COMPLICITY Wednesday, Jan 30 2008

It was a small ship, but as it rounded on the small planetoid and fired, it was obvious it packed a powerful punch.
‘We’ve got to stop them,’ said Ulrika Fayn as she guided B-mover 14 into scanning range.
Hercules Brown agreed, wishing he could get more out of the sonic drive.
There were six ships in all, constantly pounding the planetoid, and from previous reports of their journey, and from what they could see from scanners, it was obvious they were Envin.
‘I hope they put up a fight,’ said Tox, raising his bald, blue head. ‘I’d love to kill lots of Envin.’ He was making final adjustments on the sonic cannon, his favourite toy.
Brown sighed. He was aware of the Envins; had come across them before. Small, avaricious aliens, their elf like faces hid the ruthlessness of these space pirates. ‘Easy, Tox,’ he said. ‘There may be a good explanation.’ Then, to Ulrika: ‘Any sign of habitation on that planetoid?’
‘Negative,’ said Ulrika. ‘They seem to be bombarding a barren planet.’
As they came closer to the Envin fleet Brown opened channel. ‘This is the Space Rangers, cease your attack immediately.’
An Envin appeared on the monitor. His elf featured grimace was different to how Hercules Brown knew them. The arrogance, the cynicism was gone, replaced by what appeared to be stark terror. ‘Leave us, Space Ranger,’ he said. ‘This must be done. You must not interfere.’
At that the screen went blank. Meanwhile, time after time the ships came in line with the planetoid and fired.
‘I think it’s time we acted,’ said Tox, feeling comfortable in his firing position.
Brown thought a moment. ‘They’re frightened,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Tox.
‘No. I mean really frightened. Turning to Ulrika, Brown said: ‘Scan the planetoid again. There must be something on there. ‘
‘You’re right,’ she said, shortly.
An image flashed up from the surface. The mounds were unusual, about a metre high and round. The whole surface seemed to be covered in them.
‘What are they?’ Brown asked.
Ulrika accessed the ship’s computer. Seconds later, an analysis appeared. They were horrid little creatures, ten legged, two centimetres in length, and capable of surviving deep space drift. But most important to Brown was the fact that they were deadly to Envins.
‘It’s obviously a Nest,’ said Ulrika.
‘Yes,’ agreed Brown. ‘But not just any nest. According to this, the Envins are sure there’s just one, from which they all migrate. They account for about 30% of Envin deaths, and it looks like they’ve found the centre of the whole species.’
‘No wonder they’re determined to destroy them,’ said Ulrika.
Tox sighed. ‘I suppose that means we can’t destroy the Envins,’ he said.
Brown didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he said: ‘Ulrika, scan their ships for lifesigns.’
‘Oh Overmind,’ she eventually said. ‘The bugs are in space, chewing into their ships. About half the Envins are already near death. It’s a life and death struggle out there!’ she said.
At that moment, alarms went off around the ship. ‘What’s that?’ asked Brown.
‘They’re on our hull,’ said Ulrika.
Moments later, the first of the bugs bore through into the ship and began moving towards the crew.
‘They’re disgusting,’ Ulrika said as Tox and Brown despatched them with low level sonic blasts.
‘Well that’s decided it,’ he said. ‘Ulrika, we’re going to help them.’
Tox sighed once more, but realised where his duty lay. And with their superior weaponry, they soon pounded the nest to extinction.
Later, the Envins gone, Tox said: ‘Such a shame.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Brown.
‘We could have had a weapon against the Envins,’ he said.
As Tox finished, one of the bugs crawled from a corner, still alive. The crew turned to look at it. Tox continued: ‘Here’s our chance. Think about it, Brown. A real weapon to frighten them into stopping their piracy.’
Brown took one look at Tox before taking out his sonic gun and blasting the bug away.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Tox.
‘Because if I have the choice between the occasional irritation of pirates, or using biological weaponry to cause genocide, I’ll choose irritation every time.’
At that, Ulrika Fayn engaged sonic drive and B-mover 14 cruised away. Yet, as the devastated planetoid disappeared from view, Brown couldn’t get rid of the thought that he had done exactly that.

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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BED MATE Sunday, Jan 27 2008

WARNING: Some stories may contain disturbing scenes

Is the world we see about us real or illusion? Is the world a hard, material fact, or does reality bend to how we want the world to be? Philosophers and theologians have grappled with this question since history began and never have they provided a satisfactory answer. But in our day to day lives we need not worry about such things. Or should we?
When James Berford came to see me I can only describe him as terrified. ‘I need help,’ he said as he sat in front of the desk.
I was immediately on edge as he said this, as his voice had that shaky hysteria of unpredictability. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me the problem,’ I said.
‘It’s that clown. It’s evil, pure evil. I know it is. And I’m sure it’s going to kill my son.’
I offered as serene a smile as possible, although I must admit my anxiety was rising by the second. ‘The clown?’ I asked.
‘That bloody toy. It’s demonic. It is, I’m telling you!’
It took me a long time to settle him down; to get from him the facts in as calm and logical a way as possible. And the facts seemed to be these: Four months ago baby Paul had been born to James and Jenny Berford. And for the first week or so everything had gone exactly as had been expected. But then, as they were passing a toy shop, Jenny Berford had had an impulse to rush into the shop and buy a toy clown as bed mate for her baby.
‘And ever since then,’ James continued, ’she’s changed. She’s no longer happy, but goes around in a daze. And the only time she seems right is when she’s holding that clown. It’s as if she’s got a relationship with it. And both me and Paul are ignored.’
The explanation seemed obvious enough to me, but I decided it would be best to see what was going on for myself. Hence, under the pretence of being a friend and business associate I was invited to the house. And whilst I had decided that it was a simple case of post-natal depression with all emotions transferred to an inanimate object, the second I stepped into the house, a deep chill seemed to descend upon me.
This sense of unease infected everything in the Berford household, with even James losing his sense of the terrified and instead becoming almost comatose. Jenny, herself, was clearly depressed. But I also sensed in James that everything was not quite right. Could I have been wrong in my initial hypothesis? Was it a simple case of post-natal depression, or could James, himself, be exhibiting a form of paranoia, perhaps based on the jealousy of his son, his wife no longer giving him the attention he felt he deserved?
I knew from that moment on that it would be a difficult case; but a case I had to get to the bottom of quickly, for it was clear that baby Paul’s life could well be in danger.
Conversation during my visit was strained, even melancholy, and the oppressive nature of the house would simply not go away. And when, after asking to see their son, I went upstairs, I can only report that the eerieness of the place intensified.
Baby Paul slept peacefully in his cot, but even this most beautiful sight could not lift the mood, for beside him laid the clown, and I knew how easy it was to be delusive about such things.
The clown was a simple stuffed toy, about two feet long with yellow trousers, red and white stripped shirt, a huge bow-tie and blue jacket. But there was something about the clown’s face that stirred in me my appreciation of evil.
I knew it was inanimate, but somehow the hint of animation was upon that face, as if it somehow knew what was going on; perhaps even playing a part.
As I left the house I tried to dismiss this feeling of unease as a by-product of the psychological mess the family was suffering. It was hard enough figuring out whether the problem laid in James or Jenny, without having to add a further, demonic angle to the case. Finally managing to put these fears to the back of my mind, I knew, of course, what I had to do. The lot of a psychotherapist is a heavy one. Anyone can set up as a psychotherapist, for it requires little in the way of training, and absolutely no qualifications. I am not a psychologist or psychiatrist, who
are professionally trained. Rather, I am simply a man with an interest in the mind and the nature of evil. Hence, with a baby’s life in possible danger, I knew I was out of my league. Drugs and professional help were what James and Jenny Berford required, and I resolved to phone social services the very next morning and hand the case to them.
But if only I had done it straight away, it may not have ended as it did.
The phone rang at two o’clock that morning. Sleepily, I picked it up to be confronted by James Berford’s manic voice. ‘You’ve got to come quickly. It’s Paul. He’s dead!’
I rushed to the Berford household as quickly as I could. As I entered the house, the same eerie feeling gripped me, as if as soon as you passed the threshold, an altered reality came into being. James Berford was sat, stiffly, on the settee, shock having gripped him and unable to communicate. Jenny was not to be seen, so I rushed upstairs and into Baby Paul’s room. He laid there peacefully in death, yet the horror of seeing the slight bruising on his neck was too much for me. With a heavy heart, I picked up my mobile, resolved to phone the police. Yet as I went out into the hall, the sound of quiet, but happy whisperings came to my ears.
Is the world we see about us real or illusion? I pushed open the door to the master bedroom, the hall light lancing through the dark to highlight the back of Jenny Berford sat on her bed, talking sweetly to the clown she held in her arms. And I swear to you, the clown’s arm was stroking her back.

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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THE WISH ROOM Thursday, Jan 24 2008

He never realised it would be so lonely. For many years he had shunned people. He felt uncomfortable near them – alien; disturbed in their presence. So it was obvious he would become a hermit, alone with his dreams, his thoughts, his wishes. But even as a hermit it was often impossible to be alone. Impossible, at least, on a planet brimming with people and approaching bursting point.
The planet had been like that for a long time, populating every piece of space available, cutting down on the wildernesses the hermit required. And eventually he knew he would have to find his solitude elsewhere.
Thought-drive had been a theoretical possibility for decades, but just as his wish to be gone from people forever arose, the principles were worked out and his dream became a possibility. And when he left the planet, it was in a small vessel. Just one room to live in – his wish room.
He wasn’t sure how long he was in the wish room before he realised that even hermits need people. Oh, he didn’t need people to interact with. He could do without that. But when all other forms of communication are shunned, we are left with raw desire. And desire requires stimulus. Even the hermit needs to observe – to watch – at times. For in absolute loneliness we become the voyeur.
The wish room allowed such things. For the wish room could go wherever your thoughts require. You just think and you’re there, watching. And the hermit had the whole universe to observe.
He watched life in all its forms. In one sense, he travelled the universe, but in another, more real, sense, he travelled the world of experience. And at every destination, the window of the wish room disclosed life.
He saw life at its happiest. He saw life at its saddest. He saw life at its most peaceful. And life at its most violent. He watched – felt – every emotion, every ideosyncracy, every foible. He was, he began to realise, a repository of life.
At first, he was happy to see life at its standard, most normal expression. But soon he became bored by this. And when that happened, he went in search of the abnormal, the bizarre. So he witnessed insanity, criminality, the depraved, the weird. And he took it all in with relish. And before he knew it he never took a rest from his voyeurism, seeing life all around him without a break.
The images swarmed into his head, filled him, gave him no time for rest, for peace – for solitude. So can we really call him a hermit?
It was a question he eventually asked himself. WAS he a hermit? Or was it that he simply lacked the confidence to experience – to interact – with life himself?
His answer came with his growing feeling of longing for involvement in this life he observed. His answer came in his growing frustration, interrupted only by deeper bouts of depression.
He wanted to partake. Of that, he eventually had no doubt. But of all the wishes he could have, the only one he could not command is for the wish room door to unlock. His wish room, was, he realised, a metaphor for so many lives. For when we move along a course of life, we burn bridges along the way. And he had wished for his wish room door to never open.
For how long the hermit continued his voyeuristic quest through life, he had no idea. But for all this time he held the one wish at the corner of his mind, knowing that he must only think it when he was absolutely sure.
But eventually he was. And the wish came into his mind. And in his last moment of existence, he saw how life was at the centre of a sun.

© Anthony North, January 2008

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THE CASE OF THE ERRANT HUSBAND Friday, Jan 18 2008

Matilda Green walked purposefully out of the village post office, realising she was late. Pension day was always a problem, as Mrs Evans, the post mistress, could chat for England. Not that Matilda minded that much. Although not a gossip herself, she so did like to keep up with village affairs.
There was a slight chill in the air, so Matilda welcomed her green cardigan, wrapped around her delicate, seventy year old frame. As she approached her cottage, she noticed a visitor waiting by her door.
‘Good morning, Penny,’ she said as she closed her gate. ‘You’re just in time.’
Penny, a woman in her mid-twenties, attractive with blonde hair, smiled. ‘As if I would be late, Aunt Matilda.’
Of course, Matilda wasn’t really her aunt, but many of the young village wives had a close association with Matilda. Indeed, the villagers thought it quite wonderful how Matilda looked after the girls.
Together, they entered the cottage. Sitting down, Penny said: ‘Aunt Matilda, I think my husband is having an affair. ‘
Matilda sat stiffly, smiled. ‘Are you sure, dear. I’m sure he wouldn’t.’
Penny laid out the facts before her – the suspicious behaviour, coming home late, an obvious worry on his face. As she explained, Matilda remembered the latest gossip from Mrs Evans: ‘And young Penny’s husband,’ she had said, ‘rumour is his farm is in difficulty. Quite desperate, I understand.’
The clock struck the hour as Penny finished her story. At about the same time, there was a knock on the door. Matilda smiled once more. ‘Your eleven o’clock, dear. We’ll talk later. ‘
As Matilda opened the door, and the well dressed gentleman walked in, Penny stripped down to her sexy, silky underwear, pouted innocently at the gentleman and took him into the bedroom. Matilda sat down in her chair and began to knit, happy she was helping the girls to earn that extra cash to see them through hard times.
An hour later, Matilda laid out the facts to Penny; what the gossips were saying about the state of the farm, and her own absolute belief that Penny was wrong.
‘Well we’ll soon see,’ said Penny. ‘He’s going out at three o’clock this afternoon, and I’m sure he’s going to see her. ‘

At ten to three, Matilda Green deposited herself in her Mini and drove off. Just catching the errant husband as he drove from his farm, she followed at a suitable distance. Driving into town, he parked his car and walked over to a nearby cafe. Going inside, he ordered a pot of tea and waited. Matilda, of course, did likewise, secreting herself just round the corner so that the husband could not see her.
A short time passed before the rather attractive woman of forty entered and sat by him. Matilda pricked back her ears. For a woman of seventy, she was remarkably good of hearing – a fact that had often come in handy. And she was soon satisfied that her faith in Penny’s husband was justified.

Later that evening, Matilda sat in her cottage, Penny looking worried in front of her. ‘It’s quite simple,’ said Matilda. ‘Some time ago your husband was quite silly and tried fiddling the tax man. The woman your husband is seeing works at the local tax office, and obviously subsidizes her income by covering up such irregularities and blackmailing the offenders.’
Penny looked annoyed. ‘The fool. I’ll kill him. No wonder the farm isn’t making much money.’
Matilda shook her head. ‘I don’t think we need to tell him anything, Penny dear. I think I’m a good judge of people. I’m sure we can sort this problem out ourselves.’ Matilda leant forward, offered her cheeky smile. ‘Now, dear,’ she said, ‘This is what we’ll do.’

Later that night, Penny entered the bar alone. Matilda had already done the groundwork, found out about her husband, the target’s habits. Noticing the woman by the bar, she approached. Sat. Smiled sweetly.
The signs, of course, passed between them without words, and less than an hour later the two lovers were in the hotel room doing what lovers do.
The following morning, Matilda Green sat in the cafe, waiting for the target to arrive. After all, she guessed she wouldn’t have to wait long. There was bound to be other suckers she was blackmailing.
As the woman sat, Matilda stood up and approached her, sitting down, she said: ‘Lovely day, isn’t it dear?’
She seemed irritated, but replied, yes.
‘A lovely day for taking pictures,’ said Matilda. ‘I do so like taking pictures, dear. Maybe you’d like to see the ones I took last night.’

Penny went to see Matilda that afternoon. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Matilda. ‘She’ll be handing in her resignation today.’ Matilda sat back. ‘I so do like providing a service for the community.’
At that point, another of Matilda’s girls walked in. The appointment would be in ten minutes. Matilda recalled the booking. ‘Something special?’ she had said on the phone. ‘Of course, dear, you want Daisy Mae. But I’m afraid it will cost double.’
To her new arrival, she said: ‘Hello, Daisy, dear.’
‘Hello, Aunt Matilda. Mae said she’ll be along in a minute.’

© Anthony North, January 2008

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MASQUERADE Thursday, Jan 17 2008

They’re taking over and it’s hard to retain my sanity.
Sometimes I think I’m imagining it all. It’s all one big, horrible dream. But then I pinch myself and I know I’m living on the edge. I know if I make one wrong move they’ll get me. They’re omnipotent, you see – like God. Or the Devil.
But they make mistakes themselves. Oh boy, do they. They make some whoppers. They’re not infallible. Most people wouldn’t realise they make mistakes. Ha! That’s a laugh. Most people don’t know they exist. But some must. One day I’ll find them and show them how they make mistakes.
I found one mistake soon after realising they existed. I’m an investigative journalist, see. And we look under the covers of society for patterns, and in those patterns we find the basis of a story, and then we dig until the story comes clean.
Well the Opera are my story and I’ll dig and dig and dig.
I can do that now, because I’ve found a pattern of their progression.
It’s quite simple, really. Their mission is to take over everything. And to do that, you need to place your people, or at least your influence, at the top. You need to control from the top down, so you need to infiltrate departments of government, and the military, the local authorities and big business. But when you do that, there’s a change in emphasis. It may only be slight, but to those who know, it’s an alarm bell. And as I moved from cyber cafe to cyber cafe, never staying on one computer too long, I soon found out how to spot the changes – realised when they’d been got.
It was a simple pattern. Usually the head man didn’t change. He just changed, as if he’d been got at. Policies varied, then, only marginally. But what did change was a number of new appointments, obviously as Opera took over every last tentacle of the concern. But of most interest to me were the changes in the head man’s private life.
‘It was as if he was a different man. I couldn’t understand him any more. And he got violent. And, well, I left him.’
‘It was when we made love. You can always tell. He was different. It wasn’t making love at all. Kind of animal. That’s why I left him.’
‘I’ve been married three times, and you can always tell when you’re intimate. We all have a smell, see. And he wasn’t the man I married.’
Omnipotent, .yes. But infallible?
Anyway, I began checking their movements before their ‘change.’ And with the help of their ex-wives, I soon found the common denominator.
It was an expensive clinic. You know, one of those major plastic surgery places. I spent several days watching the comings and goings. Some were easily recognisable – the famous. But many others were total unknowns. And as I followed some of THEM home, they went off to non-descript bedsits. Clearly, these people could not afford this clinic’s prices.
My suspicions had, of course, been confirmed by this. It was a simple ploy, if you had the know how. First, lure the man you want to the clinic for some minor plastic surgery.

Pandering to vanity often did the trick, our movers and shakers wanting to look as good as they think they operate. Then, once under, take all the samples you want – of fingerprints, of
body blemishes; take their exact measurements. And then, under intense treatment, turn an unknown Opera man into the person you want them to be. And finally, when the treatment is complete, a swift murder and a swap.
So that was their plan. Taking over by surgical stealth. But had I taken too long over this investigation? That same car outside my hotel room every night? Similar face seeming to follow me around? I knew I had to act fast.
I took out my shadow on the night I decided to act. It was the first time I’d slit a man’s throat. But it was for a good purpose, I convinced myself, and fought down the bile. Then it was a simple matter to break into the clinic, find the two plastic surgeons responsible and shoot them dead.
Oh, I know it was only a minor irritation to the Opera. They’d soon recover. Find other plastic surgeons, other clinics. Or maybe, seeing this method had been compromised, they’d move onto other ways of taking over. But if I could keep going, forever providing irritation, maybe I’d eventually tilt the tide against this Opera.
But as I read the paper, taking in the inexplicable murder of the two surgeons, another piece caught my attention and I cried.
It was all pervasive, this paranoia within me, the result of existing in a paranoid world. For there was no shadow. Hence, I would have to learn to live with the fact I’d created three orphans of an innocent man.

© Anthony North, November 2007

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A FRAME OF MIND Monday, Jan 14 2008

NOTE: This story is written as an antidote to Voltaire’s Candide. If you’ve read it, you’ll know what I mean.

Professor Thunderstruck was a philosopher of note. As he walked down the street he turned to his pupil, Arnold, and said: ‘Now, young man, we are told that the streets are cruel and vicious. I disagree. If we take the chance, it is perfectly reasonable to meet a thoroughly nice chap anywhere.’
Arnold, a pessimist by nature, was inclined to disagree.
But it was intrinsic to the professor’s philosophy that optimism was alive everywhere in the world if we only looked for it. Hence, Thunderstruck walked over to a teenager stood on the corner and said: ‘Hello, young man, I’m delighted to meet you. Can we be your friends?’
As you can imagine, the youth was somewhat taken aback by this greeting. But as he had nothing else to do, he said, ‘yea, man,’ and he, Thunderstruck and Arnold went walking off down the road, chatting.
Several hours later, as night began to descend and shadows filled the streets, five youths with knives ran out from an alleyway and knifed the youth to death.
‘And what optimistic message can we gain from this?’ asked Arnold as he looked down at the blooded corpse.
Immediately ready for his young pupil, Thunderstruck said: ‘The philosopher, Nietzsche, said man is always governed by a will to power. And in being powerful, he places his rules on the world, making the others follow his knowledge. Here we have a perfect example of one group trying to impose their will and knowledge on others.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Arnold. ‘But what’s optimistic about that?’
‘Simply that when the majority speaks, they easily impose their will on those who did this. And with such an unspeakable crime as this, the majority will be outraged, demand a public inquiry, and the youth will become a symbol against oppression.’

The next morning, whilst he sat at the breakfast table, Arnold read about yet another Member of Parliament who had had been caught with his pants down and lying to cover up the deed. Turning to Thunderstruck, he said: ‘But how can you be optimistic about our politicians? They’re all corrupt sex maniacs, are they not?’
Thunderstruck read the report and had to agree. But rather than accepting this, he decided to prove his philosophy by immediately writing an article decrying this particular lying cheat, attempting to become a symbol of the majority himself.
‘We find against the litigant,’ said the foreman of the jury a couple of months later.
‘So how does your philosophy hold up after being successfully sued and declared bankrupt?’ asked Arnold.
‘Kant asked us to consider before doing a particular act what the world would be like if we all did it.’
To which Arnold scratched his head and said: ‘So what?’
‘So I can feel optimistic that I’ve stood up for Kant’s morality, for if everybody did what that politician did, the world would be anarchy.’
Thunderstruck thought then and added: ‘And I can be optimistic in knowing that I’ve done my bit to highlight the importance of the idea, and bit by bit the message will get over and this government will be out.’

Satisfied that he had proved his point, that night Thunderstruck celebrated with a prostitute and had unprotected sex. Three weeks later he held the result in his hand.
‘Yes, Arnold,’ said Thunderstruck, ‘it appears I’m HIV positive. ‘
Delighted, Arnold smirked: ‘And how can you be optimistic about that?’
‘I can be optimistic in knowing I’ve broken Kant’s morality and paid the price; I can be doubly optimistic in also knowing that from now the remainder of my life can be true to what I believe. ‘
Arnold considered those words to be so much crap, and was about to say so when the train they were travelling on came off the rails and crashed. Arnold and Thunderstruck found themselves surrounded by mutilated bodies and appeared the only ones alive except for a severely injured gentleman clinging for life, but blocking the only conceivable escape route from the carriage.
‘I suppose,’ said Arnold, ‘you’re going to say that this accident is fortuitous if we manage to get that poor fella out.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ replied Thunderstruck. ‘For it is patently obvious that just moving the fellow will break his spine and result in immediate death.’
‘So we’re trapped as well.’
Thunderstruck shook his head. ‘Oh, Arnold, Arnold, always the pessimist.’ He brushed some dust from his jacket. ‘Bentham believed that a just society was one that aimed for the greatest happiness for the greatest number, and we should always have this ideal in mind.’
‘And how does that help us today?’
‘Quite simple, my boy. If this gentleman remains unmoved, three of us die. If we move him and get out, society is all the happier for just losing one.’
Arnold, to be sure, could not feel optimistic about such an act, but life was precious and the man was moved and Arnold and Thunderstruck survived and Arnold was riddled with guilt and Thunderstruck was happy in the optimism of the truth of philosophy.

Two weeks later, Thunderstruck was reading the paper when he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Good God!’
Intrigued, Arnold said: ‘What’s the matter?’
Thunderstruck threw the paper at him. Arnold looked at the indicated report of a prostitute murdered by a serial killer. ‘That woman,’ he said. ’she’s the one who gave me HIV.’
‘So at last,’ said Arnold, ‘you’ve really got reason for optimism.’
Disgusted, Thunderstruck said: ‘Revenge would never enter my mind.’
Suitably chastised, Arnold said: ‘So tell me, if not revenge, how can you be optimistic about this?’
‘I can feel optimistic in that such acts show us clearly another great truth of philosophy, which, if realised, could lead the way to banish the world of the serial killer.’
‘How so?’
‘Descartes understood that man needed an absolute axiom, or self-evident truth, in order to build his knowledge of the world. Without this, man is nothing. Which can be easily applied to the serial killer who, lacking self worth, is nothing. His acts therefore become a means to validate himself in the world.’
‘I see,’ said Arnold. ‘So what you really mean is the serial killer is saying, I kill, therefore I am.’
Thunderstruck sniffed. ‘I suppose you could put it like that,’ he said, and then descended into a mood which was only broken some time later when a comet struck the Earth and obliterated 80% of mankind.’

Following the tidal wave that drenched the Earth, the blast that incinerated a continent, and the freezing winter which followed the blocking out of the sun, Arnold said: ‘So tell me, Prof Thunderstruck, how can you be optimistic about this?’
‘Quite easy, my boy,’ said Thunderstruck. ‘Even in the face of the greatest adversity, a philosopher of the great standing has survived. Which means mankind will not descend to
a new Stoneage, but, through my knowledge, will go on to build again a great world.’
Which sadly wasn’t to be as, shortly after this conversation, Thunderstruck moved from HIV positive to full-blown AIDS.
‘I’m dying,’ he said as his wizened body became riddled with tumours. ‘I’m afraid I have to admit that I’m dying.’
Ever one to prove a point, Arnold said: ‘And what possible good can come of that?’
Thunderstruck looked into the eyes of his pupil and said: ‘Perhaps the greatest optimism you will ever feel.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘You are free from the crap I speak.’

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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DANCING ON ICE Monday, Jan 14 2008

I’ve never watched Dancing On Ice before. However, like many of these new celebrity shows, you can read between the scripting and urges behind the celebs. For instance, even before any dancing began, I picked Suzanne Shaw to win.
How could I be so sure? Well, celebs only go on such shows to revitalize their careers, and I often play a game to decide who’s the most driven. Suzanne was young enough and good looking enough to make it. But there was more than this in my decision.

Out of the three girls in the band, Hear’Say, she’s the only one out in the cold.

And I don’t mean on the ice rink. Both Kym Marsh and Myleene Klass are doing very well, thank you very much, so Suzanne’s psychology would be – bring it on!
And she nearly won, beaten only by some Hollyoaks nobody who already knew how to skate. But my tip for the winner of the series remains Suzanne. However, I’m a bit annoyed by the show.

Phillip Schofield is good.

I like him – but as a glitzy celeb presenter, he’s no Bruce Forsyth. And this is the problem. Apart from the ‘kiddy factor’ – sorry The X Factor – ITV1 fails miserably next to BBC1 on Saturday evenings.
So what do they do? Move it to Sunday. And this is impinging on hallowed territory. Sunday has been a great success for ITV because it is the cosy night. A couple of SOAPs, a Yorkshire nicey nicey drama – Heartbeat, etc – and a gentle mystery or play, it’s my favourite night on TV.
But now I fear for my Sunday nights. In their relentless pursuit of ratings, and satisfying the younger audience, I do hope ITV don’t intend placing Saturday night glitz on Sunday cosiness as a matter of course.
If so, then it is just more contempt for the older viewer – you know, the ones who watch TV most.
Idiots.

© Anthony North, January 2008

From my Diary – WE’RE SPECIALIST CRAZY

Okay, so I have a medical complaint – I don’t, so don’t panic (apart from chronic fatigue syndrome, that is). I’m speaking metaphorically. Obviously, I would want this sorted out, and I’d want the best, wouldn’t I? I’d want to know that I’m in good hands. But do I necessarily need a specialist …
… read more …

For light relief – FICTION PAGE

From twist in the tale to horror, from crime to science fiction, my Fiction Page has dozens of short short stories, each taking only a couple of minutes to read. Give it a try – and then come back for one a day.
… access here …

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NU-STRANGENESS Monday, Jan 7 2008

Remarkable news is coming out of the Mars ‘Luna-ring’ particle accelerator unit, in the wake of the unusual joint scientific project undertaken by physicist Prof Robo Galistein and psychical researcher Dr Francis Benjamin.
‘There are some red faces about today,’ commented Dr Simon Rick, the Lunar facility’s Director. ‘After years of ridicule, particle physicists finally allowed scientific testing of theories developed by psychical researchers during the latter half of the 20th century,’ he continued. ‘And some strange things have taken place.’
Physicists have known for some time that the mind of man is a form of reflection of the universe, and vice versa. The first hint of this process came when Niels Bohr applied the ‘Copenhagan Interpretation’ of quantum mechanics, where he said that the exact state of a particle was the outcome of participation of the particle and man through observation. This was an extension of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle (1926) when it was discovered that to observe a particle, it had to be bombarded with light – which is itself made up of particles. Hence, what we actually see is the result of a bombardment rather than the true state of the particle – making the quantum field probabilistic.
‘Ever since the 1970s,’ said Dr Rick, ‘psychical researchers have been screaming that if the mind of man decided certainty from the probabilistic fuzz of the quantum field, then if man’s view of reality was shifted through an altered state of consciousness, then a different formulation of particles could be brought into being. Such theory was applied to incidences of mind-over-matter from the 1980s, so giving poltergeist activity and psychokinesis a hint of scientific respectability. However, science shied away from the theory mainly due to the repercussions proof of such a concept would hold for science. Even as late as 2011, Prof Galistein commented: “This idea simply cannot be true. Acceptance of such a principle would mean that discoveries made in particle accelerators are not observations of the true state of the quantum field, but delusions of our own prejudices and states of mind .. ” Basically, it means the whole universe, and the reality we live within it, is a delusion.’
This comment was in answer to the claim of psychical researchers that particle accelerators are not ‘atom smashers’, per se, but dream machines.
‘The main problem here,’ said Dr Benjamin before the test, ‘is that particle accelerators are used to test speculative theories drawn up by physicists. Before the successful outcome of testing such theories, they are simply models of the universe existing only in the mind of the theoriser.’ He explained: ‘The old view of science is that the successful outcome of such tests is proof of reality. We say different. We believe that the successful outcome is a form of creation. Basically, if the consensus of opinion is in favour of the theory, then we create reality to fall in line with it. Hence, scientific reality is nothing more than an extension into “matter” of thoughts in a man’s head.’
To test this revolutionary view, psychical researchers, headed by Dr Benjamin have, for the last two weeks, been carrying out hypnotic control therapy on Prof Galistein and his colleagues in order to infect their minds with a theory of the universe devised by the psychical researchers. In applying this theory to testing collisions within the particle accelerator (if Dr Benjamin is right) then this false theory should manifest as reality. And that is what seems to have happened.
‘I still find the facts hard to digest,’ said Prof Galistein, last night. ‘But all indications point to the fact that underlying our present understanding of the quantum field are an infinite number of sub-particles that look like, for the want of a better analogy, Teddy Bears ..
‘The universe, gentlemen, is made up of Teddy Bears.’

© Anthony North

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A SHOT IN THE DARK Friday, Jan 4 2008

In deciding to write about the adventures of my good friend Marmaduke Grey, I feel somewhat overawed. How does one express, in words, such absolute genius when my own mind is inferior to the task. Of course, this is not to denigrate my own abilities. Simply that, next to him, we are all inferior.
We heard about the case whilst relaxing in Marmaduke’s apartment. ‘What do you think about the case, Perkins?’ he asked as he sat there, pipe in one hand, newspaper in the other.
A quick glance at the paper and I had the basic facts. The previous night a shot had been heard in a street not too far from us. Police had immediately been on the scene, found the body of one Henry Baxter and arrested a suspicious gentleman close by.
‘It seems an open and shut case to me,’ I offered. To which Marmaduke Grey showed intense irritation and rushed for his coat and hat.

‘I’m not quite sure what you intend to discover here,’ said the Inspector of Police a short time later. Marmaduke had summoned him to the scene of the crime and rushed there himself in a Hansom cab.
‘What do you make of it, Perkins?’ he asked.
I looked up and down the street. Scrutinised the ground. ‘There is nothing out of the ordinary, Marmaduke,’ I said.
‘Quite,’ replied the great detective. ‘But don’t you think the lack of blood a little suspicious?’
I had to admit, when he pointed it out it was a little strange. I turned to the Inspector of Police: ‘And the man was shot here, at close range?’
‘He was not,’ interrupted Marmaduke Grey. ‘There would be a pool of blood. No, gentlemen, he was shot elsewhere and placed here to distract the investigation.’

Marmaduke Grey was always irritated when he had to wait. And as we sat in the police station waiting for the suspect to be brought to us, his irritation was rather worse than normal.
‘The fools,’ he said, ‘how could they ever have thought they had the killer. Goodness, they don’t even have the gun.’
I offered, on their behalf: ‘They were of the opinion he had thrown it away, or placed it down a nearby sewer, where it was carried off my the drains.’
‘My dear Perkins, supposition can never replace evidence. And without evidence you have no basis upon which to suppose.’
‘But isn’t such supposition the whole purpose of investigation?’ I asked. After all, Marmaduke had for ever told me to the importance of imagination in solving a mystery.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘But only if you have a mind fit for the task.’
He sneered as the Inspector of Police brought the suspect to him.
Marmaduke looked him up and down. Finally, he said: ‘And you are?’
The man looked frightened. Finally, he said: ‘My name is Rupert Anders, and I am innocent.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Marmaduke, his irritation continuing. ‘But if I am to prove that, we need your help to solve the case.’
This was, of course, a surprise to me. ‘But Marmaduke,’ I interrupted, ‘if you are right and the man is innocent, then he will also be in the dark regarding the motive of the crime.’
‘In that, you are absolutely right. But for the murderer to have a suspect in place, he must have put him there. Ands in working out how that occurred, we can work back to the murderer, and from there intuit the motive.’

I had to admit, it was a strange way of going about the case, but strangeness was a factor you had to get used to when working with Marmaduke Grey.
To me, his interview with Rupert Anders had been of no use. But it was clear, to Marmaduke, that the interview held the solution.
‘A normal street, you will agree,’ said Marmaduke as we exited the Hansom into the commercial area of the London district.
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.
‘And Mr Anders? Did he seem a normal man having a normal day?’
‘He did, indeed,’ I agreed.
‘So what can you deduce from that?’
I offered a blank stare.
‘But it is so obvious,’ said Marmaduke. ‘The murder was an abnormal aberration in an otherwise normal situation.’

We entered the shop a couple of minutes later. ‘You will recall that Mr Anders came into this shop in search of a particular item.’ He looked the contents of the shop up and down. ‘Aha!’ he said, excitedly. He held just such an item in his hand.
‘But according to Mr Anders, the shopkeeper hadn’t the item in question.’
‘Exactly,’ said Marmaduke. ‘But he did advice where such an item could be found.’
I was beginning to understand. The shopkeeper had directed Mr Anders to the scene of the murder.
‘Our suspect was quite clear that the shopkeeper was overexcited and anxious. And if you recall, some time earlier, he had bumped into a gentleman in the street who was questioning passers-by in order to ascertain the location of a gentleman he suspected of having an assignation with his wife.’
‘Good grief,’ I said, ‘you mean to say you think the gentleman found him.’
‘I do. And that gentleman was the shopkeeper. And during the argument that followed, the shopkeeper shot the gentleman dead. And after the fact, he thought on his feet, directed Mr Anders to a specific location where he placed the body and fired a shot as Mr Anders approached.’
His speech complete, Marmaduke Grey burst through the curtains to the back of the shop, whereupon we found the shopkeeper dead in a chair, a bullet hole through his temple, and a revolver on the floor by his feet.
‘Ah, the consequence of the normal man descending into crime. Guilt, my dear Perkins, the greatest detective of all.’

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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IT’S LIKE A VIRUS Tuesday, Jan 1 2008

WARNING: Some stories may contain disturbing scenes.

They say that life is like a road you travel down. For a while it will go nice and straight, but occasionally you get surprising corners that nearly knock you off the road. Then there are the crossroads – you know, times when a choice decides your entire life’s journey. But really it is nothing like a road, because on the road you get warning signs of the crossroads. In life, you get no warning at all; and when you hit, boy it can be a matter of life and death.
I had one of those moments when I met Jake. I suppose, with hindsight, the warning sign was there. He was a gaunt man with eyes that had such depth it was as if he had seen every horror there was to see. Maybe I should have realized that if I walked his road, I would see it all too. But I was young, adventurous, not the sort to turn down a challenge – in short, I was a fool.
I met him in a bar. It was a typical crossroads of a bar. My train was delayed, so I’d wandered out of the station to find a drink. And there was Jake, the only other person in the bar, sat in a corner, surrounded by shadows.
Something about me drew me to him; intrigue, I suppose – a sense that this man was interesting. We talked small talk for a while, and then he hit me with it. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ he said.
It was one of those innocuous, trivial questions. We all claim to have seen something in our life, but we never really take it seriously. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I wish I’d never heard him say that. Because once he’d said it, I’d begun to turn into that damned crossroads.

I won’t recount the entire conversation. It becomes tedious; and I don’t really want to remember everything. My mind won’t take it – it goes into overdrive and I feel as if I’m losing my sense of reality.
That’s funny, I suppose – the idea that I know what reality is any more.
Jake had a friend. He was a man he met in a bar – a kind of crossroads of a bar, and this man had eyes that had seen everything, and he told Jake the same story that Jake told me.
The friend had been to a haunted house. He didn’t know it was haunted at the time. He knew, as he arrived, that it was old, and it had an aura about it. He knew, as soon as he walked in, that its soul began to cling to him. And he knew that the person who had invited him in was similarly haunted. ‘I don’t get visitors,’ he had said, ‘not of the normal kind.’
Jake’s friend had seen something that night. He was vague about what he had seen, but Jake knew it had stirred up something inside him. And over the following weeks and months, he saw his friend deteriorate rapidly into a form of madness. ‘They followed me home,’ he said to Jake one day, and that was as much as he would disclose. And then, as inexplicably as they had met, he disappeared. And being an adventurous sort of person – in other words, a fool – Jake decided to walk the friend’s road, which took him to the door of the house.

Maybe he should have turned away from the crossroads at that moment. I suppose we can do that – you know, say this is as far as I go; turn back. But the beauty of our species is that we have an enquiring mind, and once the mind has been activated, we rarely have the courage to say no. We are caught in the trap of life, and we must go on.
Jake went on.
He got no answer as he knocked on the door, and as he looked at the windows he began to doubt the story his friend had told him in the first place. And it was a doubt that had been confirmed when he tried the door and it was unlocked. Pushing it, it creaked, and bit by bit, a dark, damp and dusty environment greeted him. This house hasn’t been occupied for years, he realized, so how could his friend have possibly been invited in?
But occupancy is a word we are not always quite so sure about. Even an empty house is rarely empty. Something is in there – creepy crawlies and an army of rodents and …
… yes. And what?
Jake came out of the house with his deep, soulless eyes.

Do I tell you what he told me on subsequent meetings we had – what he saw? I suppose I could, but it would not be the true reality of his situation. No, the reality was much worse than that.
‘They followed me out of that house.’
‘Who are “they”?’ I asked, but I got only a simple reply.
‘It’s like a virus,’ he said. Then, on our final meeting: ‘I’m going back.’

Jake preyed on my mind for weeks after that. Where was he? What had he done? What did he mean? And as sure as night follows day, I was drawn to that house.
I approached it with a sense of foreboding. I had seen houses like this before, but only in horror films. Huge trees formed a malevolent arch over the drive, and as I spied the house itself, I could sense an aura shrouding it – and an aura that could so easily gain free access to my mind. It was, I knew, my last opportunity to turn away from the crossroads, but equally, I knew, I could never do that. And I passed through the door …
A chill hit me as soon as I walked inside. Scurrying noises came to me from the corner of every room, and the windows were so dust encrusted that only flitting shadows were allowed in. Spider’s webs covered everything, and dangled from the high ceilings to touch my skin and jar my soul.
I found the first skeleton in the first room I explored. Its bones were white and it was evident it had been here for decades, if not centuries. And as I moved from room to room, I found more skeletons, but with each find, it was obvious that they were becoming more recent. Eventually, I found one where the flesh had not yet completely disappeared, and in the room after that, I found Jake, his eyes like sockets, and a putrid stench coming from his decaying flesh.
It was then that I felt the presence behind me. It seemed to touch me, beckoning me to turn round; which was, of course, a thing I just did not want to do. But eventually I was drawn to the unknown and I turned.
Jake was stood before me.

So few hours have gone by since I saw Jake’s ghost, but it seems like an eternity. His soulless eyes were still there, and it was clear that he was witnessing the same hell in death that he had in the final stages of his life. Whatever happened to him, I didn’t know at first, but soon it began to dawn on me that Jake had starved to death. But why? Why had he not left the house?
I asked myself the question many times, but knew the answer all along. If the answer was vague when I saw Jake’s ghost, it became a little clearer when it was joined by his friends. And his friend’s by his friends, and on and on came the ghosts, wearing the clothes and fashions of the centuries since the house was built. And in every one of them the knowing that if they had left …
But they couldn’t.
Jake’s friend had said it all: ‘They followed me home.’ And Jake himself, to me: ‘It’s like a virus.’
And now I sit.
I’m hungry. But I know the crossroads was a dead end. I close my eyes as they swirl, laughing, about me, for I realize my quarantine is permanent.

(c) Anthony North, December 2007

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