VISIONS (IN MY MINDS EYE)


A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES


BY ARTHUR HOWE

CAPE TOWN

SOUTH AFRICA


CONTENTS

1. LIFTING SIPHO

2. TICKETS

3. THE SUCCESSOR

4. THE PICK UP

5. SURVIVOR

6. FREE EARTH DAY

7. VISIONS - IN MY MINDS EYE

8. THE FART


LIFTING SIPHO

You never can be too careful when it comes to hitchhiking. Paranoia could take control!


I wouldn’t normally stop to pick up a hitchhiker even though, as a teenager, this was just about my only mode of transport. My road to independence.

My Folks didn’t have a car, not that they couldn’t afford one, it was just that my Mom was too nervous to drive and my Dad had always preferred to take public transport or taxi’s to get around. I also think he was too proud to admit that he was also nervous. I’ve also become very nervous lately, particularly when you hear of all the car-jacking and murders that happen just about every day, here in South Africa. You never can be too careful, I say. I’d lost a friend to a car-jacking in Johannesburg and had heard numerous stories from friends of friends who’d had similar experiences.

Things had changed so much in this Country, I thought. As a kid, if I needed to get somewhere, I either cadged a lift from someone whose parents had wheels or I’d hit the road with my thumb wagging.

I’d taken hundreds of short hitches getting in and around the suburbs of Cape Town and on two occasions, even been adventurous enough to hitch hike from Cape Town to Johannesburg and Cape Town to Durban and back. In those days, it was fairly safe to hitchhike and we thought nothing of it.

Around Cape Town, I’d mostly hitchhike with my surfboard tucked under my arm, as I’d found that people tended to stop for surfers more than just some luggage-less stranger on the side of the road. It was as if people believed surfers didn’t have the time for psychotic thoughts, and that robbers, serial killers, and rapists didn’t spend their time chasing waves.

Maybe it was that image, somewhere deep in my subconscious mind. The image of me standing there, surfboard tucked under my arm, desperately waiting for a lift, that made me slow down and stop for the tall, well dressed man who’d shown me the thumb as I came around a bend in the N2 highway headed towards my mid-week retreat in Bot River.

As I drove past him, and before consciously deciding to give him a lift, I caught the flash of something tucked under his arm. A book maybe?, A Bible?, I thought as I sped past him. Maybe that’s his Surfboard, I thought, smiling to myself.

The object was about the size of a small shoebox, maybe six inches wide and twelve inches long, a little flatter than a shoebox but roughly the same shape. The noticeable thing about it was its colour which came from being wrapped in some matt black paper that showed small, parallel, shiny spots where the sticky tape held it together.
Whatever was in that black, shoebox sized parcel tucked under his arm, it triggered my curiosity, and I hit the brakes and turned onto the gravel shoulder, a cloud of red dust overtaking me as I stopped for my hitchhiker.

I looked back in the rear-view mirror and saw that he had started walking slowly towards the car, black package gripped tightly under his arm.

I almost put the car into gear and sped off again as a wave of fear hit me. What are you doing? I asked myself. Stopping for a complete stranger with some suspicious looking package under his arm? It could contain a gun or a knife, or the tools of his trade as an axe-murderer or body mutilator, I thought in another panic attack.

I was about to slip the handbrake and speed off when I glanced over my left shoulder and saw that he’d disappeared from view. Maybe he’d taken another ride or just slipped away quietly into the bushes?

A sharp rap on my driver’s window made me jump in my seat.

He stooped to the window level where I could see his almost toothless mouth miming off words without sounds. I dropped the window a few inches. He was well dressed, I must admit with his black suit and neatly folded handkerchief in his top pocket.

Almost like he’d come from a wedding I thought.

And big! I estimated that he must be at least six and a half foot as he had to almost bend double to look into the car. I must say that in my 53 years, I haven’t seen too many Black South Africans of that size.

“Good morning Sir,” he said smiling. A good start I thought. I always liked manners in men and his regal greeting allowed me to drop the window another few inches.

“May I ask how far you’re going Sir?” he continued, still smiling his patchy, broken-toothed smile. I could smell his breath coming in through the window and I half turned away from the musty, almost compost like smells that were wafting in to the car.

“I’m going as far as exit 92, the Bot River turn off,” I replied.

“ I don’t mind that at all Sir,” he said brightly and darted, most deliberately around the front of the car and before you could say “Mary Martha”, he was seated next to me in the passenger seat, the Black shoebox now perched proudly on his lap.

I think that if he’d gone round the back of the car, I might have slipped the hand brake and floored the accelerator and got out of there pretty damn quickly.

It was the “Yes-No’s” that were making me nervous. I hated indecision and people who pussyfooted around. I saw black and I saw white. I saw full or I saw empty. I hated anything in between. As someone once said to me, you either push or you pull, you never mess around in between.

And here I was, messing around in between.

Yes, I stopped.

No, he has a black box and might use whatever’s inside it to kill me, or worse.

Yes, he’s smartly dressed.

No, he’s coming towards the car.

Yes, he’s gone and run off into the bush.

No, He’s at the window.

Yes, he greeted me nicely.

No, his breath smelled like something had crawled in there and died.

Whatever happened now, it had to be positive; I’d offered a lift, he’d accepted and had firmly planted himself in the passenger seat next to me. Now all I had to do was get him to where he needed to be, drop him off, and remember never to pick up hitchhikers ever again.

I heard his seatbelt click into place.

“How far are you going?” I asked as I pulled away from the gravel onto the tarmac.
“As far as Sir would like to go”. He replied, looking straight ahead and gripping tightly onto the black box, now neatly tucked inside the seatbelt straps. Obviously, whatever was inside his box was fragile and he didn’t want a sudden jerk or swerve to send it flying onto the floor.

That made me feel a little more comfortable, after all, what could be so fragile that could also be used as a murder weapon? I thought to myself, smiling somewhat nervously.

A Bottle?

That’s it! A bottle.

A bottle of poison maybe, or ……. acid?

Yes, sulphuric acid to throw in my eyes and blind me whilst he tied me down and poured the rest slowly into every orifice in my body. When he’d used up my orifices, he’d probably use the acid to carve out a new one! My God! That’s exactly what he’s got, I thought, looking ahead to see if there were any other motorists pulled over on the side of the road who could help me get away from this maniac.

It could also be chloroform? I panicked. Yes, as I stop the car he’ll turn his back towards me and soak his neatly folded white hanky with the stuff and then, using his sheer size, hold me down with the hanky over my nose until I lost consciousness!

What he’d do next wouldn’t bother me if I was unconscious but I had this feeling that he’d bring me round and I’d find myself tied to some farm gate or fence as he slowly and carefully peeled the skin off my entire body!

Oh my God!, what have I got myself into this time?

“Would Sir mind if I rested a while. I haven’t really slept these last few days Sir, what with everything that’s been going on Sir.” He interrupted my thoughts.

“If Sir wouldn’t mind nudging me about ten minutes before your turn off, I’d appreciate that Sir.” He continued before reaching out for the lever and reclining the seat to the maximum. His hand rested firmly on top of the black box.

I felt really uncomfortable now, specially as his head was out of my line of sight, behind my back. I glanced back at the hitchhiker to find his eyes wide open and staring at me.

“Sir would do better to keep his eyes on the road Sir would,” he said quietly. “Nasty accidents can happen like that. Before you know it, you’re lying dead on the side of the road, all for the sake of taking your eyes off the road for no more than a second.” He said firmly.

“My Uncle Sipho went that way, he did. Travelling in his pick up from Caledon to Cape Town and he just took his eyes off the road for a second. Next thing, he’s being ground into mince underneath a big logging truck and trailer. Yes Sir, a split second is all it takes to snuff the life out of you.”

My eyes locked onto the road in front of the car as I sat frozen with fear trying to interpret and understand what he’d just said to me. “A split second to snuff the life out of me!” He was obviously trying to get me to stop looking at him so that he could get to work inside that little black box of his, uncovering whatever it was he was going to use to “Snuff the life out of me!”

Maybe he was studying the back of my head or my neck, looking for the perfect pressure points to immobilise me before doing his dirty deeds?

I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck, smell his breath as he salivated, deep in thought over the brief moments of sadistic pleasure he was soon to experience.

Maybe it’s a syringe? A glass phial of some potent anaesthetic, which would leave me conscious but unable to move or scream out for help!

I glanced back at my most unwelcome passenger only to see that he had indeed closed his eyes and his mouth hung open, expelling a foul, shit like odour.

Maybe he’s bluffing, I thought. Maybe he’s just trying me out to see what I’m going to do now that I’ve worked out his well-thought-out plan.

I decided to test him and reached slowly down between my legs to the floor of the car.
No reaction.

My hand reached back, searching.

I always kept a couple of tools in my car ever since I found myself stranded on the side of the road late one night, only needing one small screwdriver to tighten a hose that had leaked all of the water out of my radiator.

They were there somewhere, I thought to myself, chin now touching the steering wheel and hand stretched far back under my seat in my desperate effort to secure the only chance of survival.

“Looking for this Sir, are we?” boomed the voice right next to my ear. He was holding the familiar soft plastic case containing the set of four screwdrivers I’d bought just for this sort of emergency.

“Yes, yes thank you,” I said reaching out to grab the case.

He snatched it back towards his chest.

“Now Sir, Sir must make me a promise before I give Sir his tools, Sir Must,” he said teasingly.

“Sir must promise to drive carefully and not to take his eyes off the road or to be doing anything he might regret doing later, Sir,” he said, holding the screwdriver set just out of my reach.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. It’s just that I knew I had that set somewhere and you never know when you might need them in an emergency” I proffered.

“So long as Sir’s not thinking of doing anything silly with them that’s OK,” he said pushing the plastic case firmly into my left hand.

“Yes Sir, my Uncle Sipho always said that people worry about picking up a Hitchhiker but no one tells us hitchhikers to worry about the drivers now, do they Sir? We have to be very careful you know. If you read about those Yorkshire rippers and Bundy’s and the likes, you’ll see, it’s us hitchhikers who’s the ones that ought to be careful who we take lifts with.”

I heard the lever on his seat put him back into the reclining position. I was sure he was watching my every move now, just to be sure that I’d be keeping my promises.

I shuffled the screwdriver set over into the side pocket of my door and put both hands on the steering wheel. I wanted him to feel that I was satisfied in finding it and then putting it to rest.

By leaning forward slightly, I could move my head enough to get his face into my rear-view mirror.

Satisfied that he had indeed nodded off, I slowly used my right hand to open the soft plastic case containing the screwdrivers. The one I needed was the largest one, in the far right pocket. It was about ten inches in length with a carefully machined “star” blackened into it’s tip. “Chrome Vanadium,” was clearly marked on the label, and the Salesman had assured me they’d last me a lifetime. I slipped it out and then under my right leg, ready to grab it when I needed it.

The 40km to Bot River sign passed and I quickly worked out that I had another twenty minutes or so before this madman pounced. If I was to survive, I needed to have everything planned, needed to be one step ahead of my Hitchhiker.

I ran it through in my mind, working everything out down to the last second. The element of surprise had to be in my favour, not his. There he was, pretending to sleep in the passenger seat, smiling his rotting, toothless grin, thinking that he’d found yet another unsuspecting victim. Little did he know that I had worked out his evil little plan!

A short time later, the 20 km sign popped up and I was about to nudge my wannabe attacker when his voiced croaked, “ Well Sir, I reckon that’s about ten minutes now before you’d be dropping me then. If you could just pull into the picnic spot just before your turnoff, I’ll be getting me a lift easier from there.”

Again, I froze, my hands gripping the wheel so hard that I’m sure my attacker must have seen my whitening knuckle’s. I eased my grip and told myself to be calm and to be totally unpredictable. Catch him off guard.

I looked left and noticed that he was still reclined in the seat. Then I heard the paper.

The box was wrapped in black paper and I found myself wondering what sort of person goes into a shop and buys black wrapping paper? What sort of sick person actually goes out of is way to buy such a thing? A Madman! A sick perverted, psychotic Madman, that’s who! A man so bent on fulfilling his dirtiest, wildest perversions that he has to have everything just right, even down to the morbid black wrapping paper to cover his butcher’s toolbox!

I had to think quickly now. Time was ticking away and the final confrontation was minutes away.

I could hear the paper rustling and this just made me even tenser.

O.K. now calm down, I told myself.

This is how it’s going to go.

He’s obviously going to open the door – the space in the front of the car is not enough for a man of his size to move around in.

He’ll have his back to me as he fumbles with his acid/chloroform/anaesthetic/poison, getting ready to turn around and pin me down, posing me for his stunning, immobilising shots.

That’s when I’d have to strike. As his back is arched, I’d reach under my leg, grab the screwdriver, and pull my hand back as far as possible. Thrust forward, hard and deep, aiming for two feet beyond to make sure it goes in deep enough. Hit hard, just below the left shoulder blade, pushing through the lungs and piercing his heart. Pull it out. Stab it back in, this time a few inches lower, just in case. At this stage, he’ll probably fall backwards into the car. Strike again, only this time plunging the screwdriver deep into the centre of his chest, just below the rib cage. That should finish him off, once and for all!

“I couldn’t help but notice Sir looking here at my box.” He chirped, interrupting my foolproof plan.

“Sir probably wants to know what I have here in this box doesn’t Sir now?” he asked.
“No, no, really, what’s yours, is your business” I replied, thinking that he was getting some sort of sadistic pleasure out of his teasing and torturing. Have your fun and games whilst you think you’re one step ahead of me, I thought. I’ll just dig a little deeper with the Chrome Vanadium tipped screwdriver when it comes to my turn to show you who’s on top of this situation!

“Sir’ll remember my telling him about my Uncle Sipho, does Sir?” he asked.

Oh God, not another lecture about keeping my hands on the wheel? Humour him, I thought. He thinks that I’m the one with a few minutes left to live. Think again, Shitbreath!

“Well Sir, when my Uncle Sipho died, that was about two years ago Sir, and at that time, we had barely enough money in the family to cover the cost of getting his wreck towed away and, being of lowly farming stock Sir, we were not in a position to pay the undertakers up front.

Now, my Uncle Sipho loved this land and had worked it from a boy until he died at the young age of 59, Sir.” He waffled.

“Well Sir, now Uncle Sipho always said he’d want his mortal remains to lie on the land, there on the farm in Caledon, but not having the money and all, the best we could do was to ask the undertakers to hang onto him until we could afford to bring him back, Sir. But Sir will know, the cost of keeping the body there at the morgue would mean we’d never pay off the debt and so I had no other choice Sir.”

So, the motive is robbery, I thought. Kill and rob the victims for the sole purpose of paying off Sipho’s Undertakers so that they could get his body back to Caledon! My God, what a reason to die!

I noticed at this time that my hitchhiker had lifted the corner of the lid on his box and had his hand inside, ready to strike with whatever weapon he’d chosen for this evil deed.

The lay-by came into view and I struggled between keeping my eye on the road, my right hand on the screwdriver and my mind on my plan to strike first. He wasn’t going to give me that opportunity and was already poised, hand on weapon, ready to strike as soon as the car ground to a halt.

I slowed down to turn into the lay-by, hand ready, ready to strike.

The car had almost stopped and I gripped the screwdriver until it hurt.

The car stopped and I lunged forward, bringing the screwdriver round in an arc that met resistance only when the handle hit up against the bone of his temple.

His eyes went glassy and he looked at me questioningly, not sure quite what had just happened.

His hand was coming out of the box now and I yanked the screwdriver out, swung it back, this time, plunging it to the hilt in his neck, just above the collarbone.

“I think my Uncle Sipho was right Sir, you have to be very careful who you take a lift with now don’t you Sir?” he gurgled through the blood now dripping from his mouth as his eyes finally glassed over and the light went out of them.

The hitchhikers hand had popped out of the box and I finally un-tensed enough to look down to see what evil weapon would have been my undoing had I not seen through his cunning little plan.

The hand was opening slowly as the life ebbed out of his muscles and, like coarse sea salt, I watched as the grey, cremated remains of Uncle Sipho, poured through the hitchhikers fingers onto the centre console of the car.


TICKETS

Perry knew that there was something special about numbers.
From a very early age he realised that there was nothing on this earth or even outside of it, that was random. Every number was significant and a very important part of a bigger picture.
Perry believed in God. He believed that not only was He the ultimate protector, but that He was the ultimate mathematician. One just had to look at nature to see how He had worked it all out, right down to the moon and the tides, the number of petals on a flower, or even the dates on which you were concieved, born and ultimately died.
Perry believed in fate. He believed that there were certain things that happened because they were destined to happen. That’s the way God wanted them to be, he reasoned.
Like his Job.
Perry hadn’t really much of a choice when it came to time to start working and to bring in some money to his Family House. At 15, he’d been told that it was time to get a job, and that his Dad had spoken to Mr Jankelowitz down at the Hardware store on East 52nd. His Dad told him he’d to report for work on Monday morning, Eight O’clock, sharp.
Perry had been there for almost 42 years now, and apart from four days off in ‘67 to have his appendix out, he’d never missed a day, not even when the rest of the staff was dropping down with flu. No-Sirr! This was his destiny and if destiny said that was the way it was going to be, then he couldn’t let Mr Jankelowitz down, now could he, he reasoned?
In January, just before the Builders returned to work to start their construction schedules, Perry took his annual leave, which now entitled him to 15 working days, or close to four weeks if you took into consideration Sundays.
Overall, he made the most of his fate and his destiny, and enjoyed his work as much as anyone working in a Hardware store for 42 years could enjoy it.
He was good at his job, and Mr Jankelowitz Junior, who took over the business from his Dad in ‘84, was happy with his performance. You certainly didn’t rise from the position of general dogsbody, to Senior Sales Clerk unless someone thought you were doing something right.
The only thing Perry was unhappy about, was his wage packet. He found it increasingly difficult to manage his household on the $428.55 take home pay, particularly as his landlord of the last 17 years had recently increased his rental by more than 20% due to spiralling costs, as he put it
It was pointless talking to Mr Jankelowitz and as such, he wouldn’t insult him by doing so, even though Perry’s wife, Marcie, told him that he should have enough backbone to stand up for what was right. Increases came only once a year in January and had been a solid, steady 5% increase ever since he could remember.
Perry didn’t want anything to upset the numbers and so, rather than live to regret upsetting Mt Jankelowitz, he cut back on his personal expenses and in fact, gave up drinking beer and the occasional cigarette in order to make ends meet.
Perry also had a vice.
Perry enjoyed a flutter at the races every Friday lunchtime, and until recently, had played quite a profitable game at the local track, only ten minutes away from his workplace.
Whatever he did, he always used the same combination of numbers.
He took his own Birthdate, Marcie’s Birthdate and His Mom’ Birthdate and, depending how many numbers he needed, he always used the same method to arrive at either a two, three, four, five, six, or seven digit number.
In the case of his weekly lotto entry, the numbers he always backed were 10, 14, 17, 18, 20, and 30. His second entry was a variation of that being 4, 6, 11, 16, 24 and 40 . Another variation, made up his third lotto entry, and that was 9, 10, 17, 27, 29 and 42.
Every week, he took these three sets of numbers and he had not changed them in the last four years.
Yes, he’d had a couple of reasonable wins, but over the last few months he’d had nothing. This weekends Super Lotto Draw was a record, but he didn’t doubt his choice of numbers. The numbers were fated, like the rest of his life.
At the track, he used the same source to calculate numbers, which gave him the horses to back, the race number, as well as the date of the race meeting.
On one occasion, he took home a whopping $132 from a bet on a horse that he’d backed, based on The Numbers.
Today, on his walk to work, he’d stoped in at the Seven-eleven and taken his usual three numbers in the Lotto draw. He put the ticket neatly folded in his wallet. The most he’d ever won on the Lotto was $46 and recently he was reasoning that maybe he should save the three dollars he spent every week, and rather use it at the track where he seemed to have more success.
The bookie’s at the Track knew him well now and had even extended a “Line of Credit “ to allow him to place bigger bets on his favourite horses.
Today he had to win and he had to win big.
Apart from two of the Bookie’s who had given him a deadline of today to pay up the six thousand two hundred dollars, or else, he was in about as deep as any man could get. He’d borrowed $2000 from his Brother-in-Law, Bert, another $300 from one of his colleagues at work and even resorted to borrowing $450 from his neighbour Calvyn.
But that was not the worst of it.
Since they’d got married in 1992, Perry and Marcie had been saving what little they could afford to eventually go on that honeymoon that they didn’t have. Marcie had been four months pregnant when they got married and was one of those women who threw up at every opportunity and suffered morning, noon and night.
When she’d miscarried in her seventh month, she was told that she shouldn’t have children as apart from her feeble frame, it was genetically advisable, the two of them being Cousins, not to try to have more children. A hysterectomy was performed shortly afterwards.
Perry had always promised Marcie that they would take a holiday down in Florida once they’d saved up enough money. Until a few months ago, that account stood at just under four thousand dollars and by January, when his leave was due, they would have enough saved to take a trailer behind the car and spend a couple of weeks soaking up the sun.
The account now had a balance of less than $500, as Perry had slowly whittled away at his life savings.
One final act of borrowing, worried him more than all the others.
Over the years, Mr Jankelowitz had entrusted Perry to manage the Petty Cash, and to keep the Books up to date for when the Accountants came in at the end of this month. Perry was about $650 short due to his borrowings. When this came out, he was finished. Mr Jankelowitz would not only fire him on the spot but would certainly call the police. He’d seen Mr Jankelowitz have many shoplifter arrested over the years, some of them for such petty crimes as stealing a packet of 69 cent screws.
Today had to be the Big day. Or else.
By 12.30, Perry had finished unpacking and pricing the new Power Tools that had arrived and was eager to leave work for his lunchtime trip to the track. Mr Jankelowitz always paid his staff promptly at 11.00 every Friday, so Perry was ready to roll.
He left as the lunch bell sounded and arrived at the track at ten past one, just in time to get his bet in on the first race at 1.15.
He played the first two races carefully, as complete outsiders had come up in his numbers, and he didn’t want that high a risk.
The third horse his numbers had shown, was also an outsider, but Perry knew that this was the one that was going to save him from all of his troubles. If this one came in at 60 to 1, he was home and dry.
He put $400 each way on number 6, Sunburst. That would be more than $24 000, certainly enough to take away his constant headaches.
Even the name was omenous, and said to Perry that Florida was just around the corner.
The first two races did nothing for his pocket as both of the horses he’d backed didn’t even finish.
He sat glued to the final bend and sat at the home straight in the track, as the gates opened for the third race.
Sunburst sat in amongst the clump of horses as they rounded the first bend, and by the second bend, had moved back a couple of positions, if anything. Perry sighed deeply.
As they rounded the third bend, he could hear the commentator, excitedly shouting the race’s progress across the P.A. system.
His heart skipped a beat as he heard “Sunburst,” more frequently and nearly died when the horses rounded the bend with Sunburst a good two lengths in front of the rest. His horse was still pulling away from the pack at an incredible pace!
Sunburst crossed the line more than four lengths ahead of the next horse, and Perry breathed a sigh of total relief.
Perry was grinning from ear to ear as he collected his winnings. It came to just under $18 000 after the bookies had taken what they were owed, and Perry was still smiling as he left the track knowing his worries were now well behind him.
Florida, here we come, he thought to himself.
The two thugs must have been at the track, watching the winners very carefully because, as Perry rounded the corner to catch a Taxi, they were upon him.
The first one had a Gun and the second, a very lethal looking knife.
It was over in seconds with the two thugs running off down the street, Perry in a bruised heap on the ground, and his winnings well on the way to some low-life drug dealer down town.
Perry was devastated.
With a look of absolute defeat on his bruised face, he set off walking towards his workplace, all the time thinking that this was the final straw.
Perry could take no more.
He stopped to cross East 19th and almost walked into the traffic, lost as he was in is world of defeat. If someone hadn’t grabbed his arm, he would have walked straight into a Massive Mack Diesel Truck, towing two trailers and managing about 30 miles an hour.
Which is exactly what he did next.
He waitied until the next big rig came thundering along and then literally, just threw himself in front of it.
The driver had no time to brake, and only knew what had happened as Perry’s flattened and smashed body flipped from the bullbar in front, and right over the roof of the Cab.

Three days after the tragedy, Marcie collected Perry’s personal effects from the Morgue and arranged for the body, what was left of it, to be cremated.
When she arrived home, she opened the box and quickly went through the contents.
Not much to talk about she thought, a cheap watch, a cheap wallet, a few coins and that’s that.
The wallet contained two single dollar bills, a couple of useless credit cards and a Lotto ticket. She removed the cash and the lotto ticket and decided the rest should go where it belongs, into the trashcan.
Perry and his numbers, she thought to herself, always Perry and his damn numbers.
She put on the kettle and made herself a mug of strong black coffee, and sat down on the couch, absolutely drained of all energy.
She switched on the TV and sat back to catch up on some worthwhile news.
“And in some local news today. The biggest ever Super Lotto prize of just over $600 million dollars still remains unclaimed. The ticket, purchased at a Seven-Eleven on East 52nd has so far not been claimed.” The announcer proclaimed.
He rambled on a bit more and then said, “So who knows, it may be you, you might be holding that ticket somewhere and forgotten about it, check your pockets, check your purses, check your wallets. The numbers again are,”
Marcie looked at the screen as the numbers flashed up boldly.
4, 6, 11, 16, 24 and 40 and the bonus ball is 42.
Marcie, stopped in the middle of a mouthful of coffee, stood up quickly, smiling to herself as she crossed the room to the dining table where the contents of Perry’s wallet lay on the table.
“Florida, here I come,” she thought to herself, broad smile stretching from ear to ear.


THE SUCCESSOR

The Seven Men sat around the table with the head seat being left vacant. No one sat in that seat because it was reserved exclusively for the Elected One. Once the vote had taken place and the Elected One had taken his place, the newly vacated seat would be filled by new nominations from the remaining six members.
The Elected One’s chair had become vacant quite suddenly and this meeting had been called as a matter of urgency to decide on the Successor.
The longest standing member had called the meeting and automatically held the Chairman’s role in such an extreme case.
The Chairman was one of Four of the members, although substantial in their commitment to the cause, who knew for themselves, that they stood no chance of taking the revered position. They respected and admired all of those present but held an almost awesome admiration for The Three.
The Three, were picked by the Elected One for their achievements and were privy and party to many confidences and decisions not afforded the other members.They had earned their places by their unrelenting and unbroken promise to serve their Lord and Master. They displayed this commitment on a daily basis whilst retaining the admiration of their Earthly followers.
The vacant position in The Three would be filled in the same way.
The Chairman cut short any further hesitations and called the meeting to order.
“Gentlemen, Dignitaries, Heads of State, and duly Elected Members, I call this meeting to order and thank you all for attending at such short notice” he said firmly.
“As you are all aware, the position of The Elected One has become vacant rather suddenly due to the untimely demise of our Brother, who in spite of protestations from our associates, was executed in an unfair display of supposedly “Righteous Powers.” Long may he serve our Lord and Master.” he continued, “We are here today to hear from The Three. Each will be given no more than three minutes to state his case, whereafter, we will vote to appoint the new Elected One. Once such appointment has taken place we will take our combined vows, to serve, honour and obey The Elected One as the sole and deserved spokesman for our Mighty Lord and Master.”
A folded piece of vellum paper was handed in turn to each of the members.
“ I ask that no conversation takes place either during or after the presentations and that you each should make your mark in favour of the recipient, fold the paper in quarters, and then pass them to myself. I will then count the votes and announce the Successor. Any questions?”
The room remained respectfully silent as the voting vellum was positioned before each of the members.
“Will the first candidate, please rise and present your credentials.” The Chairman commanded.
The first Candidate rose from his chair, cleared his throat with a small cough, and started his oratory.
“Gentlemen, I will cut across all niceties and merely present my achievements to you. You can be the judge of my splendour.” He opened, smiling over the top of his designer spectacles.
“I’m not a young man anymore, I’m in my eighties, but what glorious years they have been for My Lord and Master.
I started out as a young rebel leader who rose up against the Regime and bore arms to bring to the People of my land, the environment, so badly needed, for me to succeed in my mission.
During my rebel days, I commanded thousands of men and women who killed and maimed, both the oppressors, and many innocents. By gun, by bomb, by slaughter or by genocide, I strove diligently to do His work.
I converted the simple minded and persuaded the intelligentsia. I put pressure on the world, to act to remove the Old Regime.
Eventually, I won the right to take part in Elections, and my converts and crony supporters, voted me into the position I still hold today.
What have I achieved in this time, you may ask?
This powerful country, once called the “Bread Basket of Africa” rich in it’s mineral wealth and overflowing with human resources, is very close to achieving my final objective.
I have removed all the illegal Farmers who occupied the land and replaced them with, not only my good servants and stooges, but also with incompetents and idiots.
The proof is in the reading. The numbers speak for themselves.
I have decimated the crops. I have decimated the resources. My economy looks like a Monopoly game, and the end of sustainable life as the people knew it, is not too far away.
Yes, I’ve had opponents and dissenters, but I’ve dealt with them accordingly. I proudly speak of the slaughters in the lands of my dissenting supporters who decided to try to oppose my rule. Many thousand lay dead in the fields and dirt roads as evidence of my supreme rule.
When I drive the streets of this land, the people bow down to me and are taught to avert their eyes.
I have banished the outspoken and have imprisoned those that dared to try to rise against me, either in force, or in writing. My prisons are filled to capacity.
My time at this meeting is running out and I therefore ask you, no, tell you, do not oppose me.
Rise with me and forever be rewarded in the eyes of My Lord and Master.”
The speaker retired to his seat, a fine line of sweat beading his tailored, moustachioed top lip.
The Chairman thanked the speaker and welcomed the second candidate.
“I will not bore you all with my background, but enough is said by the very state of the world today. “ he opened.
“ I laugh at the financial and other support I managed to achieve from the Western Agencies, approved and condoned by their Presidents and Prime Ministers, to wage war on the Invaders during their attempted invasions.I even managed to get their support in training my loyal men to become the warriors they are today.” He said, smiling through his long, flowing beard.
“Yes, they armed me, they trained me and they supported me, until it no longer suited me and achieving my ultimate goals.
Today, I am amongst the worlds most wanted men.
Why you may ask?
Because I have now converted that power and knowledge into one of the worlds best tactical machines.
My wars are fought at a different level.
What have I achieved?
I hold the world in the grip of terror.
I bomb and maim by sacrificing my followers for the good of their religion, in the knowledge that they will receive martyrdom and eternal life. A very effective ploy, even if I say so myself.
I have taken down airplanes, I have taken down buildings, and I have taken down the supporters and followers of those that empowered me.
I work in His way. In a cold, silent, but commanding way that leaves the world desperate for a new path to follow. A world full of potential converts for the next phase of His Ascension.
Gentlemen, I let you judge for yourselves. Let fear be the deciding factor.”
The second candidate sat down and remained smiling.
“And finally, our third candidate will present his case.” The chairman announced.
Normally, a prepared, written speech would have been placed before him. He didn’t feel exposed without one – the written ones were all a show for the people, to say “Hey, this is not only me speaking, this is the voice of the People!” His cronies knew him well and supported his ultimate goals.
“When my Father stood before you many years ago, he mapped out his Ultimate Goal, knowing that he couldn’t be a part of that final plan.
What he did promise you, was that his work had not been in vain and that he had placed the right people in the right places in order that I would be elected by the people to take up where he and my predecessor left off.” He looked down out of habit, expecting his next prompt from a piece of paper.
“My power is demonstrated even moreso, by my re-election in the face of rising pressure to unseat me. They fear my achievements.
What have I achieved?
With my allies and partners in this plan, we have set the world at war.
We have even trained our attackers, my learned and respected fellow Member, in order to justify our actions and turned a blind eye to the massacre of thousands in order to further our goal.
Then we have turned them on our own people, on the people of the world.
We can now justify our presence and our actions just about anywhere in the world, where we choose to portray these terrorists as presenting a clear and present threat.
When we’re there, we do His work in many ways.
First, there are our own people, hundreds of thousands of them, waiting to be picked off by the next kidnapper or suicide bomber.
Then there’s the locals - train them up, put them out there and between them, they’ll reduce the numbers, it doesn’t really matter which side they’re on. We’ve always got someone shooting at someone else.
And then there’s the Allies, their troops, their citizens, their children, all helping me to fight this “War on Terrorism.” Their assistance lines them up as the next target for these terrorist acts.
What next, you might want to ask me?
I hold the key. I hold the power. I hold the football, as they call it!
When the time is right, and I know when that time is to come, I can achieve the ultimate goal.
A world that is ready and worthy of His occupation.
Thank you Gentlemen, I know you’ll do the right thing.” he concluded.
“Gentlemen, May I remind you that the votes of The Three may not be in favour of yourself.” the Chairman reminded the Candidates.
The voting didn’t take more than a couple of minutes with all the vellum papers, neatly folded now, sitting in the Chairman’s hands.
“I thank all of the Candidates for their presentations and know that it is most difficult to summarise such wondrous achievements in the short time allocated to you,” he smiled.
“I also want to thank the other Members for their votes and for their sterling work in fighting for our causes in their own special way.”
“So, without further ado, let me announce the results” he said, opening the stack of voting papers, one by one.
He read and placed the papers into two piles, each containing three papers.
“It seems Gentlemen, that we have a tie so far, making it essential for me to cast the final, deciding vote.”
“Let me start by saying that each of The Three, presented a fine and strong case for this position and that there will be no losers in this Election.
Each of us, every Member, has a job to do, and each of us will achieve a place at His side for our continuous work towards His Cause.
My decision, is based on this Ultimate Cause - How can we, in the quickest possible time, achieve these ends?
By electing the candidate with the best global reach. With the best credibility and support from the rest of the Leaders.
I therefore place my vote with Candidate number three and welcome him to take his seat at the head of this table where I will bestow upon him, the title and the honour, he so well deserves.
The Successor rose, smiling, and took the four paces to the head of the table at a slow steady pace, grinning and thanking his supporters as he passed them.
He pulled back the seat at the head of the table and settled into it, still grinning from his victory.
The Chairman approached with a large rectangular box, inlaid with bone in the shape of a “7”, and placed it on the table in front of the Successor.
From the box, he took a Black sash, which he placed over the left shoulder of the Successor.
He lifted out a small glass phial, deep crimson in colour, as well as a wafer made of a dark black flour.
He started his chanting and the inauguration of the Successor.
"Sanguis bibimus, corpus edimus, tolle corpus Satani.”
“We drink the blood, we eat the flesh, raise the body of Satan.” the Members chanted as the Chairman placed the contents of the phial and the black wafer on the lips of the Successor.
“Ave Satani!" The Chairman praised.
"Hail, Satan!" The Members stood and chanted.
“Ave versus Christus!” The Chairman shouted."Hail, the New Antichrist!" They shouted in unison.
The Successor smiled, looked at his watch and excused himself from the meeting.
He had scheduled an urgent meeting with one of the Allied Prime Ministers – an ideal Candidate for the position he had just vacated in The Three. He had no doubt that he would accept such a position of honour.
The next time they convened, he should have some positive news for them, he thought to himself.


THE PICK-UP

Sometimes, all it takes is a wish for the dream to come true…..

It wasn’t a new model pick-up. On the money that Sakkie managed to scrape together nowadays, he doubted whether he’d ever be able to afford any of the dreams he might have once had. This would have to tide him over for quite a while to come, at least until he was able to sell off part of the land he’d inherited when his Ma and Pa had died in that tragic accident back in 1993. Property prices were pretty lean right now so he didn’t hold out too much hope for an immediate solution.
The truck was a 1977 Chev’ El Camino V8 Pick-up that he’d bought second hand back in 1988 when petrol cost nothing a litre. When he’d bought it, it had been a proud, orangey, metallic gold colour, but over time, this had faded to a rather dull, matted, rusty colour. Over the years, it had picked up its fair share of dings, scrapes and dents, mainly from travelling on roads that normal cars wouldn’t.
He needed to have a good strong workhorse to be able to tow both the caravan and the boat which he kept on his smallholding a few gravelly kilometres outside of Ashton. Another twenty two kilometres of gravel to the slipway at Stompneus Bay.
Sakkie also had a small Jurgens 4-berth caravan which he used every few months, just to get away from the home environment and to settle into any area where he could regain his sanity, drink a few cold beers and just chill out for a while. “Forget about life, forget about the Wife,” he often joked half-seriously to his mates down at the slipway.
The Boat, proudly named Magdalena, after his once beautiful, once desirable Wife, had become his bread and butter, Without the boat, he would starve. Rather like his Wife, the boat had taken on a shabby, dull, unkempt appearance over the years.
Without the Pick-up he wouldn’t be able to tow either the boat or the caravan. Without the Pick-up he would starve to death.
After the devastating fire that wiped out Sakkie’s dreams when the golden farmlands burned back in 1995, he’d had no choice but to do what he knew well and loved most, to earn a living - Tow his boat down to the slipway and spend the day catching the plump fish that would be proudly eaten at many a dinner table that evening.
The El-Camino seller, had assured him that this Pick-up would “go on forever” and true to his word, this one had cost him very little to keep on the road over the last 19 years. The odd oil change, which he did himself, the brakes every year or so, and the occasional set of filters, kept her going strong, allowing him at least to get the boat into the water and to catch whatever was biting in the bay.
The odometer showed more than 380 000 kilometres, but that had died on him back in 1992. He reckoned it was way past the half-million mark by now.
Most of his catch, he managed to sell on the side of the main Highway at the end of the day, and very rarely did he return home with anything more than was needed for the table.
His Wife, Magdalena, was very proud of his fishing skills as this allowed her to do what she loved best.
She spent the waking hours of her day, sprawled on her now generously proportioned backside, watching soaps on the snowy TV screen, eating bag after bag of Lays crisps, washing them down with tubs of “Fat-free” ice cream, whilst chain-smoking her un-filtered Camel cigarettes with the other hand and generally, just pigging out until it was time for Sakkie to get home and start their supper.
In the old days, Sakkie would return to the house to find a steaming plate of food ready at the table once he’d had a quick clean-up in the bathroom.
Today, he’d be lucky to find a smoke filled room, empty wrappers all around the couch and to be greeted with “Sshhhhhhhhh! This is a critical part “ from a prone, no,”spread” Magdalena, referring to “Days of our Lives” or “Egoli” or some other monumental, world-changing soapy, blaring from the TV set.
Today was a day just like every other day for the last however-many years, (except Sundays when he went to the local church to catch up on all the gossip, and occasionally to pray) and Sakkie had managed to catch about sixteen, good size Yellow Fin Tuna, which he sold within half an hour on the Highway lay bye.
He got into the cab of his pick-up after making sure everything was tied down on the boat behind him. He turned the ignition key with his usual silent prayer, and breathed a sigh of relief as the motor throbbed into life. The pick-up belched clouds of blue-black smoke, enveloping the cab. One day soon, the engine will have to come out and get a complete overhaul, he thought in a sudden state of panic.
Sakkie pulled out of the lay-bye and drove the two kilometres to the farm turn off and on to the gravel road towards Ashton. Since the new Toll road had been built a few years back, not much traffic used this narrow, red dirt road, and Sakkie was relaxed as he travelled at a good steady 50 kilometres an hour and headed home. Any oncoming traffic would always be well signalled by the cloud of red dust on the horizon.
Half way down the gravel track, he stopped to let his “Crew” get off the back of the pick-up. He watched in the rear-view mirror as Smiling Solomon, a fifty-something Zulu, Father of five, climbed out of the truck carrying his two-fish-share of the catch and his Vodacom Rugby rucksack containing the tools of his trade.
Sakkie waved a goodbye knowing that tomorrow morning, Solomon would be waiting next to the fence like clockwork at 5.30. Solomon would sell his “Share” long before he got home to the small village where he lived, almost thirty minutes walk from the fence. Solomon would have a very proud Wife tonight back at his Kraal. Smiling Solomon would live up to his name tonight.
Sakkie drove on for another five minutes when he spotted a familiar cloud of red dust on the horizon, indicating an oncoming car. He slowed down to 40, just in case.
Then it happened. His faithful, ever-loving pick-up truck, jerked twice, spluttered a few more times, backfired loudly, with an accompanying cloud of white smoke, and then, very suddenly, died on him.
He free-wheeled to a halt, trying hard to steer towards the edge of the road but not into the stormwater ditch. The silence of the once throbbing V8 engine rang sharply in his ears.
He strained his ears to pick out the sound of the oncoming vehicle and looked up to see that the trailing cloud of dust was almost upon him. He switched on his headlamps as a warning to the oncoming driver.
The cloud grew bigger, taller, and wider and Sakkie expected to see a large Truck, probably from one of the neighbouring farms, coming into view very soon, judging by the size of the dust storm it was trailing.
He listened for the familiar Diesel Motor sound to come into earshot.
Sakkie heard nothing except a sharp, almost electric-type of singing, whistling sharply, almost playing out a tune. The sound reminded him of these new fangled, Mobile Phones he’d seen when he went into the city, once in a while.
The cloud was almost upon him and fearing that the truck might not see him until it was too late, Sakkie climbed out of the cab of the pick-up and stepped back, well away from the road’s edge.
Closing his eyes to protect them from the dust, he was half expecting to hear a smash as the big truck came past. Sakkie was relieved when he heard the whistling noise, whiz past his pick-up, and looking up, he saw that whatever it was, it was trailing a huge cloud of red dust, obscuring the vehicle totally other than a few green and red, pulsating lights he could make out through the thick dust.
It took quite a few minutes for the dust to clear and Sakkie spent the time wiping his eyes and thinking that this must be something new. Maybe an electric truck or some other new fancy invention that he didn’t get to hear about because, quite frankly, he wasn’t that interested.
Just like these damned mobile phones! Who needs them,? he thought. The last thing a Man should have is a Wife who can phone him every waking minute of the day. Where has the joy of privacy gone, if your Wife can phone you at any time of the day or night, anywhere, any place? he thought. The next thing, she’d be phoning to say, she’s run out of crisps or cigarettes or Ice Cream or some other item!
Sakkie’s thoughts drifted back to his beloved, but now stranded Pick-up. As he walked back around the front of the truck, he did a double take.
He looked back towards the receding cloud of red dust, and there, sitting parked by the side of the road, not more than five meters from where his pick-up had died on him, was a vehicle.
No, not just any old vehicle, but a very fancy one at that!
This must be one of these, new-fangled, fancy hybrid-drive’s he’d heard about. A big, black model sitting low but proud with it’s four, fancy, rectangular headlights and tinted black windows. The badge on the front grille was un-recognisable – this must be a Chevvy he thought as he admired the shining chromed grill. Damn clever these Yanks, he thought as he took in the sleek, aerodynamic body lines and low slung suspension which made the vehicle look as though it had no wheels and was just hovering there.
The passenger door opened. Sakkie could see a vague outline of the person getting out of the door of the vehicle, and recognised the familiar curve of a steering wheel being held as the occupant alighted.
Sakkie realised then, that this wasn’t the passenger getting out, but the driver. This was one of those imported, left-hand drive models which cost an arm and a leg once the import duty had been banged on the top by the Government.
A long, leather clad leg, slowly stretched itself down to the roadside gravel, followed by another shapely leg. A leather clad arm extending to a slim hand, with brightly red-varnished nails, reached around the door side, grabbing the door frame.
The door closed and Sakkie could see for the first time, the Occupant in full glorious Technicolor.
To say she was beautiful was the understatement of the century, Sakkie thought as he admired the slinky curves that made up the body of the driver.
Sakkie looked up to the face of the driver to see what every man always dreams of.
The hair colour was not natural. No-one could have hair as brilliantly Black, no, reddish-black as that. She must have spent a fortune on cosmetics as well, judging by the beautiful jaw-line, perky little upturned nose, and such a beautiful mouth. Her eyes, although shaded by dark black sunglasses with little gold labels in the one corner, glowed, almost green, from behind the frames.
My God, he thought, she’s absolutely gorgeous! In fact, she looks a lot like My Magdalena did when I first met her, right down to the hair, the painted nails and the leather catsuit she eventually burst out of.
Sakkie’s mind slipped back to the early days of High School when he’d first met Magdalena and been overcome by her sheer beauty. Oh how time changes many things. Yes Sir! Twenty years and two hundred pounds later…….
“You got a problem Big-Boy?” the Stranger asked, smiling to herself as she approached with long, elegant strides to where has was now leaning against the Pick-up.
Magdalena had called him “Big-Boy” too, way back then, when she was still interested in the physical side of their relationship. Over the years, this had petered out to almost nothing except maybe for his Birthday or for Xmas when she would “do her duty” urging him to “hurry up and finish” the second he’d climbed over her bulging belly, and positioned himself, hoping to actually penetrate through the layers of accumulated fat.
“Seems she eventually went and died on me, just ground to a halt” Sakkie replied.
“Well, let’s go and take a look under the bonnet then shall we, Big Boy?”
There it was again, “Big-boy.”
“Big-boy,” where does she come with that? He smiled and wondered as she slid past him, standing at the front of the pick-up.
“Why don’t you pop the hood and let me take a look” she said.
Obviously she’s an import too, thought Sakkie listening to her accent and wondering if it was American or Canadian. Probably American, reasoning that only American’s call the bonnet a “Hood.”
He reached under the dash and pulled at the bonnet release lever. He walked to the front of the pick-up to find that the Stranger had already rolled back her tailored leather sleeves and was fiddling around under the air filter.
She withdrew her hands and said “ Give her a turn and lets hear how she sounds.”
Sakkie went back to the cab, positioned himself in the drivers seat, and turned the ignition key. The engine turned as the starter motor strained against the already tired engine. He could hear the spark plugs trying hard to ignite the fuel. A splutter, a cough, and then an almighty metallic grinding sound brought the engine to its final resting place.
“I’m sorry but I think you’ve dropped a valve. Sounds pretty dead to me” the stranger apologised, now standing next to the drivers window, giving Sakkie a bit of a shock.
“I think I’ve seen the last of her, she’s eventually given up the ghost!” he replied. “They certainly don’t make them like that anymore. I doubt your fancy little electric motor will still be running twenty years from now,” he suggested. “It’s such a pity that these things just fade away, eventually”.
The Stranger smiled.
“Wouldn’t it be fantastic if you could just turn back the clock and everything could be just the way it was, way back then?” Sakkie smiled, trying hard to console himself. “Ja……. The things we’d do differently knowing what we know today………”
He sudenly had visions of Smiling Solomon, standing next to the fence in the morning, wondering what had happened to his lift.
“How far are you going” she asked.
Sakkie told her he was a few kilometres further down the road, “ But don’t worry yourself, someone will be along soon and I can scrounge a lift” he suggested.
Sakkie realised he was grinning from ear to ear and must have looked like some sort of pervert, his eyes focused on her ample, pert breasts pressing hard up against the fine leather suit she sported.
She smiled, and told Sakkie to “Hop in” to her vehicle, which he did without any further argument after grabbing his haversack, the car keys, and his pack of Texan cigarettes.
He checked his watch as he slid into the deep leather bucket seats of the fancy imported Hybrid. It was ten past six and Sakkie calculated that he’d still be home before six thirty, in time to fix Magdalena and himself some supper and then start making a few phone calls so that he could get his Pick-up off the road and back to the farm.
“So what brings a stranger like you out to these parts?” asked Sakkie, trying to make small talk.
“I’ve been here for a few days now, just gathering some samples” she replied rather curtly as she pushed a button on the dash of the vehicle. The engine hummed into life, its unique whirring, totally detracting Sakkie from the rest of the conversation.
He closed his door and the sound of the engine faded to nothing.
Sakkie relaxed in the luxury of the seat wrapping around his body.
He noticed a clean, almost metallic, chemical smell coming from the car. Unlike his car which at best, smelled a bit like a pile of fish heads that had lain in the sun for a few days. Comes with the territory, he thought.
He was suddenly tired, very tired and he closed his eyes, thankful for not having to make any more small talk with this very obliging, beautiful stranger.

Sakkie opened his eyes, slowly.
I must have dropped off, he thought. He looked to his left expecting to see the stranger sitting in her left-hand drivers position. Sakkie only saw the passenger door of his El-Camino Pick-up.
Sakkie sat up with a start.
He looked forward and saw that he was sitting, parked, under the carport, right there at his house.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was 6.38.
I must have been dreaming, he reasoned as he realised that not only was he sitting right there at home in his car, but that the engine was purring away quite beautifully.
He killed the ignition, waited ten seconds, and then restarted the car.A smooth purring sound came from the car, just like when he’d bought it way back then!
The bright halogen porch light suddenly went on, almost blinding him, and there, standing in the doorway, was Magdalena, arms folded across her chest. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but imagined she was giving him one of those looks - a look that might just kill a mosquito at 50 paces.
Now I’m going to get me a mouthful, he shivered, dreading the next two hours during which he’d be interrogated for all the detail, right down to the last second.
Sakkie stepped out of the car and stopped dead in his tracks.
The Pick-up’s old faded duco was not only shining like a new pin but as he glanced back across the length of the car, he noticed that all of the old dings and dents that had accumulated over the years, had just gone. The bodywork was like it had just come off the showroom floor.
He Glanced back at his fishing Boat, Magdalena. The once faded paintwork was now shining, proudly reflecting the light from the porch.
The light spilled over into the adjacent field and Sakkie could make out two things. One was his old Massey Ferguson Tractor hitched closely to the long trailer. He’d unhitched the trailer after the fire and sold the frame to a local scap merchant along with what remained of the burned-out Tractor. The second was the wheatfield. This morning, like every other morning since the big fire, Sakkie had averted his eyes from the burned out fields with their crop of weeds and invasive Port Jackson trees. Sakkie blinked several times and rubbed his eyes just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The wheat stood tall and proud, dancing in the light breeze that caught the bulbous, golden heads.
Sakkie was speechless and stood there scratching his head before he realised that his Wife, Magdalena, was standing right next to him.
“And where have you been, my Darling, I’ve been quite worried about you?” she said softly to him. “You know I hate to be kept waiting, specially after I’ve spent the whole day making you a nice pot roast, just the way you like it” she smiled and slowly reached out to take his arm.
Sakkie looked up and thought that his mind must be playing tricks on him. Maybe that ride in the hybrid car had given him some sort of electric poisoning or radiation or something and he was seeing things.
Magdalena’s arm was no longer flabby and mottled with cellulite. The hand, with fingernails now painted a bright red gloss, held his arm, quite gently.
He looked up to her face to see that not only had she taken the time to have her hair done, a deep reddish black, but that her face was suddenly firm, contoured and beautiful, just like it was, way back then!
He took a step backward and just stood there admiring the beautiful shape and form of his Magdalena, dressed in her favourite, figure hugging, glove leather body suit.
“ Come now Sakkie, don’t keep me waiting any longer, you know how I love to set the mood. The table’s all laid out, I’ve got your favourite desert, and, if you eat every last scrap, I might just have something special to relax those poor, tired bones of yours.” she said, smiling seductively, licking her lips.
“Let’s get inside” she said, taking his hand.
“I’ll be with you in a few seconds, you go inside and get things ready,” he said, still not quite believing his eyes.
He opened the door of the Pick-up as he watched Magdalena walk in long elegant strides back towards the house.
He bent down into the cab and reached across to grab his rucksack from the passenger floor.
In the darkened cab, something caught his eye as the light from the porch reflected from the shining frames.
Trapped, just before they disappeared between the backrest and the seat, was a pair of dark black sunglasses with little gold labels in the corner. Sakkie quickly put them into the glove compartment, closed the pick-up door and set off briskly for the house.
He opened the front door and set about locking up for the night.
Just as he was switching off the porch light, he looked down and noticed the zipper on his wrangler jeans was undone.
“ Hurry up now Sakkie” Magdalena called from the Kitchen. “You know how much I hate it when you keep me waiting - Big Boy!”
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes. I just want to freshen up quickly.” he replied as he walked off to the bathroom, smiling like he hadn’t smiled for a long, long time.


SURVIVOR


The phone call came as something of a shock – I hadn’t heard from Gareth in a long time.

How long? Probably four to five years. In fact, yes, it was just over four years ago when we’d had the final confrontation, which, quite frankly was the straw that broke the camels back.

I walked out of a trying, five-year business relationship and eight-year friendship and resolved not to let it bother me, nor hold out any chance of patching things up. Things had gone just too far to even think of a recovery. Gareth, in his careful, manipulative, structured way, made me feel as though I was the one doing the wrong. Gareth was a master at lying with a straight face, which is probably what made him such a good salesman and why I fell for his lies for all those years.

I re-ran the whole distasteful episode in my mind many, many times and regardless of which way you looked at it, Gareth was caught out, pants-by-his-ankles sort of stuff, purposely defrauding not only his business associate, but also his supposed friend.

I walked away from my investment in his company and managed to recover enough emotionally to get on with my own life and to survive and thrive financially.

Gareth had always joked with me saying, “not to worry Harry, you’re a Survivor.”

Which was more than Gareth had apparently managed to do.

After I had laid Criminal charges against him, he’d served less than two years of a three-year sentence in a minimum-security prison, which was quite frankly, more like a hotel than a prison.

A couple of long standing friends felt they were doing me a favour telling me of chance meetings with him over the years, normally in some state of drunkenness, crying on the worlds shoulders and trying to work out why he’d been dealt such a bum hand. “Bitter and Twisted” was the general summary of his emotional state.

I had scrubbed his name right out of my vocabulary and the only time it reared its ugly head was in the by-chance encounter in the small world of Veterinary Pharmaceuticals in which we both operated. I normally walked away from trying to compete with him, contented at not having to risk digging up the past, starting the mud-slinging and possibly involving others in the ugly episode.

The friendliness of his voice was what made the caller un-recognisable.

“Harry! How the hell are you?” was his opening line.

No “Hello,” “Good morning,” or even a “ Hi there,” just a “how the hell are you?”

It froze me on the spot and had me speechless for a few seconds whilst I tried to work out, no, deny the fact that this was actually Gareth, having the audacity to call.

“Who’s this?” I asked into the phone, hoping I’d be wrong.

“Oh, come on now Harry, surely you haven’t forgotten your old friends now, have you?”

“Gareth?” I asked.

“Who else Harry?”

A pause of about twenty seconds felt more like an hour as I decided not to initiate any conversation.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“What is it you want Gareth. I’m really very busy right now.”

“O.K. Harry, I’ll not beat around the bush,” he said brightly, “ I needed to talk to you, to make contact and to tell you that I’ve had something of a change of fortunes lately and, based on our mis-understandings of the past, thought it was time that we made amends.”

“Look Gareth, I’m not really interested…”

He cut me short.

“Just hear me out, please Harry, listen to what I have to say and then, take your time, think about it, and then let me have your answer.” He said.

I didn’t respond.

“Now Harry, as I said, I’ve had a change of fortunes lately and your name was one of the first that came up in my mind. Now, please Harry, just listen! All I’m asking is that you join me and a couple of others for supper and a few drinks so that, if nothing else, I can get this load off my chest, make amends, and then move on from there.”

“I really don’t think that would be appropriate…”

Again, he cut me off mid sentence.

“Friday evening, 7.00 p.m. at my place. Have a drink over supper, listen to what I have to say, you don’t even have to talk to me, just listen, and then you can decide for yourself.”

He then gave me an address and said that he hoped to see me there for “a lesson in survival,” whatever he meant by that.

He hung up and left me holding a beeping handset.

I thought about the phone call many times during the day, wondering about his “change of fortunes” and what drastic situation or events could have changed his life so dramatically to warrant the contact.

When I got home that night, my Wife, Sally thought that I was being a little bit too sceptical and suggested that maybe he’d won the lottery or had some aged Aunt or Uncle leave him a fortune and that maybe he was now in a position to make things up financially.

I doubted whether he’d come by any fortune, and even if he had, I doubted that he’d done it by any legal means based on my past experiences with him.

Sally suggested that I had nothing to lose, and with a definite reservation, finally decided to go along, even if it was just to reinforce my distaste and disgust for the way he’d treated me in the past. Maybe he had hit a lucky streak and decide it was pay-back time; Who knows, I might just walk out of there with a cheque for the thirty thousand pounds he’d stolen from me to feather his lavish lifestyle?

If Gareth had had any windfall, it certainly wasn’t apparent by the fairly familiar address he’d given me and even more so when I drove past a rather seedy looking row of terraced flats that Friday evening. Judging by the cars on the street, all in various states of decay, I’d say that Gareth had probably hit rock bottom before his “change of fortune” came around.

I parked under a street lamp about three hundred yards beyond the entrance to his flat and walked back, surveying the neighbouring properties. A couple of obvious hookers, elbows on the window ledge, made suggestions to me as I passed their ground floor flat.

I mounted the three chipped and unpainted stairs to the front entrance and rang the doorbell indicating the number Gareth had given me. Surprisingly, the intercom worked and I was buzzed in through the front door with Gareth’s voice calling out, “Up the stairs, on the left, you can’t miss it.”

Gareth’s front door was as tatty as the threadbare carpet on the stairway, with signs on the paintwork that the occupant had lost his keys on several occasions and had to resort to kicking the lock in.

The door opened and there stood Gareth. I was shocked, both by the lack of expression on his face and by his physically neglected appearance. Gareth had always been somewhat overweight with a bright, ruddy complexion and well presented deportment. What stood before me was the stooped, shadow of the man I knew. I reckoned that he had lost at least forty pounds and the once ruddy complexion was now pale and almost waxy.

“Join us in the dining room, in there, on the left.” his muted voice appealed as he retreated, without greeting, down the passage to the Kitchen.

I followed him and stepped into a dimly lit room furnished mainly with a cheap Formica dining room table with four seats already occupied.

I nodded to the others present and received various impatient grunts in reply. No one smiled or offered an introduction so I took the liberty of introducing myself.

Again, no response.

I sat down at the last empty seat next to the head of the table where Gareth would obviously be sitting.

“Help yourself to a drink and I’ll join you all in a few minutes.” Said Gareth’s voice from down the hallway.

A side table held an assortment of grubby wine glasses and two carafes of decanted wine, one red and one white.

I helped myself to a glass of red, sniffing the somewhat dull bouquet as I returned to my seat.

“Well, I wonder if we’re all here for the same thing?” I suggested to the table.

Again, there was no response other than the short, fat guy on the far side of the table looking impatiently at his watch. “Christ,” he muttered, “I wish he’d get on with whatever it is he’s got to say instead of wasting our bloody time.”

More mumbles from the rest of the table.

“I really don’t know why I even bothered,” said the red haired man. “I can’t stand to be in his company, and don’t know why I even accepted this damned silly idea.”

“Last time I saw him, I wanted to break his fucking neck,” said the short fat guy. “took every last fucking penny I had, the filthy bastard!”

The table broke out into a cacophony of curses and muttering and general agreement that no-one really wanted to be here and that everyone seemed to have had similar experiences to myself.

The man next to Fatty, dressed like a nightclub bouncer in black leather, black polo neck and a thick gold rope chain stood up, scraping the chair on the uncarpeted floorboards. “I’m getting’ outa here,” he said firmly. “I should be twisting his scrawny neck for him on the way out and not listening to his crap! He’s already wasted another twenty minutes of my life”

The fourth man, who looked like everybody’s idea of just what an accountant should look like, suddenly spoke up. “I’d like to suggest that we all stay, listen to what Gareth has to say and, if after his confession, we’re not entirely happy, we simply leave. Let him get on with his life and we with ours. We’ve all been burned by this man and whatever he says today can’t damage us any further now, can it?”

A few minutes later, the door opened and in walked Gareth, carrying a huge oven-clay pot between two grubby looking dishcloths.

“Gentlemen, please! Let us not be hasty or foolish here, having people wanting to rush off and mess up the whole evening! Let’s all just have something to eat and then I can get down to the business of why you’re all here tonight.” Said Gareth with something resembling a smile on his lips.

Gareth placed the pot in the middle of the table and lifted the lid.

The one thing I always enjoyed about the many evenings I spent socialising with Gareth was his ability to cook up a superb meal. Tonight was going to be no exception as my taste buds and sense of smell concurred when he lifted the lid.

“It’s my famous Guinness and Beef pie.” He said, offering the serving spoon to the leather clad bouncer who hesitated for a second and then dished himself up a mighty helping of thick, puff pastry and steaming meat and gravy.

The rest of the table followed suit. All except Gareth.

“Gentlemen,” he started, “I will eat a little later to give you all the opportunity to fill your mouths and to keep you from interrupting as I speak.”

Gareth sat down at the head of the table on my right, as the dish was passed around and the invited guests helped themselves.

I had enjoyed his Guinness and Beef on several occasions and I got the feeling that most of the others had had similar experiences judging by the size of the servings. Another of Gareth’s clever, calculating moves, designed to keep us glued to our seats, mouths full, and listening to his obviously well prepared speech.

I tucked into my meal; now eager to hear just what it was that had brought Gareth to arrange this meeting with five of his very obvious adversaries. Without a doubt, each of us had been through a similar, lesser or greater experience of Gareth’s devious business dealings.

“Gentlemen,” he started, “Firstly, I’d sincerely like to thank you all for coming along tonight, particularly in view of the fact that it took a lot of emotional control on my part considering you’ve all contributed in a big way to our somewhat troubled relationships of the past.”

In spite of having our mouths filled with food, there was a sudden mumbling from everyone around the table, my own thoughts being the damn cheek of the man, suggesting that we’d all “contributed”; we’d all been gullible enough to fall for your lies and bull, more like it!

“And if you’d just let me continue uninterrupted,” he went on, “I’ll be able to get to the whole point of this evening.

The group continued eating enthusiastically.

As I indicated to each of you when I finally plucked up the courage to call you, I’ve had a definite change of fortunes lately, and, this has brought about my change of heart.” His voice tailed off in an attempt to grab our attention further. This was a tactic he discussed with me often and used in business presentations in the past to “see if I’ve got my audience’s attention” he would proudly say.

“Some of you may have noticed the physical change in my appearance and here, I’ll get straight to the point. Gentlemen, I have been diagnosed with inoperable and most definitely, terminal cancer.” He said, again tailing off, appealing with his masterful voice, to our sympathy levels.

There were a couple of nervous smiles around the table as everyone continued to munch on the supper. As much as I hated Gareth for his past dealings, I would never wish something like this upon him, and I admit, at that moment in time, looking at his wasted frame, I actually felt sorry for him. I spooned another fork-full of food into my mouth, partially as an excuse for not having to say anything in response to his revelation.

“I don’t want to go into all the details but enough is said that I have about three to four months to live.” He went on.

“So, why go to all the trouble of inviting all of my arch-enemies over for supper to share in my change of fortunes you may ask? Why not just accept my lot and get on with the business of dying?”

“Yeah, Why not!” mumbled the bouncer before shovelling another mouthful of pie into his crumb-encrusted mouth.

The others around the table mumbled through their over-filled mouths.

“Because, Gentlemen, there comes a time when all those little things that have influenced your life, things that you’ve pushed aside over the years, come back to haunt you. To make you look at life from a different perspective and to ask yourself, what did I do to deserve this? Where did the wheels fall off? What could have been done differently to change the path of my life and to have put me in a position where, instead of skulking off to my poky little flat to curl up and die, I could have been in the best clinics, receiving the best treatment and postponing the inevitable?”

“Maybe if you’d been more honest and not such a fucking scumbag of a thief, life might have been quite different.” Chirped Fatty from an overstuffed mouth.

“Let me finish please,” Gareth interrupted.

“Yes, Gent’s, Life could have been much different if it wasn’t for the relationships I had with each of you. Each of you in your own special way, contributed to my demise. So… Now it’s payback time!”

“Get out your chequebook then, you slimy motherfucker.” Shouted the red headed guy.

“Whooaah! Just a minute,” Gareth said loudly, “ I think maybe you’ve got the wrong ideas here!”

“Before we have any more emotional outbursts,” Gareth continued, “ Let me just tell you all about the position we’re in right now and then maybe we can move ahead clearly and logically.

Can you please let me have just five more minutes without interruption?” he asked.
Everyone returned their attentions to their plates.

“Then, if you’d be so kind…” He waited for any further objections.

“As you all know, apart from the many different business ventures I’ve been involved in with all of you over the years, my staple, bread and butter business has always been Pharmaceuticals. More specifically, in the field of Veterinary Anaesthesia, utilising products developed in laboratories to combat sickness in farm animals, specifically in the areas of poisoning and toxic contamination. Oh, by the way, is everyone enjoying the Supper?” he said looking at the almost empty plates.

Like a movie that has been put on pause, without exception, everyone at the table suddenly stopped chewing what was in their mouths and froze.

“What the fuck are you up to Gareth you slimy little snake?” screamed the bouncer, attempting to get to his feet.

“Now, sit down please,” said Gareth calmly, “ You should know that increased activity leads to an increased heart rate and all that serves to do is circulate the poisons more quickly through your bloodstream and into the brain.”

Bouncer plopped down in his seat. The others just sat there frozen to their seats, what remained of the food in their mouths being slowly spat out.

My mouth suddenly recognised a sweetness, sharp but sweet, tingling at the sides of my tongue.

“Yes, Gentlemen, Payback time! Judging by the empty wine carafes, I trust you all enjoyed your glasses of wine, which incidentally, was not poisoned. It merely contained a muscle relaxant to calm you all down, just in case any of you decided to get a little bit too physical tonight.”

Oh my God! Glancing around the table, I couldn’t help but notice the changed faces of the others, eyes now slightly drooping, shoulders now stooped, at the same time noticing a feeling of drowsiness that had come over me in the last few minutes.

“So, the bottom line is this,” Gareth, now the Master of the Table went on, “ each of you has now got enough Exidaxitrine circulating in your bloodstream to kill a small horse. Exidaxitrine, as a few of you may know,” he said, looking at me, “is used to Euthanase large animals and is considered by most Veterinarians to be one of the most painless and humane methods of putting useless and troublesome animals out of their misery.

WHICH IS FAR BETTER THAN YOU LOT DESERVE!” he shouted, an inane twisted grin on his lips.

Fatty suddenly started frantically patting his pockets and finally pulled out a cellphone.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to find that much use in here,” smiled Gareth, “I have a signal jamming device sitting just outside the front door which, incidentally is firmly padlocked, not that any of you will have the strength to try to force the door open mind you.”

“But, and here I say a very big “But,” there is hope for you. Not all of you, but at least one of you will survive tonight.”

“Exidaxitrine is also used as a sedative, administered in smaller, controlled doses, it can be used to maintain a level of painless, semi-consciousness whilst surgeons do their thing on the animals. In uncontrolled larger doses, it is fatal. Posidaxitrine, on the other hand, is used to bring the patient around to a recovery condition, provided it is used in the correct doses, the animal will recover almost perfectly!” He grinned. “Although there have been a few cases of permanent paralysis and brain vegetation over the years, but that was when the wrong doses were given.”

“So, Gentlemen,” he said, looking at his watch, “we have about twenty-five minutes before you’ll lose control of your muscles and another five after that before your brain starts to shut down. Just before that, your bodily control functions will cease and in all likelihood, you’ll shit your pants!” He laughed.

Fatty tried to stand up, obviously wanting to attack Gareth, but didn’t even manage to raise his bum off the seat before sinking back down with a whiter shade of pale on his face.

Although I had poured myself a glass of wine, the cheap metallic flavour and cheap bouquet didn’t encourage me to drink more than a sip, so I wasn’t feeling as drowsy as the others who had been topping up all the time we were waiting. As for the food, I was wondering how much of the poison I’d actually eaten as I’d only taken two, maybe three mouthfuls at the time of Gareth’s announcement. My Wife and my Mother always complained that I was s slow eater. Maybe this could be my saving grace? I could certainly feel a numbness creeping into my extremities as I looked down at my fingers, which were starting to refuse to respond, and although my wrist movement was still fairly mobile, I could feel a stiffness creeping into the joints.

“Gentlemen, your day of judgement has arrived. Now, is the final moment of truth, time for you to make amends!” sneered Gareth.

“I’ve allocated two minutes to each of you during which time, you’ll be given the opportunity to apologise for your wrongs and at the end of the two minutes, I’ll score you and make a decision as to who will be the Survivor, who will receive this,” he said, producing a small syringe of clear brownish liquid from his pocket.

The man with the red hair sloppily made a grab for the syringe, only to have Gareth pull his hand away quickly. “You’ll have to be much quicker than that.” He said smiling, a taut pencil line smile starting to sneer across his face.

“Fuck you Gareth,” slurred the Red head, “If you think I’m going to tell you a whole bunch of lies just to satisfy your guilty conscience for all the times you fucked me over, then Fuck-you, big time, Fuck you!”

Gareth laughed out loud. “ Fuck me? No my friend, Fuck you! That was your two minutes and, let me see… We’ll give that a score of two for that ballsy effort! So, who wants to go next?”

The Accountant put his hand slowly into the air.

“ You must understand Gareth, that my job entails accuracy and a special attention to every last detail. My only sin towards you was uncovering the irregularities in the books of Fincham-Tate and it was my sworn duty to bring this to the attention of the Directors” he said, smiling a nervous, accounting sort of smile.

“If I knew that my actions would lead to this tragic situation, I don’t know what I would have done differently without labelling myself a criminal in the process.” He continued.

“I’ve a Wife and two lovely young children at home waiting for me and to not be able to say my goodbyes would be my biggest failing. I’m terribly sorry things have come to this……….”

“But your two minutes are up!” chirped in Gareth looking at his wristwatch.

“A heartrending story, but alas, not one that makes me feel even the slightest bit sorry for you, or your Family for that matter. I think I’ll give you a four point five for effort though.”

He stared metallically around the table.

“How about you, Mr Bloody Big-deal Bouncer? Are you ready to plead for your life like you’ve had others pleading for theirs in your dirty, sordid little business?”

“I really don’t know what you want from me Gareth? If you want me to lick your arse and tell you I’m sorry, if that’s what is needed then tell me and I’ll satisfy your failing ego.” He waited for a response but none was forthcoming.

“We got into business together Gareth, because you enjoyed the sordid, dirty little world of Night Clubs, booze and Prostitutes and the big ticket money it could spin for you. I thought it was great to have someone fund my little venture at the beginning but when my Protectors starting hitting on me for not being paid enough, I found out that you’d been skimming off the top right from the start. Cost me more than a hundred grand that little episode did! You’re lucky I didn’t do more than put you in hospital back then. I should have had you snuffed, you dirty fucking cheat!”

“Which brings your little effort to a close and a lousy three and a half point score. You should learn to control your temper, Mr Bloody Big-deal Bouncer” interrupted Gareth.

Looking around the table, I could see the others looking more and more like they were about to fall asleep. I felt a little drowsy, slightly weak but not half as bad as the rest of the table looked. My slow eating had done me a bit of a favour this time, or had it? Maybe my death would just be more drawn out and painful?

“So, my long lost Partner,” said Gareth, looking at me. “How well can you kiss my arse? Better than the other three, I hope? Let’s see how much you want to be the Survivor.”

“What can I say?” I hesitated. “ When I got into business with you, all was well and good for a while. But, and having many years of thinking about the “but’s,” we both went into the venture with our eyes wide open and, as they say, choosing a business Partner is more difficult than choosing a Wife.” I continued.

“I could no more forecast that you would screw me over any more than you could foresee me screwing you over. So, life’s a bitch, get over it! Which is what I have done Gareth, I’ve gotten over it. In fact, I learned so well from our little encounter that I went on to become stronger and certainly wiser. To sum it up, I suppose I have you to thank for that. Today, I’m not a victim, I’m a Survivor. And Yes, I am sorry! Sorry for where you are today and the position we all find ourselves in. I only wish we didn’t have to get to this.” I concluded.

“Clap, clap, clap, clap,” coming from Gareth’s palms slowly patting together.

“Oh very, very touching I must say.” He smiled. “If I taught you nothing else, it was how to appeal to people’s emotions and to kiss backsides to get the deal.” He laughed. “Let’s see – 22 months I spent in prison for you, divide that by your four other co-conspirators, Yes, a very credible five and a half survival points for you!”

“Which leaves our Fat little friend about two minutes to make his plea.” He said, relishing his display of control.

“Gareth, I think that my being totally honest with you will only cause me to fuck up any chances I have in this little judgement,” began Fatty, “ So, instead of being honest, I’m going to rather “do-a-Gareth” on you and tell you what I think you want to hear. Give it to you, the way Gareth would give it to you!” he hesitated for a moment.

“Gareth, I’m sincerely sorry that my involvement with you has caused you to be in the position you find yourself today. If there was any way I could undo the damage done by our relationship, I would undo it right now, take things back to that fateful day we met and make everything right from there. I’m truly sorry Gareth, now, please, let me have the antidote?”

Gareth stood up and took a few steps back from the table.

“A nice ending but a terrible beginning, I’m afraid. Certainly not as appealing as others but, probably worth, let’s see, a five and a half.” He said, turning his back to us.

He was fiddling with the syringe, holding it up to the light.

“Which means we have a tie for first place now don’t we?” he said, looking back over his shoulder at us. “And, in the case of a tie, guess what?” he paused.

“I get to be the winner!”

What happened next took us all by surprise.

He’d been preparing the syringe while his back was turned towards us and, turning round, plunged it deep into the prominent blue vein in the crease of his elbow.

He held the syringe in that position for a few seconds; “ Gent’s, in the drawer under the side table, you’ll find a packet with some little capsules in it. You can decide who’s going to take them or not? A few minutes after you take it, you’ll be on the road to Salvation.” He looked down at his arm.

“The worst thing about dying is knowing that you’ll die alone.” He said, quietening his voice almost to a whisper. “I really don’t want to die alone, in some grubby little hospital ward with some grubby little nurse throwing a sheet over my head. No, I wanted to share this moment with all of you who have been influential in my life. As for my little game – well, let me say that you were all so soft and gullible and if I could fuck-you-over once, why not fuck-you over again?”

At which, he plunged his thumb down firmly on the syringe, the brownish liquid emptying into his veins.

Two seconds later, his legs collapsed, and Gareth lay in a heap on the floor.

No one spoke. Everyone was focused on Gareth’s crumpled, motionless body.

“I think I can still walk to the table,” I suggested to a semi-comatose audience.

Without any response from the rest, I pushed my chair back and was shocked to find enough strength in my legs to lift me out of my seat. Resting my arms on the table edge and then onto the shoulders of my fellow sufferers, I made my way slowly to the side table and opened the drawer.

It was empty.

I pulled the drawer right out and explored the insides with my numbing hand.

A plastic packet, zip-loc hospital issue, came into view as I scratched around.

I opened the packet and, true to Gareth’s word, there were the capsules, each containing a reddish liquid. I counted them out – four of them.

I took one out and then made my way slowly around the table, putting one into each of the open mouths, starting with the bouncer and ending in the accountant.

“Bite down on that” I instructed each of them, making my way back to my seat for their recovery and my gradual demise. Yes, I had a choice, take one for myself and leave one of the others out. But which one? Maybe I’d survive because I hadn’t gulped down the wine and attacked the meal like a starved savage? Maybe I’d just pass away slowly, no pain, no feeling, just like the animals this stuff was intended for?

I sat down and through blurring eyes, looked around at the others at the table.

The Bouncer seemed to be rolling his head from side to side and the red head was shaking his up and down. A slow glance around the table showed that everybody seemed to be having a similar reaction, obviously as the antidote started working through their systems.

My vision went blurred, in fact, so blurred that it seemed that all of the mouths around the table were wide open and were filling with shaving foam!

My eyes cleared for a moment and I could swear that Fatty had put his head on the table and that the Bouncer had fallen sideways off his chair.

An electric pain, like the sort of pain you get when the dentist exposes a raw nerve and then pokes it, shot through my entire skeleton.

My God! Surely poor animals don’t have to go through this? Surely, my death will come quickly?

The pain stopped. The four dinner guests were now all lying in some crumpled form or other and judging by the state of their faces, I would say that they had all expired.
I nudged the accountant with the little strength that I had left in me only to have him slide off the seat and onto the floor. Like Gareth, he lay in a crumpled and obviously dead heap.

I finally lost consciousness thinking to myself that Gareth truly had “fucked us over one last time.”


Patching the pieces together later, I learned that Sally had worried about me after trying my cellphone unsuccessfully until about eight thirty. At eight-forty-five, she decided to call her brother Tony and together they had come to Gareth’s address and after kicking in the door and finding it padlocked from the inside, Called 999.

I was in a deep coma for more than a week after having my stomach pumped and according to the Doctors, it was touch and go for a while.

The Newspapers were onto the story from the start, calling it a “suicide pact” and wondering why five-seemingly-perfect and normal people would meet and do such a thing.

It still didn’t click.

Only after I got home from hospital some ten days later and was lounging in front of the TV, did the question hit me.

Sky News was on the box and I listened closely, fascinated that the story was still making headlines well after the event.

The announcer recapped the story to date and further posed the question, “Why?”. He then went on to name the four dead people and me as the only survivor.

I frantically grabbed the phone and called Sally down at the Charity shop she worked in part-time.

“What the hell happened to Gareth?” I almost screamed into the telephone.

“He’s disappeared, everyone’s trying to find him” she replied, trying to calm me with “Slow, down, calm yourself!”

I dropped the phone, as the reality of what she was saying started to sink in.

Sally arrived home about twenty minutes later and a Detective Inspector from the local Police Station arrived a few minutes after that.

When Sally and Tony arrived at Gareth’s house, she explained, they had to call the police to break in the door and upon entering the dining room, found four people dead and me hanging on to life by a thread.

There were only five of us in the room and as much as my wife tried to tell them about the invitation and Gareth’s phone call, no one had yet been able to confirm whether he had actually been present at all that evening. Amongst the other checks that they did, it seemed that Gareth had left the country and had taken a flight to Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport more than three weeks beforehand and so far, had not re-entered the Country. No one had been able to track him down yet and the Police still wanted to talk to him.

“As far as we can determine, there is only one entrance into the Flat and that was padlocked from the inside. Unless your friend managed to get out of a locked bathroom window two story’s high, we can only conclude that it was just the five of you in the flat.” explained the D.I. before suggesting that I might be able to help them further, now that I was coherent enough to recall events.

They really needed to know why the contents of my stomach, a snake venom extract, were very different from the Cyanide based doses in the other four victims.

I was considered a “suspect” in the case.

I made an appointment to see them the following day down at the Police Station.

Three months went by since that night and the Police indicated that this was still an “Open Case” and that they were still treating me as a suspect.

Between a Criminal Psychologist, Lawyers, Police and Sally’s Family, the phone seemed to never stop ringing. It had got to the stage where I would often ignore the ringing phone, preferring to let the answering machine take a message.

This time, I was walking down the hallway when it rang. What made me answer was the LCD panel on the phone, which showed the number of the person calling.

I recognised it as an International dialling code.

I picked up the phone.

“Harry! How the hell are you?”
I froze. Five, ten, fifteen seconds….

An operator with a German or Swiss accent suggested that the caller should deposit more money in the callbox.

“Don’t let the Police hassle you Harry, – either way, in Prison or a free man, you’ll get by. Not to worry Harry, you’re a Survivor!”

I fainted.


FREE EARTH DAY

It would be almost twenty years to the day, from the end of the Big War of 2008, until noon today, when the Free Earth Day ceremony would be held in Harare.
Harare had been chosen unanimously, as the most suitable choice of venues, it being a widely held belief, that the Origin of Man was somewhere in this region. This re-birth would also come to be known as the Second Origin – Free Earth Day.
Harare had also been largely unaffected by the fall-out that drifted around the globe for many months.
John had lived through the worst of times, including the Big War and more than anything else, lived with the hope that he would see this day within his lifetime.
John had turned 82 three days ago and had prayed constantly to wake up on this eventful morning. His old heart was not what it used to be and sometimes he had to take three or four tablets a day. His Doctor had told him to take it easy and to not get too excited.
That was rather difficult nowadays.
His mind drifted back to when he was still a young and active campaigner, and back even further to that fateful day when the truth began to be exposed. That day was September 11th, 2001.
At first, the world believed every bit of propaganda distributed by the Bush Administration, taking for granted, that the World had been attacked by Terrorists, and that this “Radical Muslim Uprising” was the root of all evil, lead by one Osama Bin Laden.
Even when the American Troops confirmed the death of Bin Laden in 2003, the White House and the Pentagon hid the facts from the public, maintaining that this very real Threat was ever-present.
Even the British Government had been taken in by these “Facts,” and openly supported the Americans and their Allies in their war on Terrorism.
A second “Terrorist Attack,” this time on the transport systems of England, strengthened the Bush case with his Allies and sent the world into a state of constant fear.
Around that time, John remembered seeing an article in one of the dailies, inviting people to attend a rally in Trafalgar Square. This rally had been organised by the local chapter of the A.R.I. Research Institute, a relatively unknown group advocating a “cooperative model, sharing the resources of the planet for the welfare of everyone.” John, like most of his mates down at the local pub, was pretty fed up with the world as a whole and listened enthusiastically to the speakers who, one by one, described this manipulative society right down to the daily problems John experienced.
He told a few of his colleagues at work about the meeting, but most of them just sneered and told him that Mao Tse Tung had tried and failed horribly in his attempt at Communism. As much as John tried to explain that this was different, he didn’t have too many listeners.
At the same time that John became a fully-fledged Member of A.R.I. some months later, several changes in the American Houses of the Senate and the House of Representatives, lead to some amazing revelations.
It was revealed that, not only was 911 a totally manufactured event, down to the controlled implosions on the lower floors of the World Trade Centre, but that the attacks of the British Systems had been orchestrated by the CIA and planted, rogue elements of MI6, bent on retaining control over the world economies.
Oil, minerals, wealth and general greed, were exposed as the true terrorists.
The parties loyal to the Bush administration rallied and within months of beginning to try to maintain a military curfew, the people rose up and the Second American Civil war had begun.
Not content with fighting a war within the United States, Bush was adamant that the World had not been lied to, and that the “Axis of Evil” still lay in the Middle Eastern Countries and was being fuelled by Iran, amongst others.
The first nuclear warheads hit Iran in October 2007 and sparked military retaliation from around the world, England being at the forefront.
John had only been involved from an organisational point of view and had not seen action on the front line, except in those transmissions, which came in by Satellite from the war Zones.
John’s two Son’s had been casualties in the first assault on Washington along with almost 2000 other British troops who were chemically gassed as they made their way through the streets to the White House.
A second wave of Troops came better prepared, and took strategic targets within a very short time.
Supported by the “Confederate” Americans, the Administration was captured and held in the Hague, pending what was to be the longest War Crimes Trials in History.
By the time the Big War had been won, more than 9000 “manipulators” were to stand trial. Amongst the accused, skulked the “Chosen 100,” a collection of the world’s richest people, all of whom claimed to be direct descendents of Jesus Christ.
The justification for their actions stemmed from this claim and to their right to the wealth of the World.
The trials revealed their manipulation and involvement in every conflict around the World, from the times of the Roman Empire until the end of The Big War.
The world stood in a state of destruction and chaos for more than three years whilst the infrastructures were re-built and a World Parliament was constituted.
During this time, John had built the U.K Chapter to a level where almost 92% of voters chose the route of the A.R.I.
The Scandinavian Countries soon followed with their votes and Europe and the Middle East were allied in their respect for transparency, democracy, and an accountable system.
However, old habits proved to die hard, and even though the Kingpins in the old War machine were behind bars, many saw this as an opportunity to take over where the others had left off.
These battles were just as long and hard and over 60 000 Kings of Industry, involved in graft, corruption, assassination and murder, were eventually brought to book.
John also recalled that eventful day in February 2012, when the factory in which he had worked for more than 30 years, was finally handed back to the people.
John was proud of the way the world had embraced the new Theory and had abandoned the old regimes.
When John’s Wife had died in 2007, mainly due to a broken heart, because of the loss her precious Son’s, John had wrapped himself up in the development of A.R.I. in the U.K.
In 2008, he married his Co-worker Sally, who although almost twenty years his junior, became his lifeline, his strongest supporter and his reason for living.
Their Daughter, Juliette, came in the later part of 2009 and today, was John’s Protégé, actively supporting the sustenance of the A.R.I. Philosophies.
At 19, Juliette was the youngest Committee Member in the U.K. and John’s chest swelled with pride at the thought of her attending the Second Origin – Free Earth Day, opening ceremony in Harare.
Yes, the total costs in terms of sacrifices and young lives lost were great. On reflection, it was all worth it, regardless of the costs, he thought. John’s life, and the lives of every one around him had changed for the better.
Social services were freely available and the need to end pain and suffering, of paramount importance.
Gone were the days of the Super-Rich versus abject poverty. Gone were the times of manipulated food shortages, petrol queues, and hyperinflation.
A.R.I. had stabilised the economy and everyone who breathed had the right to a decent lifestyle and the respect of his neighbours.
A barter system had taken over most of the economies and value of all goods was determined according to needs. It would be almost unbelievable twenty years ago, to think that a Sony Portable Viewman could have the same value as three loaves of bread or that a trans-continental flight could be exchanged for six months supply of Organic vegetables.
Yes, life was good and John reassured himself that all had not been in vain. Once today had been formalised, he would be happy to move on to that final meeting with his Lord and Maker. Hopefully, he would find a similar system in Heaven!
The FreeView communicator on his Plasma console gave an alarm signal. John had programmed the device to warn him of the pending live Podcast, at fifteen-minute intervals, starting one hour before the event.
This was John’s last alarm call and he readied himself by grabbing the container of his Heart medication capsules and settling down in front of the Console with a large pot of herbal tea. Two Ladies from the local Tunnel Farm had been dropping samples of the new organic brew Teabags to householders in the area yesterday and he was looking forward to receiving a regular supply when he requested it.
John voice switched the console to the “On” mode.
The A.R.I. news channel was covering other items but bore the banner in the lower screen announcing the pending live broadcast.
Good news for learners was announced saying that the Education Board has extended its wireless network to cover almost 92% of the British Isles, making free educational access possible even in the remotest areas. John, mainly out of occasional boredom, was studying for his Masters degree in Environmental Engineering using the very latest media technologies, beamed wirelessly into his Console, his Electric Vehicle or even his Bathroom if he asked for a connection.
Juliette had completed her Master’s in Industrial Methodology before she was 16 using this fantastic system. Once the manipulators of the worlds dominant Computer Operating Systems had been denounced for their part in the atrocities, Freeserve technology became available to all.
The next article covered advances in sustainable, renewable energy sources and made a big show over the ethanol from plant conversion Factories that now took all organic waste in most countries around the world and generated 80% of the fuel sources. The article was bragging that England would have a 7% surplus by the end of 2021. The previous Regime’s had hidden these technologies for years to protect their Fossil Fuel investments.
The announcer, touching his earpiece, advised viewers that the Podcast would be switching to the Second Origin – Free Earth Day ceremony shortly.
When the picture switched to the Harare stadium, John sat forward in his chair. As the Camera panned around the stadium, John’s pride swelled as it passed over the main stage where it briefly, caught Juliette, sitting smiling and animated only three seats away from the Committee Chairperson for the event.
Probably twenty thousand people filled the stadium, John thought, quickly scanning the crowds.
What was wonderful for John to see, was the melting pot of different people from different races, creeds, cultures, religions and social groups, all standing around, smiling, waiting to join in the celebrations of such a wondrous event.
The Master of Ceremonies was taking the podium and John recognised a somewhat older than he recalled, Kofi Annan, as he stepped up to the microphone. The retired United Nations Head had been willingly brought back into the limelight when the Big War ended. Apart from providing a familiar, trustworthy face to the millions, he had played a huge stabilising part in the War Crimes Trials, seeking justice and compassion where others may have faltered.
“So, Ladies, Gentlemen and Members of our World Community, I take great pleasure in asking our first Chairperson, to take the podium for this momentous occasion. Let us give a warm welcome to Martin Luther King Junior, the Fourth.” Annan announced, as he applauded and turned to greet the incoming Chairperson.
The camera focused on King as he left his seat and stood before the podium to the tumultuous applause of the crowd.
John found himself applauding the Podcast, so engrossed was he with the day that had finally arrived.
What happened next, defied John’s comprehension.
One second, King was standing smiling and applauding the crowd, and the next second, a big, black, dot appeared in his forehead. King twitched, smiled a nervous sort of smile, and then collapsed in a heap behind the podium.
John stood up rapidly, his heart racing, trying to understand what he had just seen.
“Oh My God, please don’t let this be true!” he thought as the camera darted around the grounds and the stage, looking for the source of this disturbance.
The screen went back to a black, blank picture.
“We interrupt this Podcast, to bring you some breaking news………” the announcer said, a shocked and serious tone to his voice.
John felt tightness in his chest, squeezing him almost from the inside outwards.
John’s knees felt suddenly weak and he stumbled backwards into his easy chair, trying to steady himself.
The pain was sharp now, right across his chest and under his arms.
He reached sideways to the small table trying desperately to find his heart medication but realising that in his attempt to sit down, he had knocked the table over. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t even move from the spot he was in.
“Yes……. We now have confirmation…….” The announcer continued.
John’s heart stopped beating.
“The tragic news is that Martin Luther King Junior, the Fourth, has been assassinated and has been pronounced Dead at the scene by Doctors in the stadium………….” the announcer continued.
“Officials at the ceremony have just announced that a single, sniper, has been detained on the outskirts of the stadium and that he is claiming to be a member of the Right Wing Radical group known as “The Brothers of Bush”, a rebel group, still active in small cells around the world”.
John’s brain stopped functioning a couple of minutes after his heart lost its beat.
“Oh God, please……… Please don’t let history repeat itself………..” was John’s final thought as he slowly faded out of this world.


VISIONS – IN MY MIND’S EYE

VISIONS – IN MY MIND’S EYE

BY ARTHUR HOWE

I first started to have visions when I was about nine or ten years old.

This was about the first time my Mom allowed us to go down to the beachfront without her. Before my brother and I became responsible enough to walk the half mile from our cottage in Brally Road, to the steps which led down to the beach.

Before that, my brother Tim, who was two years older than me, was considered just a little bit too irresponsible, having once been struck by a car, albeit not too seriously, when he was around nine years old.

My Mom said Tim walked around in a world of his own. Maybe he was having visions too? He certainly never spoke to me about them.

It was on the beach when I first saw the pictures inside my head.

My Visions.

Quite a few people who read this will be familiar with the build up to the visions, and maybe some will even realise what has happened to them, once I’ve explained what is really going on.

I was lying back in the sand where I’d scooped out a depression for my body and laid a towel down neatly inside it. I closed my eyes and shuffled my body, forcing the sand to mould to my shape.

It was a warm day by British standards with temperatures expected to get into the seventies.

The light permeating my eyelids glowed a golden orangey-red.

There’s no perspective, no dimension to what you see when you look at the inside of your eyelids with the sun shining through, but if you focus carefully, you can see all kinds of objects floating around inside your eyes. Little black bits, translucent shapes, amoeba-like object, which follow your eyes around as you move them within your sockets.

I asked my Mom once what they were and she very cleverly told me that they were the cleaners, put there by God to destroy any harmful bacteria that tried to get into your brain through your eyeballs.

The black bits, she said, were those objects, bits of sand, grit, and poisons in the air, hell-bent on getting to your brain and making a zombie out of you. It’s funny what you’ll believe when you’re that age.

I must explain here that my state of consciousness was 100%. I wasn’t falling off to sleep or dozing. I could hear everything going on around me, kids playing in the sand and the surf. I could smell the sea air and Ice cream and even someone’s egg mayonnaise sandwiches, which I could hear being unwrapped from their greaseproof paper.

No, I was fully conscious, aware of everything going on around me.

At the same time, I was focusing on the amoeboid like objects inside my eyelids, trying to see if they were really moving or if it was just my eyes relaxing that made them appear to move.

There was no flash of light or suddenness to what happened next.

In the bottom right hand corner of my vision, a shape materialised, complete in its form. I could clearly see a girl maybe twelve or thirteen years old, a knitted hairband holding back her long plaited hair. I wasn’t looking directly at this image but rather seeing it in the periphery.

I turned my inner gaze towards the little girl who was smiling to someone. She suddenly stopped whatever it was she was doing and turned her head and looked straight towards me. It was as if she had felt me intruding upon her private world and didn’t like what was happening.

She looked straight towards me, a look of shock on her pretty face and then she faded away.

Even though the actual image had gone, I held on to that mental image for quite a while trying to recall exact details of what she looked like and what she was wearing, hoping later to recall where I had seen her before and to work out why she suddenly materialised inside my head.

That didn’t happen until about three weeks later.

This time, I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep at about nine thirty that night.

In the darkness of my bedroom, I’d been rubbing my eyes rather hard, trying to work away the tiredness. When I closed my eyes, the area where I had been rubbing was much lighter and brighter than the rest of my darkened eyelids. Like little stars inside my eyes, I watched as they too, followed my drifting eyes around inside the sockets.

There, in the bottom right hand corner, it happened again.

The little girl, hairband and all, was now standing out vividly inside my eyelids, only this time, she was very different. Her eyes wereleaking tearsand were scrunched up. Her mouth was bound by some sort of flower-patterned cloth that had been tied tightly causing her chin to hang down, probably by her trying to get more air in her mouth.

Or to scream maybe?

She had on the same blue cardigan and white blouse that now looked a little dirty and crumpled. Her eyes held a look of tortured fear.

I didn’t want to look directly at the image for fear of losing it again, but this time, I could feel the little girls eyes, trying desperately to call to me, to get my attention.

I looked slowly towards her and she looked directly in front of her using her eyes to direct me, telling me to look, not at her, but at what she was seeing.

I followed her gaze until a new image formed in my head.

A man was there, in the same place with her, tall and broad, balding at the back of his head. Only his back was visible as he scratched at something on the long table he was working at. He was standing as he worked and I could see the texture of his tweed jacket and worn collar of the shirt that sat above it. I could see there were spots, yellow pimples on the back of his neck and a ruddy, patchy, sort of complexion running from the back of his neck, around to his ear.

He turned around suddenly, mouthing something through broken and stained teeth, as his hand swung forward and smacked the little girl hard across her face. I almost felt the smack as it connected and tensioned my body where I lay in the bed. The vision faded completely.

I must mention here that I waspretty good with a pencil or crayons and in fact, always got very good marks for my artwork at school.

I sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, and eased out of bed so as not to make too much noise.

From my dressing table desk, I took out a set of pastel crayons my Aunt Myrtle had given me for a birthday. She said she saw my artistic talent and handed me a whole bunch of pens, inks, crayons, and different types of paper. “ Maybe when you get famous, you’ll remember me” she’d joked.

I first started sketching my Mind-girl, taking care to get the eyes and facial colouring just right. The position of the hairband and the gag around her mouth took a little longer to recall, but eventually, I was happy with the results.

I then sketched the Baldy-man who was in the room with her. I couldn’t quite get the face rightand focused more on the hair, lank and greasy, as well as the blotchy patches on his neck and side of his ear. I wasn’t entirely happy with this one but decided to fine tune it, next time I got one of my visions.

Eventually I fell asleep, my mind confused by what I had seen a few minutes earlier and thought about the abrupt ending. I decided that I must not react physically if ever I saw something that shocked me like that. I didn’t want to lose contact with these visions.

There was nothing more for the next few weeks.

I’d gotten up early that Friday, wanting to get to my Friend John’s house to trade some D.C. comics. I had gone downstairs to rush through my obligatory bowl of cornflakes and two slices of marmite toast.

My Mom’s portable black and white TV was in the kitchen nook, tuned at this time to the breakfast show, which later became Coronation Street and Top of the Pops.

I glanced at the screen as the news rambled on.

There she was! My Mind-girl! Right on my TV, right in my Kitchen! They were showing what looked like a School photograph of her, complete with the very same hairband I’d seen in my visions.

I leaned over and turned up the sound, trying to catch the balance of the story before the article ended.

“………….Police are working around the clock in the desperate search for Annie McLachlin who disappeared from her parents home in Barrydale last Thursday evening. Fourteen year old Annie had gone to the local shop to get a loaf of bread for her Mom and has not been seen since. Anyone having any information as to the whereabouts or circumstances surrounding Annie McLachlin’s disappearance, should contact their local Police station or dial 0272 26692 and ask for the case Officer. In other news today…”

I switched the sound off.

“That’s her, Mom,” I screamed. “That’s the girl who keeps coming into my head.”

My Mom turned around and looked at me as though I’d gone stark raving bonkers.

“What’s all this nonsense about a girl inside your head?” she asked doubtfully.

I realised then that I hadn’t told anyone, probably out of fear of being mocked about it and agreed to myself that I must have sounded half mad shouting at the top of my voice like that.

“I didn’t tell you Mom, because I thought no one would believe me,” I explained.

I then told my Mom all about the visions I’d had and how the missing girl had been identical, right down to the hairband she wore in the T.V. photograph.

“And where did they say this girl was from then” she asked.

“A place called Barrydale, wherever that is” I replied, expecting some sort of acknowledgement from my Mom.

“Never heard of it. Did they say which County it is in?” Mom said with just a hint of humour in her voice.

That’s right, humour me, I thought. That’s exactly why I didn’t bring it up in the first place.

“No they didn’t,” I said sulkily into my chin. “but let’s get an atlas out and have a look shall we?” I perked back into action mode.

I found the big Collins Atlas on the bookshelf in the Dining Room and immediately turned to the index of place names.

I scanned down the “B’s” until I came to “Barrydale” and saw four entries. Two were outside of the U.K. and two were inside, one in Ireland and one in County Durham, almost two hundred or more miles from where we lived.

“If this all happened nearly two months ago, how come this girl has only gone missing a few days ago?” My Mom asked, suddenly showing an interest.

“Why would you see things happening months before they took place?” she asked incredulously.

“I can prove it Mom, I’ll show you my drawings” I said rather loudly, suddenly remembering the contents of my desk drawer.

I ran up the stairs in record time, eagerly leafing through the pages of my sketchpad as I ran down the steep flight of stairs.

Which is when I slipped.

I’d been so engrossed in the sketchpad, trying to find the sketches of my Visions, that my left foot just slid right off the next stair, throwing my whole body backwards, and my head sharply against the metal trim that held the stair-carpet runnerin place.

From thereon, I remember nothing except waking up on the couch in the lounge with a headache second to none, and an icy wet feeling at the back of my head.

My Mom was sitting on the floor next to the couch and had dozed off in her attempt to be attentive.

As I sat up, my head throbbed, and my moaning woke Mom rather suddenly.

“My God, my boy, you gave me something of a scare you did, you little blighter” she said smiling. “ You’re not bleeding or anything, but I put an Ice pack at the back of your neck, just in case there was any swelling.”

Resting in her lap, was my sketchpad, opened to the page where I’d made my sketches that night, many weeks ago.

“I found these and have asked your Uncle Ronny to come over and have a look at them” she said, no longer doubting my visions and my mad ranting of earlier on.

Uncle Ronny, my Mom’s brother, was a Detective Sergeant in the local Police force and although Mom had thought it important enough to call him, I couldn’t quite see the connection at that stage.

Mom went off into the kitchen and came back with some sugar water, “To make you feel better” she insisted.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard Uncle Ronny’s Ford Sierra pull into our driveway.

I could hear them in the hallway, whispering and laughing at the same time, continuing into the lounge.

“It’s alright Lad, I’m not going to arrest your Mom for pushing you down the stairs” he said seriously.

“I came to give her a hand to do it right this time.” He burst into his inimitable laughter, stopped briefly to make sure I’d got the joke, and then guffawed to himself again.

I liked Ronny because in spite of being a Copper, he was always joking and fooling around, bringing a nice feeling into the room, even if his jokes were somewhat stale and slack.

He explained to me that Mom had gone through everything with him and, even though a lot of people would laugh at the idea, he truly thought that the images I’d drawn were too coincidental to be ignored. He was friendly with the Detective Inspector who was handling the case and asked if it was O.K. for him to show him the sketches.

I agreed, not putting too much significance on anything. A couple of more minutes of idle chatter and Ronny said his goodbyes and left.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blank and I slept very well with my slight concussion and two “strong” headache tablets from Mom, helping me nod off very quickly.

Mom woke me the next morning by shaking me rather than nudging me.

“Come down and watch the T.V.” she said. “Your Uncle Ronny says that they’re showing your sketches of the man. Come quickly, come downstairs” she tailed off as she walked briskly out of my bedroom.

When I got downstairs, Dad was sitting there, glued to the T.V.

“I’m not sure what you’re up to my Boy, but someone’s very excited down at the Police Station” he smiled, not taking his eyes from the set.

The News was showing on I.T.V. and every time an article ended, Mom and Dad both started “shhhh-ing” and “Wait,wait,wait-ing.”

“ Police in Barrydale believe they have made a breakthrough in the case of missing schoolgirl, Annie McLachlin who disappeared from her parents home in Barrydale last Thursday evening.” The announcer said, most seriously.

“Detective Inspector Gary Philips declined an interview or to release any further information at this stage, but asked the Media to assist in trying to track down this Man, possibly wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance”. The announcer droned on as My Sketch came up on the T.V. screen.

“ Police declined to disclose the source of the informant, but ask that anyone who knows of anyone matching the picture, to contact their local Police with information”.

The rest of the day went very quickly and at about five, I arrived back from school to see Uncle Ronny’s car in our driveway.

He wasn’t smiling when I entered the lounge, but gave me a quick “Hiya” and returned his attention to the T.V. around which Mom and Dad were both glued.

I only caught the tail end of the broadcast, but the announcer was going on about the response to My picture and the arrest of “one Michael James Porter” at his smallholding just outside Barrydale.

It seems that, acting on a tip from a neighbour, the police had arrived to interview the Man resembling my sketch, to be greeted by a hostile Porter, brandishing a shotgun. The stand-off had lasted an hour or so before he was overpowered by two Policemen who had gained entry from the side window.

The search had revealed the body of young Annie McLachlin who, by first report seemed to have been asphyxiated.

Police were searching the cordoned off premises and said that Porter had been questioned previously regarding the disappearance of three other teenagers over a four year period.

A couple of days later, they announced that four other decomposed bodies had been found in shallow graves around the smallholding and that they didn’t discount the possibility of finding more.

I’m 37 now and all that is a vague memory.

Over the years, my visions have come to haunt me more than any one man deserves in a lifetime.

The really, nasty thing about this ability of mine, is the fact that there is no timeline, no perspective and no indication of when or where these visions will happen.

An example of this is a vision I had in the late nineties, I think 1998, when, once again, I was dozing off, lying next to my Wife in bed at night.

The scene was most vivid.

A darkened house. No, not a house, a dwelling. No windows, no doors that I could see, no furniture, nothing familiar about the scene. A couple of wooden crates serving as furniture perhaps were scattered around the dwelling. A thin cheap candle was burning on one of these crates.

A Man, oriental in his facial features, was sipping out of a clay(?) cup and talking, to a smaller, shrivelled, oriental lady sitting cross legged on the dirt floor, just to his left. Two children, clearly a boy and a girl, maybe ten or twelve, were eating what looked like wallpaper paste out of small plastic bowls.

The next thing, the dwelling starts shaking, and the two adults in the dwelling, suddenly stand up, looking confused and agitated.

What happened next, happened so quickly. I’ll try to replay it in slow-motion to give you the total picture.

The wall of the dwelling suddenly started to bulge. The faces of the adults changed shape, not for any other reason than out of total shock at what was happening. The wall bursts inwards and a wall of what appeared to be rock, mud, and water, poured into the dwelling. The adults didn’t even have time to move as the wall of debris quickly filled the dwelling, totally covering the occupants.

Then there was a total blackout. Nothing more.

This one vision only played out in reality in 2002.

I was watching Sky TV News when the article came on describing how an entire village of what they referred to as, “Squatter shacks,” had been buried in a mudslide during severe rainstorms, just outside of Kowloon in China.

The camera played out scenes with villagers running around, digging with their bare hands, crying, screaming, trying to find someone left alive in the quagmire that remained.

A translator was interpreting a young Chinese man, who was describing how he had been looking for work in the city, heard the news, and raced home to find his village obliterated. He was hoping that his Family had not been at home at the time, and held up for the Camera, a crumpled photograph from his wallet, of his Father, Grandmother, and his younger Sister and Brother.

The translator was asking that anyone who had seen these people must tell them to meet at the local community centre.

I had seen these people.

Four years previously.

In my Visions.

Istarted screaming. Sobbing and screaming.

My Wife consoled me after a while, but Doctors later said that I’d had a nervous breakdown and needed medication on a long term basis to pacify my “Ravings” as they called them.

I’ve been here in this Hospital since that night, obediently taking my medication and acting out a calm exterior for those that come to visit me from time to time.

It hasn’t stopped my Visions. It hasn't stopped my screaming and sobbing.

Over the years, since that very first Vision, I’ve seen it all.

Murders, rapes, suicides, car smashes, plane crashes, drownings, muggings, shootings, knifings, burglaries, overdoses, people jumping off buildings, bridges, mountains.

People dying in just about every way you could ever think possible.

I’ve seen planes crashing into buildings, buses, and trains blown to smithereens, kids with guns shooting other kids. People burning, people freezing, people disintegrating right before my very eyes.

My visions have never been wrong. Just the timing differs. Sometimes the events take place days after my vision, other times, weeks, even months. Sometimes, like now, I wait anxiously for confirmation of yet another tragedy.

People have called me “gifted.” They’ve described my visions as “wondrous.” They’ve even likened me to a “Modern day Nostradamus.”

The torment is huge. The pain enormous. The frustration, more than I can handle.

Why am I telling you all this, you may wonder?

Because I’ve seen the end.

The end of Man and of Life as we know it.

How does it come about? Let me tell you of my Vision or should I say, Visions.

Sometimes, I get just one vision and that’s that. Other times, I get small snippets, which patch together to make up a bigger picture.

I must say here, that this is my summary of a series of visions. Each of the scenes, I describe, I have seen in real, live colour, playing out right before my eyes.

I closed my eyes to see nothing except a blur, a streak, like a paintbrush stroke, slightly rounded at one end. First one man, then many men and women, all with telescopes sitting on tripods, are lined up next to a stone wall. The sun seems to be setting and they focus their scopes on this blur. I realise that this is a comet and judging by the animated talk, the sketches changing hands and the smiles all round, this is a new phenomena. This is a one-off, unexpected phenomena. The newsprint splashes it across the headlines, “ Previously Unknown Comet Paints the Western Skies.”

The next scene that plays out is a high speed, fast forward collage of scenes, a particularly resistant virus designed as a tactical weapon, is accidentally released by the creators of the virus, causing panic among the Population, leading to the Military lockdown of millions. International travel ensures that the virus reaches all corners of the earth and no one is spared by  wealth or social status. Cities and Nations come to a halt. Cities become Ghost Towns. Countries become Ghost Countries. Stock Markets crash wiping trillions off the economies.

Famines, droughts, social upheavals around the World, cities desolated and evacuated by those seeking the safety of the unknown.

Civil strife, rioting, political turmoil as Governments collapse under the burden of a financial collapse and a demolished infrastructure.

The flashing of torn and shredded Stars and Stripes litters my visions. America is decimated, the nation is flattened from end to end. The scenes are of conflict, despair, and total misery.

My minds camera flashes on famous, big-screen icons, reduced to rags, torn and bleeding, dying in the cracked and broken streets.

The US is bankrupted attempting to deal with its disasters whilst fighting power-wars all over the world.

During all these visions, a "young, short, dark complexioned man" appears often, smiling. In Trafalgar Square, bearded protesters carry banners that warn of the coming of the Antichrist.

This man, reveals himself as the leader of a country who has been able to obtain nuclear weapons. Their neighbours, fearing a lack of support from the U.S.A, pre-empt his attacks with a nuclear weapon.

One of the bombs mushrooms in the Mediterranean Sea, and devastates marine life which I see floating on the surface. Passage through the region is now impossible. People are so cut off and desperate for food that they eat the fish anyway. All this happens near the east coast of the Mediterranean where I see large stretches of dark-coloured cliffs.

Another nuclear weapon is dropped by one of the Middle Eastern countries and sparks off yet another war, on top of that war.

European nations spurred on by the American Government, try to interfere to diminish the threat to oil supplies. When the European countries try to interfere, this "young, short, dark complexioned man" uses the rest of his arsenal on Europe, most of them striking the Italian Peninsula.

The European Mediterranean coast, particularly that of Italy and France, becomes almost uninhabitable, and Italy is wiped out.

In central Europe, southern Europe, and in the Middle East, around the eastern end of the Mediterranean, there are massive and severe floods. As a result of the disruption to local governments by the natural disasters and the nuclear fall out, this "young, short, dark complexioned man" moves his troops in under the guise of helping the people restore civil order, but really uses this as a device to take over countries, and to use the populations like slaves.

Serious economic problems persist along with great social unrest, contributing to the ease with which the "young, short, dark complexioned man" can seize power.

Martial law is declared in most countries to stop rioting and looting. The Middle East, the source of his power, is not as devastated as the rest of the world. He offers assistance to other countries trying to recover but only to eventually stab them in the back.

Through a breakdown in global communications, U.K. and European troops involved in “War Games,” whilst trying to restore order to Europe, cause a "real-world" situation to play out instead of a simulation. As a result of the error, actual nuclear defences are activated and real bombs are seen mushrooming on Europe, the U.K and the U.S.A. with final, tragic consequences.

The big Nuclear winter has begun.

And that will be the end of life as we have known it.

My latest visions show me only pain, suffering, and a slow painful extinction of man.

That is something I can not face myself.

But who can I talk to? Who will listen to the ravings of a loony like me who says, “I saw it in my minds eye, In one of my Visions?”

I’m stepping out now. The quick, easy, cowards-way perhaps, but for me, one that makes me feel as if I still have some control.

By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. Gone.

Hopefully, someone will heed my warnings and try to prevent the inevitable.

The only problem is that, until now, I’ve never been wrong.

“In some local news today, An unidentified Man wearing Pyjamas under his overcoat and carrying a black leather briefcase threw himself in front of an express train travelling between Newcastle and London, killing himself instantly.

Witnesses say that the Man, in his thirties, stood at the edge of the platform, smiling to himself and dropped his briefcase seconds before throwing himself into the path of the oncoming train. Police are investigating the contents of the briefcase, looking for clues as to the Man’s Identity. Other witnesses say that the Man may have escaped from the Mortonlee Sanatorium prior to the incident.

In International news today, Observers at the Sutherland Observatory in South Africa have spotted what appears to be a previously unknown Comet which they say should be visible to the naked eye in the Western skies towards the end of January 2007.

This new comet was only discoveredin August 2006 by RH McNaught and will be know as "Comet McNaught". Although the Comet will be deemed a “Near-miss”, the Scientists say that the Comet’s path will take it many millions of Miles from planet earth where it will pose no real danger and have no effect on other celestial bodies…………..”

 

THE FART

I know that for every one of you that has actually started to read this story, there are probably two or three who, on seeing the title, turned up their noses, sneered and muttered something about “disgusting” or “sick” before discarding the read altogether in favour of some more tasteful title.

The fact is, everybody farts. Everybody, no exceptions, no exclusions, no individual, or group that’s divinely pardoned. In my (possibly sick) little mind, I often get a slight sense of amusement in the back of my mind watching T.V. and seeing all the Celebrity “We Don’t Fart’s,” or so we’re expected to believe. I watch programs like the Oscars and wonder to myself, how many of the celeb’s present are dying to let one go, or have sneaked one out in the car, or even as they’re walking down the aisle to receive their golden statue?

Everyone farts. The Queen, the Pope, George Bush, Tony Blair, Princess Caroline, Nelson Mandela, Kylie Mynogue and even that gorgeous bird who reads the news on Sky T.V., they all fart, believe me. If God were around, he’d fart.

It’s part of nature, part of the natural process of taking in foods and drinks and, depending on the content, the body builds up excess gases which have to be expelled somehow. Either they’re expelled as a good solid belch, or, if they’ve gone further down the digestion process, they end up as a fart.

A friend of mine once said that the best way to see if you were going to be compatible with your future life partner was to “get on farting terms” with him/her. Do it before you get married, he said as you never can tell what’s going to happen once that first wind is broken. My Mother believes that a person should “go to the toilet” if they want to fart. Either that, or go out into the garden and let rip so no one has to suffer except the neighbours. For me, this would mean having to stop, mid-fart and say, “whoops, I feel a fart coming on”, get up from my seat and walk all the way upstairs to the bathroom where I would undo my belt, drop my pants and underpants, sit myself down comfortably and then let off that three second blast. All this, in a vague effort to hide the fact that nature told me to let-rip, let go, baff, shed my load, call it what you want but the bottom line is a fart is still, a fart.

Farts are not regulated by any sort of timing mechanism, no lunar clock or gravitational forces can allow you to predict when it’s going to happen. The bottom line is that sometimes you can hold it back and let it go in some more private setting and that other times, you just have to let go.

Which brings me to my story and to the sorry tale of ”the little fart that shouldn’t have”.

Now I mentioned the fact that the amount of gas you expel, depends a lot on the type of food and drink you put into your system. Certain foods are reputed to produce more gas and others less. Beans for instance, are reputed to make a lot of gas. Similarly, certain gassy drinks like beers or fizzy cold drinks can make the body produce more than its fair share of gas. Certain combinations of these foods can take 1 plus 1 and make it 3. A good Chilli-con-carne washed down with a couple of Newcastle Brown’s can make an explosive chamber of gases, deadly to all within the wind’s direction and certainly not one to win friends or influence people.

Which was exactly the combination of foods and drinks I’d had the on the Sunday night before.

Just to give you a little bit of background to this story; I work on the ninth floor of a grey and boring little building in Central Cape Town and am busy doing my articles with a grey and boring firm of Chartered Accountants who would sneer at the fact that I’m even writing this story, after all, and I forgot to mention, Chartered Accountants don’t fart. They can’t fart. They’re too damned neat, clean, and precise to fart, especially in public. Any other member of my Firm, anticipating a lethal combination of Chilli and Beer, would have set his alarm for 5.30 instead of 6.30 and spent the first part of his day, forcefully expelling any possible embarrassment that might just rear its ugly head later in the day. A good dose of laxatives the night before is probably written somewhere in the big, big training manual for all budding Chartered Accountants. I hadn’t got to read that part of the manual yet.

Driving into work that morning, I’d used just about every second of stationary traffic, to press down firmly on the brake pedal whilst discreetly lifting my backside off the seat. Enough to take the pressure of my backside and allow the rather noxious gases to escape. Getting to the office and finding a nice loo to divest myself of the previous night’s excesses was my number one priority.

After slipping my car into it’s underground designated bay, I quickly grabbed my briefcase and jacket and pinching my buttocks together, made my way towards the elevator which would take me from the basement, to within ten paces of the friendly loo on the ninth floor.

The lift indicators showed that all four of the lifts were in the process of going upwards and depositing their passengers at just about every floor before commencing on their downward journeys.

I stood alone as I pressed the lift buttons somewhat frantically, hoping somehow to change the direction of the upward travelling lifts.

I was joined in the foyer by one of the now familiar daily faces and his secretary, both who normally got out at the fifth floor.

A short while later, I found myself amongst nine others who had made their way from their parking bays to the lift foyer.

By this time, I was almost frantic, the gases now pressing painfully against my stomach and forcing me to clench my buttocks even tighter.

I saw some relief in sight as lift number three started its slow descent down to the basement parking foyer. I worked out that it would take another two minutes to get down allowing for a couple of stops on the way. I recognised several people in the group and tried to recall which floors they worked on in an attempt to estimate the time it would take to deposit me and my excess cargo on the ninth floor.

Five minutes was my estimate as I stared up at the indicators, hoping that another lift would be making its way down at a quicker pace and cutting my agony down by a minute or more.

The pain in my gut increased as I did a slow shuffle on the spot to hide my urgency from the other waiting passengers.

Lift number three arrived, announcing itself with a dull electronic ring and a “Microsoft” voice, telling passengers that this lift was going up! Again, I looked up at the other indicators in the hope that one of them would be arriving shortly. No luck there.

Along with the nine others, I stepped into the lift, heading straight for the back wall where I could at least hide the facial expressions which pronounced my forthcoming eruptions.

Fingers flew from all directions, stabbing at the lift control panel. I saw that the lift would be stopping at all floors from the third right up to the seventh. No one had pushed number nine and not wanting to push through the mass of bodies and risk an uncontrollable explosion, I shouted “Nine please” whereafter, a hand shot out, and the indicator for the ninth floor went on. Our firm had offices on the eighth and ninth floors and today was the day I wished I worked on the lower floor or at least knew the whereabouts of the Gents loo. In my mind, I gave this up as a bad idea, as apart from everything else, this was the floor where all of the Secretaries and typing pool ladies resided. This was my bachelor’s hunting ground, a land one only imagined in your dreams. A place where horny little birds in tight, short dresses, spent their boring days fantasising about the men on the ninth floor and other such coffee machine gossip. The last thing I wanted to do was walk in and ask one of these ladies directions to the loo, only to have them all gossiping later on about how I’d polluted the place.

The lift had reached the fifth floor – only two more deposits, I thought to myself, now hardly daring to move in case I couldn’t control it any more. I tried to take my mind off things by thinking about the beauties on the eighth floor and in particular, a group of five girls who always gave me a warm and friendly smile as they came up to the ninth every morning to take minutes and notes at the various meeting taking place first thing in the morning. I’d chatted to two of them, Sarah and Madeleine, who both seemed more than willing to take things to the next stage. I’d suggested we all go for a drink some time and that I’d organise a couple of my mates to join us.

Sixth floor – electronic ring, Microsoft voice, lift doors closing ever so slowly.

The other three secretaries seemed to be up for a bit of an evening out and who knows where things could lead to from there. Me, the eligible Bachelor, them, the “do anything to climb up the ladder quickly” crowd. Knowing I’d soon be finished my articles and earning a half decent salary would be incentive enough for any of them to become a “really good secretary.”

The lift seemed to crawl the last few feet to the seventh floor where it would deposit the last of the unwelcome passengers.

Finally, pain searing through my gut and bowel , the lift stopped and the door opened to the familiar electronic ring, Microsoft voice, and slow shuffle of feet out of the lift.
I edged forward and stabbed at the “9” button, hoping to shut the doors quicker. The pain now burning so badly that it was now or never.

The doors slowly closed and as the last slither of light disappeared, my control gave in completely.

Alone at last, I let go of a grumbling, gaseous fart that warmed the insides of my trousers as the air escaped. Four, five, six seconds. Oh My God! Thank God I could hold on so long. The smell was absolutely foul! Forget about Chilli and Brown Ale, it smelled like half of the local sewerage treatment plant had just poured out of my backside.

I smiled to myself having relieved the main cause of my severe cramping and stomach pains. I fanned my hands around in the air, hoping, but failing to disperse the foul odour which was now almost making me gag in this confined space.

“Ping,” I heard the electronic ring, thinking I’d still have to make a dash to the loo as the doors opened. Expecting to find myself getting out on the ninth, I looked up to the indicator panel at the same time that The Microsoft voice announced “Eighth Floor.”

The doors slid open slowly and in stepped Sarah, Madeleine, and their three colleagues from the secretarial pool.

Smiling, they stepped into the lift. Their expressions immediately changed to one of complete shock and horror as the trapped gasses suddenly hit their noses.

Hands flapping, gagging noises and hysterical screams accompanied their frantic body movements until one of them managed to hit the “Door Open” button, after which they didn’t just walk out of the lift, but actually pushed so hard that all five of them ended up in a heap outside the lift door.

Needless to say, My hunting ground has now dried up to zero and apart from the sniggers of my Colleagues on the ninth, I have to endure the sneers from the Secretarial pool every time they walk past me in the corridor.

I also have to put up with the anonymous emails that hit my computer from time to time knowing that I’ve earned the nickname “Sarin” after the gas used in the Japanese subway attack that killed so many people.


BACK PAGE SYNOPSIS

There’s no perspective, no dimension to what you see when you look at the inside of your eyelids with the sun shining through, but if you focus carefully, you can see all kinds of objects floating around inside your eyes. Little black bits, translucent shapes, amoeba-like object, which follow your eyes around as you move them within your sockets. I asked my Mom once what they were and she very cleverly told me that they were the cleaners, put there by God to destroy any harmful bacteria that tried to get into your brain through your eyeballs. The black bits, she said, were those objects, bits of sand, grit, and poisons in the air, hell-bent on getting to your brain and making a zombie out of you. It’s funny what you’ll believe when you’re that age. – VISIONS IN MY MINDS EYE
Arthur Howe takes your mind on a journey. A journey of visions, fantasies and tales of the credible yet unbelievable.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.03.2010

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