Writers Circle: August Entry

My hands fail me and I drop my bag.

The contents scurry from their captor across the blue lino floor, resting under computer desks and filing cabinets. I make no effort to retrieve them.

My computer casing has been removed and the inner hardware either removed or smashed. My breath is caught in my throat, my chest heaves and I suddenly I find it hard to breath. I am vaguely aware the others in the laboratory are watching me, waiting for the moment I will find my voice and crack. Was this some kind of horrific joke? Was this a test? Am I supposed to prove that I can recall years of research at the bat of an eyelid?

My mind is numb. There is no emotion or thought flowing around and I can’t even begin to bring myself to move, to sit down in front of the decimated computer and begin to make sense of it all. I don’t want too. Who would do such a thing?

Slowly, I find the strength to move and glance over my shoulder at my colleagues. Every pair of eyes seemingly fixated on their screens or equipment. I narrow my eyes at them: the laboratory is never empty, which of them would stand by and watch?

‘Natasha Steal.’

I turn my head towards the voice calling my name. A short, plump woman stands at the furthest end of the lab. She watches me for a second before standing aside from the door and gesturing that I go to her. My heels click loudly as I cross the silent laboratory. I try to intimidate those I pass with a cold stare, but they sit frozen in their seats, eyes adverted.

As I reach the door, the woman, dressed in a dark pin-striped suit, steps through into a carpeted hallway and strides off towards the end. I follow behind, so close I’m almost a shadow of hers. We walk up two more flights of stairs and two more doorways before reaching our destination. We meet no one. The building is strangely quiet.

Pin-stripe does not speak to me. She averts her eyes like those in the lab and motions towards a door behind a sectaries neat desk. I walk over, glancing over my shoulder towards my silent leader, whose eyes remain fixed on the floor.

Gold letters shine on the door: Matilda Floss. I’ve been brought to the chairman. My spirits rise slightly. I am pleased. Relieved that someone has noticed and that someone might be able to help me. Or tell me that this is simply a dream and that all I have to do is click my heals three times and everything will be restored.

I knock. Matilda answers and I enter. I am confronted by a thin, bony woman sitting behind a large polished antique desk. She glances up at me, over her glasses. ‘Natasha,’ says Matilda, nodding in greeting. ‘Sit down. Please.’

I sit down heavily. Matilda slides a plate of chocolate hobnobs towards me and waves a hand at them, indicating that I should take one. I do but replace my hand to my lap, the biscuit firmly clutched within it. I am not hungry; the loss of my research is still too raw. Matilda clasps her hands together and rests them on her desk. She peers at me over her glasses, reminding me of a teacher.

‘Natasha,’ she begins sternly, ‘now I must ask you to be completely honest with me; did you make any copies of the research that you have been doing regarding the common cold on any other external hard drives that are not kept within this laboratory?’

I frown, surprised by this question. ‘No, I didn’t. All of my research is – was – on that computer. I did have a couple of external hard drives, but those have been stolen as well.’

Matilda nods, her jaw muscles loosen and she looks thoroughly relived. My heart thumps loudly in my chest.

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she says, a flicker of a smile appearing on her face.

‘Glad?’ I hear myself saying, incredulously. ‘Glad? All of my research is gone. Fifteen years worth of research has been stolen and destroyed and you’re glad I didn’t make extra copies to take home with me?’

‘Yes.’

I am so taken aback by her answer that it takes me a few moments to find my voice again. ‘What?’

‘Natasha, what do you think would happen if the public were to discover that we, sorry, you, found a cure to the common cold?’

‘I think they’d be deliriously fucking happy, if I’m honest.’

Matilda nodded. ‘Sure, the public would be “deliriously fucking happy” as you so eloquently put it, but what about the companies that manufacture all our drugs.’

I blink. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Without the common cold there wouldn’t be any need for ibuprofen, cough sweets, excreta. Hundreds of companies would go out of business almost overnight and thousands of people would be made redundant. We have to keep the economy turning and it is too fragile for a cure at the moment.’

‘So you destroyed all my research because the economy is too fragile?’ I ask. ‘Bullshit. What’s really going on here?’

‘Natasha, I’ve given you a perfectly reasonable explanation. Please refrain from using that language–’ 

‘Tell me what’s really going on? Why are you telling me this?’

Matilda slides a piece of typed paper towards me but I don’t look at it. She cocks her head and smiles broadly at me. ‘Top of your class, weren’t you,’ she says. ‘Youngest female genealogist of your generation, that was, until they forced the grant for the Common Cold research on you.’ 

I ignore her taunting. ‘How many other diseases have we cured? One? Five?’

‘You’re becoming hysterical, Natasha,’ Matilda replies calmly. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to calm down or I’ll have you restrained.’

I stand up sharply and the chair topples backwards. I glare down at Matilda’s calm face. ‘I’m hysterical? This isn’t hysterical. Hysteria is the reaction the public will have when they discover what’s been going on.’ A hand grasps my upper arm roughly and I look round to find a suited skinhead attached there. I try to shake myself free but he tightens his grip. My head whips around back to Matilda. ‘What’s this?’

‘You are going to be escorted home, Natasha, where you will have a long relaxing bath and then go to sleep. You will not speak to anyone about this conversation. We’ll speak again in the morning.’

‘This is fucking bullshit, Matilda. I don’t care what it takes but I will get this out. I will ruin you.’

Matilda rises slowly from her chair; her eyes narrowed, her face sombre. ‘Get her out of my sight.’

Before I can verbalise my thoughts the skinhead tugs me towards the door. I resist and scream. I dig my nails into his hand trying to rip it from my arm. Someone grabs my free wrist from behind and pricks it with something sharp. 

My legs become immediately weak. My vision begins to tunnel.

I collapse and arms are there to catch me. Dark eyes gaze down upon me. 

The room blurs.

And fades.

Spontaneous Write Invite Email Comp

Occasionally I take part in a live short story competition on Saturday evenings on the Write Invite website. Over the summer the website has been doing spontaneous email competitions where they give you an allotted time (usually 24hrs or less) to write a story (100 words or less). The themes this time were ‘Laughing All The Way’ and ‘It’s a Riot’.

Unfortunately my short was rejected, but still read, because they received it a minute past midnight and the deadline was midnight. My entry was thus:

It’s a Riot.

The frenzied shout of war has waned with dawn but the flames continue to devour buildings, and now only their skeletal remains can be seen standing proud, unyielding, above the suffocating dense black smoke. Shielding their eyes from the weak morning sun, Riot Wombles cast their faces skyward watching silently, subdued, as smoke drifts, engulfing the skies and bearing down upon the city, before armouring themselves for battle. Their weapon: a broom. Quietly, the Wombles embark upon their quest, seeking to restore calm and order once more to the streets of their beloved city.

Uninspired Poetry 6

Uninspired: It's Still A Riot!

London united.
Riot Wombles flock to the scene,
armed with brooms and tea.

Haiku poetry.

Uninspired Poetry 5

Uninspired: It's A Riot!

London.
Flames silhouette
the brick skeletons while
our city stands unprotected;
ruined.

Experimenting with a form of poetry called Cinquains.

He Ate My Foot. (a.k.a July's entry for Circle)

Inspector Jason Salt was well equipped to deal with the unusual. Having lived in London all of his thirty-five years and serving with the Met for fifteen, it had left him with a weary resignation for the eccentricities of the human mind.

The most memorable incident was a call out to flat in Stratford where a tearful and bald young lady was furiously accusing her ex-boyfriend of braking into her home and shaving her head. He later pleaded guilty, claiming he’d shaved her head so that she would remain unattractive to other men. No one thought to ask what her current boyfriend thought when he awoke to find his girlfriends ex looming over him with an electric razor in hand.

The Inspector pulled into a hospital car park where his first call out of the day had brought him. Quickly running a comb through his greying hazel hair, and downing the last of his Starbucks Cappuccino, the Inspector hopped out of his car, adjusting the left trouser leg as it had once again managed to tucked itself into his sock, and headed towards reception. Stepping over the threshold, Inspector Salt was instantly hit by overly bright lighting and a smell of disinfectant, ammonia and old people musk, also known as 'That Hospital Smell'.

His newly polished Jimmy Choo shoes clipped loudly against the motlled plastic flooring as he crossed the foyer to the desk. There appeared to be only a handful of people waiting around in the foyer today, unusual for this part of town. A few glanced up, indifferent, at the sight of the Inspector, but most remained engrossed in the repeated 999 episode flickering upon the small television in the corner of the waiting room.

As Salt approached the reception desk, the young woman behind it acknowledged him with a fleeting glance before returning to her crossword. ‘Can I help?’ she asked, vacantly, tucking some blonde hair behind an ear.

‘I’m looking for a Sidney Turner,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’m here to interview him.’

The dispassionate receptionist look up at the Inspector, set down her pen and smirked. ‘Sidney Turner?’ she repeated, the grin widening across her face. ‘One second, I’ll just grab Doctor Kawase for you. I think he wanted to take you up himself.’

The receptionist pushed herself away from the desk. The chair rolled her towards a door where she stuck her head in and spoke to a disembodied voice. She glanced out and smiled at the Inspector, who smiled and nodded politely, but frowned as her head disappeared through the door once again.

A few minutes later the receptionist’s head emerged from the door and a young Asian man walked from the room, the same smirk plastered to his face.

‘Good-evening, ah –,’

‘Inspector Salt,’ said the Inspector, extending a hand towards the Doctor.

‘Doctor Kawase,’ replied the young man, accepting the Inspectors hand. ‘You’ve come about Mr Turner?’

‘Yes, we received a call from the hospital asking us to come down. They said something about cannibalism.'

The Doctors smile grew wider. ‘Not the way he tells it, Inspector.’

‘I’m sorry; I appear to have missed the punch line on my way here. What exactly is going on?’

Doctor Kawase let himself out from behind the reception and motioned towards an elevator. ‘Let’s go up, shall we?’

Both Doctor and Inspector stepped into an empty elevator. Doctor Kawase pushed the third floor button and stepped back in line with Salt, grinned at the Inspector then turned to face the front, the smirk staying firmly on his face.

‘Doctor Kawase is it? I’m sorry, but could you elaborate on what exactly is happening.’

‘I would, Inspector, but I really think you need to hear the story from Sidney yourself.’

The lift doors slid open and Doctor Kawase stepped out, looking back to check that Inspector Salt was following, and then took off down a wide, dimly light, grey corridor. Nurses and their patients bustled passed, some greeting Doctor Kawase, others eyeing Inspector Salt curiously.

Doctor Kawase stopped beside a room and motioned for Inspector Salt to enter. As Salt pushed open the door, a frail looking man looked around and beamed at the Inspector. Salt glanced at Kawase who merely nodded for him to go in.

‘Mr Turner is it?’ asked Inspector Salt, stepping into the room, pulling out a frayed notebook and a pen from his jack pocket.

‘That’s right.’ The old man extended a frail liver spotted hand towards the Inspector, who took it and shook firmly. ‘Sidney Turner.’

‘I’m Inspector Salt, Mr Turner. I’m come regarding the claims you’ve made that you were abducted and were unwillingly parted from your foot.’

‘Unwillingly parted,’ Sidney repeated, sounding somewhat surprised. ‘No, Inspector, I let him eat it.’

The Inspector blinked. He looked down at his notebook, staring blankly at the page, then back up. He blinked again. He became vaguely aware of his mouth moving, opening and closing like a fish out of water, and promptly stopped. The Inspector glanced towards Doctor Kawase who half smiled and shrugged.

‘You let another human eat your foot?’ asked Salt, looking at Sidney and thinking that this was quite definitely the most peculiar conversation he would have throughout his entire career.

‘Zombie,’ corrected the old man calmly. ‘I let a zombie eat my foot.’

I was wrong, he thought grimly, scribbling in his notebook. Inspector Salt took a deep calming breath. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t –’

‘We’d both been locked up for a couple of days and they hadn’t fed him anything in that time. I hadn’t walked anywhere for years so it wasn’t of use to me. I couldn’t let the poor chap starve, could I?’

‘I suppose not,’ mumbled the Inspector. ‘How did you know he was a zombie?’

‘He shuffled around with his arms out like this,’ – and here, Sidney demonstrated by holding his arms out at a stiff right-angle. – ‘The old chap groaned quite a bit too, and occasionally he would burp moths.’

The Inspector glanced down at the word “zombie” he had scrawled across a page in his notebook and looked back up into the old man’s creased face. ‘Are you on any medication, Mr Turner?’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘No, it’s not that, it’s just that this is,’ – and here the Inspector paused, not for effect, but to search his vocabulary for the least offensive word. – ‘an unusual story. I’m not accustomed to dealing with zombies.’

‘Well, I don’t want you to deal with the Zombie, Inspector. I want to prosecute the bastards who put us in the room.’

‘Very well, but cannibalism is illegal in England Mr Turner so I will need to investigate these claims as well.’

‘I don’t see why that’s necessary,’ replied Sidney, waving a dismissive wrinkled hand. ‘I was merely performing my duties as a fellow prisoner. I fought in the war, you know.’

‘Oh?’ said Inspector Salt, feigning interest. ‘The second world war, was it?’

‘Korean,’ said the old man proudly, puffing out his scrawny chest. ‘No offence, son,’ he added to Kawase.

The Doctor looked up from Sidney’s chart, grinning widely. ‘None taken, as it happens, I’m Japanese.’

‘They had their part to play too –,’

‘Mr Turner,’ snapped Inspector Salt, his patience wearing increasingly thin, ‘if you could stay focused on the matter at hand. You say you let a cannibal eat your foot.’

‘Zombie,’ corrected the old man, scratching a liver spot on his bald head.

‘To physically eat your foot he would have to be alive,’ interjected Kawase.

‘Yes, but he was a zombie so, technically, he would be dead,’ argued Sidney.

The Inspector massaged his temples with an exasperated sigh. ‘Right, so, to sum up; you allowed a technically dead cannibal to eat your foot.’

The old man nodded. ‘Correct.’

Inspector Salt flipped his notebook closed. ‘I think I have everything I need to conduct the investigation,’ he said, accompanied by a forced polite smile. ‘Thank you for your time today and we’ll be in contact as soon as we have any more information.’ He turned towards the doctor. ‘Thank you for your time, Doctor Kawase.’

‘Thank you for coming down, Inspector,’ replied the Doctor, grinning.

The Inspector turned and marched from the ward. Ten minutes later he dropped into the driver’s seat of his faithful ghost of a car, jammed the key into the ignition and headed for the station, all the while looking out for a pub. He could do with a whiskey.