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.

The price to choose

Three days had passed, apparent only by the small stream of sunlight he felt on his bare legs. He was naked except for a leather hood which was stifling through the day and constrictive at night. His legs and arms were bound to the metal chair. The chair was bolted to the floor. He had no idea how he ended up here or who his captor was. It had been expertly organised; he had been walking quite happily in the crowded high street and barely felt the tip of the syringe as it entered him. The drug had been instantaneous; he didn’t even remember hitting the pavement. When he woke up he found his entire body and head shaved. The air felt cold on his body now. All he could hear was the sound of his own blood coursing through his veins and the scuffle of the leather over his ears; all he could smell was the odour of his own body; the sweat and excrement that pooled around him.

He was unafraid though. All this life had led to this point; he knew this as he had always known. He was unafraid.

Time passed.

He heard sounds; the first since he had first woken up; sounds from outside: keys grating in a rusty lock, the door protesting as it scraped open; a lone fox screaming. It must have been night outside because the air now smelt cold and sweet; the peace interrupted by the man walking in. The door was shut and now the footsteps sounded dull; each step measured, planned. He was a man who knew how to use his body.

The hood was taken gently off and he was now able to breathe unencumbered. He said a silent prayer and felt the air cool against his sweat encrusted, stubbled face.

“Brother.” The man said, and caressed the top of his head as if he was a child. It was still dark in the room but he could make out shapes and shades of grey and gloom. The man had found a chair and now sat opposite him. He could feel the warmth of his body just feet away.

“I know who you are.” The man whispered. “Your name is Job.”

“It is as you say.” Job replied calmly.  “And what is your name?” Job asked, although he knew deep inside.

“You can call me… Simeon.”

“I can see you have a sense of humour.” Job replied. His hands and feet were numb, useless now as he had been tied up for so long.

“It helps in my line of work… but you already know what my line of work is, don’t you?”

“I have heard of you through your reputation.” Simeon mock bowed as if he had been complemented. “I know more about you then you may realise.”

“And let you are sitting here, remarkably calm even though you fully understand what will happen to you… and that there is no chance for your leaving here alive.”

“I am resided to that fate… it is my…”

“Karma? Yes.. that is something that you know an awful lot about, I’ve been told. You see, you may have an understanding about what I am, but I know all about you. Before I tell you why you have been brought here I will tell you more about myself. Isn’t that what one does in these situations? Maybe that will help you understand more about what will be happening to you later. They say that anticipation counts a lot towards any experience. They call me the Witness.”

“I have heard the name.”

“My services are available only to a chosen few; those that can afford me. I am like any other businessman; I provide a simple service. I do one thing and one thing only: I torture people; and for the forty years I have been on this Earth I have learnt all there is to know about the human mind, body and spirit.” Simeon smiled benignly as if contemplating his lot in life. “I have two sorts of client: business and personal. Amongst the businessmen are governments and corporations. Their needs are quite specific: interrogation and confession. On the whole payment is dependent on results and speed –to illicit a confession without killing the individual is a rare skill. Many people fail because they become emotionally involved. It is also a skill to tell lie from truth; but I am a master of understanding a person’s body language as well; I know when I am being lied to. You need to understand that… I will know if and when you are lying.

“The other, more personal side of my business, is among the more surprising and.. rewarding. You would expect the criminal element to feature in this area but, on the whole, they are motivated by money as well. There are others that have revenge in mind, but they tend to use hitmen rather than connoisseurs as myself.

“This is a burgeoning industry; I find that more and more people are heavily into revenge, whether this be as the result of rape or murder of their loved ones. There are others that simply enjoy seeing people tortured but lack the will or understanding to do it themselves. I offer a safe avenue for them to explore for I am a professional and thus completely untraceable in my activities. Some people will have a victim already marked, some will already have them ‘gift-wrapped’ prior to our meeting. I have known some people to select their victims purely at random –often in crowded, busy streets (similar to the one I caught you in).” Simeon paused at the irony. Job just looked at him. He was under no illusion what was going to happen. “The most interesting ‘engagement’ was of a man who wanted to die by my hands, would you believe? He said he was already dying and paid me twice my normal fee to convince me to take him on –as if I needed convincing. He wanted his death to be a work of art, but there were three conditions: The suffering should be as intense as humanly possible, as protracted as possible and under no circumstances should I stop, regardless of how much he begged.

“This was my opportunity to finally indulge in my art. I used him to refine my techniques. His suffering lasted three months and every second he spent in exquisite agony. I was never bothered by his protestations, having severed his vocal chords at the start of the experience. Suffice to say..  the look in his eyes told me that he had not thought through his request and by the end he was truly begging for death. So much for atonement…”

“Some people feel they have a lot to atone for.” Job replied.

“Atonement has never been something that interests me. I have nothing to atone for. But I am interested in Karma. I consider myself an agent of Karma. I am not a simple murderer; people seek me out. I am hired only if people deserve it –or I am paid enough… but even then ‘good’ people are rarely my victim…”

“What of those random people you have picked off the streets?”

“It is not always my choice; but you have asked a relevant question and can only answer it with one word: karma.  Now that does offer an unpleasant truth to ponder, hmm?”

The witness stood up and walked across the room and wheeled over a small table. On it were various surgical implements.

“Now…. you will tell me what I wish to know.”

Time passes. Minutes or hours, such terms had no meaning for Job could only measure it in pain; and yet at no time did he cry out. Simeon had never witness such control and was reminded of the Buddhist monks during the Vietnam War; immolating themselves, sitting calmly in place whilst the flames burnt their mortality away.

This was something Simeon was witness to. He was no sadist; he took no pleasure in what he did, but for the first time he felt…something. He sat down facing Job again.

“Let me tell you why I have brought you here. I have no capacity to feel on an emotional basis; I have never had this. I lack even the most basic empathy – I feel neither joy nor sadness in myself; I am myself, emotionally unencumbered… or so I thought.

“There is one other thing that is remarkable about myself: I have almost perfect recall over my past lives. I am aware of almost every life up until the present; and in one way or another I have always been a witness. This is remarkable, is it not? Am I not proof that Karma does not exist? For if it did would I not have paid dearly for all I have done?”

“You have…” Job tried to say through the pain, “you have no idea of the true nature of Karma.”

“And that is why you are here. Through the years I have heard of a man possessed of a gift that could help release an individual’s Karma. I have heard this through a hushed reverence, similar to my own reputation and not thought much of it… until last month when your presence was finally revealed to me. It is a strange circumstance indeed.

“You recall the man who hired my services for his own ends? His own torture? He had found you but a month before after almost a years search. He had been a businessman; unscrupulous, callous, viscous even; trampling on everyone until he reached the top and he had felt nothing but triumph until that fateful day when two towers crumbled and his empire with it. He lost his wife and daughter who had been his one saving grace; the light in his otherwise dark, soulless life. Somehow he survived but his guilt overcame him; he could not escape the darkness of his deeds and could not understand why his wife and daughter suffered whilst he escaped. In the years since he had travelled around the world trying to understand how he could atone for his past life, and it was during that time he found out about you.” Simeon smiled as if all had become clear.

“The rest you know, or have been able to piece together. I have sought you out to restore the missing piece of my puzzled memory –I can no longer live with this gaping maw at my centre; I must be whole. I am not doing it out of selfless means or atonement.. Therefore I knew that you would not willingly give me, for I have nothing to atone for. However, I have now taken the choice away from you. Only death awaits you now; you have shown great resolve up until this point but how much longer can you last? You must tell me what I need to know; give me my missing past.”

“It has always been thus,” Job replied after some time. “I can free you of your uncertainty and would always have done; but there will be a price. There is always a price. The gentleman you spoke of before? He understood. But do you?”

“I do. And I am willing to pay whatever the price.”

“Remember that I offered you the choice – the same choice we are all given.”

“I understand and accept.”

“Then you must kneel to me and I will kiss your forehead. By this alone I will restore your past to you.”

Simeon knelt before Job; something he had never done before in his life –he had no fear of reprisal but felt calm as he awaited his absolution. He felt compassion flow from Job.

“You are forgiven, my brother.” Job said. “But I fear that will not be enough. Now you will understand what Karma truly is. Until we meet again.” And Job breathed his last; his final task done.

Simeon knelt there as his mind reeled from the memories that were now finally revealed to him. He looked up at the serene lifeless eyes and realise that Job had called him by his true name, brother, as he had done at first meet.

He understood the truth behind the memories of who they really were; they had always been brothers, but Simeon and Job in this life only. Simeon had been the first witness to man’s inhumanity to himself; the first to kill, to murder his own; to sully the name of the one true creator. Job had become the first victim released from his Karma and the first to reincarnate and thus be able to free others. But freedom always came at a cost: repentance and understanding of the suffering inflicted on others.

And now Cain felt as no other, or would ever – the pain inflicted from all his previous lives felt as one. His whole life now, and from that life on, would be that as victim in atonement; part of him always knowing the reasons why.

The eighth day of the week

On the first day of the week it seemed like a chance encounter. He wasn’t concentrating as usual; Grant's attention was divided between texting and listening to music. Melissa wasn’t concentrating either; just pavement watching, even though it was a hazy, beautiful blue day.

It seemed a chance encounter; but it ended in an obvious and ominous collision. 

Their surprise was genuine, neither of them had seen each other in over twenty years, not since they had, unsuccessfully, dated in school. Just a brief fling, they had gone out for just three weeks and had barely kissed in that time. Grant was bemused to see Melissa, it had been so long since they had last met that he had actually forgotten what she looked like. She recognised him instantly though and spoke to him as if barely a week had passed. He feigned recognition until the right mental circuit had been formed and the memory flowed. Melissa had been his first childhood romance, and the first one to see behind the shy awkwardness that came naturally to him. She was anything but timid and Grant often wondered why she had been attracted to him initially. 

Melissa had been extremely pretty with freckles that spoke of sweetness and innocence to Grant and she seemed delicate with an almost porcelain sheen to her skin. Her hair was fine, fair, and flowed like poetry, yet her eyes had an unknowable depth that frightened him when he looked too much. Yet she proved so much stronger than him when she ended the relationship. It was the first time he had ever been rejected, but looking back on it he had certainly deserved it. He rarely spoke during those initial dates… his shyness often being misconstrued as hostility.

In many ways the break-up had been an act of mercy, it was obvious that Melissa meant him no ill will but Grant couldn't deal with the rejection. In his eyes she no longer existed. It wasn’t that he purposely ignored her, he just no longer saw her. Therefore he never saw the hurt that masked her eyes, never noticed the visible change in this once bright and sparkling girl to a retiring and timid mouse. And when that year finally finished and Melissa moved away, he never had to deal with the broken heart that he had inadvertently caused.

But looking at Melissa now, he felt himself fall helplessly into her eyes again; and he felt ashamed of his past behavior, guilty at his insensitivity. He felt this so intensely his face went a dark crimson and his eyes cast downward. Melissa took this as a sign of embarrassment and put her hand to his cheek, holding it there so when he looked up at her smile he felt all the years disappear, and he saw her exactly the same as she was when they first met. He smiled back at her, and placed his hand on hers and felt his knees go weak. “I’ve been thinking about you.” She said.

Later, he was sitting opposite her in a coffee bar as if it was yesterday, wondering how twenty years could disappear so suddenly; amazed that she bore him no malice and actually talked as if they were still the best of friends. It seemed so bizarre and yet it felt so natural. Grant was relaxed, a rarity for him; he sat with his hands on the table, his legs open rather than being either tucked underneath him or crossed like a barrier. He was able to open up to Melissa in a way that he never had before; he felt completely at peace with himself. They spoke for a couple of hours. He still felt her hand on his cheek from earlier and he resisted the urge to place his own hand there.

As if in answer to his unspoken and even unknown desire, she put her hand on his. Her soft warmth creating eddies under his skin mirroring the butterflies that made his head so light. Grant held his breath. Everything was happening far too fast and…

“I am so glad that we bumped into each other…” Melissa said, breaking his consternation. “But I didn’t realise that the time was ticking on. I have to go, my love.” She pushed her chair away from the table, stood up and bent down to kiss him in one fluid motion. She kissed him on the forehead like a mother to a son, “Please.. look after yourself… and don’t look so worried – everything is going to turn out for the best.”

As if in perfect counterpoint to how they met, she was gone. Now Grant did place his hand on his cheek and wept with a lifetimes worth of damned up emotions. He wept without understanding why. He wept without caring for those restless, uneasy onlookers. He wept with uncertainty and with the knowledge that things were happening beyond his control, and he knew his life was going to change dramatically from this moment on.

That night Grant felt a peace had long been denied him. The release in the tears had been unrelenting and had embarrassed many around him. In a typically English fashion no one had inquired after his well-being, they simply kept their distance and judged; judged and passed comment into their croissants and coffee cups but, for once, Grant couldn’t have cared less.

Once the deluge had finally subsided he shakily got up out of the chair and walked out, all red rimmed, puffy eyes and tear streaks. None of that mattered to him, he felt lighter than helium. He knew that Melissa had paid for the coffee in the same way that he knew that he would never see her again and although he was saddened by that, he also knew that it could never truly be. She had forgiven him and helped him, more importantly, to forgive himself. He thanked her now, with all his heart, in a way that he never could before and for the first time in what seemed like years he slept soundly.

On the second day of the week he was more aware but totally still unprepared . Susan had that wholesome “girl next door” quality that allowed her to be completely unobtrusive in a crowd which selfishly suited Grant at the time. And it was precisely those qualities that prevented Grant from seeing her when he was walking along the high street. Luckily she was persistent and waved furiously at him from across the road for minutes before crossing over and thumping him playfully on the shoulder.

“That’ll teach you.” She said, adroitly.

“You always did have a spiteful sense of humor.” Grant replied, when he had finally gotten his wits about him. Was this more than coincidence?

“Yes, but you liked it – remember?” She parried. He remembered their verbal fencing. This time the relationship had lasted eight months and had become truly physical, which was one of the reasons for its longevity. The verbals had seemed fun at the start but soon deteriorated into arguments, spiteful and cruel. Yet the sex had been as passionate and tender by contrast. At the time Grant had wondered whether the fencing was deliberate, like Susan’s idea of foreplay.

“I remember we both did.” He grinned, and Susan grinned back. Like with Melissa, the years fell away and the past seemed to shimmer and fade.

“I’m parked just round the corner.” She said, matter of factly. “We can go back to my place, if you like.” The lust that sparkled in her eyes reflected the same emotions that were now coursing through his own.

“I live about five minutes from here.” Grant found himself replying. “It’s closer.” Her smiled broadened and took him by the hand.

Back at the flat, Grant barely had time to make his bed properly. It was one of the few times he wished he’d bought something else other than a sofa-bed. It normally only took him five minutes  but even that seemed like an eternity with Susan stripping slowly in front of him. He wanted to say something. He knew that he had treated her abominably… he hadn't been unfaithful to her, but he had never publicly admitted that they were together, even when they had gone out on dates. If he met anyone else that he recognised then he’d become indifferent to her and was always careful displaying any emotion, making sure that there was no one in close proximity. He was callous, but then she almost played on that by never making an effort. She spoke only when spoken to and was so unassuming in her appearance that it was possible to look directly through her. Her passion during sex more than made up for it though, and when fueled by anger or spite she was insatiable; but it was never making love, for that particular emotion never entered into the relationship for either of them.

The truth was he was still not over his break up with Melissa. It was something that he'd never admit to and he had actively sought someone else out that he could use up and cast aside. Susan had initially ticked those particular boxes for him, but then he became so turned on by her, and with the easy access to sex, that he soon forgot his initial game plan. Of course, the relationship ended disastrously.

But that seemed a distant memory that neither of them wanted to re-visit. At that moment Susan was more interested in ridding Grant of his clothes as quickly as possible and rriding him like her prized pony.

Things were moving far to fast for him to wonder what was happening. He didn’t think about the co-incidence of meeting or of the intensity of her passion after such a long time. He was too caught up in his own passions; the searing, coursing fire that now spread through every pore of his body as they became one, writhing in the enjoyment of each other, There was a depth of feeling that he'd never encountered before: the passion real; naked and pure; unfettered by guilt, pain or anger.

They held each other tightly when spent, fearful that if they let go then they would never see each other again. Grant knew the truth and held her tighter still, drawing her scent in with each breath, trying desperately to remember this moment for the rest of his life. He had never experienced such intimacy before and silently cursed himself for not realising that such a thing existed.

Eventually Susan left. She kissed him on the forehead just as Melissa had done barely a day before. He caught her jasmine scent one last time as she quickly dressed before leaving him. He was still lying in bed, the days light dying all around him, and it was only then that he questioned what was happening. Melissa first and now Susan.. it had to be a coincidence; he didn’t want to think about the possibility of what was happening or where this was leading.

On the third day of the week he was wary. Even though he had two weeks holiday, he resisted the urge to stay at home and vegetate; hence the daily walk up town. It was a token gesture to get him out of the flat and be among people, however reluctantly. He had learnt a lot from the last couple of days, the least of which was to pay attention to his surroundings. As wonderful as it had been to meet up with both Melissa and Susan he didn’t want to push his luck too far.

Luck, though, was on his side that day for his friend Paul was going into VG Smythes, the bookshop, just ahead. He knew which section Paul would be browsing and Grant stealthily walked up behind him.

“I think the pornographic lithograph section is behind you, Sir.” He said in a deep, booming voice. He knew that everyone would be looking their way now, but Paul’s embarrassment would far outstrip his own. To Grant’s disappointment Paul just turned round and smiled.

“I had a feeling we’d meet up today, me ole’ mucker!” he replied. 

Paul was always happy; chipper, even, but he could never hide discomfort well; and by the look in his eyes Grant knew that there was something troubling him. “Want to go for a coffee?” 

Grant had known Paul for over twenty years. Their friendship wasn’t always close for they were very different in temperament, and their outlook on life didn’t always match; but it was the longevity that had kept them together. Grant had mellowed significantly during the years; Paul hadn’t changed at all though and there were times that Grant resented that. Now Grant saw Paul as a rock, a fixed point that he could always return to and would always remain the same.

But in all the years that Grant had known Paul they had never just met for coffee. As chance would have it, they went to the same coffee house that Melissa took Grant to previously. Grant wondered whether any of the staff would remember that occurrence .

They both sat down at a table by the window. Paul ordered a cappuccino and Grant prevaricated before ordering the same. Paul seemed reticent to start the conversation even though he was the one who instigated the coffee. Grant used the time to study him. In all the years that he had known Paul it was surprising how little he had changed, even on a physical level. He’d grown in height and had matured but that was it, still the mischievous glint in his icy blue eyes –often hiding the deeply intelligent inner core. Still the same haircut that suited him so well, but was hard to really put into words. There were curls, to be sure, but they were wry and almost ironic –much like his personality. He always dressed conservatively and today was no exception. He wore a dark navy t-shirt and pale jeans, but there was a reticent air about him today that Grant found hard to see through.

Normally Paul was quite jovial, as in the bookshop, but now that they had sat down it was obvious that something was troubling him. Grant resolved to break the ice that was forming between them and told him of Melissa and of Susan. Paul said nothing all through the monologue and often shifted his gaze uncomfortably. When Grant had finished Paul thoughtfully stirred his cappuccino, mixing the chocolate with the froth so he could finally drink it without wearing the inevitable mustache.

“I don’t know what to say.” Paul finally spoke, after taking a couple of sips. There was still a very faint coating of chocolate on his top lip and he tentatively licked it off. “It sounds like quite a roller coaster and it ties very spookily into us meeting each other.”

“How do you mean?” Grant asked, although he had been expecting something like this.

“I dreamt of you last night.” He turned away for a brief second, checking his reflection in the window. “Not like that, you dirty sod… you always have to make some kind of innuendo, don’t you?” Paul said and smiled.

“It wouldn’t be me otherwise, mate.” Grant replied. “And besides, you were getting a bit too serious for a second there, lad.” 

“But this is serious.” Paul replied, making eye contact once again. “You know I’ve never shared the same beliefs as you. I don’t understand half the stuff you talk about and I’ve often wondered whether your fascination with the more… spiritual side of life, as you’ve often put it, has actually made things worse for you…” Paul took another sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with his thumb. “But it sounds as if something is really happening to you. First seeing Melissa and then Susan, in the same order in which you actually dated them? Ok, that could be co-incidence but it’s highly doubtful –even to me, that’s stretching things a bit.” Grant nodded, surprised at Paul’s reasoning. Paul always erred on the side of chance, but not now, it seemed.

“What are you thinking, Paul?” Grant asked. “This isn’t like you to be so.. cryptic. Just say what’s on your mind.”

“This dream.. . Well.. you were getting back with Zoe.” 

“I’m glad you told me…” Grant said after a couple of seconds. “And it’s confirmed something that’s been on my mind ever since meeting Susan.” It was Grant’s turn to look out of the window as he tried to banish those thoughts from his head.

“You need to be careful, mate…” Paul said, trying to keep eye contact with him. “You barely got out of that relationship with your sanity in check. I’m not so sure you could manage it a second time.” Grant nodded, dating Zoe had been a mistake. Paul had said as much at the time but Grant had ignored him.

At the time of meeting Zoe he was at a definite low point in his life. The break up with Susan had left him reeling and for a year he had stayed deliberately single. The relationship had been tumultuous, to say the least, and most of that was Grants' fault. He had to take responsibility for that and figure out the reasons why – at least that had been the initial idea. After two months of soul searching he gave up and sank into a depressive, alcoholic haze. 

He had started drinking whilst perusing one of the many dating sites. As usual the website promised a preferable date within three months but insisted on a years membership fee up front, which didn’t do much to endear itself to him. Nevertheless the “GoFishing” website showed the most promise and he signed up for the free membership package. He filled out his profile, including a two year old photo –which seemed to be customary on such sites- and waited to see if he received any “nibbles”, as they were called.

On the second day he received nothing, not even a tentative nudge and on the third he started actively searching. All the profiles had the same basic plea for genuine gallantry, promised all and never delivered. He scoured them, sent many messages and received no replies. Each day brought the same disappointment and, never one to give up on futility, he cast off fresh messages; being careful not to target those he’d already struck out on. The drinking started after the first week with just a single measure of malt whiskey. After the second week it had doubled with his despondency and after that he just drank half a glass at a time.

When Zoe messaged him he was barely able to string two sentences together and was so surprised by it he fell off his chair – he was that drunk. He looked at her profile before replying to her and was enamored by what he saw; the alcohol doing it’s best to fog over the details. Had he read her profile properly, or been more sober, he would never have agreed to go out on a date with her. As it was he saw her very glamorous photo consisting of ample cleavage and sultry look and replied instantly. They arranged to meet up the next evening, which was something that the website warned against, but it suited Grant down to the ground. He had been without intimate human contact for so long he felt as if that part of him had atrophied.

When he woke up the next morning he tried to find her profile on “GoFishing” but it had been deleted. He had her number on his mobile and texted her, just to prove to himself that it had been a real experience and not a whisky fueled hallucination. To his relief she replied almost instantly. They had slept together on the first date, and, at the time, saw no ulterior motive for this; he was just grateful for the attention. He was never aware of her game plan, never wanted to admit to her motives until it was too late. Paul saw them and tried his best to warn him, but Grant was adamant. All he saw was someone who desired him and he would do everything he could to make this relationship work, regardless of the consequences.

“It’s been a worry to me,” Grant replied, snapping out of his reverie. “but I’m not sure what I can do about it. Obviously I don’t want to meet her again, but I don’t know whether it’s actually going to happen, and if it is how the hell I’m going to avoid it.”

“Well, there is one obvious way to avoid it.” Paul replied.

“What; not leave the flat? Be serious, Paul.” Grant snapped, and then quickly apologised. “I’m on holiday, and the last thing that I’m going to do is stay inside every day and do nothing...”

“No, that’s true.” Paul said. He looked down to the chocolate encrusted rim of his mug. “There is one thing that you could do that would make the most of your time.” He said wryly.

“And what’s that?” Grant asked, his curiosity hooked.

“You could start writing again….”

On the fourth day of the week he delved. If Paul was right and there was something going on, then the best place for him was to stay in his own flat. At first Grant was totally against it; there was no way he would become a prisoner in his own home regardless of the threat, but then Paul had provided the spark that he needed. For years Grant had moaned that he’d never had the time or the motivation to write. Idea’s or inspiration were never a problem, Grant had both in abundance, but he found every excuse in the book not to set pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). But now, as Paul so rightly said, he had the best excuse in the world and it was an opportunity that he couldn’t afford to pass up.

So he spent the rest of the third day and most of the fourth rooting around in drawers to find all the scraps of paper that he had scribbled ideas and shards of stories on. Once he found them he marveled at what he’d written. Some were indecipherable –one of the hazards of writing things down in a hurry- others didn’t make any sense, but there were at least a dozen that could be made into decent short stories if he had the time; and time was something that he now had in abundance. He thought back to Paul’s suggestion and wondered how much of this was part of the “plan”, as he was now calling it..

On the fifth day of the week he wrote. He wrote as if his life depended upon it, for in many ways it did.

On the sixth day of the week he was possessed. Grant barely existed except as a vessel to translate his stories from raw dream stuff to the glimmering words on a computer screen. He slept little, ate little and drank less. He was alive, perhaps for the first time in his life; a concept that he found fairly ironic in the circumstances. He’d accepted the fact that he was now dying and knew that he should go to the doctors to check out his suspicions but they would find nothing physical; this was a deep knowing that had been confirmed during his writing. It was something that had to happen. There were times that he felt like he was losing his mind; if anyone saw him then they would have severely doubted his sanity but he pushed such thoughts out of his head and concentrated on his stories. They were the only thing that mattered to him now.

On the seventh day of the week he was spent. He could write no more and slept for a couple of hours. This was it, he thought – my last day, and I’m not going to waste it cowering inside. He made sure that each of his stories had printed; thirteen of them in all and as he placed them in an envelope he felt proud of his work. These would outlast him, that was for sure. He knew that Paul would do his best to get them published and somehow he would succeed. He wrote Paul a small note thanking him for being his friend, and explained what was happening and why.

He felt hungry and realised that he hadn’t had a proper meal in over 36 hours which was very unlike him. He resolved to post the letter and pop into the local supermarket for something to eat – it might well be his last meal. He grinned at this macabre statement, he had resided himself to what was happening now. He drove to the local post box, despite it being five minutes away and he just couldn’t be bothered to cook. He wanted to go to MacChickDips, he deserved a slap up meal regardless of the consequences because, for him, there weren’t any!

He ordered his usual large Big Chick and fries, with a quarter pounder on the side, and then threw caution to the wind and ordered another Big Chick instead. He was quite sanguine about his fate, even if he did meet Zoe now there was nothing she could do that she hadn’t already done.

Despite his initial reservations when talking with Paul he now knew that the old fears no longer held him. He knew that was down to Melissa, she had given him closure. She was able to forgive him in a way that he had never been able to do for himself, and Susan? Susan gave him unconditional love and he was able to love her and give himself to her totally. For those hours that they had lain together they were one person and he felt blessed knowing that. By understanding the gifts he had been given he was actually happy, truly happy and it was precisely that moment that he was drenched by the extra-large diet-cola.

“I’m so sorry.” She said. “it’s all over you…I can’t believe I was so clumsy!” She rushed over and dabbed him with napkins and apologies.

“Please, don’t worry about it.” Grant replied with utmost sincerity. With the way he was feeling now there was nothing that could dampen his spirits – what was the point when he only had a few hours to go? “They’re saying now that the caffeine based shampoos are better for your head, so I figure you’ve just saved me going to a salon!”

“Thank you for not being a shit.” She said, still blushing. Grant was amazed at how unassumingly beautiful she was. Her hair was short, mousey blond and very tactile; she was petite but that made it easier for her to take his breath away; and her eyes, such a depth of blue that he could float for all eternity in them. He found it hard to pry his gaze away from hers.

“Ah, that’s ok.” He replied. “It’s easy enough… I often think that to be a true jerk takes a lifetimes work and I just don’t have that amount of time to waste any more.” He smiled, knowing that to be the truth. “Please, won’t you sit down?” He said, motioning to the empty chair opposite him. Luckily he had the foresight to sit on a table with four chairs so he was able to move away from the damp patch. The cleaner was extremely sharp in tidying up though, Grant noticed, especially when there was no sign of altercation or argument.

Upon sitting down she introduced herself. “My name’s Emma Watts.” Grant held out his hand.

“Grant Pageson.” He replied, her handshake was firm despite her smaller hands, warm and so inviting. “I find it hard to believe that anyone could be a jerk to you.” The words sounding so corny once they were vocalised.

“You’d be surprised…“ She smiled, accepting the off-hand compliment. “Or maybe not.”

They fell easily into conversation. Talking to Emma took no effort and it was like they had known each other for years. There was the barbed pang of irony that Grant couldn’t hide from and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling weakly.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked, “You don’t like the idea of having your feet mauled by goldfish?” They had been talking about the new fad of allowing fish to gnaw away at the dead skin on the soles of  feet, and Grant had felt himself drifting off listening to Emma’s relaxing tones. He didn’t know whether to tell her what was happening, it didn’t seem fair to suddenly break such news to her, but at the same time he felt that he could tell her anything.

“I’m dying.” He said, more matter-of-factly than he meant to. Her expression didn’t change, it didn’t flutter or quiver but just remained stoic and loving.

“I know.” She replied.

They left soon after, hand in hand, walking to Grant’s car. He didn’t know anything about her, yet she knew all about him. He knew that he had the rest of his life to discover everything there was to know about Emma Watts.

She explained to him why they had met; what he’d been experiencing those last seven days and what was waiting for him, should he choose to accept it; and for the second time that week he had cried tears of joy. She placed her hands on his and allowed her love to flow to every pore of his body.

They drove to Emma’s house in the middle of nowhere. It was so peaceful in the country with no light pollution and he was awed by the stars that enveloped the sky. He felt so small, yet inextricably linked to every one of those radiant suns. Emma beckoned him into her house and they walked upstairs to her bedroom. It was now almost midnight and they kissed, holding each other, never wanting to be apart – knowing now that they never would be.

On the eighth day of the week…

…Mellissa suddenly found herself thinking of Grant. She knew that she would never see him again and, even though she wasn’t the least bit religious, said a prayer. There had always been a great sadness around him, one that had nearly swallowed them both. She had initially blamed herself and then afterwards, many years later, blamed him – but after meeting him earlier in the week she could see that he just as much the victim, if not more so. She was glad that they had parted as friends and truly wished him happiness wherever he might go, and she somehow knew that he would be happy.

…Susan lay in bed, her husband sleeping next to her. She had somehow known that Grant was dying and that their meeting had been karmic. Despite all their bickering and games they were always close and could even read each others minds – that’s what made it harder when they fought, they always knew where the other was vulnerable. She didn’t regret sleeping with Grant and certainly didn’t consider it being unfaithful – for her it was closure. They had shared so much and this was their only chance at happiness, however short lived. If anything it made her love Bill more, knowing that whatever time they had together would be brief.

…Paul opened the envelope that had flopped from the letterbox onto his hall carpet. He recognised the writing straight away and tore it open. Inside were the neatly typed but badly spelt stories that Grant had spent two days writing. All the stories were full of magic and wonderment, a direct opposite to the life that Grant had chosen to lead.

Paul smiled and cursed at the same time. He had known Grant for the longest and known how frustrating and stubborn he could be. All that talent, and he never did anything with it. It was almost as if he had been saving up all the creative potential for something else. He smiled at how ridiculous that sounded. He read the letter, knowing what was going to be inside it – it was a discussion that they had had numerous times. Paul was not a believer in anything except that he could empirically account for. Grant, however, believed in Karma, ghosts, Re-incarnation and UFO’s –now who was right?

…Zoe woke up in tears. She had been dreaming about Grant again. She had been thinking about him all week without knowing how to get in contact with him, but she knew now that she’d never see him again. There was no way that she could ever apologise to him for all the hurt that she caused. She did truly love him and that made it so much worse for she knew that, despite all she had done to him, he loved her. And it was far too late for them both.

The funeral was a small affair, a few members of family and Paul. It had happened so suddenly that there was no time to really prepare, and as Paul maintained “he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

It was a typically British, overcast and drizzly day. Paul stood over the grave when all the others had dispersed, for once he was determined to get the last word in.

“You knew that this was going to happen.” He said, feeling the tears stinging his eyes. “I’m just glad you had the foresight to type up all those wonderful stories. It would’ve been great if you used a damn spell check though.” He managed to choke out a laugh. “You probably know this already, but there’s been quite a bit of interest in them, and there are at least two publishers on the cards, so I think you might even get your stab at immortality, y’bastard.” Paul smiled and turned away from the grave.

In the distance, at the far end of the cemetery, were two figures –a man and a smaller woman- standing underneath the trees, holding hands. Paul could barely make them out. The woman turned to the man and said something. The man shrugged his shoulders and she slapped him on the shoulder with her other hand. The man bent down to kiss her on the cheek before looking right at Paul, and then they both waved at him. The tears were now streaming down his face, obscuring his vision and he had to wipe his eyes in order to see clearly again. When he looked back at them they were walking away. Far beyond, the sun started to shine through the clouds, beckoning the couple on to a wonderful new life together, and he smiled.