Part II: The World Beyond The Water | Chapter 17

“Where is he?”

17

Ray took her to the tank room, not a word had been spoken since he had told her. Not despair. Nor anger. He thought he had saw a faint flicker of relief but if so, it was masked quickly. When they arrived, the room fell silent and Ray cleared it. They were alone, just the two of them and the 4 remaining residents of Fredrick Street, suspended in animation above them, in the tanks.

In the silence, he could hear the bubbles of the water, the chemicals in the tank and the whir of the machines that kept them alive. He could hear the creaking in the walls, the water swirling around them, moving its way around the room like a snake ready to attack.

The silence stretched like an empty strip of road with no headlights in the distance, until she eventually spoke. "Are they OK?"

Ray handed her the folder, with the night's vitals and data within it. She half glanced at it, and then closed it over, handing it back. "And what about....what about Tom? Is he OK?"

Ray nodded. "Yes. No injuries so far and no fatality. His brain function has been normal. He's fine."

Issie shook her head, wiping away a tear. "Good."

She fell silent again. Slowly, almost tenderly, she moved forward and touched the tank and stared in at the inhabitant. Ray waited for a response, but nothing came. 

He stepped forward. "What do you want to do?" 

She stared at him. "I want to wake up."

Ray took a look at her, and felt pain radiating from her like a dying sun. The woman he'd grown up with, had grown into a different person over the past few months. The hopeful Doctor she had been, the optimistic scientist, that woman was long gone. Stepping forward, Ray placed a hand on her shoulder. "I think it's time we stopped." 

She looked at him, solemnly. "I don't make the decisions any more. It's up to them."

Ray nodded, his jaw clenching. He had understood as much. For the path few months now, Issie seemed to be walking around like a ghost at her own funeral, not the leader in charge of running this place. At first he had assumed it was because Tom left, but there was something else. Ray had seen her go through pain and trauma more than any one person should have to go through in their life and each time, along with Tom, she threw herself head first into her work. But not this time. And now he knew why. She was a puppet, just like the rest of them. 

Ray checked his watch and rubbed his temples. He longed to be home, curled up in bed without having to live this horror his life had become, making decisions that are usually reserved for the Gods. He stared at Issie, trying to think of something that would jolt her into action. It pained him to see her helpless, because she was the strongest woman he had ever had the good graces to meet. He loved her as a brother loves his sister. 

Ray pushed a chair towards her then. "Sit down Issie. Sit down and let's think about this." 

She sat. "You want a coffee?"

She nodded. He walked over to the desk and found a pot, touching the glass to make sure it was still hot and poured them two black coffees in a polystyrene cup. He found some crackers and cheese on the desk too. The crackers were still crispy, but the cheese was warm and sticky so he left it. Pulling a chair over, he sat next to her, passed her the coffee cup and the both of them sat there, looking up at the figures in the tanks like a tourist would Mount Rushmore. It was a picnic orchestrated by David Lynch himself. 

They drank the coffee and ate the crackers in silence until she spoke. "The guy who saw them wake, where is he?"

Ray shrugged. "Taking some holiday time." Issie looked at him. "That's the only nice name I can think for it."

"What was his name?"

"Issie—"

"—His name, Ray."

"Colin."

She raised her cup of coffee, a toast to Colin and took a sip, wishing it was something stronger. They fell silent again, their minds casting back down different lanes of memory. Ray started to laugh. 

Issie stared at him, eyebrow raised. "What's so funny?"

"You remember when we were students, I think it was our graduating year, and you failed a few essays, putting your degree in jeopardy?"

"Wow, you really know how to lift a gal's spirits."

He smiled. "Just hear me out. It looked like that was it, done. You had failed and were circling jobs in the paper. You remember?"

She nodded. "I remember. Still sends a shiver down my spine."

"Good. Well, remember after you'd had you're little temper tantrum and had planned how you would rise in the ranks of the local supermarket, remember what you did next?"

A whisper of a smile crept across her face.  "I do."

"Damn right you do. You kicked every door down in that University until you got somebody to sit down and listen to you and give you another chance. You got them to review the essays and the exam papers and you graduated with First Class Honours. You did that. Not you and Tom. Not you and me. You."

She looked at him. "This is different. These people...."

He shrugged. "The way I see it these people are just people with slightly tougher doors to kick in. But you've just got to kick them a little harder."

She smiled then and they both fell silent. 

After a while she got up and approached the tanks again, staring at them all individually. "They're going to want answers."

Ray smiled. "You've always been pretty good at winging it. Keep us out of trouble, and keep the participants alive. At least until we've had time to finish what he's started."

She nodded, and then sighed. "I can't believe he's been doing this. Why didn't he say anything to me?"

"I asked him the same thing."

"And?"

"He wanted to protect us. He wanted to protect you. You know as well as I do that if this project fails, there's no way we all walk out of here and go back into the world. The only way we're all getting out of here is if the project has a breakthrough. To do that, more people will die and I know Tom doesn't want that and he knows you don't either. So, as Tom is prone to do, he foolishly took matters into his own hands. He's figured away to bring them back. And that's what we're going to do, OK?"

Issie nodded. She was staring at the empty tanks. "This is all on us, Ray. These people. All we wanted to do was find the cure for sadness, for pain, for grief. Find out the parameters for the perfect life where no sadness or pain was felt. And once we did that we could change the world, the entire human condition. Instead, we've become monsters. Because of ourselves. Because we played God. And because of Harold, fucking, Wells." 

The temperature in the room seemed to change with the single mention of his name. 

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, not until some more white coats started to enter the room and mill around, checking that the drugs were working and the people in the tanks were still alive. A few wary glances came their way but nobody approached them as they made their way out of the room. 

Ray glanced at his watch then at Issie. "You want me to set up the call with—"

"No, it's fine. I'll do it. I just can't promise this is a door I can kick down though." 

"Sure it is." He glanced at his watch one more time before they parted ways. "Good luck with the call. Just a little while longer and this whole thing will be over. Tom has promised that much."

She nodded, but before he left, she touched his arm. "Can you tell him....I don't know, tell him...." She couldn't find the words.

Ray looked around, making sure there were no prying eyes. "He knows, but I will. Chances are you'll be able to tell him yourself."

She sighed, knowing the weight of the question she was about to ask. "You really think he can do this? That this is all almost over?"

He did his best to give her a re-assuring smile. "I do. All you need to do is buy is keep Harold off the scent. Let him know what's happened but that we're about to make  a big breakthrough. Remember, they're money men, not killers."

She didn't smile back. She simply said. "What's the difference?" and left him in the corridor disappearing into her office.

New Sketches, New Podcast & New Chapters!

It’s been a busy start to the year! A return to live shows, new sketches (continuing adventures in the Department of the Internet plus a new set of characters) and new chapters of my debut novel! Let’s dive in!

New Sketches on BBC The Social

Filming at the end of January took place with Kirsty Strain, Colin Little, Paul Kozinski and Stuart Hay on four new sketches for BBC The Social! The sketches includes the continuing adventures with employees at The Offices of the Internet (online shopping, online dating, online streaming) and a new set of characters in the world of football in an exclusive first look at VAR in Scotland!

The first two sketches, The Online Shopping Department and The Scottish VAR Trials, are available to watch now! And you can watch all the sketches so far, including the Offices of the Internet series on my BBC The Social contributor page here!

New Storytelling Podcast Coming Soon

There’s a new storytelling podcast on the way! The Shadow People Won’t Take Us Alive, adapted from the short story collection of the same name, was recorded live on Sunday 23 February as part of the Wee Theatres Glasgow event. It’s a tale of one man’s epic adventure through a fantastical world in order to rescue the love of his life from the Shadow People. Starring Paul Kozinski as Captain Willis, the story will unfold over a number of episodes and is coming soon! So keep your eyes peeled and ears to the ground!

For the short story, and other heartwarming tales, you can order The Shadow People Won’t Take Us Alive & Other Lost Souls from Amazon, here!

The Story of Fredrick Street Continues….

The mystery of Fredrick Street continues to unravel in the serialisation of my debut novel, The Quest For Perfection (Is A Damn Fine Thing) available right here on the site! If you can’t wait for the end, or want your own paperback copy of the story, you can order it from here!

And that’s all! Lots of new content and stories coming soon - thanks for listening, watching and reading!

Part II: The World Beyond The Water | Chapter 16

16

Peter hated The Fishbowl. He hated the secret entrances. He hated the damp smelling walls that nobody seemed bothered by other than him and he hated the residence that he was holed up in when he wasn't working. They reminded him of his old army barracks, before he was discharged. He supposed that's why they picked him. He supposed that's why they picked a lot up people for the project. Wanderers once found and now lost. Wanderers that didn't speak to each other, and when they did it was through gritted teeth and their words may as well just have been shadows, because nothing of substance came out. Even his boss, Ray, treated him like he had was a convicted felon who taken a shit on his kid's birthday cake while the Pope was in town.

It wasn't all bad, though. The money was crazy for sitting at a desk, staring at a few people in tanks all day and monitoring their heart rates and putting numbers into a spreadsheet. The residence they stayed at wasn't something he needed to pay for either. But he missed going to a bar, getting wasted and hooking up with some girl who wouldn't remember his name the next day. He missed talking shit with his friends about whatever was going on in the world. He missed being more than an employee. It felt like those jurors on the OJ Simpson case. He was starting to go stir crazy. Although recently, he wasn't so sure if it was the crazy train he was on after all. He had had bought himself a few assurances. If things went south, which in his experience they always did, he had a plan. Err on the side of caution, his father always said, especially if you can't share a table with those who are pulling the strings.

Beeping through the turnstiles, he made his way to the heart of the building, itching the tracker bracelet on his ankle. They'd explained to him that it was just to make sure that, should anyone wander out and get lost in the forest or the hills or fall off the edge of the island into the sea, they would always be able to bring them back safely. Peter had audibly snorted when he was given this explanation, creating a bubble of tension in the room.  He knew it was so they couldn't go wandering off and tell the world what was going on down here. He may not have been smart enough to pull off an operation like this, but he wasn't stupid either. In the early days, he'd considered tampering with it or ripping the whole thing off. But his first bunkmate Charles (he'd had a few now), had done just that. He'd left the barracks to see if there was a populated town nearby to grab a beer and whatever else he could find whilst he was there. But he never came back and nobody heard from him again. The rest of the crew in the barracks joked that, perhaps the wild Scots who lived in this abandoned Scottish island had claimed them as their very own Bonnie Prince Charlie. Peter never laughed with the rest of them. He was the only one not to find it funny. 

His routine was simple. He'd get the shuttle bus, trying to make whatever small talk he could muster with his fellow passengers. When he arrived, he would head straight to the cafeteria to grab a black coffee and a roll filled with something greasy and lathered in sauce, and he would eat with the only friend he'd made in this hell-hole, Colin, who would be coming off shift. He was the night guy, a glorified night porter who cleaned and checked the data too. As he grabbed his coffee, crushed a couple of sugar sachets into it and filled his tray up with a couple of rolls he headed to their usual table at the back corner. But it was empty. Colin was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, checked his watch, and looked again. Colin was as regular as clockwork and hadn't missed a day at the breakfast table since they had first met, sparking up a light in the smoke room. An uneasy feeling started to snake through Peter and the last conversation the two of them had was beginning to come back to him. 

Peter had no sooner landed his tray down on the table yesterday morning when Colin started talking. 

“I've had a thought," he said. 

Peter smiled. "You always have a thought. It's why you're so god damn fucking miserable. Look at me, I don't think a jot and I'm one of the happiest guys you could meet."

Colin stared at him causing Peter's smile to wane. "I'm serious Pete."

Peter nodded. "OK, hold on and I'll start the clock. You can tell me what's on your mind and I'll bill you at the end of the session."

“Fuck you.”

”I charge double for that."

Colin fell silent and stared at his breakfast. Peter raised an eyebrow, shook his head and sighed. "What is it?"

Colin looked around and leaned in closer. "What if we're next?"

He stared, waiting for Peter to react, but he didn't. He just stared at him. "Colin, I have no fucking idea what you're talking about." 

Peter surveyed him a little closer then, the bags under his eyes were so dark it looked like he'd went a few rounds in the ring and lost every one. His hair was thinning, he was fidgety and his skin was the colour of paper that had been used to mop up piss. Peter dropped his own smile and leaned in. "What's happened?"

“Nothing. Yet. I just, don't you think it's weird that the people in those tanks are dropping like flies and nobody seems concerned about it? I figured one or two, tragic accidents, sure, maybe they had expected it, but this many? Surely they would pull whatever it was they were doing? Surely they would stop for the good of the people left? But they're not. They just keep going."

Peter shrugged. "I figure those people knew what they had signed up for, just like we knew what we'd signed up for. When the last one falls, if, the last one falls, then whatever they're doing here will be put to bed and we can go home."

That's when Colin smiled. Unsettling, not just because he had teeth as misshapen as a rusty saw, but because what he said next wasn't something to smile about. "What if it doesn't? What if we're next? Look around you. Infinite resources. They could roll this thing out till whenever they got the results they're looking for. And we signed up for the whole damn thing." With that, Colin had got up, emptied his tray and left. 

Peter shivered now. He looked at the empty table where Colin usually sat. He really did hate this place. The way you could hear the insects crawling in the walls, the way nobody spoke to anybody. He hated the tank room especially, it was a big metal container with water in the walls and it frightened him, the way the walls creaked with the strain of the water behind it, like a dam about to break. He hated those people in the tanks but most importantly, what the people running this show were doing to them. Rumour had it this morning another one had died. Now Colin had disappeared. Maybe he had been right.  Peter made a decision then and there. There so no way he was getting put in one of those tanks and hooked up to those machines. He didn't care if he came out super smart, or super strong or super happy or whatever it was they were doing to those people. It had been fun to guess at first. He and Colin had started taking bets over the past few months. Colin thought it was like that movie Flatliners where they went to the great beyond to get answers as to what lies there. Peter figured they were trying to create super soldiers, or super heroes. Or expand the ability of the human mind. Regardless, he didn't want it. And he wouldn't have it. He slammed his tray at the empty table, his appetite gone, and whirled out of the room. His mind was made up. Thinking of Colin, he knew what he had to do. He had the assurances for it after all.

Part II: The World Beyond The Water | Chapter 15

In Chapter 15, Tom returns to the real world.

15

Tom surfaced and drank in the air like it was an icy drink on a hot day and waited. After a few moments of silence, he was happy enough that there was nobody in the house and got out of the tank. Removing the wires, pads and needles, he wrapped a towel around himself, and checked his vitals. Stable. His body was scarred, from all the needles and wires but other than that he was fine. For now, at least. He had stayed under for longer than he had originally planned. For someone so very smart, he was so very dumb. Issie would say that to him a lot. Issie. She was the reason he'd stayed under for so long. It was a mistake, he knew, to build his own life within the machine. The original plan was to enter the world the surviving members of the experiment were inhabiting and try and wake them up within that world in an effort to wake them up in the real one. But, the truth of it all was, he was scared. He'd built this backdoor into the world of Fredrick Street on his own, without the resources he had at The Complex and, for the most part, on his own. He didn't know if it was going to work, and he didn't know if he would be able to come back without anyone on this side to pull him out. He had a theory, on how to return, which he had made sure to program. Which had worked, despite how painful it had been to relive it. So pain, because he had made the life inside the world he'd helped create the one he yearned for every day. 

He had programmed his own perfect life within the world beyond the water, in his consciousness. It was exactly the life he and Issie had lived before they had started messing around with the project. And to program that had been his first mistake. When he woke up in that world, it was next to Issie. And when she looked it him, there was no anger there. No pain. No betrayal. Just love. Just the life they had before they had come up with the idea, before the pain and suffering that had caused them to embark on this experiment before they'd put all those people in those tanks. Before they had all...

He had intended on beginning to dismantle the world of Fredrick Street as soon as he had passed through but he didn't. He'd taken days. He'd taken time to spend with Issie. It was time he would never have again, but it was also time he could not afford. Now he was against the clock. He knew that now. Another had been lost whilst he had been in, meddling, trying to make them remember. He knew that everyone at The Complex would be looking at what went wrong and would detect an anomaly in the system – and they would know the anomaly was him. 

Now that the residents of Fredrick Street were aware of their world, that it was a fantasy and a construct, things would move quickly. He had put the wheels in motion. If what had worked to bring him back into the real world would work for them, he didn't have long. None of them did. He had no idea how they would react when he revealed the secret that tied them all together, more than just a street lined with picket fences. He hoped the shock wouldn't initiate the wake up right away. Tom needed the time to get into the Complex and help them escape and end this program before any more lives were destroyed. 

Tom dried himself, and threw on some clothes, listening to the silence. He knew they would be trying to track him but he was confident that he would be OK. It helped to have someone on the inside. Besides, he was hiding in plain sight. He'd never left the island. Now that his plan was in motion though, he didn't know what would happen next. It could come crashing down. So far, though, so good. He hadn't been detected. 

At least not yet, anyway. 

He limped his way into the kitchen, using the worktops and the walls to support himself. His legs were weakened, and not back to full strength yet. His stomach screamed at him for food and his mouth was dust-dry. He yanked open the cupboards and the fridge and pulled out anything he could see. Milk. Cold Meat. Cheese. Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Bread. He didn't even think. He tore at it all, famished. Thirsty. It was only then, after this impromptu feast that his body started to regain strength and his mind came into focus. Came back to reality.

If this was how he felt after a few days in the tank, how would Sarah, Albert, Mark & Kim feel? If they stood a chance of escaping, he'd have to think of someway to clear a path for them. Because there was no way they would be allowed to leave that Complex. It wasn't Issie that he was worried about. It was The Wells Foundation. 

The Wells Foundation, thought Tom, cursing that he'd ever heard the name. 

Every single research grant and funding opportunity, whether it be from colleges, universities, the Government or scientific insitutions, had rejected their proposal for the experiment. Each and every one of them had wrote it off as hocus, a waste of time, a drain of resources that were better used elsewhere. Tom had to be removed from one office because they had accused Tom and Issie of being desperate frauds that didn't need funding for their experiment but a few sessions with a grief counsellor. The idea may have been born from grief, and of suffering, but they were not desperate. And they were not frauds. 

Then they found The Wells Foundation. Or rather, they found them. They offered a staunch belief in the project and agreed to fund it, in full. The only caveats were Non Disclosure Agreements and the signing over of all control and power to them. Should the experiment prove successful? They would own it.  They would hire the staff, with certain members of the team being approved by Tom and Issie. They would also find the participants, providing they meet the essential criteria, stipulated by Tom and Issie. Tom remembered asking how they planned to find participants. He was offered a wry smile, by one of the lawyers, Henry, that oft flanked Harold Wells. 

“This isn't something you want to advertise in the papers. The less people know about this project, the better. We can find people who want to start over and who nobody will look for," Henry had said. Tom didn't trust him; he didn't even believe he was a lawyer. 

Reluctantly, Tom and Issie agreed to the terms laid out. In theory it was fine, but they knew that in practice, the experiment could violate moral and ethical boundaries, including the law. They insisted that they wanted to make sure that everything was carried out above board and in accordance with the law; if they came up against something that was illegal they would change their approach. The Wells Foundation, however, waved that away. They were willing to overlook that. 

"It's what lawyers and contracts are for," smiled Harold Wells at the time. Tom wondered if he was still smiling. 

With a stroke of a pen, they signed the contract and their HQ, The Complex, began to get built on St. Kilda, while Tom and Issie took a deep dive into the research as to how best take their theory into practice and determine what they were looking for. Which was easy, really. They wanted to see Cassie again. But more importantly, they wanted to stop hurting. They wanted everyone to stop hurting. 

Tom poured himself a glass of water and drank, taking a bite out of some chocolate. He looked around the dark, dank kitchen of the house he was holed up in. This wasn't his life, surely. When he was 21, meeting Issie for the first time at a party of a mutual friend he had saw it all in a moment, their life. Not as scientists and certainly not apart. They were together. It was the strangest feeling but he could see it all. Their first dance, their first house and their first child. They had only spoken a few words to each other, but something grabbed hold of Tom in that room in that moment, something that no science could make head or tails of, and he knew it would all happen. And it all did happen. Then it stopped. Then it was lost. All of it. 

There was movement outside the house then. It was the shuttle bus. Tom could see it from the kitchen as it moved slowly through the makeshift suburb. He held his breath and froze, trying to get a glance of anyone on board. He recognised nobody. Or more specificially, he recognised that the one person he was looking for wasn't on board. 

Finishing the last of his feast, he took a napkin and wiped his mouth. He felt a little better, but the world he'd inhabited still echoed like a shadow in his mind. He took out his mobile phone and sent one single message to the one contact he had saved. Almost ready. Time to tell her. Then he snapped the phone in half and headed back downstairs into the basement. 

He had some more work to do.

Part II: The World Beyond The Water | Chapter 14

The water hit her face with the same force a shot of caffeine had when it hit the bloodstream, jolting her into existence and bringing her mind round to the fact that she was up at such an early hour. That was the one thing that Dr. Isabel Wyatt hated about being the head of the program; the hours. And the responsibility, now that it was no longer shar—no, don't think about that, don't start your day off the wrong way. Come on Issie, wake.

 Something had gone wrong throughout the night, she knew that much as soon as her phone rang at 8.00am playing the part of an alarm clock rooster and now she had to go and either solve the problem, find a solution or face the music with the financiers. Those boys at the Wells Foundation, the funders of the programme, were deep of pockets but empty of soul. There had already been enough problems since the project began that she knew they were getting itchy fingers just waiting to pull the plug; it was only a matter of time. But every single time that the shit hit the fan she had been able to pull them back from the brink, convincing them that they would ride out the storm and the answers they would get would change the course of human history. At first, she believed it. Now? She was just reading off a script, keeping the money coming in and the project going for as long as possible in the hope that some sort of result would prove to everyone that it had all been worthwhile.  She'd know it when she saw it. But right now, it was nowhere in sight and she had to be "the boss" when all she wanted to do was fucking sleep. Or as much sleep as her mind would allow her these days anyway. Shoving on jeans and a t-shirt (she had a freshly pressed suit in her office she could change into) she called her car and waited outside. 

Outside, the air was cool. Cool without the breeze but when the breeze picked up it was like getting stung by an army of angry bees. With the travel cup of coffee the only thing keeping her warm, she watched as the shuttle bus picked up a few workers, huddling together for warmth or still trying to fight the early morning sleepy eye and couldn't help but smile. When the project was first starting up, she and Tom would ride the shuttle bus in together, forgoing the offer of a private drive. They liked to listen and learn about the people who they would be spending such a lot of time with in the coming months; they'd even go as far as to make up histories for those of the employees who would sit on their own and not talk to anyone. Most of them were people who'd spent too long out of work and too many days on the couch that they were just happy to have a wage, a routine and somewhere to go in the morning. But it was less fun to know them like that, so she and Tom decided to know them the way they wanted too. As the shuttle sped past, brushing past her a gust of that sharp morning air, her smile slowly faded. They stopped riding the shuttle bus after the project had officially begun. People would begin to stare, the odd disgruntled employee would accost them on the bus, telling them exactly what they thought of them and their "nightmarish little puppet show" they had going on. Those were the people who were no longer on the books -where exactly they went she didn't know but she knew it wasn't an all-inclusive holiday. That was, what felt at least, like a very long time ago and now Issie couldn't even take pleasure in the memory without it being embittered by the paths of their past and the missing pieces of her present. And it was the missing pieces of her present that she missed the most. 

The sun was doing its best to fight through the dark grey clouds, but Issie still shivered in the cold, the wind cutting through the abandoned island she called home. They had been lucky to find such a place, somewhere isolated and somewhere they could on (and under). They now had a facility that looked like it belonged to NASA and it was busy, like they were competing in their own Space Race.  But the race to explore outward had faded away years ago, replaced with the increasing obsession of exploring inward – something that benefited her and Tom immeasurably. All the resources, funding and Government backing went to the projects that were exploring the human condition. Experiments and explorations into the human psyche, into the things that plague our everyday, were the projects gaining all the grants. She thought then of Tom in those meetings with potential funders, whirling about the room gaining their trust and their fascination whilst bringing her and Tom's own story to the fore, making their ideas go beyond science and drill right down to the thing that made them sign the cheque – emotion & perfection. 

The car pulled up, breaking her reverie and stalling her trip down memory lane. She got in, shared customary greetings with the driver and went back to her thoughts. She missed him. Tom. They were partners in life and in work, a unit and an unbreakable team. Without him, the whole endeavor felt fruitless. She was now just going through the motions. His abandonment of the project, and of her, had also painted her as the tyrannical figurehead, ploughing on with the work regardless of the cost, to human life more so than the budget - although she knew it would depend on who you asked as to which mattered most. The people on the ground now looked at her as the villain of the picture. Not knowing that she woke in terror every night or that she'd leave the office to go home and throw up the thoughts of the day and the worries of tomorrow that relentlessly poisoned her mind, like a bad prawn does the stomach. They didn't know that she cried. They didn't know that she wept; wept for the lost souls they had recruited for the experiment; wept for all the promises they had made that were now broken, like cracked pavements on a busy high street. They didn't know she wanted to stop the whole endeavour or swap places with those inside the tanks. They didn't know that she felt like she'd lost sight of the reason they were doing the project in the first place. Nobody knew. Nobody knew the real Issie Wyatt. And maybe that was the way they preferred it. It was easier to get by when you can blame someone else for making it hard to do the right thing. And, despite the feeling that everyone on the project hated her guts, hated what they were doing, nobody said a thing. Nobody spoke up. Because it was good money and people would rather their blood-bled coin instead of bravery. 

Slowing to a stop, Issie got out of the car and stepped toward the little shack that housed one of three entrances to The Complex, commonly known among the staff as The Fishbowl. This was the entrance Tom and I had loved her and their favourite part about the secrecy of the project. Despite having purchased the island, the Wells Foundation insisted on extreme measures to keep the secrets in place, just in case someone found their way here. It didn't matter to Tom and Issie though. It made them feel like spies, travelling away out into the middle of the rain soaked forest to a weather beaten shack that, from the outside looked like refuge for anyone who may find themselves on a nature trail or a hunting trip. In actual fact, it housed the doorway to one of the most secretive, and exciting experiments of the modern age. Unable to stop herself, she smiled at the memory before nodding to Gerry, the old man working the counter, who let her pass through into the back. He stepped to the door, put a closed sign up and pushed a button. The shack gave a little shudder and plunged them into the ground, the walls fading away as they moved down further into the earth and into the foyer of The Fishbowl, all eyes momentarily flicking in her direction as she stepped out and the shack returned to earth and back open for business. Open to business for nobody.

She moved through the turnstiles, as her employees buzzed around her, like ants scrambling around for scraps of food before the rain fell. They were always like this when something had gone wrong and so many things had gone wrong from the start that she had forgotten the proper decorum when something goes wrong; the correct reaction to failure had seemingly escaped her. Right now, her colleagues were simultaneously trying to discover the problem, the solution and also the best way to keep the information from her for as long as possible. She never understood why they bothered; she was going to find out eventually so why prolong the inevitable? 

As she entered her office, Ray was there to greet her. There wasn't so much as a thinly veiled smile on his face. She was glad Ray was still there; they'd been friends for a long time. Even if they didn't agree all the time, he was a consummate professional and one of the few appointments The Wells Foundation allowed Tom and Issie to make. She liked Ray, but more importantly, trusted him. 

She gave him a weary smile. "You're in my office this early and yet you're hands are empty. No Danish and no coffee? What gives?" she asked.

Ray paused just a moment and she couldn't help but wonder if all of the remaining participants had finally succumbed to whatever torture they were putting them through. 

Ray, jaw set, finally spoke. "Last night, they woke up." 

Issie's smile vanished as she took this in. "Shit. All of them?"

Ray nodded. "All of them."

Issie surveyed Ray. There was more, she could tell. He was holding something back. 

"What else?" she asked. 

"About 20 minutes ago, we lost another one," he said.

"Who?"

"Jessica. I'm sorry, Issie." 

She sat down and bit her lip. Despite the tragedy, maybe this meant the torment would finally be over and they could bring the project to an end. Sure, it would be an ending with no conclusion, but perhaps that was for the best. They had started with 12, there were now 4 left. She didn't want to end with 0. Sadly, it wasn't her decision to make. 

She nodded. "OK. I need to make a few calls. Have you dealt with the....?" She couldn't bring herself to say it. 

Ray nodded. "I have."

"Thank you, Ray." 

"Just doing my job Issie."

"You're doing more than that.  You know you are," she sighed. "Maybe the end is sight though, for all of us." 

Ray hovered, not yet making his way out of the room. His phone vibrated and he took it out, reading a message. Issie had picked up the phone to make her call but placed it down now, raising an eyebrow. Mobile phones were prohibited within the Complex, particularly personal ones. 

"Ray? What is it? Is there something else?" she asked.

Ray nodded. "I'm sorry, Issie. It's Tom."

Part II: The World Beyond The Water - Chapter 13

In Chapter 13, Ray really wishes he never got out of bed to go to work today…

13

The day started like any day usually starts; with the daily fight against the alarm clock. The groaning and the first cold steps on the bathroom floor coupled with the desperate, almost lustful, desire to return to the duvet, pull the covers over him and go back to sleep, cuddling a wife that didn't exist – Ray wasn't married which made his decision to join the project easy. When Ray got out of bed that morning at 6:05, it felt like any other day. He shuffled bleary eyed into the bathroom, checking his reflection in the mirror – the grey of his skin catching up with what little hair he had left and the base of his stomach getting doughy. He got showered and dressed. He made himself coffee and ate a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. He checked in on the rest of the world via the Internet. It was a normal day for Ray Samson. He had no reason to suspect the day was going to end any differently than it usually did; certainly not in the manner in which it would. If he had, he probably wouldn't have gotten out of bed at all.

Standing outside his house, Ray waited for the 7:05 shuttle to pick him up for work. The cold wind bit into him, and he looked out at the sea that his view provided. It was choppy and the water as dull as the grey clouds above, with no sign of land (or the world) beyond. When Ray signed up for the project, he half expected a trip to the deserts of America or the outback of Australia. But when Tom and Issie, had suggested an abandoned Scottish island called St. Kilda, his heart wept. When he asked why, Tom's answer was simple. "Let's go somewhere where the world isn't looking." 

And he was right. The island had been abandoned for years, save military personnel, some volunteers and scientists during the summer months. When Ray had researched the island, he'd asked Tom and Issie what the plans where for those who may already be there working. As ever, he was told that the Wells Foundation had it in hand. Ray's guess was they had either bought over the island or had bought whichever company was sending these personnel out. Either way, when Ray arrived, the project was fully underway, and there was not a single person on the island who wasn't involved in, some capacity, with either Tom, Issie or the Wells Foundation. They had built on old army barracks for the majority of personnel, with some more luxurious housing for the likes of Ray and those who were further of the flag pole; including the view of what Ray described as the edge of the world. As he took in this view now, he longed for the dusty desert of Nevada and to be a bus ride away from Vegas.

He was hoping the shuttle was quiet this morning. At the very least he was hoping that neither of his colleagues were on it; he'd never before worked on a project who's staff created more problems or talked as much about what could go wrong than this one. Sure, it was a high stakes game; but it was tight-lipped for a reason and Ray liked it to remain that way, especially out of the 'office.' Besides, he took the early morning shifts for a reason. The world was still asleep and when the world was still asleep there was less chance of somebody ruining your day. This little philosophy was something he'd cottoned on to in his 20s and had stuck with him ever since. He liked people sure, but he liked to start off the day without them more. As the little 20-seater pulled into his street, he was weighing up how to spend the commute; nap or newspaper. When he looked through the shuttle window as it got closer, his heart sank a little. He could see Peter, one of the project analysts, up front nipping the drivers ear off.  He considered for a brief moment whether he ought not to slip back into the house and get the next shuttle or better yet step out in front and let the wheels take him, but it was too late; the shuttle was pulling to a stop and Peter, lab coat already on, was waving at him frantically. With a sigh, and a last glance back out at the edge of the world, he stepped onto the shuttle. 

"Morning Ray! Ready for a fun-filled day at the office?" chirped Peter, winking the last word. 

Ray climbed the steps to the shuttle and showed the driver his ID and exchanged a quick roll of the eyes before the doors shut and the shuttle moved off again. Ray made his way to the back, followed closely by Peter, and grabbed the seat nearest the window, avoiding the cigarette stain on the plastic seat.

"You know we're not supposed to talk about work outside the office, Peter. And if it's all the same to you, I like to remain tight-lipped on it," said Ray.

Peter's breezy smile slipped a little then found it's way back onto his face again. 

"Of course, of course. Tight-lipped is tight-lipped for a reason. Understood boss," said Peter.

"I'm not your boss, we're different departments Peter. Just call me Ray."

Peter shook his head. "Nah, you're definitely my boss. Anyone who's a suit and briefcase is higher up than a lab coat and clipboard. Even if we do more work than you, eh?" laughed Peter.

Ray smiled at the joke and surveyed his unwanted commuting companion. His teeth were crooked and yellowing, he sported a ginger-flecked beard, and his hair was thinning so quickly that you would have no idea that he was 10 years Ray's junior. It was like someone had tried to take the DNA of a middle aged man and pair it with a teenager; and ended up producing Peter, a tired and balding middle aged man with the acne of a 16 year old and the teeth of a bad boxer. But he was an energetic little fucker; he'd give him that.

"I suppose you do," said Ray. "Maybe we should get you a promotion."

Peter looked panicked as he waved his hands, like an imaginary white flag of surrender was held tight between his fists. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Man, you must not be a morning person then?" asked Peter.

"I'm plenty a morning person Pete, just not much of a people person," replied Ray.

Peter nodded and mimed zipping his lips. "Understood. Like a bit of quiet, coffee and the morning crossword do you? I can get behind that. You just needed to say the word, I'll step up and talk with Bob here," said Peter, taking his leave, swaying toward the front of the bus.

Ray thought back on his first meeting with him on this very commute. It'd been packed silent, and he was the only one talking and the only one wearing the lab coat, despite being told he was only supposed to get changed into it when he arrived so as to keep the secrecy of the project complete, just in case. Ray had taken him aside to remind him of this and ever since he'd treated him like his best friend whenever they passed in the corridors. If Ray knew how that day would end, maybe he'd have been a little nicer to Peter.

Twenty minutes later, Ray was swiping his ID card through the turnstiles and heading for the coffee machine, pumping the brown stuff into the paper cup and stirring in a couple of sugars for good measure, getting ready for the day ahead. Tossing the plastic spoon into the bin, he walked into the corridor and started heading toward his office.

"Mr. Samson?"

Slowing down, he turned and saw two white coats rushing up to him. They were new interns (they recycled so quickly here that he never took to remembering names anymore) and they fell in step with him as he walked down the corridor, squeezing past people in suits and other white coats as they went. 

Ray spotted a folder in one of their hands. "What have you got for me?"

One of them, the girl, cleared her throat. "We'll wait till we get into your office Mr. Samson we—"

Ray stopped walking. If they had to wait to give him the overnight data then it couldn't be good. The interns walked on a few yards before realizing Ray was no longer with them. They rushed back to meet him. 

"Mr. Samson, if you—"

Ray cut them off. "Let me see the data now. Please." 

They handed him the folder and fell silent as he started to flick through them. Without looking up, he asked the question he'd been hoping could wait until he'd finished his coffee and settled into the day. 

"How were they during the night?"

Ray stole a glance at them and saw that one of them, the girl again (now that he looked at her, he was sure her name was Viola) was biting her nails nervously and the other (Jared maybe, something Hollywood-y) was avoiding eye contact. Even those walking the corridor seemed to be swerving around them, like they were rocks in a stream. Something had happened during the night and they were withholding it from him. Ray wanted to know what happened and quickly; bad news was only made worse the longer you had to wait for it. 

"What happened?"

Jared glanced at Viola before speaking. "They...they woke up. Sir."

Ray stopped skimming the charts and the readings that were in his hand and stared at the kid. He was young, with hair that looked like candyfloss stained black. He was new to the project, and had only been briefed on the essentials, not the overall details (the less anyone knew, the better – plausible deniability) but even he would know that this was bad news.

Viola cleared her throat again. "What do you want us to do, sir? Do you want us to reset? Flood them?"

The two interns glanced nervously to each other as Ray stopped to stare at them.

"Flood them? All of them? Yeah, let's do that. You can explain to Dr. Wyatt and all the people at the Foundation that you flushed this whole thing down the toilet. We're not getting to that. The least we can do for the people who haven't made it this far, is to see this thing through. Got it?" Ray finished, staring at them. They really were just kids. Where the hell did they find these people?

They nodded and spoke in unison. "Yessir."

"Now, speaking of Dr. Wyatt does she know about this?" Ray asked.

The pair of them shook their head. 

"Not yet. We're under strict instructions to bring any anomalies or any problems straight to you sir," said Jared.

They stared at him, wide eyed, probably a couple Red Bulls pumping through their system; it was either that or coke in a job like this and Ray knew which one he had preferred, once upon a time. Hell, that was probably one of the reasons he was here in the first place. The only type of people you recruit for jobs like this are fresh-faced idealists with something to prove or people with a lot of shadows in their past. Ray looked to the side. A window ran the length of the corridor and the view opened out onto the room where the tanks stood. After a while he turned to the girl. "Is there footage?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Ray paused. "From here and there?"

She bit her lip nervously. "Yes."

Ray had made his decision. "Then show me it. Quickly and quietly. And get me this kid who was on shift, assuming he's not lying in a ditch somewhere with shit in his pants."

They made their way to his office, Ray pondering the last time he had a regular job and not something straight out of a science fiction film, as he prepared to face the long day ahead. 

Although how long, or how short it would end up being, he didn't know.

Part II: The World Beyond The Water - Chapter 12

“ It wasn't any of those things and it certainly wasn't the full tanks that gave the place that creepy and eerie atmosphere. 

It was the empty ones.”

12

The bank of monitors flickered to life, lighting up the desk in a monochromatic wave of colour, washing his little security area with the look and feel of days long gone by. Colin Hardy stirred at his paper cup of hospital quality coffee and glanced over the screens in front of him, momentarily washing his face in black and white, making him look like an extra in a movie from the 1930s. A quick check of the CCTV images told him that everything was in order and the building was secure. Installing the Complex 60-feet underground clearly wasn't secure enough for his employers. The company had decided to install state of the art security systems (it took 3 finger print locked doors just to go and take a shit) as if they still feared the place would fall victim to petty vandals and the opportune thief. Colin knew there was more to it than that, obviously, but he didn't like to think about it. Thinking leads to questions which leads to answers which leads to decisions that don't need to be made. No, Colin didn't like to think much; it only made life more of a conversation than it ought to be. If he'd thought about taking the job before he had accepted it, he probably wouldn't have taken it and therefore wouldn't be involved in something as potentially groundbreaking as this project promised it would be. Despite his work on Project Sims, (not the official name just his affectionate pet name) reduced effectively to that of a hospital porter, a glorified night watchman and a button pusher, he still felt a weird thrill at being involved in something so secret and so, well, cool.  Any job he had before paled in comparison to this one. Jotting down the time 22:09 and ALL CLEAR in the log book, Colin moved away from the monitors, walked down the steps leading away from the Control Centre and moved through the finger-print panel doors into the main room. This was where all the magic happened. If the Control Centre was backstage then this was Front of House, the Director's box and the Main Stage all wrapped into one.  This was the Tank Room. 

This was where the cast were held and the show took place. 

Swiping his keycard and pressing his thumb to the scanner, Colin let the doors slide shut behind him before turning to survey his room for the night. There was yet another set of CCTV monitors behind a desk in the centre of the room. The room itself curved round in a semi-circle, with a roof that rose so high above that Colin felt like he was at the bottom of a well. Some nights he would stare up at the roof from The Royal Box (this is what he called the CCTV Monitors and his desktop computer) and he wished he knew how to open the little door that was located on the roof so that he could find the stars. But he never did. Later, he would think how nice it would have been see the stars one last time. If only he'd known which button to push or had a ladder high enough. 

Lining the curved wall, underneath the sealed and starless ceiling, were the 5 remaining participants of the programme. Their eyes closed, each of them were contained within their own individual metal tank. The tanks themselves were a dark green and were starting to rust. They were filled with what looked like water (but what Colin knew to be a cocktail of chemicals and drugs that he had never heard of) and there was a small monitor, which displayed the vitals and any essential information of the person inside the tank. There was a small, rectangular, glass window, through which the "sleeping" participants could be seen bobbing up and down peacefully, all manners of wires, drips and various pieces of equipment protruding out of them and into the metal casing of the tank which surrounded them. As he started to bring up each individual's condition reports he couldn't help but glance toward the only thing in the room that he didn't like. He didn't mind the 5 sleeping beauties bobbing up and down in the tanks. No, that wasn't what made his skin crawl or his spine shiver. Nor was it spending all night alone in a secret underground facility with nobody but the silent, floating bodies for company. It wasn't the cold wind that seemed to sneak in from above through what was supposed to be an airtight seal nor was it the fact the he would be the only soul left in the building for 10 hours. It wasn't any of those things and it certainly wasn't the full tanks that gave the place that creepy and eerie atmosphere. 

It was the empty ones. 

When the project began there had been 12 participants. Colin had been there from the beginning, everyone had. It was a momentous occasion; even representatives from The Wells Foundation, who had bankrolled the entire project, were there. They watched on as the 12 participants were lowered into the tanks. They were already sleeping, which would turn out only to be the smallest of mercies. The hatch doors at the top of each tank were spun shut and the chemicals promptly pumped in. They had all watched on as, at first, everything was going as predicted – smooth and without a hitch. But then things started to go wrong. One of the participants, the old lady (Mrs. Morgan if Colin remembered correctly) flat lined - her heart giving out as soon as the first of the chemicals hit her blood stream, her face blue by the time the last dose had. Then followed the young kid called Pete, who started to jerk violently when the chemicals took over, and whose brain seemingly just gave out and finally Miss Kingston, a middle aged black woman from upstate New York. Her death was the most troublesome for Colin, when he thought back, because she was awake for the whole thing. Whatever those chemicals were seemed to jerk her awake and she looked out at a room full of people who, by this point, were either looking away, burying their face into the shoulders of their colleagues or staring wide eyed and opened mouth. Miss Kingston then started to thrash about in the tank and opened her mouth screaming, "Let me out. LET ME OUT" and began smashing her head against the glass window in an attempt to escape. But it didn't break, not even a crack. The only thing it did was crack her skull as she smashed it against the rim of the metal tank door and flopped back unconscious, the split in her head turning the chemicals and water around her, a deep red. There had been a flurry of panic then. People were shouting to abandon the project then and there as the machines and monitors around the room started beeping and alarms started going off; whether it was the financers in their fancy suits or the Doctors in their white coat Colin couldn't recall. But Dr. Wyatt, the person responsible for dreaming this project up in the first place (or at least one half of it) remained calm and adamant that it was not to go ahead. The compromise target hadn't been reached (if 50% of the participants went down then they'd pull the plug) and until then the project would continue. Colin got on well with Dr. Wyatt. She was nice if not a little scary in her focus and he couldn't help but think that she'd grown up taking Sims a little too seriously – which made him pledge to himself that if he ever had kids they'd spend a lot more time outside in the grass than inside on their ass. That morning, though, she was different. When Mrs. Morgan and the rest had died she seemed cold and distant, not even flinching as a couple of guys in white coats took Mrs. Morgan, Pete and eventually Miss Kingston from the tank and wheeled her past them and out of sight. It was a sight Colin would never forget and it was the reason he hated the empty tanks so much. Because he knew what they meant and much rather that he didn't. 

Shaking his mind back to the present, he tore his gaze away from the empty tanks and checked the vitals of the Final Five. Everything was good and he felt like he was in for what he expected to be another easy night as Colin the All Night Watcher. He smiled, remembering a song his father used to play to him until the tape ran out, a long time ago, by a Dutch band, and decided it was time to get to work. He had a lot of work to do and the first port of call was always making sure the place was clean and tidy. Taking out his earphones and plugging them in, he hit shuffle on his iPod and stuffed the sweet jams of Luke Morley, Danny Bowes and the rest of the Thunder boys in his ears. Colin knew that listening to music as he worked was slightly (absolutely) against protocol, but who would know? Besides, what was the worst that could happen?

Whirling around the control room, making his checks and logging what needed cleaned, he pictured himself in his own personal TARDIS, twirling nobs flicking switches and checking data. He imagined himself as the next Doctor in those moments, when in actual fact he was more so the overweight man Nedry from Jurassic Park. Heading to the cleaning cupboard, his mind was already on his break and the snack he had in his lunch box. The brown paper bag he'd packed them in (he'd always liked how that looked in the movies) beckoned the treat of Wensleydale and cranberry cheese with some crackers. It was the middle of July but Colin loved his dose of festive food whenever he could get it. 

Turning back to face the room, he smiled. He loved working nights. It was like he came alive when the sun went down, ready to do all the things that those during the day weren't trained for. Colin was the man who kept everything in order, who was the clean up operation from the day staff and who nobody would think to thank the next day when they started. He was the man who kept things right during the night. He was like an owl, a midnight superhero. 

Like, Batman. 

Imagining what he'd look like behind the cowl and the blue and yellow of the Adam West era, (he was a purist) Colin started sweeping up the floor, turning his music loud as his personal jukebox moved on to the gut-busting riffs of AC/DC. 

It was because of his attention to the music and to his tasks at hand that Colin didn't hear the beeping. It's because of his "slight" breaking of protocol that Colin had his back turned to the tanks and his head bowed low, only breaking the surface to do a quick bit of air guitar with his mop, that he wasn't keeping his eye on the participants. 

If he had, then he would have registered the problem and perhaps there could have been some course correction to the mistake. But he didn't. 

While he was lost in his music, his movie fantasies and the work that he had been given for that night, Colin didn't notice that from the tanks that weren't empty, the participants weres looking out at him, eyes wide as the day they were born.

Part II: The World Beyond The Water - Chapter 11

In chapter 11, a new part begins - The World Beyond The Water. JP tracks down Ray. But will he tell his story?

II

The World Beyond The Water

Extract from The Hebridean Gazette, January 8th 2005

ABANDONED SCOTTISH ISLAND BOUGHT

It was today announced that the Scottish Island St. Kilda, which has lay abandoned since 1930, has been acquired by Harold Wells, CEO of The Wells Foundation. 

According to the National Trust website, the island was evacuated on 29 August 1930, after a series of events led self-sufficiency on the island nigh on impossible. 1912 saw the island inhabitants experience food shortages with 1913 bringing an outbreak of influenza, which saw a few of the island residents die. The First World War brought a naval detachment, which allowed regular food and mail deliveries, living on the island became easier, with less isolation from the outside world. However, at the end of the war, when these services were withdrawn, those on the island felt more isolated. With the breakdown on the economy, many of the island residents emigrating, and the severe weather that the island experienced, caused the request for those living to be evacuated to the mainland. In 1931, it was sold to the Marquess of Bute, who left it to National Trust of Scotland in 1957. It has remained property of the National Trust of Scotland till today. 

A spokesperson from the National Trust of Scotland issues a statement, which detailed the reasons why it was sold, primarily due to the generous offer which would allow the National Trust to maintain and reserve many of its heritage sites, but also the dedication of Harold Wells and his team to protect, conserve and maintain the island so as it not be forgotten. The Wells Foundation declined comment. 

*

Transcript of Interview with Ray Samson, August 26 2015.  Conducted by J.P. McNair. 

I decided not to contact Ray Samson in advance of any interview. I simply turned up where Sarah told me he'd be, in the Scottish highlands. The address she gave me wasn't a house, but a pub. It's a log cabin, a shack, located on the edge of the woodland, just outside the town. Inside, it's a beautiful wood furnished bar, serving a combination of Scottish favourites and food you'd expect to find in an American diner. You could either order a Steak Pie or a bucket of wings and a bottle of beer. 

I enter, and it's quiet. Not many people in it. There's a man behind the bar, who smiles as I enter. It's Ray Samson. He's different from the pictures I've seen. His hair is frayed and thinning, almost gone. He has a paunch figure, is slightly hunched and walks with a slight limp. If you knew Ray Samson from times gone by, you wouldn't recognise him. Which I suppose was the point. 

I approached the bar. 

"Welcome. What can I get you?" smiled Ray. 

I'll take a beer.

He takes a pint glass and starts to pour the pint. He glances up at me.

"What brings you up North?" he asked.

I'm doing some research, for a book.

"An author? We don't get many authors here. What's the book about?"

It's based on a true story.

Ray's smile seemed to flicker. "True story?"

Yes. I was advised by one of the people I interviewed to try coming up here for some more research.

He places the pint in front of me. "Well, I hope you find what you need. Any chance of a signed copy when it comes out?"

I fix him with a stare and smile. 

Course. Although I was hoping it would be you that would do the signing.

His smile slipped away completely. "What do you mean?"

I'm hoping you'll be in it.

"Why would I be in it?"

Well, I was talking to Sarah Barr, I think you know each other, and she suggested you might have some interesting insights.

Ray stopped and stared at me. I saw his eyes flick toward the door before his shoulders promptly sagged. He called into the back. "Jimmy, I'm taking a break. Old friend."

He comes limps out from behind the bar and leads me to a booth in the back.

"Come on, let's get this over with."

We sit down and he orders two beers for himself, a bucket of BBQ glazed chicken wings and some nachos. I'm surprised. Usually people telling a story such as this tend to lose their appetite. Not Ray. He must have seen me looking at his banquet and shrugged.

"I eat when I'm stressed. And as you can see, I'm often stressed." He patted his gut. "What do you want to know?"

All of it.

He ate a chicken wing and took a swig of beer before speaking again. 

"I want you to know, from the outset, that we didn't intend for things to play out the way they did. We wanted to do good."

We? You mean you, Tom, Isabel and the Wells Foundation?

He flinched at the mention of The Wells Foundation, an involuntary twitch. He pointed his beer toward me.

"They had no intention of doing any good. They wanted to line their pockets, that's all. As soon as they got involved, that's when it went to shit. You know, we grew up on a diet of movies where shady organisations get involved and fuck things up and we thought it was an over-used clichés and a tired Hollywood trope. We had no idea that they could so accurately predict what would happen; it's a staple for a reason. Once the money men are involved, we lost control. The world runs on the blood of coin, don't forget that."

 I didn't think you'd be so--?

"—Morose?"

I was going to say philosophical.

He shrugged, took another swig of beer and paused before speaking. 

"How was Sarah? 

She was OK.

He looked out, thinking. "When I say we lost control, we never really had control. It was over from the very beginning."

I pushed record on the microphone and took out my pen.

Ode Tae Jackie

‪A Hogmanay Short Story

- “First year without Jackie Bird, Mum.”‬ ‪

- “She’s away?”‬ ‪

- “Aye, that’s her gone.”

-‬ ‪“Ye hear that Jim?”‬ ‪

- “Whit?”‬

- ‪“That’s Jackie gone. Deid. Poor hing.”‬

- ‪“Mum, she’s no deid.”‬ ‪

- “Terrible.”‬ ‪

- “She’s no”‬

- ‪“Mon, we’ll raise a glass.”‬ ‪

- “Mum she’s no—“‬

- ‪“Tae Jackie.”‬ ‪

- “ARGH!”‬

A Hogmanay-Themed Story: The Collective Birthday

The Collective Birthday

   “There’s no dip, Ray. I’ve looked absolutely everywhere and there’s none. Absolutely none! What are we going to do?” 

   The guests weren’t due for another hour so when his wife burst through the garage door with the news, her rollers in and apron hanging loosely round her neck, announcing the absence of dip from the cupboards like it were a threat to the Declaration of Independence itself. Any notion Ray had of an impromptu jam session with his new baby – Les Paul, cherry finish – became as elusive as the dip that Jane was fretting over. His plans now replaced with the unnecessary crisis that came with planning a party, something he thought that being new parents would have allowed them to get out of. As he tucked away the guitar, he did his best to ignore the feeling of longing that came with put down the six string and feign the interest that was expected of him in matters such as this. 

   “Is there definitely none in the fridge?” he said. 

   “There’s none Ray. None in the fridge. You don’t think I thought to check there?”, she said. 

“No, its just….well it’s a big fridge. Maybe you missed it.”

“It was the first place I checked. I checked twice. There’s none. What are we going to do?”

“We could get more hysterical for a start.”

“You know you’re not funny.”

   He knew better than to wind her up when she was in this mood; her personal No Man’s Land between Jane the Human Being, his best friend, wife, and Jane The Party Host. It was just too easy. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek, trying not to think of the guitar solo he could be perfecting right now instead of the task that was being thrust upon him. 

   “I’ll go get some.”

“The shops are closing in a half hour. Do you think you’ll make it?”

She bit her lip just then in that way that made Ray go crazy, making him want to freeze the moment forever and stick it in his wallet like a polaroid picture. He gave her another kiss for good measure and pulled on his jacket. 

   “Don’t call me a hero, but I’ll get you that dip if it’s the last damn dip there is on Earth.”

She laughed and seemed to relax a little and it made it all worthwhile for Ray, no matter if he didn’t get the dip, it was good just to be able to take that weight off her shoulders. As he headed toward the door, he looked back and pointed her up and down.

   “It’s an interesting look by the way. Very New-Age.”

She smiled. “Shut up idiot, and go get the dip. Take Sally too. Has she been for a walk today yet?” 

   The air was cool and calm tonight, looking up the stars were all out in unison, like they were throwing a party of their own, making Ray feel significant and insignificant all at once. It was the last night of the year and they were throwing a Hogmanay party (a word Ray wasn’t too crazy about) for the first time as a married couple. Truth be told, he had never quite gotten the ceremony of New Year. Growing up it’d always been quite an understated affair, bringing in the bells with his parents, his brother, sister and family cat before first footing the neighbours. But Jane had seemed big on it, when they first started dating, about 5 and a half years ago now, she’d recounted tale after tale of Hogmanay party. Maybe it was being with her and Sally that had infected Ray with a sense of hope and excitement for the New Year for the first time that he could remember. He actually was looking forward to seeing Jackie Bird on his TV screen before flipping over to Jools Holland and dancing the night away with his nearest and dearest, looking forward to the coming year mainly because he had something to look forward to. 

   In truth, the year had dragged on like one big hangover and they just couldn’t seem to get a foothold on anything, any control of reality and life evading them at every turn. There was no consistency and had passed something akin to that of a torch that’s batteries were dying; light flashing in the darkness but never enough to illuminate the whole room. It had started off promising enough, with Ray’s promotion to Senior Associate at the firm and then Jane falling pregnant, it had the makings of a great year; their year. Then things went downhill fast and every victory marred with the taste of defeat. First Jane’s father, then Ray’s mother…..and then the baby. Ray had never known silence quite like it. Losing her felt like the whole world had stopped talking to watch as their own fell apart. 

   They both often stayed up late at night, especially the past week, discussing the year as painful as it was to remember. It was just trying to figure out why there had been so much good and so much bad happen at the same time. Why couldn’t it have been padded out? None of them really had an answer. Ray figured it was just luck of the draw, but Jane’s catholic upbringing forced her to look at things with a little more divinity. She figured that it was too show them that they could take on anything, no matter the hardship or heartache or the challenge, that together they could face it and come through OK. And Ray had to admit, despite his agnostic beliefs, he liked the sentiment, himself finding that the ones he considered friends became something much more, they had become family, like a posse surrounding them with love or like the crew of a ship surrounding them with a strength stronger than their metal confines. 

   The artificial light of the shop broke into his daydream, leaving it outside with the starlight and the dog as he searched for the dip. The dog had been a good idea at the time, though Ray could hardly bring himself to look at it. It was supposed to be a pram he was pushing, not the lead he was pulling. He knew Jane felt it too, because she never took her out for a walk. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. It was nobody’s, perhaps most frustrating of all. Tracking down within seconds and picked up a couple just for good measure, Ray decided to go a lap around the store and see if he could pick anything else up. Filling the basket with some goodies for Jane, and a bottle of Red for himself, he headed to the counter. The guy behind it smiled through his beard, though you could tell he didn’t want to. Ray smiled back and couldn’t shake the image that the guy looked like a pirate who’d brought dishonour onto his crew and was banished to work as a customer assistant. Destined to a life of tongue biting and day dreaming, the high seas replaced by high blood pressure and poor personal hygiene. It wasn’t until Captain Co-Op broke the silence that Ray realized he had probably been staring, wondering if the guy wished he had walked the plank instead. 

   “Having a party?” he said. His voice was gruff, just like the pirate Ray had painted him as.

   “Just a few people around yep. We had an emergency. DipCon One.”

Ray cringed at his own joke. He was born to make Dad jokes. Another painful reminder. The pirate didn’t seem to notice either the joke or Ray’s forlorn expression, instead just nodding and grumbled. “Got to keep those crisps lubricated.”

He finished packing the bag cashed up and Ray handed over the money and the pirate checked them over like buried treasure before handing Ray back his change. As Ray turned to go, Captain let out a sigh and looked out the window.

   “Funny old time of year this. Full of reflection and resolutions.” he said. Ray wasn’t sure if he was actually talking to him or the invisible parrot on his shoulder. One of the things he had hated about get the dog was that strangers would speak to him. It seemed now he didn’t even need to have the dog next to him. He responded all the same.

   “Not a fan of New Year then?”

He shook his head. “Nah. The Collective Birthday I like to call it. Just a reminder that the world is a year older and us with it. Instead of shrinking away like we do our on own birthday’s we throw a big party like it’s our first and our last.”

Ray nodded and smiled. “Well, Happy Birthday then, when it comes.”

At this, Pirate smiled and nodded. “Happy Birthday to you too.” And at that Ray left, walking out the store and leaving Captain Co-Op to dream of the high seas and hidden treasure from behind the counter.

   Walking home with Sally, the dip in hand ready to deliver, the phrase “Collective Birthday” played like a loop on his mind. He had thought it a touch morbid in the conversation, the philosophy of a depressed Customer Assistant, but in actual fact, it was kind of hopeful. Perhaps that was what the New Year really was, a collective birthday. Rather than an old year dying, it was a new one being born and with it a new hope. As he approached his house he thought of Jane and how he couldn’t wait to tell her about the pirate and wish her a Happy Birthday. Walking through the door, Sally running ahead, Jane was already in the hallway waiting for him. She was wearing a smile, one she hadn’t had in a long time and held something small in her hand too, but he couldn’t quite see it. He took the dip out of the bag and waved it at her smiling. She showed him what was in hers and smiled even harder. Running to hug her, the dip fell from his hands and spread over the ground. They laughed, all 3 of them as they watched Sally dart toward it to provide the clean up. 

Dial It Down: A Ramble on Writing

I’ve been working on a play for a number of years now. I’ve always struggled along with it. It’s about big ideas and feels like a big play. Almost something smarter and more equipped writers should tackle.

Anyway, I keep coming back to it. I love the characters. I love the dialogue. I love the energy of it. The pace. The idealism behind it too. I often describe it as my attempt to write an episode of a Sorkin-created TV show.

I finished Act One about a year and a half ago and left it. Mainly because I like writing one act only plays and it annoyed me that I’d decided to attempt a two act play and it’s pretty hard to write at the best of times, writing two acts is even harder.

The first act ramps up and gets bigger and bigger and ends in this kind of blistering big cliffhanger. It really dials everything up. Turns everything up to 11.

Then I was stuck. My sticking point being - how do I dial up Act Two even more? How? How do you top the crescendo?

I’ve never had the slightest clue. So I’ve abandoned it.

But then today I got the idea that feels right. And the simplicity of it is crazy. And this is a thread on writing and I know not everyone is interested in this kind of thing but it might help other writers who are stuck.

The big idea?

Dial. It. Down.

There’s no need to dial it up. Go quieter. More intimate. More human. If they’ve returned after the interval for the second act, you’ve most likely got em, so give them something new.

Anyway, it was just a thought, fellow writers. It helped me.

Cx

The End of Part One - What's Next? And When?

The end of Part One left us with a cliffhanger and a number of questions. Will they be answered? And when? What’s next!?

CLIFFHANGER!

Yes, Chapter Ten sees the end of Part I of The Quest For Perfection (Is A Damn Fine Thing) and it ends with a cliffhanger. Who is the mysterious man at the party? Where did everyone go? What is Fredrick Street? What’s going to happen next? WHY ISN’T THIS POST PART TWO, DAMMIT!?

Woah, calm down. OK, just me. But the above are all valid questions, and Part II: The World Beyond The Water, will be coming out in the New Year. It answers all of these questions and more. But for a few weeks, I’m going to leave you on a cliffhanger ending. Please feel free to post any ideas, theories, questions or hopes in the comments below or tweet me @dancingtoaster

I don’t have a TV show, and as such, I want to use this change to explore the cliffhanger ending!

Now, having said all of that, if you can’t wait to find out what happens, you can buy the complete novel on Amazon, in paperback and kindle, available here.

And if you have been reading each week, thank you. It means a great deal. I appreciate it, and until Part II, speak soon!

Who Wants To Meet PM Harry McDonagh?

Election Night: Hopefully Not Based On True Events is out on Fri 6 Dec! Here’s an exclusive excerpt from my new comedy. Have a read, a laugh and order your copy below. Treat yourself, or someone who’s going to find it funny. But the question is…

…..Who’s ready to meet Prime Minister Harry McDonagh?

The Final Day of Campaigning

9.00am – 8.00pm.

Tony and Veronica loved Election Night. Tony took a half-day from work to make sure that their tenement flat in Springburn was spick and span, and stocked with supplies ready for the all-nighter of political viewing ahead. He would go for a quick shop at the Cost Cutter down the bottom of the street to pick up a bag of munchies (crisps, sweets, chocolate) a crate of beer, jar of cheap coffee, bottle of gin, bottle of lemonade and a carton of milk. Once he had everything he needed, he would head back to the flat and set down everything he had bought on the living room coffee table. By that time, it was 5.00pm and Veronica would be finishing work in a few hours. He would top off the preparations by placing an order with their favourite Chinese takeaway that Veronica would pick up on her way home. Perching the remote control on the arm of the chair, Tony put on the news and waited for Veronica to return home with the Chinese (an order big enough to last them all the way through the night – salt n chili chips, ribs, chow mein, sweet and sour chicken, vegetable spring rolls and a portion of fried rice with a side of prawn crackers). The Election coverage wouldn’t properly kick off for a few hours yet but that didn’t stop Tony consuming every bit of coverage there was on the final hours of voting. This was his Super Bowl. His World Cup Final. And he wouldn’t miss a minute of it. Whilst he waited for Veronica to come home with the food, he’d catch up with Twitter, starting with the Prime Minister himself.

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 

Followed by Donald J Trump, Alan Partridge, Kim Kardashian, The Krankies, Justin Bieber & 170 others you follow.

Prime Minister of Great Britain, #TeamThanos & Misses Entourage. Hates racism and feminism. Doesn’t know which ones worse.

The Toilet.

Instagram.com/doughnutmcdonagh

 Joined May 2010

69 Following   24.5M Followers

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 22h 

Election Day!   If ye dae wan thing today – get aff yer arse and vote! We are aff on one final day of campaigning – looking forward to our final trip across the country with my main man @mudmartin & my press secretary @sylviafleming with blogger @melissawells with us! 

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 21h

Remember, the other dafties havenae been in powur over the last 4 years like I have – they cannae even spell powur properly! Who would ye rather have representin’ ye aw ower the world, eh? People that have nae clue what it’s like to run the country? They’d run it intae the ground! Besides, they don’t look as good as me on yer GBH TV!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 22h 

*HD TV! 

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 21h 

@politicallyyou I tweet how a talk – which is why people love me. I’ve goat the whole o Scotland ahint me! I’m real, genuine and a man o the people. Are ye naw better aff writing some proper articles about the election instead o criticizing the way folk talk?

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 21h 

Did anyone watch @keepingupwaethekrankies last night? Brilliant – two Scottish national treasures. Sorry @KimKardashian – I think The Krankies have got you beat! #teamkrankie #justkiddingkim

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 21h 

@ffred1876 So what if they put their keys in a bowl?  I don’t care if they are swingers - I grew up wae the Krankies – naebody does panto like they dae! Except Gerard Kelly! RIP  

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 18h 

We’re visiting polling stations across the UK just now! Tell us when you’ve voted! We’ve already cast our votes, haven’t we @sylviafleming & @mudmartin ?

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 18h 

@tonybartonpodcast @melissawells @sylviafleming @politicallyyou I’m naw overly concerned wae polls – they’ve been wrong in the past and they’ll be wrong again. The election’s just a formality – we’ll be back in that office for another 5 year!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 18h 

See if I have tae shake another manky, sweaty hand the day I’ll be absolutely ragin! Honestly, if ye know yer comin oot to see yer Prime Minister on the campaign trail, would ye naw at least gie yersel a wee wash?

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 18h 

 Howling! @mudmartin & @sylviafleming are goin aff their nut cos that last tweet was supposed to be a text tae ma pals! Absolute riddy! Serious tho – a wee bit of antibacterial hand gel wouldnae hurt, would it? #electionday #accidentaltweet #mankyhands

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 15h 

Another polling station visited! Great to see so many people out voting and cheering our names – feel like a bloody rockstar! Honestly though, don’t gie me yer wean to hold. I’m a clumsy bastard – might end up drapping it! Plus they’ve got hunners o germs! Thanks everyone who came out to see us in Manchester! #electionday #thankyou #vote #keepyerwean

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 14h 

Absolutely knackering day so far! Worth it though – we can’t wait to get back in charge of the country and making change! We’ll build on the success we’ve already had!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 14h 

My favourite book? I dinnae really read too much tae be honest – if they dinnae make a filum o it, it must be shite. I dae love one book but. Its cawed Rabbie Burns Would Be Fuckin’ Ragin’ by Carpet Burns. Scotlands next great poet – his poems are full o great patter! The next Rabbie Burns!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 14h 

@partyjane_25 we don’t get a lot of chill time on the bus – but we’ve got Wi-Fi so we’ve either got the tunes blaring to keep us motivated or a boxset on in the background. But we’re mostly on social media or doin’ interviews or that! Keepin’ up wae the numbers! 

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 14h 

@gary_gordon West Wing? Thought it was about birds originally. Never seen it – I’m naw into political shows. Fave shows are Entourage, Two and a Half Men or reality TV!  

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 12h 

So far we’ve hit polling stations in Newcastle, Manchester and Glasgow! Few more and then we’ll be calling it a day. Get out there and vote for me while ye can! Ignore the polls and the rubbish the press are saying! We’re winning this – ye don’t want tae be on the losing side!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 11h 

Here’s an idea – Snapchat Election. Ye can vote via Snapchat – don’t even need tae leave yer kip! If we get back in, that’s the future! Did I say IF? I meant WHEN!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 11h 

Right so, I’ve just been sayin’ vote for me – which is right if yer in my constituency! But ye’ve also got tae vote for all my Party People! Aw yer MPs representing me – get them voted. They are good, crackin’ people! 

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 11h 

If ye don’t like the MP that represents our party – vote for them anyway and when we get back in power I’ll make sure they are sacked!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 8h 

We’re done! Heading back tae No.10 and absolutely shattered but can’t wait for the results tae come in! I’ll be up all night – it’s like Christmas Eve!

Prime Minister Harry McDonagh @harrymcdonaghrealpm 8h 

Thanks to everyone who went out and voted today or came tae see us! For those who were flinging stuff at us – that’s remembered. I tried to send a middle finger emoji but Sylvia and Martin wouldnae let me! 

Tony laughed at almost every tweet, glad he had done his bit and voted to keep him in power. And he was bound to win. He was a popular figure, particularly in Scotland. That was probably why Tony loved him so much – he was from Springburn, just like he and Veronica were. He was a scheme boy done good. He’d been a credit to Springburn and to Scotland. Sure, the main thing he’d done was bring back The Bill, knight the Krankies and the cast of Still Game, put the sugar back into Irn-Bru and made Freddos 5p - but he'd still done his country proud. This was something Tony would tell Veronica often. 

“He’s done us all proud down there, V. He’s speaking for us normal folk!” And he had, he really had. That was, until he went mental and the mad bastard threatened to bomb the country with nuclear weapons because he never got voted back in. But we’ll get to that. 

Part I: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Ten

In Chapter Ten, the final chapter of Part One, the residents of Fredrick Street come together after their nightmare day. Their lives are changed forever when a stranger turns up to the party.

10

Unloading the shopping, the odd tin escaping from the bag and spinning across the worktop, Sarah was now in a rush against time to get ready for the guests arriving. On coming home from her trip to the shops, she'd went for a nap trying to sleep off the weird feeling she'd had all day. Her little siesta didn't help however, as it was filled with water tanks and grey rooms and the tinkle of a song from a forgotten time. She was still feeling tired now. Perhaps she was overdoing the exercise; perhaps she was over-tired and needed a lie in. Whatever it was though, it would have to wait because tonight was a celebration for the residents of Fredrick Street and she wasn't going to let her tiredness get in the way of it. Hell, she may even have some of the chip and dip she usually avoided. It was about time she let her hair down a little. The shopping away, she poured herself a glass of water from the sink and watched her husband and kids playing out in the garden. Well, playing was a strong word. Morgan was trying to build the BBQ whilst the kids shot at each other with water pistols, occasionally hitting their father with some friendly fire. Watching them play, without a care in the world, always seemed to make Sarah's problems feel smaller and her worries seem futile. Turning away to get the final preparations for this evening ready she took a sip of the water – and immediately spat it out, coughing and spluttering. It wasn't water she'd drank, but what tasted like pure grain vodka. Her throat burning, she picked up the glass and smelled it, the smell of alcohol stinging her nostrils. She looked at the glass then to the sink. It was impossible. She'd poured it straight from the sink. There was no way. Pouring the glass down the drain, she poured another glass and drank. 

Water.

Her heart racing, she drank at the water long and hard. Something was happening. Something very strange was happening to Sarah Barr. 

*

The ride home for Mark and Kim was nigh on silent, without even the radio playing to fill the silence between them. The scan had went fine, Kim having spent most of the journey putting it away and taking it back out again, checking to make sure it was still there whilst Mark continually glanced over to Kim to make sure that it was her face he saw when he looked. Of course, when either asked the other what was wrong, they replied with the same words. "I'm fine. You OK?" with the answer coming back the same. They'd tried to start talking about baby names but the conversation had tailed off, neither making the effort to start it up again. 

Heading into the house, Kim stopped as they approached the front porch. Mark stepped forward to open the door when Kim grabbed his arm, stopping him suddenly.

Mark looked at her, worried. "What is it? What's the matter?"

Kim was quiet and staring at the porch. "Is it....you're going to think I sound crazy but, is it bad luck to walk where a magpie has been killed?"

Staring at her, silent & confused, Mark mouthed wordlessly. "What?"

Kim pointed at the porch. "It's just today, the cat brought a magpie to the door in its mouth. It was dead. He killed it I just...see the blood stains there and a few feathers? I cleaned up as best I could but...is it bad luck to walk where it's been killed?"

Mark thought for a moment. "For the cat, maybe." He smiled, and Kim managed to laugh. 

"OK." She said, nodding and the two of them entered the house.

They entered slowly, Mark checking the pictures that adorned the table in the hallway and the mantelpiece in the living room. They contained pictures of Kim and him, just as they should be. He turned to Kim. "Has there been any more mail?"

Kim shook her head. "Nope, just what was here this morning. Why, are you expecting something?"

"No, no. Just wanted to double check." He paused, thinking of something. "You still want to go over to Sarah's?"

"Course. You?"

"Sure. We can't pull out."

"No. She's doing a nice thing. I'm going to just throw something on just now and we'll head over."

Mark nodded and watched as Kim walked up the stairs. 

As Kim entered her room, and got changed, she picked up her handbag to look at the baby scan one more time. Finding it in the bottom of her bag, she looked at it. It was blank. Panic rising up in her, she sat on the bed, looking away and back at it. Where the image of her unborn child should be was an empty space. It was all she could do not to scream and she jumped as downstairs the phone rang.

Mark approached the ringing phone warily, startled by the sound himself. They didn't get many callers and after the day he'd had he was scared as to who would be on the other end of the phone. Letting it ring to voicemail, he listened as the caller came through the speaker. It was a female voice. 

"Hiya. I was looking to speak to a Mr. Mark Fleming. Or should I say Doctor Mark Fleming." The voice giggled at this and Mark swayed, hoping that Kim couldn't hear. The caller continued. "Anyway, get him to call me back. He has my number. Bye."

Mark held onto whatever surface he could, sweat pouring from him as the call ended. He looked up the stairs, waiting for Kim to come down with questions. Questions he couldn't answer. But she didn't. She was too busy staring at the empty space in the middle of the baby scan. 

Trying to remain calm, Mark cleared his throat. All he wanted to do was get out of the house. Away from whoever that woman was on the phone and whatever was happening to him. Calling up to Kim, Mark tried to sound normal. "Kim honey we better get a move on and head round to Sarah's. You ready?"

"I'll be right there, "Kim called back as she broke her stare with the baby scan and put it back in her pocket, swallowing down the panic and confusion and anger swelling in her throat, and putting on her game face to join Mark downstairs.

*

Arriving home at Fredrick Street, the events at the park pushed to the back of his mind, Albert checked his watch and knew they didn't have long to get ready and join the rest of the street at the celebration Sarah was planning. He was of a generation that no matter what he wanted to do or how you felt, a commitment was a commitment and you had to honour that, even if it was small thing such as this. 

Ushering Betty into the house, who was as smiling and effervescent as she ever was, Albert began rushing about until Betty put a calming hand on his shoulder. "Relax sweetie. They won't start without us. Besides I believe in being fashionably late as a rule of thumb. I'm pretty sure making my tardy entrance into the dance hall all those years ago was what won you over. You remember?" 

Smiling, Albert nodded. "How could I forget?"

"Good." Betty rubbed his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Now, you've got time to make yourself a cup of tea and then we'll be on our way. I'm just going to freshen up." Leaving Albert in the kitchen, Betty stepped up the stairs & Albert flicked the kettle on and settled down for a quick bit of quiet time before having to join the crowd at Sarah's. As he started reading the paper again, from the article he had left it opened at, his mind glanced back over the events at the park earlier that day. It was just the strangest thing, and most distressing mainly because it wasn't something he'd ever went through before. He couldn't put his finger on what the cause was, whether it was the tiredness or something a great deal more sinister in nature. If it wasn't for the nice gentleman in the heavy coat and hat noticing his distress and finding Betty for him he probably would still be wandering the park making a fool of himself, looking like a mad man. It was a little too raw now but he was sure in the weeks to come he and Betty would find it worth chuckling over – she always could make the best of a bad lot, making the unfunny the funniest thing in the world. 

Turning to the kitchen counter to prepare his tea, he took a long hot sip and returned his attention to the paper. Flicking the page, he found the obituaries. Albeit a rather depressing section of the paper, Albert couldn't help smile as he recalled his own grandmother's morbid fascination for this section and was quite often her first destination when reading the paper. However his smile was short lived as his eyes fell upon an entry, which made his heart stop for a moment and his breathing become more erratic. Wedged in between the rest of the poor departed souls, written in black and white, were the words Elizabeth 'Betty' Molineaux. Beloved wife to Albert & mother of Andrew and Amanda. Albert must have stood and re-read it a thousand times, each time his pulse getting a little faster, his throat getting a little dryer and his palms getting a little slicker. He felt sick, the room spun dizzy around him. It couldn't be possible. It couldn't be. Shaking, he stood their frozen, staring at the words written in his wife's obituary, the wife he had moments ago felt touch his arm. Opening his mouth to call for her, the words just wouldn't come. But they didn't need to. Because Betty walked into the kitchen, all ready to go and smiling. 

"What's the matter with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Albert stared at her, mouthing wordlessly before looking back to the paper. But the words were gone. The obituary he'd read wasn't there. It was like it never had been. He looked from the paper to Betty a few times before shaking his head. "I don't understand."

Betty moved closer to him and grazed his arm. "Honey what you don't understand doesn't hurt you. What's up?"

He looked into her eyes, the one thing about her that never changed throughout the years and smiled. "Nothing."

"Well good. Now tell me how radiant I look, finish your tea and let's get going Albie. There's late and then there's late."

Albert nodded, finished his tea and grabbed his jacket. Before heading for the door though, he picked up the newspaper and shoved it in the bin. For the second time today, he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind.

*

As Albert & Betty and Mark & Kim joined Sarah & her family to celebrate a year on Fredrick Street, neither of them were much in the mood for celebrating. Ushering them in with a plastered on smile, Sarah busied herself being host trying to distract herself from the day behind her, whilst the rest of them mingled, trying their best to keep those pearly whites flashing every so often so as to avoid any questions being asked as to how their day was, if everything was OK and why the long face. For the most part, being together as they were now, they all felt a little better. Something unspoken was flowing between them, between the clinks of glasses and passing of plates, the pulling out of chairs and the halfhearted toasts. Sitting down at the dinner table, placed outside to keep the BBQ feeling going, it was as if they all knew they had an equally strange day. A strange day that wasn't over yet.

It happened as they waited for Sarah's husband to dish up the burgers, BBQ glazed chicken wings and pork sausages. Where they had previously been standing or sitting, Betty, Morgan, Sarah's Kids all disappeared. And all hell broke loose. Sarah started screaming, Albert began yelling for Betty. Even Mark & Kim were panicking as they looked down to where Kim's swollen baby belly had been to find no baby belly at all, just a flat stomach. The place was chaos, screaming, crying, and shouting. Neither of them calm, all of them panicking until they stopped, spotting someone standing by the entrance to the French Doors. They all stood and stared silently as the man wearing the fedora and the dust breaker jacket slid out of the room with a saunter just short of a spring and picked up a plate from the buffet table. It was the delivery driver Sarah had shooed away. The man who Mark & Kim had seen at the hospital & the man Albert had seen at the park. Piling his plate high with food he had no business eating and certainly no chance of finishing, he glanced over them all with a smile, his blue eyes dancing and not a bead of sweat on his dark skin despite the heat and despite his get up. He surveyed the group standing around the table in the midst of their emotional chaos like they were standing in line at a burger van. The entire party stared at him as he chewed, swallowed and smacked his lips, before turning back to them and smiling and began to speak. 

"I know what your thinking. Who's the handsome stranger that's just invited himself to the party and started eating for a small family of four, right? One of the things I love about this place? Eat what you want and there is no lifetime on the hips." He laughed hard, until he looked around and found he was the only one laughing. Stopping, he finished off the burger and smacked his hands together. 

"So, you guys had one hell of a day or what?" 

They stared at each other, looking around to catch the other's gaze, while the man smiled at them and nodded. "That I thought," he said. Sitting down, he put his feet on the table, placing his hat beside it. Despite all their instincts telling them not too, the four of them sat down and listened. He looked at each of them in turn, nothing between them but the wind and the birds.

"So," he started, "which one of you would like to start asking the questions?"

Transcript of Interview with Sarah Barr. August 25, 2015. Conducted by J.P. McNair.

I stopped writing, my hand pushing through the pain and the cramp. I look at Sarah, who's stopped talking.

Are you OK?

Sarah shakes her head. "I'm sorry, can we stop for just a moment?"

Of course.

I don't want to push her too far. She's already told me more than I could ever have found out after a lifetime of research. 

Do you want a glass of water?

She shook her head. "Just, when I remember how perfect everything was, then when everything changed? It still hurts."

Do you want to stop?

"No. I want to keep going."

OK. Why don't we talk about something else? Why don't you tell me what you know of Tom & Isabel Wyatt, Ray Samson, Harold Wells. I've got a few other names here. Eh....

"Colin and Peter."

Yes. Can you talk about their side of it?

"Their side of it?"

There is a flicker of anger there, like I'm suggesting there are two sides to the story. But it quickly subsides. She drinks her tea. Composed. 

"I only know some."

As much as you can tell me. I can fill in the blanks and find out the rest.

She paused, thoughtful and looking at me.

"They won't let you access the court records. Nobody from The Wells Foundation are commenting."

That's right. I've found a few bits and pieces here and there on everyone. I'll piece together the rest.

Her lips pursued together tightly.

"Piece together? How much of this will be actually fiction?" 

I think about the next words carefully.

With a story like this, it doesn't really matter. It only matters what people believe.

She seemed to accept this without comment.

"You haven't been able to speak to anyone who worked at The Complex? None of the people involved in the Project?

I look at her, puzzled. 

There's nobody left to talk to. You and Kim Fleming are the only survivors. And you're the only one willing to speak with me. Are you saying this is wrong? I've seen the list of people who died – I've seen the death certificates. Are these false?

Sarah smiled again and nodded. She looked past me, somewhere in the distance.

"What about Ray? Have you tried contacting Ray Samson?"

I looked at her. I knew the name. He was the Head Analyst of the project, colleague and friend of Doctors Tom and Isabel Wyatt. He would know the other side of the story more than anyone. He was on the list of people who had perished after the incident at the Complex.

There was almost a whisper of a smile from Sarah as she read my face. "He's on the list of the dead, isn't he?"

Yes. He's on the list along with Tom, Isabel, Mark and Albert. Is that not the case?

"He's very much alive. I can only tell you parts, and mainly only what I remember or what I've heard or read myself. He can tell you everything from 'the other side', as you call it."

I can almost hear myself gulp. If what Sarah is telling me is true, then I'm on the cusp on a major breakthrough. 

Do you know where he is?

"I do."

Will you tell me?

She paused. I can see her mulling it over. Deciding whether or not to give him up. 

"I will. He may have saved us, eventually, but that doesn't mean he isn't blameless for all those people who died. For what we all went through. If I've got to remember, then so should he."

She took a pen and paper and handed me the information on it. I put it in my pocket for later. 

"You might want to go talk to him, get his version of events first. Then, you can come back and we can finish the whole story."

I nodded. Thanked her for the tea and left. I was going to find one of the key members behind the incident, the project and what happened on Fredrick Street.

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Nine

In Chapter Nine, Mark is plagued by strange visions and secrets not even he knew he had.

9

Mark Fleming strolled down the corridors of the St. Vincent Memorial Hospital with a skip in his stride. He'd had a stellar morning, with a successful liver transplant already under his belt, no paperwork or unread e-mails piling up on his desk or his inbox and a baby scan with Kim to look forward too. The rate he was going at, he could probably even squeeze in enough time for a nap but he thought he best not push it. He didn't want to late for the scan and besides, if Kim found out he had napped without inviting her to join in the siesta, his life wouldn't even be worth living. Still rolling down the hospital hallway, shimmying past the odd gurney going at break neck speed or crash cart being thrown between nurses, he watched as all this life-saving activity roared throughout the hospital. At times like this, being surrounded by so much potential death and horror, Mark never felt so alive. As he skipped out of the way of another gurney, this one hosting a patient with a heavy blood flow from the head, he entered his office thinking how lucky he was; how they all were. The hospital had a fantastic surgical success rate and the lowest mortality rate in the country - 0 deaths from surgery in the entire time Mark Fleming had started working as a doctor here and every person who crashed through those hospital doors in immediate need of medical care was saved. Mark didn't take all the credit, but he knew for one thing though, any first day doubts he had about taking on the job, as Head of General Surgery were completely unfounded. He had a 100% surgical success rate, which had the earned him a lot of fans and admirers throughout the hospital, not to mention the country. He was treated like a hero and he was loving it. 

Sitting down at his desk, he had about 30 minutes to grab some lunch before his scan with Kim. Pulling out the brown paper bag she had packed his lunch in, (crunchy peanut butter with some raspberry conserve, a banana for snacking and – his one luxury item – a can of soda) he sat back in his chair, looking out onto the view his office offered of the city skyline and began to relax. Growing up, when he first decided he wanted to enter the world of medicine, he never thought he'd have the work-life balance that he currently had. It was deemed impossible by his lecturers, mentors and even his friends. But nothing was impossible for Dr. Mark Fleming. Not one thing. Finishing up his lunch, he turned back to the neat pile of files on his desk and noticed the mail from earlier. He had some time on his hands which meant he could go through these now, pay his bills, read any fan mail (admittedly a weird thing for doctors to receive but he was a celebrity in these parts) and save whatever endangered animal he was asked to save. As he had predicted, it was bill after bill after bill (a few new offers which would save them a pretty penny which he filed for later) and a few letters from the families of patients he had operated on and got back on their feet. The last letter in the pile however, was a strange one. He recognized the scrawl on the front of the envelope almost immediately as his own. Although he had no idea why he would be sending himself a letter. There was no earthly reason for it. It was something he used to do in the past, when he was so busy studying or chasing his medical license that if there was a pressing matter (even a reminder of Kim's birthday or his parents anniversary) he would send himself a little letter to remind him. But since striking the perfect work life balance, he had absolutely no need to do this. And he couldn't recall doing so since his student years. An uneasy feeling started to cloud the room, something that Mark wasn't used too and propelled him towards door, closing it quietly. Holding the envelope somewhat gingerly in his hand, he felt his heart start to race, the sweat from his hands cascading into the letter and almost opening it with the moisture. Sitting back down at his desk, Mark stared at the envelope. The strangest feeling was coming over him, like he knew what was inside the letter and didn't want to open it. The strangest feeling of dread and fear was coursing through him, pumping blood through his body so fast it felt like he'd run a marathon from a sitting position. He had the strangest feeling that whatever the words in this letter said, it would change his life forever, and he didn't want to open it. But he had too. Curiosity would kill him eventually, even if what was inside the letter didn't. Having a quiet word with himself to get a grip, he tore open the letter and read. 

Kim, Colleagues, Family & Friends. 

I'm sorry. For cheating. For lying. For not doing my job. For not saving people, for not saving you & for not saving myself. 

I'm sorry. 

Mark Fleming. 

Mark stared at the letter for what felt like an age. His head was swimming, his vision began to blur as the sweat from his forehead began to sting his eyes. But he couldn't shut them. He couldn't tear them away. He couldn't stop staring at the suicide note in front of him, written in his own hand. His own words. But they couldn't be. The letter spoke of infidelity, of not saving people but...what? Killing them? He didn't understand. He couldn't. Searching his memory, he had no recollection of ever putting pen to paper and writing this. He had no recollection of ever cheating on his wife, of ever losing a patient, of ever being the man that was written on this paper. There was nothing he could point to in his mind, in his current life that would suggest this. But all at the same time, he couldn't help but feel it was true. 

"Dr. Fleming?"

The sound came from outside the office door. Knock Knock Knock. "Dr. Fleming your wife is waiting with Dr. O'Brien, we'll be ready for the scan in 5 minutes. Are you in there Dr. Fleming?" 

"I....." He couldn't find his voice, noticing quite suddenly that his throat was dry and his words were coming out in a choked whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm just...I'm just finishing up some paperwork and I'll be right there."

Mark waited until he heard the footsteps moving away from the door and disappearing in the distance before tearing himself away from the letter that was stuck to his hand. He had to get rid of it. He had to think straight. It was clearly a prank, a jealous colleague or one of his friends from when he was a student, one of the ones that didn't make the cut, flunked out and was now living in his mother's basement. Of course it was that. Mark had never written the note, he couldn't have. None of it was true. But.....

NO! The word echoed around his head, as if not quite his own. The room was close to spinning; he couldn't think straight and was dangerously close to collapsing. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this letter. It had to be forged in his hand. He and his friends from University, they were always doing shit like this to get out of certain classes or helping with each other's essays. Yes. That absolutely had to be it. He had no idea who would do such a thing, but when he found out...

Still panicking, he yanked open one of his desk drawers to hide it in there when he saw something that made him spin away from the desk and knock the lamp crashing onto the floor. Inside the drawer, there were dozens, if not hundreds of the same letter. He picked them up, flicking through them, each one saying the exact same thing as the one he had opened. Each one written in the same handwriting. Each one a message from him to him. 

Trying to think, trying to get his head clear and stop the flurry of activity and voices rushing through his head, he let the letters slip from his hand as he noticed something blinking on the computer in front of him. Rushing forward, pressing his face up against the screen he watched as all his case files, every single one of the patients he had operated on flashing up on the screen. He watched in silent horror as their status turned from the green success to the words written in blood red DECEASED. Clicking at the computer furiously, he pressed as many buttons as he could, trying to stop the cases changing status. Trying to stop everything. But nothing worked. They kept flashing up, they kept changing, and they kept dying. He had to do something. He had to get out. He had too. But as soon as it had started it stopped. The computer screen went blank. The messages in the drawer disappeared. The door to his office swung open, the doorway empty. Breathing heavily, transfixed by whatever was going on around him, Mark started to move toward the door. Walking through it, the hospital corridor seemed different. It was a different place. There wasn't the same flurry of activity. There was nothing. There was nobody. Nothing and nobody except the different sounds coming from the rooms that lined the corridor. Slowly, as if hypnotised, he started to walk down the corridor, looking into the rooms as he passed each one. Seeing what he did not want to see, and hearing what he did not want to hear. In one room, he was standing over a patient, covered in blood while they lay on the table the shrill beep of the heart having flat lined reaching out and puncturing his ear drums. In another room, there was Mark with his trousers round his ankles thrusting against a woman who was bent over a hospital bed, a woman who wasn't Kim, the sounds agonizing to listen, to seeping out of each room. Every room was the same. Mark stood over a dead patient, Mark with a woman who wasn't Kim. Dead patients. Fucking strangers. Every room the same. So many of them. He walked past them all and looked in every one, until it all blended together in a tornado of noise. Sex and death. Death and sex. Reaching a crescendo, a fever pitch screaming and crying and flat lining all mashing together until—

--It all stopped. Everything disappeared and the real world came flooding back in. Mark found himself standing in the middle of the hospital corridor as the usual gurneys and crash carts, doctors and nurses, families and patients whirled past him. He felt his shirt and found it to be soaked through with sweat. Catching sight of himself in the reflection, he was as white as the coat he wore and his hand was trembling. Nothing made sense. He was frozen, unable to move. Unable to forget everything he just saw. Unable to clear everything from his mind. Unable to do anything. He stood there for what felt like forever, until he felt a hand on his back. 

"Dr. Fleming? Are you OK?" He turned around; it was one of the nurses. One of the nurses who just moments ago he had seen lying on a hospital bed with him lying over her. 

"I'm...I'm fine. Where is....Kim? The scan."

"She's just in Dr. O'Brien's office. You can go in now. They're waiting for you."

Mark nodded. "Thank you."

The nurse looked at him. He didn't even know her name. And she didn't look at him like she remembered what he had just seen. "Are you sure you are OK Dr. Fleming? You look a little, shaken."

Mark shook his head, wiping his palms on his head. "I'm fine. I just had a bad lunch. Thank you."

She hovered for a moment longer before nodding and leaving Mark to stand there alone. Kim was waiting on him. His beautiful Kim. How would he look her in the face after what he just saw?

Thinking fast, he headed back to his office, changed quickly into a fresh shirt (a second change of clothes was always needed in this profession) and splashed his face with some water. As he looked at himself in the mirror, some of the colour started to come back to him. 

"None of it was real." He heard his voice for the first time in what felt like forever. "None of it was real."

With that, he buttoned up his coat, left his office (locking the door behind him) and headed to Dr. O'Brien's office to find Kim. Knocking first, he entered, with Kim lying there on the table, waiting for the gel. He looked at her, everything he saw almost falling out of his mind. She smiled at him. But there was something off about her, like she'd had a day not unlike his. 

"Hey sorry I'm late. Got caught up." Mark strode across the room and planted a big kiss on her. 

"It's OK. I was running late myself." She stared at him. " You OK? You seem a little off."

Mark plastered a big smile on his face and shook his head. "I'm fine. Just busy. Hardly had a moment to myself. What about you? You seem—"

--"I'm fine too. Had a nap. Bad dream. That's all." Kim looked away. 

"You know what? I think that's what happened to me too. Serves us right for napping without each other right?"

Kim gave a weak laugh and smiled. "I guess so."

They stared at each other for a few moments in silence before Dr. O'Brien entered the room and shattered it. 

"Well then, sorry to keep you waiting. Let's see how our little one is doing then huh?" Dr. O'Brien rolled up her sleeves as Mark squeezed Kim's hand. Neither saying a word. 

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Eight

In Chapter 8, Betty disappears from Albert, sending him into a blind panic. Where did she go?

8

Albert pulled into the car park of the local supermarket, and fought hard to find a space, finally threading the car into a tight spot between a black Range Rover and a White Sedan with the precision of an Olympic diver. Settling the car of the main road diving board and into his concrete pool, he looked to Betty sat in the passenger seat who had taken the 20 minute journey to carry on with some knitting of a tiny jumper. A pang of sadness shot through Albert there as he took in the miniature winter-wear that Betty was holding for an imaginary grandchild, both of them unable to have children of their own. But no sooner had that thought took place than it left his mind again and he forgot to feel sad and instead smiled at his wife's skill with a knitting needle. Of course it was for the kids, they had a four with children on their own. Why had he thought otherwise?

"You want to wait here while I go in and get the bread?" said Albert. The supermarket was handily placed right next to the local duck pond park where the two old timers had decided to embrace the cliché and have a weekly walking date while feeding the ducks. 

Betty folded away her wooly work in progress and stepped out of the car, popping her head back in before shutting the door. "I'll come with, I reckon you'll end up picking out some Gluten Free bread just to see what happens to the poor bastards if they eat that instead of some trusty white bread."

Albert laughed hard as the door shut. She was not wrong, he did have a slightly warped sense of humour and it wouldn't have been that out of the question if he were to do that. Although, it was more likely he would try out the Tippex on bread trick his friends in school had once boasted about, just to see if they could indeed turn their feathered friends into a feathered firework. But no, Betty would never allow it, and quite rightly so. She was never a fan of "fowl play". Chuckling again at his own pun, Albert got out of the car and took Betty by the arm as they headed into the supermarket, picked up a loaf of bread, a few snacks and drinks for themselves and then made their way over to the park. 

As they wound their way round the duck pond, stopping occasionally to throw in a few chunks of bread, Albert sucked at the air generously, favouring the cold nip of the October air. Winter had always been his favourite season. He loved it as a boy, staring out at the falling leaves making way for the falling snow from the warmth of his high chair. He even loved it from his judge's chair, glancing out in between presiding and ruling over court proceedings. Albert Molineaux simply loved watching as the year changed from warm hands to cold, from long bright summer nights, to dark cosy winter ones. Swimming trunks off, knitting gloves on. It was the time of the year he had most fondness for; duvet days in front of the fire & cosying up to his Mum as a boy and now Betty as a boy-grown. The season when the cold ran the roost, to Albert's mind, brought you closer to the ones you loved, emotionally, physically and geographically. When you had memories as warm as this, Albert thought, it was damn near impossible to feel cold.

Betty gave his hand a little squeeze just then, as the bag of bread's short life drew to a close. "What are you smiling about?" 

Albert raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Wouldn't you like to know, Mrs. Molineaux?"

Betty smiled back, meeting Albert's single eyebrow with a double eyebrow bluff (both raised to the top of her head and her head tilted slightly meant Albert's defense was broken). "Keeping secrets from me now are we Albert?"

Laughing, Albert shook his head. "Secrets are for those with no stories to tell. I've got plenty."

"Good answer."

"Always."

"What were you smiling for?"

"I was just thinking, about winter. I think it's my favourite season after all."

Betty laughed. "Do you? What's brought this on?"

Albert shrugged. "I don't know. I just think, I have a lot of happy memories from there. The scarf my Mum made me one Christmas, cosying up with you to keep heat, making snow angels and snowmen with the kids and—what are you laughing at?"

Betty gave him a peck on the cheek and screwed up his face in that way he liked, smiling that smile that made her eyes sparkle and she laughed. "Because you, Albert Molineaux, change your mind with the changing of the wind."

Albert eyed her quizzically, scrunching up the bread wrapper in preparation for the bin. "What do you mean?" he said. 

"I mean yesterday your favourite season was Autumn. The day before that, it was Summer and before that Spring. Pick one and stick to it will you!" She laughed. 

"Ah leave me be. I'm a happy guy, that's all." Albert, laughing now too, spun away as fast as his hips would carry and tossed the wrapper into the bin. Just as he was about to turn back round to take Betty by the hand, he heard a voice in his head that wasn't quite his own.

"How does she remember that? She shouldn't remember that detail." 

Holding the bin to steady himself, he shook his head, shaking the thought away. What did that mean? It was the strangest sensation. It felt like somebody else's voice inside his head and not one he altogether understood. Was he thinking about how she never had a good memory? No, Betty's memory had always been terrific – one that managed to keep him out of many a quarrel by ensuring he never forgot birthdays, anniversaries or any such event in his life. What was happening? Were the white hairs finally starting to become a burden? 

As Albert stood there, all of these thoughts racing through his head at an alarming rate, he felt a hand on his back. It was Betty's coming to make sure he was OK. He hated her having to see him in any signs of weakness no matter how many times she had given him a stern look in the eye and reminded him that what burden he carried she would carry also and he could be whoever he was going to be; even if that person was strong on some days and crying the next. Regaining his composure, filling his lungs with that cold air he loved so much, he turned to Betty, kissing her on the check. "I'm fine. Nothing but a little slip is all."

Then something strange happened. As he kissed Betty and pulled back from her to look her in the eye, to convince her he was OK, the face in front of him wasn't his Betty. He didn't know who it was. 

"Are you OK sir?" smiled the stranger, concern etched all over her face. Albert staggered back, crashing into the bin and falling over, the world starting to spin around him. The stranger he just kissed moved towards him to help him to his feet, other strangers started to descend upon him to give a helping hand while the ducks quacked a crescendo in Albert's ear. He pushed away the outstretched hands, violently, jerking out of their reach. 

"I'm fine. I'm FINE. Leave me alone," he shouted, anger twisting inside him like a black snake writhing. 

Dusting himself off, he tried to get up and look around the park for his Betty, but his legs wouldn't budge. He tried to breath and looked around for Betty. She was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere in sight. And he couldn't get up. The stranger he had mistaken for Betty had started to back off now but was eyeing him cautiously. Albert gave her one last look, the face so unfamiliar he could cry inside and die with the shame. His lips felt like they were burning, set alight by fire and poison all because the lips he kissed weren't his wife's. 

He tried again to get up, and this time his legs worked. Spinning away, Albert moved quickly through the park, limping and panicked, calling out his wife's name, scrubbing hard at his lips trying to wipe the poison off, trying to douse the flames, trying to stop the memory taking hold. He was running now, and his eyes had begun to sting; he realized he was crying now, the tears flooding his vision as he desperately searched every face in the park for signs of his Betty.

"BETTY! BETTY WHERE ARE YOU?! BETTY?!" he was screaming her name now, yelling it as loud as he could before his voice would become a hoarse whisper. He was shouting and crying and lost, hopelessly lost. And there was a voice in his head again, his but not his. Bring her back, where the fuck did she go? What's happening? We're not going to fucking lose another one in the same day fix this. Fucking find her god damn it! It sounded like someone else was looking for Betty too, or maybe it was just him. Maybe it was just his thoughts whirling around his mind as he searched frantically for the woman he'd loved for over 40 years but couldn't find. She'd always been by his side. Always. And now she was nowhere to be seen.

Reaching the park entrance, he stopped. If she were anywhere she'd still be in the park somewhere. Maybe she'd nipped off to get something from the shop. More bread for the ducks perhaps. Maybe. As he stood there, lost to his thoughts and in his panic, a man approached him. He wore a baseball cap, sunglasses and a scruffy beard. He had a friendly face, Albert thought, though fleetingly. 

"You OK sir?" The man asked. 

Albert looked at him, lost. "I've...I've lost my wife."

"OK. Why don't you just sit here and I'll go try and find her for you, huh?"

Albert sat.

"You got a picture?"

"Y...yes." He fumbled in his pocket and handed him a photo out of his wallet. "That's her there," Albert said as he jabbed the picture. 

"OK. You sit tight sir and I'll go find him." And with that the stranger was off looking for her, leaving Albert sitting there with no hope the man would ever return and he'd just lost his favourite picture.

Time ticked by and no sign. Albert didn't know what to do. Maybe if he just sat here on the park bench long enough and waited she'd turn up. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she never would. Giving in, Albert started to sob. He put his head in his hands and sobbed hard. Part of him knew why he was crying, but the other part didn't, because she'd be along any minute now. She had to be. So he didn't know why he was crying. He never really knew why he cried, even as a boy growing up in Canada. Thinking back to his youth, waiting for Betty, he tried to remember if he cried a lot and why. Maybe it was because he was a pussy like the Old Lady Jane next door called him after she caught him pissing in her yard when he was 5 and he started pissing tears then. Or maybe it was because he was still the little boy inside not grown up a whole lot. Or maybe it was because someone once told him that your demons die in the rain and he liked the sound of it. If that's the case then he was going to sit here and cry good, cry hard and cry long until Betty came back. Because he was afraid. He was afraid that if he stopped crying and looked up then he would realized some of the demons survived and Betty wasn't coming back and he was going to cry all over again until he dried up dead and—

"Albert? Albert? Look at me."

Albert slowly, taking his head from his hands and wiping away the tears, looked up. Betty was standing over him, holding a carrier bag. "What's the matter? What happened?"

Taking a moment to find his voice, as croaked and grieved as it was, Albert answered. "I thought I'd lost you. I staggered and felt a hand on my back and thought it was you and turned round and kissed you but it wasn't you and I couldn't find you and I thought I thought.....I thought I'd lost you."

Betty sat beside him and pulled his hand in hers and brought it against her chest. "Feel that, you feel that?"

Albert nodded. "Yes."

Betty pulled it tight, letting the beat of her heart pulse through Albert's hand. "As strong as the day I was born. I'm right here Albert Molineaux. Stop being crazy."

"OK. Where'd you go?"

"I saw you stagger and told you I was going to get you a bottle of water and the nice girl that came to see if you were OK would look after you when I got back."

Albert searched his memory. "I'm....I'm sorry. I can't remember...I don't remember this." 

Betty gave him a concerned look. "Well, maybe your over-tired. You didn't sleep well last night did you?"

"I didn't."

"Well there you go. Nothing to go worrying about. You just got a little tired and took a tumble. You're OK now. Thankfully that nice man found me with the photo and took care of you."

Albert nodded, glancing up and seeing the man in question walking away giving Albert a little nod with his hat. Calmed almost immediately by Betty's re-appearance. Something was still niggling him though, yet he couldn't think to what it was. Not yet anyway. 

Betty stood up. "Now come on. Up you get. Let's get you home and rested. You don't have to go tonight if you don't want too."

"No no. It's fine. I'll go. Just need a little sleep before hand that's all."

Betty smiled. "Good." Then she nudged him. "And we'll address the fact of you kissing another woman later by the way. Little tiredness and you go all Casanova on me. Poor girl will never look after an old man again."

She laughed, her sense of humour as wicked as always and Albert did his best to do the same, but he still felt shaken. All he wanted was to lie down, and sleep and forgot today ever happened when tomorrow came around. 

Usually he did.

Election Night, Quarter-Finals & The Watercooler #2

It’s been a while since the last update - and a fair few things have happened! Let’s start with my new book, Election Night: Hopefully Not Based On True Events!

Election Night: Hopefully Not Based On True Events

Yes! I’m excited to be bringing out another book and especially excited that it’s a comedy….sort of.

It’s Election Night. Prime Minister Harry McDonagh is expecting a landslide whilst the media predict an avalanche. Meanwhile, Tony and Veronica are in their flat in Springburn ready to spend an all-nighter watching the results roll in and the fate of the country be decided.

However, when the exit poll is released, shit hits the fan at No.10 Downing Street and the world descends into chaos due to the Prime Minister’s actions, the external conflict also starts to bleed inside Tony and Veronica’s flat. Tony and Veronica are caught between keeping up with the action on the Internet and TV, getting out of the UK or phoning in another Chinese.

Election Night is a political-comedy-thriller, which is told via the perspective of Tony and Veronica as they watch the narrative of the election results unfold on Twitter, TV, podcasts and a live blog from inside the office of the Prime Minister.

The story takes place over just a few hours and switches between different writing styles to mimic the different medium that Tony and Veronica are using to keep up to date with what’s happening with the election. It’s through Tony and Veronica that we meet the other characters in the story and the hope is that reading Election Night will share similarities of experiencing an actual election night.

As the night rolls on and events become increasingly out of control, the election comes to a surprisingly violent and bloody conclusion. However, the damage may already be done.

After the last general election, I had the idea (and originally intended to write a play, still might) and since then the world of politics has just become, well, bonkers. With the impending general election in the UK, I thought it might be the best time to release this.

You can pre-order your digital copy now!

Election Night: Hopefully Not Based On True Events https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0814W8LT8/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_i_OZZYDb5JS6VXG

Quarter-Finalist - Woo Hoo!

Earlier this year, I decided to enter the Shore Scripts TV Pilot Contest, with my script Small Town. I wrote this pilot a number of years ago, and never really done anything with it and decided to submit it. To my genuine surprise and delighted, the script made it into the Quarter-Finals!

As any other writer will know, the success/encouraging “Congratulations” moments like these don’t come along as much as the “Unfortunately” moments, so to have progressed and become a quarter-finalist has been amazing. Congrats to all those who made the semi-finals.

In other news, and the even more genuinely surprising and delighting, is that Small Town made the coveted Red List on Coverfly. Huge thanks to those who read the script and gave it such positive reports, contributing to this placement on The Red List. It’s currently (at the time of writing) #11 on the Fantasy Television One Hour list for the month and #19 for the year.

Every now and then moments come along just to keep you going down this path and encouraging you to keep writing. Savour them. They’re sometimes the only currency we have.

BBC The Social Comedy Page

For all the sketches that I’ve made that has featured on BBC The Social, they’re all together in this handy page on the BBC The Social website - the only one missing so far is The Outrage Brigade.

This is very cool for me. As someone who grew up watching BBC comedy (and drama) to have work that I’ve written featured on a BBC page is amazing. Check them out! And keep your eyes peeled for more.

And be sure to check out the other contributors on the site!

The Watercooler #2

I was lucky enough to get away for a wee holiday last month and catch up on some reading/listening/watching!

I highly recommend The Colorado Kid by Stephen King. It’s a short novel from publishers Hard Case Crime and is a compelling read - you’ll find you can’t quite put it down. Richly drawn characters and a fascinating mystery at its core, it’s a story about the very nature of stories. I also love the ethos behind Hard Case Crime - they want great stories that you can fit in your pocket.

I also binge listened (is that a thing?) to the That Peter Crouch Podcast, a great podcast about football and life. It’s feels like your in the pub with your friends and listening to them having a chat. Such an easy listen and will keep you in high spirits.

There are two main shows that are dominating my TV this month. First up, Apple TV+ launch series The Morning Show the addictive, high end and bold new drama with shades of Sorkin that have been sorely missing from TV, with powerhouse performances from Aniston, Witherspoon and co, with great turns from Mark Duplass, Steve Carell and a gleeful Billy Crudup, to name but a few. And secondly, Watchmen. Lindelof is one of my favourite writers and he’s crafted a world and a story that holds a mirror up to our own. Hugely compelling characters and a world you want to spend time in (from a safe distance) it’s a big comic book adaptation that crucially checks itself with the raw, emotional human story at the centre. Lindelof has carried on where he left off with The Leftovers. It’s great to have his writing back on screen.

Other top picks are Jack Ryan (yay Krasinski!), Living With Yourself (razor sharp writing, full of heart and life and, yes, Rudd - comedy of the year), The Good Place (still great), El Camino (lives up to expectations and feels so good to be back in the Breaking Bad world) and Yesterday (funny, moving and a love letter to the greatest band of all time).

The Quest For Perfection (Is A Damn Fine Thing)

More chapters have been released from the book. Have you been keeping up to date? What do you think is going on!?

Anyway, I think that’s enough for now. Thanks for stopping by.

Cx

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Seven

In Chapter Seven, a routine day turns into a nightmare for Sarah. Are those her memories? Who placed this order?

7

With the school run over and done with, Sarah's day opened up ahead of her like a California highway (or at least the way she pictured it due to the movies), but without the relative freedom that journey provides. She had much more menial tasks causing her a pit stop every half hour or so on her imaginary road trip down the coast. Driving into town, her To Do list for the day pinned to the dashboard in front of her, Dry Cleaners, Doctors, Butchers and Snacks - not listed in order of importance. Sarah permitted herself a few moments to bask in the intermittent silence afforded the car now that she'd dropped off the kids before the basking would turn to wallowing in the quiet and eventually the surge of guilt that she was enjoying a few moments alone of peace and quiet without the kids or her husband. Sarah was a creature of habit, who liked the idea of alone time more than actually being alone from her loved ones and whenever she was left in silence for too long her mind began to spiral, attempting to open doors to doomsday thinking. Quickly (trained in the art of quick distraction) she flicked on the radio and let the songs of the day fill the sullen and silent atmosphere of the car and push her thoughts of loneliness from her mind. 

Now that she'd planned the day, she was looking forward to the night's event more than she had been that morning. Maybe it was just over-exhaustion, her mental faculties and positive attitude run down with the lack of sleep and busy lifestyle. Despite her commitment to the early morning rise and run, she had found herself of recent nights tossing and turning, waking from strange dreams, the odd disturbing one, that ranged from round rooms, drowning in a tank of water and one particularly horrible nightmare wherein she seemed to be catching sight of her reflection in the bottom of glasses and in bar windows – the reflection a haggard, skeleton thin woman with skin the color of yellow pastel. It was perhaps this particular nightmare that made her push even further into her early morning routine and commitment to her self imposed healthy eating programme – the fear of becoming that woman gripped her all too strong. Although why the fear felt so prescient, she didn't know. She had no cause to worry that she was on that path or indeed ever had been. She never drank. She didn't do drugs. She didn't even eat fast food. But no matter how many times she told herself this, reassured herself about how fit and healthy she was, she couldn't shake that image she saw when she closed her eyes. And to make this fear even worse, the strangest thing had happened the day before which she had pushed to the back of her mind until now. 

Coming back from her morning run, there was a large delivery truck parked outside her house. Jogging toward the driver, leaning against the wheel wearing a fedora and a duster jacket (in this impossible heat no less), she unplugged her earphones and waited as he pushed himself away from the truck and moved toward her, breaking into a smile and taking off the hat. If it hadn't been for the slightly greying hair she would have sworn it was Idris Elba straight off the set of filming The Dark Tower (a fact she only knew because her son was such a huge fan of both King and Elba) complete with Gunslinger costume. He had a friendly face, startling blue eyes looking out from his dark skin. He took his hat off and checked his clipboard, still with that smile. 

"Sarah Barr?" he said, looking up at her from his clipboard. 

"That's me. What's all this?" Sarah asked, taking a swig of her water. 

"Looks to me like one hell of a party is what it is," he said, taking out a pen and passing over the clipboard. "Just give me a signature here and here and I'll get unloading all this party juice."

Sarah didn't take the pen, instead looked past him into the truck, confused. "Party juice?"

"My little word for it. Booze. Drink. Moonshine. You must be having the whole neighbourhood round."

Her heart had started to race, (which she accounted to the run) but nevertheless she started to feel a little woozy. "I didn't order any alcohol."

The man looked at her, taken aback. "You didn't?"

"I didn't. I don't drink. And the people coming to the party bring their own if they're so inclined."

The man scratched his head, looking back at the clipboard. "You are Sarah Barr though, right?"

"I am but I'm not the right one you're looking for."

He glanced back and forth at the clipboard and Sarah a couple of times and clicked his tongue. "Must be a mix up at the warehouse again. Mrs. Barr, I've very sorry to have troubled you with all this. I'll head back and find out what's what."

"It's alright. These things happen. I'm sure I'm not the only Sarah Barr."

He smiled wide then, in a way that made her a little uncomfortable. "I'm sure you aren't." He then leaned in conspiratorially. "You want one off the back of the truck? Nobody's going to miss one, see it as a token for all this inconvenience."

Stepping back a little, Sarah shook her head. "I'm fine honestly. Unless it's water you have back there, I'm not interested."

The man nodded and flipped his hat back on. "Right you are. You're a good woman Mrs. Barr. Apologies again."

And with that, he hopped back in his truck and drove off, leaving Sarah standing there, confused as all hell. It had been the strangest thing, the delivery turning up like that, right after those dreams had started. And even stranger was how thirsty she felt looking into the back of that truck, a thirst that, no matter how much water she drank couldn't quite be quenched. 

Her dream-like reverie on her nights of broken sleeps, the jaundiced food deprived version of her in the mirror & her weird moment with the delivery driver was interrupted slowly by the sound coming from the radio. As she pulled into the next lane and stopped at the red light, Sarah looked toward the speakers of the car and listened. Something about the song, the lyrics, stirred her into a hypnotic state. 

Bohemian Rhapsody. Queen. She'd been a fan in her youth. Had even cried when Freddie died.

All of a sudden, like a switch was flicked, images begun to flash through Sarah's mind, quick and violent, pulsing to the front of her brain and into the minds eye. Empty bottles. Syringes. Music loud. Powder on the table. A room full of pallid and paper-thin people. Cars. Traffic. An accident.

MMMMEEEEEHHHH.

Snapping out of her hypnosis, Sarah's mind rushed back to the present to the sound of pamping cars and angry drivers behind her. 

Driving quickly through the green light she'd been sitting idle at while the cars behind got angrier and angrier, she pulled over into the shopping centre car park and stopped the car, her breathing a little ragged and heart beating a touch too fast for someone who was only sitting in a car. What was that? She thought. She sat there for a few moments, wracking her brain as to what just happened inside her head. It was like scenes from a thousand broken movies, a film edit that was cut badly and jumped in places. Images, and scenes, playing in her mind like a memory. But from where? And who's? They're not my memories, she told herself, adamant. But was that true? The only way she could think to describe the experience was that it was like she was sitting down to watch a movie for the first time but as the opening credits started to roll, she realized she had already seen it. The empty bottles? Sarah didn't drink. And the syringes? She grimaced at the thought of a few painkillers and couldn't even bear to take a nasal spray, so why was she suddenly seeing scenes of excessive drug use in her head? And the accident, or whatever that was at the end. She had never had so much a parking ticket never mind being involved in any accident involving a motor vehicle. The whole thing happened so quickly and was so strange she couldn't wrap her head around it. One minute she had been sitting there, quite the thing thinking about the day ahead, about missing her kids and listening to a Queen classic. Then all of a sudden, it was like she was thrust into somebody else's mind to take an unwanted and unheeded trip down a particularly dark side street of memory lane. It made no sense to her. No whatsoever. 

Giving herself a quick glance in the mirror, Sarah touched her face. Healthy. Tanned. Just as it was supposed to be. Perhaps she was just fatigued. And, come to think of it, perhaps she'd not drank nearly enough water since her run that morning. Those two things combined with the fact she was filling her non-sleeping time with watching the 2am movies on the TV probably was filling her head with all sorts of images and her brain just was getting to sluggish about separating what was the truth from reality. She'd read about that in plenty of articles online about sleep deprivation and dehydration. That's itshe thought. That's the reason. No need to panic or run to Dr. Wyatt...no wait Fleming. She didn't have a Dr. Wyatt.

Popping open the glove compartment, Sarah took out a bottle of water and started to drink, trying to push that little wobble out of her mind. She was satisfied with her self-diagnosis and non-googled answers that she chalked it down to something that was nothing worth worrying about. She just needed more sleep and more water in her system. Nothing more. Nothing less. Stepping out of the car to the packed shopping centre car park, Sarah looked and saw that she was, somehow one of the lucky few to get a space so close to the door, despite the mid morning rush and the packed car park. Picking up her shopping list and locking the car, she headed toward the shopping centre, thinking no more of the images she saw and no more about the opening to that Queen classic that had started it all in the first place. She had a party to prepare for after all. 

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Six

In Chapter Six, life begins to unravel on Fredrick Street, with Kim experiencing something strange.

6

The high pitched drone of the dishwasher as it finished it's cleaning cycle nudged Kim out of her mid-morning nap; a treat she'd grew accustomed to since falling pregnant. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she sifted through the pile of scripts on the coffee table for her phone to check the time. It was reading the scripts that had put her to sleep in the first place, the majority of them B-Movie slush that made Plan 9 From Outer Space look like Schindler's List in comparison. She didn't mind that she wasn't necessarily an A-List star strolling up red carpets with flashing lights and adoring fans. It was work and it paid the bills. But, with motherhood beckoning, she felt it was high time she made her way closer into the big leagues. Perhaps the wisdom, the inevitable adornment of crows feet and a few wrinkles that would be a result of impending motherhood could elevate her from straight to DVD-fare to more cinematic outings. Most mother's wailed about how their babies took away their youth, their looks and their figure but Kim was hoping that it'd take away from her almost Barbie doll sculpted features and let her get taken as a serious dramatic actor. She'd never tell the rest of the mothers this though; she liked them and liked that they liked her, which wasn't easy for Kim. She'd always found it hard to be friends with women, part of it was because they usually made an emotional bee-line straight to jealousy of Kim's looks and career but mainly because they probably found it hard to make friends with the woman who was on a poster in their teenage boys room wearing nothing but a bra and panties in her most popular film Even Zombies And Werewolves Like Strippers. As you could imagine, it wouldn't be easy welcoming the woman their husbands, fathers, sons and brothers fantasied about round for Sunday dinner. But hopefully, all of that was about to change. She had resolved never to do a film like that again, not with a baby on the way and certainly not after. 

Sliding off the couch, Kim left the living room and plodded into the kitchen to check on the dishes. After she gave birth, she should probably think about investing in a pair of sweats and some baggy t-shirts to walk about the house in, rather than in her underwear as she did currently. That kind of thing couldn't be good for a child's upbringing. Or perhaps it promoted a healthy body image and perspective on the human body? Kim wasn't sure, but she resolved to Google it later as soon as she got back from the hospital and pinned her new baby scan to the fridge, something that had become the favourite part of her day over the past few months. She glanced over at the 12 week scan that took pride of place in the centre of the fridge door and grinned so much she put the Cheshire Cat in Alice In Wonderland to shame. Kim couldn't quite believe it. All Kim and Mark had ever wanted was to start a family, build a life together and be with each other; everything she asked for was coming true and more with her high school sweetheart in tow. It was almost too good to be true. Almost. 

She popped the hood of the dishwasher and had a peek inside, pulling her head back as the steam billowed out like she'd been keeping a Steam Engine train hostage in close quarters and it was now voicing it's protest. Once the steam cleared, she poked her head in to inspect what she hoped was a treasure chest of clean dishes sparkling back and for the most part it was, barring the odd straggling bit of food debris clinging onto the plate for dear life. It would appear that, no matter how expensive their dishwasher or how many times they put on the cycle, they just couldn't get every piece of dirt washed away. Sighing, she flicked on the radio pulled out the trays and emptied the dishwasher, whistling while she worked like a modern day Snow White. Putting the clean dishes and cutlery back into their cupboards she took out the still dirty ones, filled the sink basin with hot soapy water, grabbed the scrubber and got to work. For all the griping, moaning and arguing that she and Mark did over whose responsibility it was that the dishes got so dirty and whose turn it was to clean them (one of the reasons they bought the damn dishwasher in the first place was to bring a certain level of peace to the household, although they still argued about who should fill it and who should empty it) Kim rather enjoyed the process of washing them by hand. It was cleansing, almost meditative. It allowed her to disconnect from the world around her, all the white noise that the world had become and allowed her to focus on just one thing. Of course, there wasn't a chance in hell she'd tell Mark this or she'd find herself chief dishwasher for life and she wasn't ready to give him the satisfaction, no matter how much she loved him. It was much more fun to see him squirm just a little bit.

Dipping her hands into the water, she started to clean the dishes and let her mind switch into a trance. Thinking about the baby, their own little bundle of joy that was just a few months away, a gift that was so close to unwrapping she ticked off the mental check list of things they needed to do before the baby was born. The nursery needed done, that was the main thing. Baby clothes needed bought (Kim was going to take up knitting but she couldn't get the hang of it – perhaps another problem motherhood would solve) and of course, the most important thing – the name. That was her favourite thing about this experience so far (even more than the scans) was lying in bed late at night with Mark, hand on her tummy and flicking through the book of baby names, or trolling the internet for ideas. Mark had found one he liked on a website for Greek mythology and near resolute that this was what the baby was going to be called. Even thinking about it now made her laugh. He'd sat bolt upright, and snapped his fingers. 

Mark. "I got it."

Kim laughed. "I bet you don't. But OK, go on then. I'll indulge you."

Mark. "I'm telling you, I 100% have it. You're going to hear it and think 'Mark, my god. You are right. You should be in charge of naming all the babies in the world from now. You should be Chief Baby Namer."

Smiling, Kim gave her best fake supportive stare. "Of course you will. Now are you going to continue to pontificate or are you going to tell me the name?"

"Pontificate? That's a big word for such a dainty little lady like you," Mark teased.

She hit him with a pillow then, knowing that he liked to wind her up like this. "Anymore of that and I'll pontificate you. Now are you going to tell me the name?"

He shifted, faced her straight on the bed and stared her in the eyes. "OK. You ready?"

"I'm sure I am."

Mark smiled. "OK. We're going to name our baby, wait for it, Andromeda. Andi for short."

The name hung in the air. Kim just looked at her husband, his big eyes pleading. "Well?"

Kim reached over and took the laptop from him. "Yeah I think you've had enough googling tonight."

"Come on. We can have a little Greek mythology set. Andromeda, Medusa and little Zeus."

She laughed so hard then that she thought she might break into early labour as he grabbed her and threw her back on the bed laughing and kissed her. It was a nice memory and she looked at those moments with such fondness that it was almost enough to convince her to name the baby Andromeda in order to remember the laughter and the kisses every time she called on her child. Common sense prevailed of course. Mark was always a little left field with names.

A scuffling, squawking and thumping noise from the porch distracted her from her trance and put her hazy eyed trip down memory lane to and end as she went to investigate. She knew it would be the cat, (it always was) and he started scratching on front of the door. From the sound of it, he had decided to bring them home a present, which usually came in the form of a field mouse or a robin red breast and always prompted the same response from Mark. "I wish he'd just get us a gift card." Not a joke that was all that funny but he'd worn her down with it that she couldn't help but giggle just a little whenever he said it. Approaching the front door, she could see through the frosted glass the outline of their cat standing over something that lay still, confirming her suspicions that it was indeed a little bird. However, opening the door, Kim took a step back and yelped out. In place of where she expected to see a robin or a mouse was a single, dead magpie. It lay there, it's black and white plumage stained with red and the blue green gloss of its tail feathers surrounded the dead bird in tatters. The cat looked from Kim to the bird curiously, wondering if she was happy with his gift. Kim simply stood and stared, her hand moving like a reflex to her baby-bearing belly. She wasn't the superstitious sort but even a tableau of this nature on her doorstep made her feel a little nauseous. It's just the pregnancy. Delayed morning sickness. She tried to convince herself. Pushing her worries to the back of her mind, Kim knew she had to clean it up before Mark got home, because he was the superstitious type. Pulling on a pair of yellow marigolds, Kim bent down to pick up the bird but before she could wrap her hand over the dead creature the cat had pounced forward, picked the bird up in his mouth and bounding off and out of sight. Kim watched him go and continued to stare as he found a little shading under the bush and plunged his teeth into the bird's chest and tore out the innards before ripping off the head. Tearing her gaze away, Kim shut the door and stepped back into the house, feeling a damn sight less calm than she had been moments ago. Throwing the marigolds into the cupboard, she returned to the kitchen, plunging her hands into the hot soapy water to soak off the bird, despite not having laid a finger on it she felt like the poor things blood was on her hands. As she washed, she tried to shake it out of her mind, the surrounding cloud of dark thoughts and worries. She wasn't superstitious but for some reason, this had shaken her a little. Was it a bad omen? About the baby? Something else? No. It couldn't be and it wasn't. It was just a cat being a cat, that's all. Nothing more than—

"Ow!" Kim retreated her hand from the basin as the water turned red. She'd slit her hand on a piece of broken glass, not that she remembered any glasses or mugs smashing as she washed them. Quickly, she ran it under the tap and wrapped it in a towel as she found the first aid kit and patched herself up. Emptying the basin into the sink, she gingerly picked up the piece of glass and tossed it in the bin. What a strange morning. She thought. But she could dwell on the thought no longer as she looked at the time and realized she had to leave for the hospital to make the scan in time.

Giving the sink a quick rinse, Kim put the rest of the dishes away and turned to give the baby scan on the picture one last look and a good luck kiss as she had developed a habit of doing. But it wasn't there. Frantic, she searched the kitchen high and low for the picture of her little baby. It had been there just seconds before, just before the whole incident with the magpie and the broken glass. Breathing, Kim forced herself to be calm. The picture would be there somewhere. And that's when she saw the corner of it poking out from under the fridge. It probably slipped under there in her commotion to patch up her cut. Bending down, Kim picked the baby scan back up and put it back in its place and gave it a little kiss. But before she turned to leave the kitchen, the sight of something out of the window staring back at her caused her to pause and look out. There, perched on the garden fence and staring into the kitchen was one, single magpie. Kim let her gaze fix on it for a few moments. There was something about the way it looked at her, like it was looking at her. After a minute, Kim forced herself to break eye contact with the bird and shake herself back into reality. She was being crazy. Maybe it was the hormones. Or maybe it was something else. No. It was the hormones. Her anxiety levels had increased due to the pregnancy that was probably it. She was looking for signs of things that weren't there. She'd ask the Doctor about it during the scan. Grabbing her jacket and keys from the kitchen's table, Kim started to head out of the kitchen and make her way out of the house to head to the hospital. Before leaving the kitchen though, she took one last look out of the kitchen window to see the magpie on the garden fence. But where the magpie had been moments before, perched on the wood and staring back at her, was nothing but thin air. Shaking any thoughts from her mind, Kim stepped out of the kitchen, out of the house and into the car, not giving the very strange events of her morning a single, second thought. 

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Five

In Chapter Five, we meet Jessica. But how long before the lights go out?

5

Jessica Young didn't know if it was the cold sweat or the sunlight bursting into the room that woke her up. Probably it was a combination of the both but mostly it was just the nightmare she'd managed to escape from and no more. Sitting up, she looked into the body length mirror in the corner of the room and saw that she looked whiter than a ghost and wetter than someone who'd just swam the Pacific. It had been the strangest dream yet, and the most clear. The circular room, the empty tanks and the people in white coats, including someone called Dr. Wyatt. The name rang a bell, but at the moment she couldn't place it. What made the dream stranger still was the fact that it was the same one she'd been having for the past couple of nights now and each time with a little bit more information than the last. But last night's, the most peculiar thing happened. She was walking through a dimly lit room. It was a chrome covered circle with a ceiling so high it felt like she was inside a telescope while the smell of Listerine and wet soil stung her nostrils as it always did in these dreams. Some of the other neighbours from Fredrick Street were there too. There was Old Man Albert, Sarah the Sunrise Jogger and the dreamy Dr. Fleming, all of them. A woman, this Dr. Wyatt, was leading them all into the room. But toward the end of the dream, she and Albert had met eyes, and she had the strangest feeling that this was his dream too. That was what clung to her most this morning, more than her clothes or the stench due to the inordinate amount of sweat she'd produced throughout the night. Nothing spectacular had happened during the dream; it was just strange, yet familiar. Perhaps this due to the fact she kept having it, but most likely it was something more. She just couldn't quite put her finger on it. Not yet at least. 

Peeling herself out of her covers, she headed over to the window and drew back the curtains. It was just before 9.00am and she didn't start University for another four weeks. Looking out on Fredrick Street from her bedroom window, she saw Sarah bundling the kids into the car with her husband following closely behind with the packed lunches. It was moments like this that she felt the absolute blissful freedom of being a young student without the responsibilities of having a family, although she did have enough responsibilities herself to be getting on with. Whether it was her volunteering initiatives or charity work, she made sure her days were busy either advancing her career or bettering the lives of others. With that in mind, she opened the window and called down to Sarah. 

"Morning Mrs. Barr! Do you guys need a hand?"

Sarah waved her away with a smile. "Not at all, thank you Jessica. You're time will come for the school run, enjoy the lie-in while you can!" 

"Well you know where I am if you need me." She closed the window, feeling lighter. There was nothing like starting the day with offering help to others. 

Turning to her room (tidy, it was always tidy) she thought about the day ahead. She supposed she could study; get a headstart on the learning so that she could hit the ground running before her classes started. After all, she'd already spent money on all the books. Plus, Dr. Fleming had given her some articles he thought she ought to read to help her in her pursuit of a career in medicine. But she didn't feel like playing at being Doctor today (which was strange because she always loved having her nose stuck in a textbook). She didn't feel like anything other than thinking about that dream some more but, as her Grandfather used to tell her, "What good is dwelling on the dream if it's something we can only see with our eyes shut."Truthfully, she didn't know all that well what he meant by it, but he had white hair and he always told her that was an automatic passage to the Hall of Wisdom. That was before he downed half a quarter of whisky whilst toasting to white haired fools, so it may just have been the amber liquid talking.

Maybe the whole thing with the dream and Dr. Wyatt was her brain telling her to go round a visit the neighbours. After all, they were in the dream too and there was some of the neighbours that hadn't been seen in a while, which had her worried. Jessica always worried about others and wanted to do what she could to help. This would probably take her mind off the strangeness of the dream. She nodded, to the empty room, her resolve strengthened. That's exactly what she would do. She'd go round and check the houses to see if anyone needed a helping hand with anything. Almost immediately, the dream started to disappear and she felt back to normal. Throwing on her jeans and a baggy t-shirt, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal and see what messages (if any) her parents had left her on the fridge. 

The kitchen was cold, the blinds drawn allowing no sunlight in. Opening the blinds and letting the light and warmth pour in, Jessica surveyed the room. There were a few dishes to be done and the breakfast bar in the middle of the room was stocked full with cereal boxes. Before doing anything, Jessica made sure to tidy the kitchen. She always liked to make sure the house was tidy for her parents when they came in. Do for others first before you do for yourself, she thought. Another saying her Grandfather used to say and it was a saying that she lived by. After a quick tidy, she again felt lighter and rewarded herself with a big bowl of chocolate cereal. She left no space at the top whatsoever, and causing what could be dangerous overspill. Sitting at the breakfast bar, she read the notes on the fridge. There was only one. "Have a good day, Love Mum and Dad." She smiled. It would be hard living without them, she knew, when she left to go to University. They had such a positive relationship and it made her sad to think of not seeing them everyday. Sometimes she thought it would be better if they didn't get on so well just so the transition would be easier. 

Jessica looked down at her bowl of cereal and stopped, putting the spoon down. Her chocolate cereal, had disappeared and was replaced by what looked like tiny white pills. Then, out of nowhere, she heard a voice. 

"Who fucked up, who changed the fucking cereal!? Do you want another disaster?" 

She staggered backward off the breakfast bar chair, dropping the bowl, it smashed and china flew everywhere cutting Jessica in the foot and spraying the cupboard with milk and chocolate cereal. "What the fuck was that?" she yelled. 

Looking around, she searched for the source of the sound. It was a voice she'd heard, like it was someone standing over her shoulder and whispering in her ear. Something about a disaster. Shaking a little, Jessica stood in silence, waiting for the sound again. 

"Hello? Is there someone there? Cos if there is, I just smashed a bowl so I have, like, a thousand little daggers lying around here and I'll fucking use them. Hello?"

Nothing. Not a sound from throughout the house. Just the drip-drip of milk onto the floor and nothing else. Jessica was sure she'd heard something. And the way the cereal had changed. She looked down now and the debris included her chocolate cereal. What were those pills? Had she accidently poured some vitamins in or something? Had the milk discoloured them? But then the voice – there was no explanation for that. Unless, of course, it was somebody outside, that was possible. She listened for a moment or two longer just for good measure then, satisfied there was no stranger wandering around the house, she started to tidy up her mess, putting the disembodied mystery voice to the back of her head. It was probably somebody outside. 

As she bent down to pick up the broken pieces of bowl, mop up the milk and examine the fresh cut on her foot a loud whine cut through the house and hurt her head. She grabbed her head and closed her eyes; it was like someone knocking the door but the door was inside her head. Over the sound of the whine (it was an alarm, she knew that now, a buzzing whine of an alarm) she could hear a rabble of voices shouting. 

She's starting to remember.

Shut it down, it's happening again, we can't lose another one.

Jessica held her head, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as she could. What was happening?

Dr. Wyatt, we're losing her!

Before Jessica could even contemplate how strange it was to hear that name again when she was no longer sleeping, everything was over as quickly as it had begun. Jessica opened her eyes to take in her house in Fredrick Street for one final time. When she did, she found a peculiar sight in front of her. The house was disappearing around her as she stood, being replaced with the circular room from her dream, with the white coats and the tanks. And she was no longer standing either; she was floating. Not only that, she felt wet as well, her skin wrinkly like she'd spent to long in a bath. 

The last thing Jessica Young would experience was this strange floating sensation and the concerned faces of the onlookers in the white coats below her. She sought one of the faces out. It was a woman, standing in the centre (she was in charge, you could tell) and Jessica locked eyes with her. Jessica could see the woman was scared and disappointed. But there was no surprise in her face, not the surprise that Jessica was experiencing. As the life faded from Jessica, she closed her eyes and remembered. She was not who she was, not the person on Fredrick Street. She remembered; the white pills, the money, the lives ruined, the people she mocked and teased, the failures, the loneliness. But she remembered the good also, the potential she had to be good. The mistakes she had made were there, but she was good also. She thought coming here (wherever here was) would allow her to erase the mistakes and just keep the good. 

The last thing Jessica Young would do, would be to cry, a tear rolling down her cheek, lost in the water she was drowning in.

From the outside though, Jessica's house was still standing to the rest of those people who lived on Fredrick Street. Nothing had changed. 

Except for the lights. The lights on the house had gone out. 

Transcript of Interview with Sarah Barr. August 25, 2015. Conducted by J.P. McNair.

I stop. I can see that Sarah has become upset, recalling the story of what happened to Jessica. In all honestly, I'm a little shaken myself. This is the first time I've heard, in this detail, about what happened.

Do you want to take a break?

"No, I want to continue. If I stop, I might not start again."

I check the batteries of the microphone, which I'm using to record the interview, along with taking notes of my own. I swap the batteries out and push record again. 

When did you know Jessica was gone?

"I didn't – even though I'd seen her that day I didn't even notice that she was no longer there. That she never turned up to the BBQ. It wasn't until after that I found out. But whatever happened to Jessica, I think, had a domino effect. Because that's when things started happening to all of us."

I continued writing.