents who aren't in at the moment. Maybe you will meet them later. Enjoy your stay."

Jon acknowledged the voice, picked up his bags and walked up the stairs. Everything had an antiseptic smell; a faint mix of pine and lemon, with a touch of peppermint. The peppermint gave it a fresh smell and worked well with the pine. He found his bedroom with no problem, it was the only door open as he had been told, and he was amazed at the size and comfort of it. The bedroom seemed bigger than his entire studio flat at home; and the bed was a King size, There was even a wet-room: a combined toilet and shower combo, with a wash-basin as well. It took Jon a few minutes to work it out, but it was the recessed drain-hole near the centre of the room that made everything click; that and the rubber seal to the main door. Everything had to be water tight otherwise he'd be sleeping in a water bed! The wet-room was a pale cream colour and his bedroom was a creamy green. There was a dresser; a canvas easy chair which looked really comfortable and a flat screen television opposite his bed. He put his bags down on the floor and put the piece of paper with his directions on the dresser top. He made a mental note to thank the Tourist Information Centre on his return journey: this had been an amazing recommendation!

There wasn't much of a view out of his bedroom window, and the window itself didn't actually open, but he did notice that there was a temperature control on the wall which reminded him of the air-conditioning wars at the office. Luckily he could regulate his body temperature pretty well and rarely needed the air-con or the heater on; and the weather was just right for April. Not too cold at all. 

He was tired after his journey and it was nearly ten. He'd had the foresight to bring some food along with him; a cooked chicken, some salad; some milk and cereal but he wasn't hungry... so he lay in bed watching television for a while before falling asleep.

It was gradual at first. There wasn't anything that he could point to; he awoke slowly and felt listless. He tried licking his lips but his mouth was dry, and noticed that most of his body was actually damp with sweat. It was really hot for some reason. He got out of bed and walked over to the air conditioning and was shocked when it read thirty four degrees. He didn't remember touching the system, so turned it down. He was thirsty so managed to find the bottle of water he had kept in his backpack but banged his toe on the way back.

He went back to bed again and it wasn't long before he fell asleep once more... Only to wake up an hour later shivering. The damn air conditioning was now billowing our arctic air! He switched it off and was bemused. He couldn't believe that he had set it at that temperature, but something must have gone wrong; it wasn't a model he had seen before so there was every chance he had touched a timer button, or something similar.

This ended up happening twice more, at three hour intervals: first really cold and then really hot. There was a definite glitch in the system that the owner had to be told about.

The next morning Jon left a note on the tablet to explain what had happened. He didn't feel like talking as he was too tired and crabby. It was probably just a glitch in the system but there was no reply forthcoming.

After breakfast Jon felt like getting some oven-chips and a few beers to go with the chicken and salad and walked down to the local shop. It felt odd not having a front door key; he was used to having that fear of either leaving it behind or losing it somewhere. It was an irrational fear because he'd never lost or mislaid his own keys. Luckily the shop had everything he wanted and he was looking forward to an evening in front of the television. It had been raining for most of the day and didn't really feel like investigating Torquay's delights. He could spare an extra day to explore; it wasn't as if he had a schedule!

He was so used to the smart technology that he was expecting the door to start opening as soon as he placed his hand upon the door handle and actually ended up walking into it when it didn't budge. Initially he thought it was down to his hands being damp so he wiped them on his trousers and tried again. Nothing happened.  He rang the doorbell, hoping that it might activate the camera so he could talk to the owner, but again nothing happened. No chime, no light, no noise. Jon tried gripping the handle really hard; tried pushing it; tried tugging on it; tried banging on the door, banging on the window but none of the other residents were home yet it seemed. There was no other way in so Jon had a couple of options -wait in the cold and wet for the door to suddenly open or find a cafe somewhere and hold out until something changed. But what? The nearest cafe was about twenty minutes away, he was already soaked through and at least the porch offered him some kind of protection from the elements.

Huddled in the enclosed porch he pondered what was happening. The only thing he could think of was whatever systems glitch that happened last night with the thermostat had also affected the hand recognition so his palm print was no longer in the data banks. Well, that had to be it... He just hoped that the system would reset before he either froze or caught a chill.

Twenty sodden minutes later the door opened of its own will and Jon made a dash for it. It then took a further ten minutes for it to close again, making a damp patch in the hallway where the elements had seeped in. Jon was more concerned about getting changed and eating; he was seriously hungry before he left for the shops so was now ravenous and cranky; like a miserly  lion.

He unpacked his groceries and opened the fridge to put the beers in there for later. He should have been surprised to find another calamity but he was getting used to the idea now. So it was of no surprise that the fridge was off; probably at the same time as the thermostat went haywire the night before. He opened the freezer to find everything pretty much frozen solid. This house was really starting to piss him off and wondered whether it had suddenly gained sentience like that awful AI precursor novel Demon Seed, by Dean Koontz, which was late made into a film;  but he was no Julie Christie and this wasn't Proteus, just a badly wired house that was more like a Frank Spencer than a mad despot scientist! 

He took stock of what he had left to eat as the chicken smelt so bad and had pretty much tainted everything else in the fridge. That left dry cereal and oven chips. He went over to the air-fryer and was not surprised to find that it was no longer working either. So dry cereal and beer it was then! Or a takeout of some kind!

No charge on his phone either and his laptop battery was strangely empty as well, even though he had actually charged it on the train the day before. He found his phone charger in his knapsack and plugged it in to one of the many plug-sockets. He'd barely let the phone go when a sudden plume of acrid smoke came out of the phone and it just went PFHAP!! Disconnecting the charger from the mains he was very careful before he investigated what had happened. It must have been a power surge because the phone looked fried. He couldn't help but see the irony -his phone had been cooked but he had to eat his food raw.

It was still raining outside, although the front door had finally sibilantly shut and Jon resided to make the most out of the rest of his day. He didn't want to go back outside and no real destination in mind for the next leg of his exploring so he poured himself a beer and settled in the living room.

The living room was a dichotomy. Had it been of all of one homely colour scheme then it might have been inviting; but the walls were off yellow and a green-blue which made him feel disconcerted. The television was huge and was the latest in Smart technology again. It rested on what looked an entertainment unit -a sold cube with very shallow shelves and a handful of blu-ray titles such as the latest Pixar and Marvel films.There were prints of lonely, misty forests and foggy mountains on the wall and. the sofa look it might have been really comfy, with a soft pile cover but it was also coated in thick, transparent plastic -a body-bag for sofa cushions as if it had been the scene of too many crimes in the past.

It took a while for Jon to make himself at home, he kept sliding off the sofa but found he could wedge himself tightly. "I'd like to watch Sky Arts." He said to no one in particular, so no one heard him; even the TV was non-plussed by his choice of channel. "I want to watch Sky Arts." he said again but nothing. "SKY ARTS!"  Disgruntled he pushed himself off the sofa and realised that it hadn't been plugged in to the wall socket. He laughed; it didn't matter how smart the damn tv was, it couldn't do much if it wasn't plugged in -much like humans! "Sky Arts!" he said again and it sprung into life and turned the channel over to CBBC -a children's television channel. "SKY ARTS!" He shouted and the channel flickered and moved to "Bravo". So maybe the television needed to be calibrated to his voice print as well?

He took a swig of beer and a mouthful of sugary sawdust cereal and resided that maybe there was possibly something worth watching, even on Bravo. Ten minutes later and he was just starting to get into the television programme when he felt his eyes go heavy; probably down to the beer. He blinked, put the can down on the ground and tried to sit up straight. His transition to falling asleep was only marked when the television suddenly swapped over to Film Four, which had just started re-running Jaws. The screams of Casey Becker shocked Jon back to wakefulness in one horrific moment. As soon as he eyes jolted open the television switched itself off.

Had it been on a timer? Quite possibly, he was too drunk to care. He wasn't much of a drinker any more, just the occasional beer, so it made it easier for the booze to affect him; making him the cheapest date imaginable. He staggered upstairs to have an early night. The alcohol made it easier for him to fall asleep again and he had a blissful night ahead....

...until the Rammstein song "Angst" suddenly blared out of his speakers like it was World War III. Not again; this couldn't be happening again... Were the other residents back and having a party? The music was so loud and this time it didn't stop when he woke up. It made him so disorientated that he actually fell over the bed when he tried making it over to the bedroom door. It opened with a hiss and luckily the hall light was still on. All the other doors were shut and there was no noise coming from any specific door; but it just seemed to come from everywhere else!

It stopped as sudden as it had started and the lights went out at the same time. Luckily he was close to his own bedroom and could make it back without tripping. However he banged his nose and head on the door as he walked into it; his bedroom door, which he had specifically left open, was now shut.

He was not going to get stressed about this. He was not going to get freaked out by this. There had to be a rational explanation but he didn't really care. There were only a few more hours until morning and then he would just leave and put it all behind him. He walked to the stairs to sleep on the sofa when his bedroom door opened slowly. Taking his chance he ran for it and leapt on to the bed. Just a few more hours... All he had to do was shut his eyes.

Had he been more aware of his surroundings he might have seen the faint red glow of a camera on top of the television, watching his every move.

A few hours later Jon felt his eyes open involuntarily, as it he had unwittingly overslept. He opened them completely and was shocked to find the television on; the screen showing a red background with blue letters with one word: "SUBMIT" before flicking back off again. How long had it been on without him being aware of it? Sleep took hold of him again before he could think anything more of it. 

The next morning his head was like a bar full of brawling drunken louts. He stumbled downstairs to get some water and some paracetamol but the tap was dry, barely a drop. That was it, he'd finally had enough! It took him five minutes to get dressed and pack his bag and he stood at the door with incredulity. It would not open. Nothing worked. The door handle wouldn't budge, the door was locked, the windows now strangely blackened out, and upon walking into the living room he saw blinds down over the windows as well. He was trapped.

"No fucking way." Jon shouted; this was real life not a horror film. This was not one of those creepy escape-the-room games and nor could it be a glitch in the system! One of the other room mates,  all of the fuckers, were playing a practical joke on him. Well, enough was enough! Storming up the stairs he bellowed out: "Little pigs! Little pigs! Let me come in! Not on the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin! Well I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your doors the fuck in!" It was inanely apt but he was trying to stop himself from getting hysterical.

He got to the first of the other bedrooms as he ended his tirade and kicked at the door.  Surprisingly it opened without the least provocation. He was a little disappointed as he was spoiling for a fight; anything to alleviate this tension. There was no one in the room but it still had signs of life. The chest of drawers had clothes scattered within; there were toiletries in the wet-room and discarded  and sodden clothes in the corner. Someone had been there and recently too. The bed even looked slept in and there was a faint aroma of aftershave, probably from the morning before. Jon visited the other three rooms and found the same sense of lived-in disarray. All three rooms abandoned and he felt like the only one left alive.

"SUBMIT" The voice boomed from everywhere. It was a soft, firm voice but resonated with such force that he felt it deep within his guts. It was strangely possessive and persuasive as each syllable felt stretched for maximum impact. He heard it again: "SUUUBMIITT." He felt his head go light with the almost concussive force and staggered downstairs again, clutching to the banister as it bellowed out a third time. The extra space in the hall and stairwell made it so much more impactful. He barely managed to sit down on the sofa again without slipping off and held his head in his hands, rocking slightly. Suddenly the television switched on and Jon was  watching footage of himself. First in bed the previous night, just sleeping; then him trying to get in the front door, getting soaked. Then the last five minutes of him breaking in to the other rooms but from lots of different angles.  The screen went blank with a puce background and then yellow letters flashed up: "You will submit." Then a single window appeared in the top right hand corner of the screen and it showed another young man sitting in a similar position to him. Then another in the top left; a different man. A third bottom left; a fourth, a fifth; a sixth.. ten in total, all in the space of 30 seconds before the screen went blank and the writing appeared again: "You will submit."

"noooo." Jon groaned and launched himself at the television. He had glimpsed the camera in the top mount  and managed to smash it. He slumped back down again only for it to switch back on, slightly skewed by the interference patterns but the camera angle was coming from behind him. He lurched behind and found there was a statuette which he threw against the wall. The television went blank again. This time, when it switched itself back on the angle was at 90 degrees. This went on for almost ten minutes. Every time Jon thought he'd found all the camera's another took its place.

Finally Jon picked the television up and just threw it against the wall and found that he couldn't stop laughing. This turned into hysteria when he heard a click coming from the entertainment unit in front of him. Another television set suddenly rose, like a phoenix, showing his startled and haggard face in all its despair. on the screen  Then the text: "This is the last shot.... honest." Jon couldn't stop shaking his head as he lent to touch the television, but as soon as he brushed its surface an electric jolt shocked him. Then the screen was a mass of frames within frames of him from every conceivable angle from the moment he walked in that fateful day.  

Faintly at first, but with each second increasing in intensity, he could hear laughing. Like one of those old joke-boxes children get in Christmas crackers; canned laughter like the Laughing Clown; but this was different. As the volume increased Jon could make out a sound within sound; not an echo exactly but layers of depth and resonance. There was an intensity, as with the earlier SUBMIT, but this was deep pulsed within him. The pitches scraped together making his internal organs violently contract as if he were being poisoned by the laughter. The malevolence stacked up, bile coating his throat and it was if he was swallowing the sound like crude oil. His head was numb, his teeth hurt whilst his tongue turned to copper, pins and needles made him blind and all he could do was wretch and vomit.

Then silence.

Just the sound of his regurgitate; the dry heaving and a small part of his mind that clung on to sanity finally understood why the sofa's were covered in plastic. It took some minutes before Jon could walk up the stairs again; his clothes  covered in vomit and his stomach cramped; and all he could still see was all a blur. Maybe that was a good thing.

He made it to the wet-room and piled his clothes in the corner. He shut the door and stood underneath the shower. He was relieved when the water cascaded down. It felt like a miracle. The water wasn't too hot, wasn't too cold -for once it felt marvelous. He spent twenty minutes just standing under the shower trying not to think about what had been happening to him. The outside world didn't exist for him at that moment. It was only when he heard a click from the wet-room door that he was jolted back to reality. He walked to the door and tried to open it.  Nothing. The handle wouldn't even turn. He groaned and died a little more inside. Walking over to the shower controls he was more dismayed to find that the water couldn't be turned off either. Then he noticed his feet were making splashing noises when he walked but that shouldn't happen because of the recessed drain. He got down on his hands and knees and checked to see if it was blocked but the vents were closed. There was still a curtain of water emanating from the shower and it was showing no sign of abating. Unscrewing the shower head he picked his dirty socks from the corner of the room and stuffed them into the shower pipe. That seemed to work. No more water.  All he had to do was find a way out now.

He walked around the room assessing every corner; checking every tile to see whether it was loose and could be used as a tool but there was nothing. Everything was water tight as possible; it had been impeccably made and, if it were any other set of circumstances Jon would have called the architect a genius.

CRASH! The over-head shower head suddenly exploded sending metal shrapnel across the room; cutting Jon in several places. Water now streamed into the wet room and what made it worse: it was fucking cold. He dashed over as quick as he could; the water up to his knees now and tried the door handle again but it wouldn't budge. The water stung the cuts on his legs and he remembered the shrapnel from the shower head. It could possibly be used as a way out; a tool! It took a few minutes for him to find some but even then his hands were too number to make use of it and he just ended up cutting his fingers instead of the door.

When the water got up to his shoulders he stood on the toilet seat. Its fluffy pink seat cover so incongruous to everything else around him it was almost monstrous. There was no point him shouting as there was no one else around; all he could do was stay alive for as long as possible. Part of him wondered why though, what was the point? He was being played with, that much was clear now; being whittled down piece by piece until he really did submit.

But people had been doing that to him all his life. From his parents who just didn't understand where he was coming from and most of the time didn't give a damn; to his work 'colleagues' who used him for everything they could and then discarded him at a moments notice when overheads got too tight. Well, not now; not again, He was NOT going to submit, he would stay alive. Whoever it was obviously wanted him alive otherwise he could have been killed at any time so he WOULD stay alive and bide his time until he could escape.

The water was up to his chin now and he was swimming with the internal current. There was still a pocket of air in the wet-room and he managed to maneuver his way there. As the water got higher and higher still he spied an air vent that hadn't closed -he could put his mouth over it and breathe, at least for a while. It was so uncomfortable but it worked.

"SUUBMIIIT" it was like an aquatic whisper; an echo from a historical sonar. "Subbbmitttt".

The room shook slightly and there was an audible rumble and the water suddenly started to drain away. Slowly at first but then more rapidly. Just a film of water stayed at the bottom of the room, like a paddling pool and despite himself Jon whooped with joy at having survived. He sat on the toilet again and put his head in his hands as he tried to figure out what to do next.  He didn't notice at first it was so gradual. His body had been so numb from the cold that it wasn't until he saw some steam coming from the wall that he tried touching it. It was hot; almost too much to hold.

A few minutes later and he realised that this room also had underfloor heating and pretty soon he couldn't even stand on the floor it was so intense. He perched on the toilet seat, thankful finally for its cover. This was torture, plain and simple. First psychological warfare through the breaking down of his routine, lack of eating and sleeping, and then the attacks on his sanity through the surveillance. Now he was being pushed to his physical limits, but he hadn't broken yet and nor would he. He'd seen the movies; knew what the techniques were.

Pretty soon the entire room had become a sauna but, as hot as it was, Jon was resolute. He would not break. He found himself thinking that too many people paid the earth for treatments like this; he should think himself lucky, and he started to laugh. He had to physically restrain himself though; biting on his knuckle before he became too hysterical.

"SUBMIT!" The voice boomed through the steam. 

"NO!" Jon shouted back.

"SUBMIT!" The voice commanded again.

"Fuck OFF!"  Silence. Was it that easy he thought? Was it really that easy? The water then came from everywhere; vents at the top of the walls suddenly opened and hot water now cascaded from every direction. There was nowhere for him to go now and the water was too powerful for him to swim anywhere and it buffeted him; throwing him like a drowning puppet. It would have been so easy for him to just drift off, open his mouth for one last hurrah and succumb... but he wouldn't. Surely there couldn't be much more?

Again the water drained away, quicker this time -still a thin film underneath him. There was something different this time; no steam and he instinctively moved to the sodden toilet seat and sat on it. He pushed his knees underneath his chin and just squatted there and observed, his feet firmly on the sodden cloth. He tentatively put his toe on the ground and his worst fears were realised. A snap of electricity forced him to pull his foot back underneath him. There was a faint smell of ozone and he cursed himself for ever getting into this mess.

"Submit" the voice whispers, conspiratorially so now. 

Jon shook his head, whimpering.

"You will submit." the voice affirmed as the water started again. This time a gradual trickle coming from all the corners. It wouldn't take long for the water level to reach that of the toilet and if there was still an electric current running through then he wouldn't last... he would surely die.

"Submit." But surely that's not what was supposed to happen. If he was supposed to die then why keep him alive for this long? His foot slipped again and the jolt coursed through him and he whimpered uncontrollably. The water is hot; too hot... But what if torture was the reason for all of this? What about the other people he had seen; what had happened to them? Had they been put 

in similar situations? Had they all died because they wouldn't submit?

"SUBMIT!" The water was almost up to the top of the toilet now and Jon felt his head lighten. He was going to faint.

"SUBMIT!"

"YES.... I SUBMIT!!! I SUBMIT!!!" and then blackness.

Upon waking he realised he was still naked, lying on the dry floor of the wet-room, the door open and a cool breeze wafting through. 

"Get up and get dressed." The voice is encouraging now, Jon's head feels full of cotton wool and it's difficult to think clearly. The voice makes sense, why was he lying on the floor like that. There are clean clothes next to him and upon dressing he feels much better. "Walk downstairs and wait at the stairwell." The voice is so friendly, it seems impossible it had ever been anything else. Each step he takes is slow and measured and the stairs, although initially difficult to circumnavigate, he copes by clinging to the banister. At the stairwell he's amazed to find a new opening; a new open door, leading down. The air sweet but acrid. There was nowhere else for him to go but down, and as the darkness slowly swallowed him he could make out the forms of the other people. The other men who had no choice but to submit.

"You're safe now." and then the door slides shut behind him.

The house is empty once again. No more surprise visitors. This one had been such an unexpected pleasure it would have been churlish NOT to entertain him. One thing still puzzled and a camera zoomed in on the piece of paper which was still where Jon had left it, on the dressing table a couple of days earlier. "1331 Beech Grove" Well, that explained everything...

What would you do?

I used to think that I was boring. The truth would have been far more complex had I not accepted my gift. I could put people to sleep by just talking to them.

For years, especially throughout my more formative years at school, I just thought I was the most asinine of children; everyone always yawned within minutes of talking to me. I thought I was bright and interesting with lots of things to say, it’s just that no one could stay alert when listening. The yawning and nodding off started within a minute of me talking. No one made the connection, luckily, but I certainly did. I was a sensitive child and was very careful not to talk to many people. It was also lucky that I didn’t really have much to say for myself; I was a loner, even back then.

It wasn’t too pronounced until I hit puberty and then the effect became more intense. No one dared argue with me; and still no one put two and two together. I suppose it’s quite a leap of the imagination to say that I was the source of everyone's lethargy. Soon it became obvious that I didn’t really need to say much at all to have an impact. When I turned 18 I realised that I could work from home and found a job doing telemarketing to start with, but I soon understood that I didn’t have to be within close proximity of people to affect them. I then tried becoming one of the 0800 sex-line models. I made so much money on those calls initially, the company who employed me thought I was an absolute marvel to start with -my calls were the longest they’d ever had, and every minute was a premium rate. The calls were so long because all the women had fallen asleep a few seconds of ringing me!That fell through though when the complaints came in.

I tried talking to the Doctors about my condition but that didn’t get me anywhere either. I could make an appointment via text or email but the moment I tried visiting the Doctor the same thing happened. It didn’t matter how detailed my email was, no one seemed to believe me! I soon gave up trying to talk to people and living like a recluse seemed to suit me.

One day I took one of my regular jaunts up the town to catch up on my weekly shop. I had figured out that I could write my instructions on a small dry-wipe board using a marker and mime to people that I couldn’t speak to them. It was surprising how effective that was; most people were very understanding and even had a go on my whiteboard -the amount of times I lost playing tic-tac-toe was embarrassing.

Then Amelia let me win, but I should have known better. She knew what the whiteboard was for and her need was actually genuine. In some ways our should have been a match in heaven. She was deaf and had been since birth.

She read lips and nothing I said made her feel drowsy or made her pass out, or sick to the stomach… She even encouraged me to speak my mind, especially when we were on our own. Whether her deafness lent her an elusive quality, I’m not sure, but she felt ethereal to me; too good to be true (which, of course, she would be). She had long waterfull hair, blond and translucent in the morning sun. Her eyes were like diamonds on a moonlit night. I could finally wax lyrical; become as literary as I wanted. Her kisses tasted of lychee and her tongue was teasing and gentle.

She was fascinated by my talent, as she called it; and loved to see me practice it on people. She thought it was a gift as well, could be used to distract and dissuade; break up arguments and dissolve tricky situations. Her favorite trick was introducing me to her parents. She delighted in watching me be really polite and obsequious to them only for them to blanch upon falling asleep. They would then apologise profusely to Amelia and promise her the stars on a stick. Amelia would play on their guilt and blame them for all sorts of foulness over the years. This was her chance to get her own back; and I could see no reason why not. I was so topsy over her that I wasn’t thinking straight -passionless sex will do that. Not that I knew the difference. She was purely going through the motions with me; her groans were more out of her inability to vocalise articulately rather than being in the throes of ecstasy.

Nor did I think anything of us visiting her older sister. She pretended that I was deaf initially to get us in the door; and her sister seemed very shocked to see her; especially with me standing next to her. Amelia could sign but chose not to; she used her own whiteboard to deliberately annoy people -which she was doing now. In actuality her speaking voice was pretty damn clear and coherent for someone who had been deaf from birth; she had been tenacious in becoming proficient in it -she just didn’t allow the majority of people know about it. Her parents and sister were among those who were not in the know. 

Ten minutes of mounting sororal annoyance Amelia finally said, “My sister is getting het up again,.., why don’t you put her at ease?” So I finally introduced myself to her. The shock and dismay was soon overtaken by the yawns and eventual somnambulism. Amelia clapped her hands in glee and told me to go back to the car and get the engine running.

This was strange but I did as I was told; went outside into the chill morning and into the car to get the engine ticking over. I felt as if I’d just helped rob a bank. Five minutes later Amelia walked out the front door, almost skipping, carrying a plastic bag. She opened the car door and put the bag in the well next to me, slipped in and shut the door, but not before kissing me suggestively on the cheek -slipping a bit of tongue as if tasting me,

We drove home in silence.

I didn’t need to ask what she’d done. I slyly looked into the bag on the way home and noticed jewelry, lots of it .  “She stole it from me. It should all have been mine but she was always daddy’s favorite… You should have seen the way they judged you! It’s alright, she’ll never do anything about it -who would believe her?”

It was my turn to keep quiet. What was going on? I wasn’t the brightest of the bunch; a match who had been struck prematurely; but even I was pondering on whether Amelia was using me for some reason. My subconscious must have been leaking for Amelia confronted me once we returned to her flat.

“I know you must think me wicked, but I need that money… For years I’ve wanted to hear… I know it sounds corny but you can’t understand how much I’ve always wanted to… Well, there’s such a thing as a cochlear implant -and no, it’s nothing to do with having an penis enlargement!” I shrugged. “Mommy and daddy never wanted me to have it; they always gave their money to baby sister… but now it's mine.”

Sure enough, after selling the jewelry via a few pawnbrokers she finally had enough to afford the implant. For a couple of weeks the Doctors said that she was doing brilliantly and she pushed for the early activation of it as there was virtually no swelling. I was there when it was switched on and all the arguments had been worth it upon seeing her eyes light up after hearing something for the very first time. To be fair, it wasn’t my voice, obviously, just the doctor counting to ten, but it was the mere fact that it worked. It would take around another three months, probably longer, of speech therapy, listening exercises and auditory mapping of the nerves and fine tuning, It was an intense time to be sure. She became very tenacious, very demanding of me and she was in constant discomfort, which meant that we could no longer share a bed together, I understood… of course I did.

She did occasionally ask for me to speak to her, but only at the end of the day if she was in too much pain, I acted as the perfect anesthetic to her. And I obliged. I knew that I was in a loving relationship and she would have done exactly the same for me.

Three months later her sister got in contact with her again; going so far as to turn up unannounced. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye, she was that mad. There was a huge row; her sister had finally tumbled what had happened and knew that her jewels had become the down payment for Amelia’s operation. She hadn’t told the parents yet but would do unless certain conditions were met….

I could tell that Amelia was threatened by this and there was a very good chance that she could become violent. I had never liked confrontations and did my best to break this one up. There was no point me signing so I found our communal white board and suggested a compromise. Yes, the money had been for the operation but it was only because it was so important to Amelia. Now it had been successful we would do our best to pay it back over time, Amelia agreed to this immediately, which surprised me… And her sister agreed as well and by way of an apology, Amelia suggested that we all go out for a meal the next day. 

We were going to take a taxi to the new Chinese that had just opened, and that should have been the first warning bell. We picked her up in the taxi. I was already wearing my seat belt but Amelia helped her sister with hers. Whilst on the dual carriageway we overtook lots of cars, the driver eager to earn Amelia’s tip. Amelia casually asked me to help her with her auditory exercises.I agreed without thinking and she joked with her sister that she had me well-trained.

It wasn’t noticeable at first, I thought the driver was simply nodding his head to the radio, but there was no music on. I was still speaking slowly and methodically so Amelia could hear me and I saw her sister slump and suddenly realised what was happening. I looked back at Amelia and was puzzled to see her relaxed, coveting a smile and a glint in her eye. The driver slumped forward but quickly regained his balance and tried desperately to stay awake. I had stopped speaking but it was too late now, the steering wheel slipped out of his grasp and there was nothing he could. His full weight was on the car horn, like a death knell, as the taxi jack-knifed, slamming into the partition before careening into the oncoming traffic. I couldn’t see what happened next but I was the only one still awake amongst the wreckage.

Both Amelia and I survived; our seat belts had held. We were battered and bruised and in some degree of pain but we were ok. The taxi driver was dead; dead upon impact. Amelia’s sister was crumpled like a pile of rags; her seat belt had failed completely. She too was dead. It was clear that I had been used to effectively murder Amelia’s sister; there could be no doubt about it. However to everyone else we were victims of death by fatigued driving.

We spent hours at the police station; obviously both of us had to go right to the written statement. Amelia explained that her cochlear implants had failed and I just lied my guts out. No one would have believed the truth anyway. It was then that I formulated my plan. I had to get out of the relationship anyway I could.

That night we argued; this time with something more genuine and fraught than most nights. I think Amelia just enjoyed the sound of her own voice too much now. I found it grating and hostile. I asked her when she would allow me access to her beautiful body again, to which she just laughed. I now knew she had been stringing me on for months; she’d gotten exactly what she wanted and would probably dump me before too long. 

I took her by surprise and managed to pin her arms behind her back whilst finding her implant. I’d spent so long helping her out with the fine-tuning that I knew exactly how it worked. I turned it on, and turned it up. 

“I love you so much, baby.” I said. “You’re mine now.” And with a groan of disgust and defeat her eyes closed.

Yes… I tied her up. Yes, I turned her implant to maximum and when she woke up she was horrified to find herself naked. And so was I. I started whispering as I made love to her. Each time she started to drowse off I’d stop and allow her to gain consciousness again. I kept this up for hours; an hour for each of the stinking months that she kept me strung up and used me; making me accomplice to her crimes; her lies; her degenerate life. This was payback. I did nothing to her that I hadn’t done before but I also knew that I had crossed a line. The deaths could not be pinned on me -the sister and that poor, unfortunate taxi-driver.. But she could easily testify against me now and nothing I said would make any difference. She looked at me and understood exactly what I was going to do.

With the implant still on maximum I started to sing to her. I knew her favorite song in recent months had been ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen and it was rather apt for it to be used as an eulogy. This would surely puzzle the coroner as there was no real way of determining her death -sleeping sickness, perhaps? I didn’t care. She had enough money in the flat to get a full tank of petrol. The moral line had been firmly crossed now -it was so far behind me that it looked like a dot. There was nothing stopping me from getting what I wanted when I wanted it. A robbery here; a bit of comfort there…. I mean, if you were in my position what would you do?