Fear Of Falling D L Richardson Published by D L Richardson at Smashwords Copyright 2013 Deborah Louise Richardson ISBN:

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2 Fear Of Falling D L Richardson Published by D L Richardson at Smashwords Copyright 2013 Deborah Louise Richardson ISBN: Discover other titles by D L Richardson The Bird With The Broken Wing Feedback Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support. Introduction Every writer has a stash of short stories hidden in their drawer. Short stories are a great introduction into the publishing world because they teach a writer about deadlines, submission guidelines, dealing with rejection, and sometimes the joy of publication. I ve selected eleven of my favourite speculative fiction short stories for this anthology. Although I started writing in 1996, it took until 2005 for my first short story to get published. At a time when I considered giving up, A Lesson In Time Management was published and reaffirmed my enthusiasm to pursue a writing career. (There is nothing as wonderful as having a piece of work accepted for publication). Shortly following that small success, Mr Zodiac was published, and then Talking To Walls. Mr Zodiac was reworked and became The Twelfth House

3 which was submitted in 2008 to a project titled Hollywood. Next Stop! The story never made it to the final cut, and I admit it was re-edited for this anthology, as were most of the stories contained in this anthology. Some of these short stories were written for competitions, such as The Harvest Of The Damned, Falling Down A Rainbow, and A Watch Of Nightingales. The Girl Nobody Liked has a title I think is cool, even if the story is odd. Some stories were written simply to get an idea out of my head, which is really the birth place of all speculative fiction. To me, The Puppet Masters is a perfect example of speculative fiction; what happens to a character once a writer has created them and the story is over? I hope you enjoy reading this collection of haunting tales. D L Richardson Table of Contents The Twelfth House Fear of Flying A Watch of Nightingales A Lesson in Time Management Falling From a Rainbow Love Like Mine Talking to Walls The Girl That Nobody Liked The Harvest of the Damned The Puppet Masters Aliens with be Aliens The Twelfth House Blood stained his hands dark red. The woman beneath him tried to scream; his bloodied hand covering her mouth prevented her from doing so. Instead, she bit

4 into the fleshy part of his hand. It hurt like hell and he wanted to kill her quickly, to end her suffering, but that wasn t keeping with his style. He had to be slow and precise. Above all, he had to stay focused. Shut up or I ll kill you, he hissed. Apart from being scared and bound up like a mummy in duct tape, she was unscathed. Still, her eyes were wild with terror. She struggled beneath him but the bindings were tightly wound around several parts of her body. Tape bound her ankles, her knees, her waist, and her hands were taped to her sides. He straddled her chest, careful not to crush her beneath his weight as he taped her mouth to keep her quiet. Her eyes pleaded with him. He read it two ways: either kill me quickly, or let me go. Why had all the killers he d captured chosen neither avenue? Was death the only way? Do it, John! A husky voice spoke in his ear, although there was no-one else in the empty storage container, just him and the poor, unfortunate, unlucky girl. He didn t want to listen to the voice. It was his. It wasn t his fault he was in this situation. Strange that as a cop he d heard this explanation hundreds of times and never believed it, stranger still that in his case it really was someone else s fault. *** The flashlight blinded him momentarily. Detective Russell, are you glad The Zodiac Killer is now behind bars. John Russell glared at the reporter. I would be, if he was the killer. Are you saying the wrong guy is in prison? I m saying he s a nut job Isn t it true he knows too many intricate details about the crime scene to be a fake? who wants attention and people are giving it to him. Meanwhile the real killer

5 is out there, waiting to strike any moment. How can you be so sure? The forensic evidence points to Kevin Balty as the murderer. He confessed. He has knowledge of the victims. Don t they prove his guilt? We ve got the wrong guy. John turned to walk away. Is it true you re facing demotion because you refuse to accept that Kevin Balty and The Zodiac Killer are the same man? John stopped and whirled around to face the reporter. He controlled himself long enough to snarl, No comment, then stormed off. *** Was it true? Was he refusing to accept the truth? He d been on the tail of the notorious serial killer, nicknamed The Zodiac Killer, for five years. He knew exactly what fixation and obsession did to a person, he d been on the tail of fixated and obsessed killers for years. So he had to concede that he wasn t thinking like himself; he was thinking like him. For five years he d hunted this sadistic killer. For five years he d pulled hacked up bodies out of factories, parks, or anywhere else he decided to dump them. The killer was smart. Very smart. John had never given the killer enough credit. He realised he d have to, if he wanted to catch him. The Zodiac Killer was three zodiacs away from completing his collection. Would his killing spree end after his twelfth corpse? Somehow John doubted it. The cop had gotten to know the killer well. He d dug deep inside his mind. The killer would start up a new game. At the very least he d altered this one when, this morning, when he d pulled an ace out of his sleeve and walked into a police station and given himself up. *** Kevin Balty smiled as he walked into the police station. He d chosen this small town station for a particular reason; his announcement would not get swallowed up by the horde of criminals in a city station.

6 Can I help you? asked the cop on the desk. Yes. I m The Zodiac Killer. I believe you have a bounty on my head. At first the cop hadn t believed him. Not until he held out his bloodied hands. His knew his casual approach would have the desired effect on the detective investigating the case. After five years of this cat and mouse game he d gotten to know Detective John Russell very well. He d dug deep inside his head. He d learned as much about the detective chasing him, as no doubt the detective was trying to learn about The Zodiac Killer. What Kevin had learned was that John Russell had been a federal cop for twelve years, and before that a homicide detective for another five. He d never married, had no kids, he was a regular twenty-four-hour-a day law enforcer. He d also learned that John Russell had been handed sole custody of the Zodiac case after solving the riddle when no-one else had seemed to be able to, earning himself a reputation of a bit of an occultist for his troubles. Kevin chuckled to himself. One couldn t unravel the mystery surrounding the Zodiac killings without learning about astrology, now, could one? *** The M.O was always the same body tightly bound in silver duct-tape, ivory handled knife protruding from the heart, hands and feet cut off (for what reason?), and faces painted up like Egyptian gods and goddesses (again, this made no sense, and John would need to know why Kevin did this in order to catch him) but the victims themselves had little in common. At the time John was handed the case-file to have a look at, the victims were a middle-aged, slightly portly, Caucasian man; an elderly Italian woman, obviously a widow because she still wore her black mourning clothes; and a young woman with fake boobs and bottle-dyed hair. It made no sense, random victims, random locations Until he saw the pattern. John was reluctant to admit that the thanks for solving this case should have gone to his mother. She was into astrology and had told John all about a recent visit to a

7 psychic. His mind had wandered to the case. He d taken the phone with him to the coffee table, and staring at the photos of the victims on the coffee table it was while his mother told him about her moon being in Sagittarius and her aura being in Gemini that the pattern began to emerge. When he lined the victims in order of death, it had become clear they were killed in order of astrological star sign. He d hung up on his mother and attacked the case with more gusto than ever. The cat had caught the scent of the mouse. Well, the detective almost had the killer. That is until the killer walked into a small-town cop station and gave himself up. Kevin Balty had never explained his motives to the cops. I ll only tell John, is what the police at the station had told the detective the killer had said. John had refused to acknowledge that the man in custody was the killer. The detective had never once gone to see the prisoner, despite the many phone calls and letters. John, Kevin had said one time, choosing the detective as his life line to the outside world, and as obsessed as John was, he d obliged to accept Kevin s calls, against better judgement,. John, you and I both know this isn t over. It never will be. I know, he d replied, sighing. But the detective wouldn t visit him. Apart from making him look like an idiot, John knew it was what Kevin wanted me to do, and John refused to play the game his way. You want me to justify your existence, John had said once. You want to explain your actions to me. One day you will explain your actions to me, Kevin had replied, laughing. The other detectives had laughed at John behind my back. To be honest, they d laughed to his face just as blatantly. They had learned that arrogance was an essential trait in their job. They had laughed because they d understood the humiliation of it all and were thankful it hadn t happened to them. Survivalist s

8 guilt, it was called. John understood. Now John was faced with no choice but to get The Zodiac Killer set free so he could catch him and reclaim his once-perfect reputation. Most of all, he needed to reclaim his life. He was making John do this. He was turning John into him. *** How does it feel to be free? the reporter thrust the microphone in his face. Kevin Balty faced the camera and smiled. Flashbulbs went off around him. He quite liked the attention. I ve always been free, he said. You seem to forget that I surrendered, therefore I was never trapped. But why confess to crimes you didn t commit? Apparently I m unbalanced. The doctors have given me medication and the state has set me up with a counsellor. Excuse me, but I d like to go home now. Kevin smiled once more for the camera while flashbulbs snapped their headline feature, then swiftly turned away and opened the door to the cab. But Mr Balty, how did you know so much about the crimes? Did you have inside information? The reporter cried, yelling after him as the cab sped away. *** Tears coursed down Miss Aquarius face. The eleventh zodiac. He had to wait for her tears to dry before completing the final step in the ritual. He empathised with her fear. Did she know she was going to die? Or, did she think that if she co-operated he d let her go? He was going to kill her, he had no choice. Hush, he told the terrified girl. It won t be long now. Once she had expended her last breath he would cut off her feet and hands, and paint her face in the white powder and heavy mascara of Cleopatra or Tutankhamen, depending on the sex of the victim. In the absence of an explanation for the way the killer dressed his victims, the media had created their own theories. The shrouding of the body must have represented the father who was often absent yet also present, like a shadow. The

9 zodiac star signs represented the mother who made decisions by consulting charts, including decisions about raising her only son. Picking up the mobile phone, he dialled a number long ago committed to memory. John answered on the second ring. Sorry about throwing you the curveball, John, he said. I didn t mean to cause you the embarrassment. I didn t turn myself in because you were getting too close. I did it because you refused to understand the rules and you were starting to give up. This game takes two to play, John. Now, where we go from here depends on you. But I m sure you won t disappoint me. You haven t disappointed me so far. I hope I haven t disappointed you now, a voice said from behind him. John. Kevin whispered. He was very impressed and glad he d picked John to play this game. John truly was a worthy opponent. *** Do it, Kevin! John said. Kevin stared at the detective in confusion. It s what you came here to do. What are you waiting for? John said. Kevin looked down at the woman squirming beneath him. You want me to kill her? She is number eleven, is she not? She is. Still, this is unexpected, said Kevin. Then he smiled. Touché. You have turned the tables on me. John kept his gun trained on Kevin. Give me the knife. Kevin handed over the knife. John held it in his hand, as if weighing it up. Then he surprised Kevin when he plunged the knife deep into the woman s chest. Kevin looked up at John, his eyes wide in shock. Why did you do that? I thought you wanted to stop me from killing any more people. I do, and I will. Kevin James Balty, John said shoving the barrel of the gun under Kevin s chin. Born May 10, That makes you a Pisces. You re the

10 twelfth zodiac. Game over. Fear of Flying I don t know what all the fuss is about? my boss shouted down the phone line. You go skydiving all the time. Either you re on the plane to London or you re looking for a new job. Got it? The line went dead. So did my insides at the thought of a plane trip. That night during dinner Susie put down her cutlery and said, You look like someone s died. I ve got to go to London tomorrow. She d resumed eating. Susie never let anything spoil her appetite since falling pregnant with twins. So you d better get packing. I can t go to London. You re not afraid of flying. You go skydiving every month. It s not that. You have a passport, though god knows why, it s not like we can afford to go anywhere on your salary. Her shoulders drooped. Sorry, love. I didn t mean to be such a bitch. These kids had better pop soon or I ll be a nutcase. I pushed the plate away and reached for the bottle of cheap wine instead. I understood her agitation. I was anxious for the twins to be born, too. It s not heights I m afraid of, Suse. It s x-ray machines. Susie s face froze mid chew. Her cheek looked stuffed like a squirrel s. She gulped and looked me square in the eye. Craig. If x-ray machines were dangerous they wouldn t use them. I managed a weak smile. Are you trying to get rid of me? She sighed. I d love to leave this huge belly at home and come with you. Christ knows I m dying for a few days off from carrying these boys around.

11 I said nothing. Look, if you really don t want to go, don t go. You ll get another job. We both getting another job wasn t an option. There just weren t any other jobs to get. But what if you go into labour while I m away? I ll miss the birth. She gave me a comforting smile. I m sure I ll be on so many drugs I won t even notice if you re there or not. Hearing Suse laugh away her ordeal sent a knife through my heart. She d be in terrible pain. The worst kind of pain she d ever experience in her life, and if the twins came early, I wouldn t be there to help her through the pain. I would t be there to explain. *** Napier Insurance. How may I help you? I was calling from a public phone so the call couldn t be traced, but I had to call, for Susie s sake. I have a question about my life insurance policy. Do you have to have the body as proof of death, or does a disappearance count? What do you mean by disappearance? Well, if there are witnesses to a disappearance, but no actual body could be found after this disappearance, would the policy still be paid out? Sir, I m going to have to put you through to my supervisor. I hung up. I was fast running out of options. I couldn t get another job. I couldn t disappear and leave Suse flat broke with twins on the way. But I also couldn t go to London. I was screwed. *** The cab pulled up at the airport. Why London? Why not Brisbane or Melbourne? I could drive through the night and make it in time to conduct the briefing. Damn the global economy forcing our company to expand. Inside the terminal, everything went against me. No long lines. No problems issuing tickets and checking in the luggage. No choice left but to confront the x-ray

12 machines and hope my worst fears didn t come true. I placed my carry-on onto the conveyor belt and stepped through the body scanning machine. And that s when everything went dark. *** A TV screen flickered on and a face came into view. Can I help you? I decided to start with the truth. I m Argaron. I m wanted for treason. The face on the screen remained impassive while it downloaded information. Ah, Argaron. Welcome back. You need not look so worried. You will be pleased to know you are no longer wanted for crimes against the government. Since you ve been gone there have been twelve changes in government. All escapees were pardoned decades ago. You are free to return to your old life here on Tetron 5. My old life? I could barely remember it. I d escaped the war on Tetron 5 as a boy, an act punishable by death but a band of us had escaped anyway, via the portals our government used to steal knowledge from other planets. Because my father was head of security for Tetron 5, I knew the portals to capture escapees would be installed inside airline x-ray scanners on Earth, the place where I d fled to. I d lived amongst the humans knowing I d be safe, as long as I didn t have to fly in a commercial airline. To avoid that, I d stayed in low paying jobs to ensure I d never be able to afford to fly anywhere. Six months ago Susie had fallen pregnant, she d lost her job, I d been promoted by threat, and yesterday I d been ordered to London. What if I don t want to come back? I asked. If you don t wish to return, the portal will remain open for two minutes and your time here will be reversed so it will appear as you have not disappeared. But you do realise that staying on Earth is problematic? You know what you are. Are you sure this is what you want to do? I didn t wait around to explain. I turned and ran towards the light. ***

13 Susie picked me up at the airport. You re alive so you obviously overcame your fear of x-ray machines. I kissed her on the cheek and smiled. And you re obviously still pregnant so you never gave birth while I was away. And have you miss out on a single day of nappy changing? No way. Seriously, you were very worried. Is everything all right? I leaned my head back into the head rest and closed my eyes. I was a free man. I could live the rest of my life without fear of persecution. Now all I had to do was figure out a way to cover up the fact that I wasn t human. I opened my eyes to find Suse watching me. You look like you re hiding a secret, she said. I m just tired. I didn t want to tell her that she d find out my secret soon enough...when the twins were born. A Watch of Nightingales Annabella Sorelli peeled back the clips on her cello case. Each clip echoed inside her head like thunder. With her cello case opened, exposing the maple and spruce wood, she stared mutely at her instrument... And realised she hated the thing. Annabella always spent a few moments hating her cello, today even more so. Decades of forced rehearsals, calloused fingers from pressing down on the four strings, a rounded back from hugging the wooden body, a blank mask on her face because expression came only from the music, all horrible memories that flooded back to her every time she opened the case. If her music brought life to others, it drained it from Annabella. Yet, as much as hated the thing, it was all she had.

14 This morning, as she removed the instrument from its casing and sat down to place the body between her knees her practice was delayed by shouting in the courtyard. Annabella lived in apartment No. 4 in the small block of four ground floor units. Her unit backed onto a shared courtyard that she never visited. The only way out of home was through her front door, or at a stretch, through one of the other units. In the middle of this courtyard stood a Jacaranda tree that dwarfed the twentymetre square yard. When the leaves dropped they marched like ants into the four units and every spring purple flowers covered their carpets. When shouting came from the courtyard, Annabella knew who owned the set of lungs that screamed at the birds in the tree. Kimberley Metway, their resident author: a dirty-blonde haired, plump bodied woman that rarely bathed and whose only exercise was fencing with the birds with a broom. Picturing the author wildly swinging her broom like a sword brought a curve to the cellist s lips. She was grateful for the neurotic writer, who lived in No. 3, next door to Annabella, because Annabella was too timid to openly express her dislike of the birds. Sylvia Brook, however, loved the birds. She was a feisty old woman with silver hair and a sturdy figure who lived in No. 2, directly across the courtyard from Annabella. She rarely entertained. Her personality was too cheerless for others to tolerate. The birds were better company, she told Annabella from her doorway. It was Sylvia who encouraged the birds to build homes in their courtyard. Pieces of bread smeared with honey attracted the lorikeets. Trays of seeds brought in the budgerigars. Tiny balls of minced meat brought in the magpies. I ll poison those things, Kimberley shouted this morning. I ll poison you, Sylvia responded. Stop feeding those god-awful birds. I can t hear myself think. What sounded like glass breaking indicated the writer had slammed her door shut. But her cursing could still be heard.

15 *** Carrie Fletcher sat on her bed with her headphones on and wished they d all shut up. If the writer and the old woman weren t fighting over the birds, then they were joining forces and yelling at the cellist or at Carrie for playing her music too loud. But she didn t care. She was leaving soon. Someone was coming to take her to a better life; she just had to be patient. Carrie was seventeen and had inherited unit No. 1 and a tidy sum of money from her grandmother. What she didn t inherit, was ambition. Carrie waited all day for her knight in shiny armour. But the men who came were hardly knights, and they rarely shone. They were tradesmen, whom she d lure to her unit with false reports of broken things; a leaky tap, a faulty air-conditioning unit. Once she even stuffed a whole packet of tampons into the toilet s S-bend to block the drain, just so a plumber would come. He turned out to be a middle-aged man with a penchant for short-shorts. Right on cue, at 7:00 a.m., Annabella s cello, or the mournful tones of a cow giving birth as Carrie called it, sounded throughout the courtyard. The bird s screeching was like nails in her head. Annabella added to this suffering. So she turned the TV up to drown them out. *** Kimberley s blood pressure was boiling with rate at the commotion. The drug addict was playing music too loudly again. The birds were squawking again. The cellist was torturing a cat again. Kimberley Metway often dreamt of living on a thousand acres, but her writing hadn t paid enough to buy even one acre, so she was stuck in the unit her father had bought her when paying for her wedding became highly unlikely. Kimberley ate alone and out of tins, not even bothering to heat up the baked beans or the soups. She didn t drink or smoke because they dulled the mind. Words often took a wrong turn when silence was forsaken.

16 Like now. She was close to poisoning the damned birds, close to breaking the cello in half, and close to burning down the unit of the teenager who kept breaking things just to get laid. Having lost her place Kimberley had no choice but to re-read the last line she d written: She raised the knife and laughed as it sliced through her neck *** At 7:00 a.m. the following morning, a scream broke the morning stillness. My birds, Sylvia shouted. They re gone. If you ve harmed them, you bitch, I ll burn your fucking manuscript. Annabella got up in time to see Sylvia burst through Kimberley s door. Another scream followed the first, although more intense. Call the police. Kimberley s dead. *** With no signs of wounds or blood, poison was suspected. Officer Jennifer Woodard entered the courtyard from Sylvia s unit, the lady who d put the call in. Jennifer did a few laps around the Jacaranda tree and slipped into the open door of writer s unit. The place was filthy. The carpet was thick with dust and purple leaves. The bathroom tiles were black with grime and mildew. The kitchen cabinets were stocked with enough tin food to cover three World Wars, and looked like they d been there since the first two. A rubbish bin was overflowing and stank. The writer s front door was still dead-bolted and a pile of mail was squished beneath it, indicating she hadn t gone out to the front of her house for at least a week. Apart from a messy house there was no suicide note, no drugs, no notices of foreclosure, and no nasty messages on the answering machine. There was nothing at all to indicate the writer had killed herself. Her computer was still on. The writer must have died in the middle of writing,

17 so Jennifer sat down to read. Like children waiting for their punishment, Jennifer sensed the other residents hovering close by. She caught glimpses of their faces through the curtains. The dead writer s body had been taken away to the lab. Jennifer began her interviews. Annabella Sorelli, the cellist was the first to be interviewed. Jennifer had seen the cellist play at the Opera House, and she told the bashful woman this. She didn t add that she d read about the nervous breakdown that had forced her into seclusion. Jennifer wanted to know why, for personal reasons, and because it could help with the case. I took it hard when my parents were killed. Killed? It was a car accident. They weren t murdered, if that s what you re thinking. I couldn t cope. I developed agoraphobia. What did she take for that? Nothing. Jennifer didn t know much about her condition, but she d thought the cellist would be on some form of medication. I don t leave the house, therefore I don t have panic attacks. Jennifer asked for a look at her cello. Er, no. It s too expensive. I never let anyone near it. What about a look around her flat? But don t touch anything. I ve just cleaned. Just cleaned was an understatement. The furniture glistened like sunshine on a wet leaf. Her clothes were neatly folded and stored in order of colour. The kitchen looked brand new, as did the bathroom. From her side it looked like no-one lived here. Annabella must have cleaned three times a day. It was the laundry that grabbed Jennifer s attention. Every brand of commercial cleaner was stored (neatly) in the laundry cupboard, labels facing front, some

18 bottles near empty And all of them toxic. Annabella certainly had plenty of poisonous chemicals on hand to kill the writer. How well did the cellist know Kimberley? Not all that well. We keep to ourselves here. I knew she wrote a few articles and short stories, but I haven t read them. Kimberley yelled at the birds a lot, and swung broomsticks at them. I hated those birds too. The noise they made all day was excruciating. What birds? Jennifer hadn t noticed any birds. The complex was as quiet as a graveyard. Yes, it is strange there are no birds this morning. You might want to talk to Sylvia about them. She s the bird lover. Jennifer would soon. Did Annabella know that Kimberley was writing an article about her? No. She didn t know that it was about her life after her breakdown? It was on her computer. No. Next she interviewed Carrie Fletcher. A kid she knew from police reports. The girl had personality disorders and lured strangers into her home for sex. The complaints the police received were from tradesmen s wives but as no-one paid for sex they couldn t do anything. I didn t hear a thing, if that s what you ve come to ask, Carrie said. I had my headphones on all night. The girl looked nervous. She fidgeted and couldn t keep her eyes still. Jennifer decided to get straight to the point. Was she taking drugs? No. I ve just had too many cups of coffee. Could she take a look around her apartment? Hang on. I gotta go pee.

19 Jennifer ordered the girl to sit down. She d a feeling Carrie was racing off to flush drugs down the toilet, and any one of them could have been used to kill the writer. But I really have to pee. The officer escorted the girl. Her medicine cabinet was like a pharmacy. Uppers, downers, flu tablets containing pseudoephedrine legal speed if taken in a large dose anti-depressants, muscle relaxants, pain killers. Any of these drugs mixed into a cocktail could have done the damage outside. Jennifer poured them all into a box to match up with the toxicology report they d get off the body. Was it always this quiet in the complex, Jennifer asked. Hah. It would be if cow-faced Annabella would practise sign language instead of playing that thing. Maybe then I wouldn t have my music up so loud. And she starts at seven o clock every morning. You can set your alarm by her. But at least the stupid birds have gone. Did Annabella play this morning? Carrie shook her head. How well did Carrie know the dead woman? Sometimes she bludged sleeping tablets off me. Mostly she was just yelling at us, acting like she was far more important than everybody else. Next was Sylvia Brook, the bird-lover. She was a sturdy looking woman with a crinkled face from squinting. Without her glasses she was as blind as a bat. She was not sorry about the writer s demise, but she was very distraught about the missing birds. She poisoned them. Nasty piece of work. Neurotic writer my bum, she s just plain neurotic. If Kimberley had poisoned the birds, Jennifer asked, where were their dead bodies? How should I know? I d say ask Kimberley but she s on her way back to hell. Like the other apartments Jennifer had a wander through this one. One kitchen

20 cupboard was filled with bags of bird seed on one side and rat poison on the other. Did she really get that many rats? Not rats. Mice. That s the problem with storing bird seed. It attracts other critters. Another cupboard drawer was full of power fuses, batteries, torches, and a handful of small tools. That was my husband s drawer, she explained. Did Sylvia know much about the writer? I already told you. She s a witch. Sorry. Was. Did Sylvia know Kimberley was writing a story? About a suspicion she had that Sylvia had murdered her husband with rat poison. No. The story isn t true then? Course not. Jennifer left the apartment and took a moment to stare at the giant Jacaranda tree. Each of the residents had motive to kill the author, but it was the missing birds that puzzled her. Had they been poisoned like the writer? She doubted they d left on their own accord. She found the dead birds in the garbage bin located outside Sylvia s unit. Sylvia looked genuinely shocked. She did this then she chucked them in my bin to spite me? Actually, Miss Brook, Jennifer said. I m not sure Kimberley killed them. I think they were accidentally poisoned. Perhaps by you? Then you put them in Kimberley s bin. Sylvia s shoulders slumped. I could have got my packets mixed up and put out the rat poison. I do it at midnight before bed, so it s there for them first thing. My eyesight s not the best. I came out here this morning and saw all my babies on the ground. She started to cry. And then Kimberley, who hardly sleeps, saw you carry the dead birds inside?

21 Jennifer offered. I didn t want them in my bin, so I put them in hers. She d always wanted them dead, you know. But that doesn t mean I killed her. Jennifer pointed to the side of the bin. This bin has the number two written on its side. You re unit three. So? Someone had switched the bins but Jennifer suspected it wasn t Kimberley. The writer hadn t been outside her front door for over a week. She wouldn t have even known her bin was filled with dead birds. Someone else had seen all of this happen. Someone who d been up early watching music programs. I switched the bins over, Annabella said. I was watching an opera special on ABC when I heard Sylvia crying. She was carrying the dead things into her unit. I hated those birds. When I snuck a look they d been dumped in Kimberley s bin. It wasn t fair to blame Kimberley. Do you think Sylvia poisoned Kimberley, then? Annabella registered shock. How would I know? Is it possible that once when you went to Carrie to ask for some of her antidepressants, you saw she had all kinds of drugs? I wonder if something happened to make you very angry. I I don t know what you mean. I never leave the house. Can I please have a look at your cello? Reluctantly, Annabella opened her cello case.and Jennifer saw the extent of the damage. You play your cello at seven am every morning. Yet, you didn t play it this morning. I assumed it was broken. And it is. You wouldn t break your own cello, would you? Yes I would. I hate the thing. I can never set foot on another stage because of my panic attacks. My parents were killed coming to watch me play? I found out just

22 before going on stage, but I still had to get up there. I had to. You don t understand the pressure. Annabella broke down. But you didn t break your own cello, did you? Jennifer said softly. As much as you hated it, it was the only connection you had to your parents. Annabella s eyes suddenly grew wide. I saw Kimberley walking in the courtyard when I got up for a glass of water. That was about five am. She must have cut the strings while I d been sleeping. Then what happened? I went to bed. A bit before six. I was feeling depressed because of what happened to me cello. You tell me you never leave the house, but you did very early this morning, didn t you? You went to see Carrie and you obtained drugs from her. What did you give Kimberley? Nothing! I gave her nothing! I couldn t do it. I wanted to, but I couldn t. I just took the sleeping tablets and I went to bed. Annabella went into a fit of anxiety and it was then the lab telephoned with the results. *** Jennifer entered the apartment and sat down opposite Carrie. You didn t cut the string on Annabella s cello because you hate when she plays her music. And you didn t poison the birds because you hate when Sylvia invites them into the courtyard. Why is that? Carrie narrowed her eyes. I didn t do either of those things. You re making this all up. You can t prove any of it. Kimberley showed you the cheque for thirty thousand dollars didn t she? An advance on the novel she was writing. But you didn t murder her for the money, you were left a hefty inheritance. When Kimberley showed you the advance check, she also let you read her book. She was writing about an apartment block with a

23 host of colourful characters, and Sylvia and Annabella were in it, but not you. You murdered Kimberley because she left you out of her book. I don t like to be left out. I was always left out as a kid, it s not a nice feeling. As Jennifer snapped the handcuffs onto Carrie s wrist, a bird flew into the unit. I hate birds, Carrie hissed. I ll bet you didn t know that during the war, nurses were called nightingales. And people who supervise others are known as watchers. So, sneered Carrie. So. If you dislike birds so much, you re in for a shock because you ll be spending a very long while under the supervision of the very things you hate: a watch of nightingales. A Lesson In Time Management There was a persistent knock at the door. She d heard it the first time but had chosen to ignore it, assuming the visitor was a nuisance call. Dr Victoria Adams wasn t expecting anyone and she had no friends. Hello? the voice called. Victoria, I know you re in there. That voice sounds familiar, Victoria thought. As she passed the foyer mirror she stopped to re-apply grape-coloured lipstick and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair. Unexpected visitor or not, she had a thing for appearances. It s imperative I talk to you, the visitor called out. Imperative, is it? It must be important if the caller used the same word Victoria did when emphasising an important section of her papers. She opened the door and stared at her visitor. Oh my god. I take it you re shocked to see me, the visitor said. Are you going to invite me

24 in? Sure. Victoria held the door open for the woman. Nice place. It s been ages since I ve been here, but I remembered my way. Sorry if I gave you a shock. I wasn t shocked. Victoria said. I m pleased to see you. If you re here it means I ve succeeded. The other woman walked through the foyer and into the open-plan living area, admiring the sparse furniture and the colourful paintings on the walls. Let me make your favourite drink; hot camomile tea. Don t tell me, I remember where everything is. Victoria smiled as the woman ducked into her kitchen. I m sure you do. Bolting to the front door she pulled the curtain aside, scanning the street below for signs that the woman hadn t been followed. The street was empty; not a lot of passing traffic living in the industrial area she lived in. Victoria lived in the same building as her work studio. It was easier this way. Victoria entered the living area a moment before the other woman swept out carrying a tray with two pots of tea and two cup and saucer sets. How have you been? What do I call you exactly? Have you married yet? asked Victoria. Yes I have. Nice guy who s been having an affair on me for two months now. I m not bothered, really. You may call me Mrs Cantering. I guess it was time one of us got married. Victoria set down her cup. Enough chit-chat. Why are you here? Like you said, you succeeded. And you ve come to stop me. Or did someone send you? The Company sent me. Oh, they re not worried about your time-travel experiments. It s the Blue Project that has them running scared. What Blue Project? The two women stared at each other until they burst into laughter.

25 It s me, Victoria, not a spy, Mrs Cantering said. I know all about your plans to create a Global Rainmaker. The Company approves of the concept in principle; it s the application that has them livid. You ve solved world hunger, but at a price. A price too high for The Company s liking. They see you as trying to attain world domination. Which is I ve been sent. The Company s last two efforts to stop you failed. What last two efforts? Victoria was cautious. She peered at Mrs Cantering over the cup of tea. If the woman remembered where her kitchen was, she d also remember the studio was beyond the Blue door. She peered in that direction. Had she locked that door on her way out? Did you say I d perfected time-travel? I am quite clever. Vicky, stop trying to change the subject. You know full well you perfected the art of sending someone back in time, it s the return trip that s keeping things at a stand-still, if you ll excuse the pun. You know we don t like being called Vicky. Victoria Adams stared into eyes that were hers, only ten years older. She was staring at her future self. Victoria Cantering had travelled back in time. Because we haven t mastered the process of returning someone from timetravel, Mrs Cantering said, The Company s first attempt was to send a bolt of electrodes down the line which should have resulted in a major black-out of your district. Mmm, the young Victoria recalled such an incident when the power had been wiped out, along with her computer files. But as we know, we keep a back-up. The Company failed. Their second attempt was to send a shot of energy so large it d set fire to your studio and destroy everything, including you if you happened to be working at the time. Victoria recalled the fire. It had destroyed everything, which was the reason she d moved into a fire-proof industrial unit and had given up her home. Less costly this way, too.

26 Of course, that attempt resulted in us creating an ever better Global Rainmaker. And the results were twice-fold. The world was in awe of our work. Our prices to produce rain in arid countries sky-rocketed through the roof and we fast became rich beyond our wildest dreams. Well done to us. Yes. We have done well out of this project. Anyway, I convinced The Company that I was the only person you d listen to, and here I am. Victoria Adams set down her cup of tea. This calls for a celebration. I ll open a bottle of champagne. It s a special occasion whenever my future self comes to help me speed up the project. Yes. Victoria Cantering accepted the glass of bubbly. Brilliant idea we had, pretending not to know how to return someone from time-travel. Hah, do they think we re an idiot. Fools. Let them keep sending future me s back through time. I ll be able to get the work done faster with you in the east, me in the west. Don t forget about me in the north. Victoria, so good of you to join us, said a third Victoria exiting from the Blue door and pouring champagne into a glass. She d arrived a month ago and was from five years in the future. It had been her idea originally; what better way to assist her past self in speeding up the Blue Project than by faking a laboratory accident with the very time-travel machine she d created. Who are they using as blackmail for you to succeed in your mission? Victoria Adams asked Victoria Cantering. Our cheating husband. They ll kill him if I don t succeed. Brilliant. The three Victoria s said, raising their glasses. Here s to ruling the world.

27 Falling From a Rainbow Sir, we have a problem. Captain Arigold waited for his assistant to elaborate. When David remained quiet, Arigold said, Well, son, don t stand there like a signpost. Tell me what s wrong. The Snake has escaped. That s not possible, said Captain Arigold. Nothing can get through the containment field. I checked the reports. There was a five-minute shut down of the containment field earlier this morning, David said. Five minutes is long enough for The Snake to have broken through the security field and reach the protected area. Arigold slammed his fist on the table. Then he calmed his anger by pressing his fingers to his temple. This action only added to the impression that he was one who held authority, which he did. Arigold was the longest serving Captain in the universe. He s been gone three hours, Arigold said. But that s enough time to destroy years of work. I take it you put a trace on him the moment you found out he was missing. David hopped from foot to foot. Behind his back his hands twisted like he was winding up a ball of unravelled wool. Droplets of sweat ran down his temples. He paled beneath the Captain s piercing gaze: another moment under Arigold s blueeyed stare and he thought he d faint. Why are you acting like you re afraid to tell me you ve run over my dog? said Captain Arigold. Sir, said David, shifting his focus to the floor, I ve checked the system and the tracking device appears to have been removed prior to The Snake leaving the

28 compound. There s no way of locating him now. Captain Arigold rubbed his hairless chin. It was moments such as this that he wished he was able to grow a beard. This means the Project will be corrupted and shut down. We ll be reassigned. Again. Arigold moved from his desk to a cabinet by the wall and poured amber liquid from a bottle that had not been touched in centuries. It was a bottle meant for moments of greatness but so far had only been opened during moments of crisis. He considered now to be a moment of crisis. Sir, what shall we do? asked David. The Captain appeared not to have heard. He stared into the glass of ale as though it held the answers he sought. Finally, he said, Nothing can be done David. All will be lost. We ve been down this road before many a time. Perhaps not all will be lost, sir, said David. There is still faith. Arigold was no longer listening. He returned to his desk and stretched his legs as far as they could reach. Did I tell you that I was hand picked for the Mars Project, David? he said. More than once, sir. It was my first big project. To create a planet that could support life. I was given the best team to work with. Spare no expense, He said. Arigold held his now empty glass out to the young officer. David took the glass to the cabinet to refill it, and when his back was to the Captain he stole a sip of the ale. It warmed his belly instantly. This was the good stuff from the secret stock of Himself; the elixir of angels. For a brief moment David felt like he was floating on the clouds. My drink? said Arigold. David hurried to give the Captain his glass. It was beautiful, continued Arigold, after taking a sip of the amber ale. A planet filled with crystal mountains, rivers of gold, and trees of every shape, size and colour. The sky was purple, until the sun faded it like it fades everything. Those curtains used to be red, he said, indicating the pink fabric on the window

29 held back by beige ribbons that used to be blazing gold in colour, like the sun. But still, the purple sky while it lasted was your best feature, David said in a dreamy tone. The elixir was making him sleepy. Besides, he d heard this story many times before. David suddenly felt bad that he was more interested in warming his belly with ale than listening to the Captain s woes. Eternity makes a cynic out of even the most genial of souls, he thought. Or perhaps it was hanging around Arigold that was turning David into a pessimist, he wondered. The purple sky, sir? he prodded. Arigold took David s cue. The purple sky was my best feature. The crème de la crème. I got an award for that, did I tell you? And so you should have gotten that award, said David, at last mustering up some enthusiasm to keep the Captain s mood buoyant. Arigold had a tendency to be melodramatic if allowed or encouraged. It s not every day the finest angel in the universe is given such a monumental task. Yes. But they blew themselves to bits, didn t they. Arigold drank the remaining ale in one go. He stared into the empty glass. And then He comes along and says, If you want something done right you ve got to do it yourself. I don t think He used those exact words, David said gently. I tell you David, Arigold continued, not having heard his assistant s remark, this is my punishment for Mars destroying itself. I m being forced to baby sit his prize winning apple tree. I think we re meant to watch over Adam and Eve, sir. The tree is secondary. And why would He be so stupid as to let The Snake use Earth as a stop-over? Everyone knows The Snake brings nothing but trouble everywhere he goes. I ve heard The Snake can be quite the charmer, sir. It must be how he was able to get past the security guards and get the tracking device removed. Captain Arigold went quiet and David shuffled noiselessly about the room tidying up papers, flicking buttons on computer screens and punching numbers into panels. Sir, he said at last, The Snake?

30 Right. I got sidetracked for a second. Arigold was off his chair and flying towards a computer terminal at the rear of the office. We have to file a report. There s a report for everything these days. So much for a paperless society, eh, David? At that exact moment an alarm sounded and a red light flashed on the far wall. Arigold stopped what he was doing. We re too late. The Snake has gotten to them. They ve eaten from the apple tree. The great angel s face went white. He ll have our hides for this. David had to shout to be heard over the siren. I m sure we ll be okay, sir. It wasn t our test to pass or fail. But what will happen to Adam and Eve? It s all over David. You might as well start packing our things now. Arigold returned to his seat at the oak table that had been his workstation for the past century. He d seen the planet bloom and life begin from this very desk. He put his pens and files away inside his drawer. There was no need to hurry with that report now. He wondered if he should bother writing one at all. Perhaps his resignation was more in order. The siren danced around the room and the light flashed like a disco. After a minute both alarms stopped and the office was plunged into a funereal silence. At least while the siren blazed Arigold felt like he could do something worthwhile, but with the quiet came a finality that nothing more could be done. It was over. But what will happen to Adam and Eve? David asked again with genuine concern. Is it really their fault they were conned by a con-artist? Conned or not, they were warned. So they ll be punished. He ll grant them mortality, like He does to all the faithless. They ll feel pain, love, sorrow and happiness. Oh, such sorrow. Captain Arigold slowly got up and moved to the side cabinet. He reached again for the bottle that had yet to be drunk in moments of greatness. Before he topped up his glass, he said: They ll know birth and death. They ll grow old, David, and they ll die. Ashes to ashes and all that can soothe their souls now is poetry.

31 It s never over, sir. Not for them. Not for us. The work of an angel is never over, you are right about that. And I suppose the inhabitants of this world can work on rebuilding their faith. A rainbow has an upside as well as a downside. At last Arigold grabbed a second glass from the cabinet. Have a drink with me, son, he told his assistant. I fear the security business is aging me. Nonsense, sir, David said. You haven t aged a day since I was first assigned to you. We re immortal on the outside only, said Arigold sadly. For effect he lowered his young, though ageless body into a chair that sat facing a window with the most magnificent view of the ocean. He gave a heavy sigh, and although the youthful looking angel was as old as a millennium, he gave the appearance of a teenage boy being ordered to take the rubbish out. After a few seconds the despondency passed and Arigold forced a smile. Anyway, that s enough melancholy. Go get yourself that drink. David raced to the cabinet and poured the gold liquid into his glass. It tasted like Heaven because it was. He closed his eyes and saw before him clouds as thick and white as the stuffing in children s toys. In the distance he saw the pearly gates that were never closed. It seemed like centuries ago that David had been assigned as assistant to the greatest angel in the universe. It was an admirable job, still he hoped to one day gain enough credits to get a desk job inside the gates of Heaven. He heard they had cake for morning tea every Tuesday. Until then, he would assist Captain Arigold with the honourable job of watching over Heaven s newborn worlds. Perhaps the next world won t be so easily corrupted by a smooth-talking reptile with a sociopathic disorder, said David, taking a seat beside the great angel. And perhaps the next world won t blow itself to bits, said Arigold. We can t keep replacing planets like they re coffee filters. The two angels drank in silence, mindful that while they watched the ocean and

32 sipped on the milk of Heaven, mankind was learning everything that was pleasurable and painful. And there was nothing the two angels could have done to prevent it. Love Like Mine Ever since I can remember I was told I was beautiful. I guess all little girls are told that, but I was made to feel like I wasn t being lied to by parents who d no choice but to tell their plain daughters they were pretty. I was also told I was special too, and I honestly believed this about me. When my mother had tucked me into bed she would whisper, Do you know what your name means, Lyn-Ilori? It means beautiful, special treasure, I d answer, gazing adoringly at her face. I imagined angels looked like my mother. Then my father would call me the most beautiful girl on the planet. No, make it the universe, he d add, and I d beam with pride, knowing it to be true. For indeed, I was my parent s special treasure, having tried for years to conceive until finally, they gave up and got a dog. And then along I came and the dog was neglected till it ran out of the gate and was hit by a car. I was devastated. My parents, I now suspect, were relieved. We had eight years together before they left me. They hadn t planned on going away, but they d died in a house fire while I was at school and I never saw them again. Pulling into the street I shook the memory from my mind. The pain of their deaths had long since passed. I spotted the house with the avocado-green front door. Checking the slip of paper in my hand I parked two houses away and got out of my car. Nice neighbourhood, I thought. No foster home I d lived in had been in a neighbourhood this nice.

33 Knocking noisily on the avocado-green door I wondered if the prying eyes of the nosy neighbours would assume me for the delivery man I acted to be. Can I help you, the woman said with a nervous smile. I might have been wearing men s clothing but I had the features of a woman. I have a package for Lyn-Ilori Tomlinson. That s me. Concern spread quickly across her face. She was right to suspect that something wasn t right. I pulled the gun from inside the cardboard box, and her face widened in shock. I quickly shot her - point blank grateful that my silencer would mask the noise. I walked away, without looking back, not even waiting to see her body drop to the floor. *** Do you know what your name means, Lyn-Ilori? she says. It means beautiful, special treasure, I answer. I should never have left the fire alone. She crushes me to her body. For some reason I m terrified. I woke with a start, covered in sweat and crying. The same dream again; my dead mother holding me against her scorched chest, lamenting over a pain she d caused, and a life no mother would have ever dreamt for her child. Would these dreams ever stop haunting me? Despite moving from foster home to foster home, I d turned out all right, so my mother had no reason to haunt me. Most of my foster parents had either been kind or indifferent, and I realised when I was older that it could have been worse. I d done well enough in school, made a few friends, dated even fewer boys, and for a transient child I was moderately well-adjusted. I d gotten over the anger a long time ago. Or, at least I thought I had. Rolling out of bed I lit a cigarette and poured straight bourbon into a glass that hardly left my night stand anymore due to the countless sleepless nights, remembering with clarity the first moment I d realised I wasn t as special as my

34 parents had claimed. I d been at work and for fun, but mostly to relieve boredom, I d typed my name into the Internet. After eight constant years of being adored and told I was special, I was sorely surprised to discover I wasn t. There were five other women named Lyn-Ilori Tomlinson. Five others! I d had to leave work early that day as the rage inside me turned into a migraine. How could they have done this to me? First they d abandoned me, and then I find out they d lied to me. It seemed I hadn t forgiven my parents after all. *** Sitting across from me in the café was the first Lyn-Ilori Tomlinson I d encountered. For some reason I d wanted to meet the others. A thirst deeper than curiosity compelled me to know them. She wore a bright-red, food-stained, knit-top which didn t fit her huge body. As I stared at her bulging neck in disgust she ordered a burger and fries. You should eat more healthily, I said to Lyn-Ilori. I ordered a pumpkin and feta salad. I can eat what I like. Her contempt radiated off her. I instantly hated her. I wanted to kill her. Watching her gorge on the burger as its juices ran down her thick fingers was repulsive. Aren t you even curious why I asked to met you? I said. Not really, she shrugged. You re not the first person to write a story about me. I d made up a lie about being a reporter interested in doing a story on her. She didn t even ask for credentials. Do you know what your name means, Lyn-Ilori, I asked her. Nope. It means beautiful, special treasure. None of the qualities associated with the fat woman seated across the table.

35 Does it really? She laughed. My husband calls me his special girl. Urgh, the gross thing opposite me was married? I went out that afternoon and purchased a pair of overalls, a pair of steel-capped boots, dark sunglasses and a cap. I d waited until Lyn-Ilori s even fatter husband had left for work and I began my journey to reclaim my name. *** There was a persistent knock on my apartment door. Who is it? Miss Lyn-Ilori Tomlinson. It s the police. Can we talk to you? I counted to ten then pulled the chain off its latch and opened the door. They showed me their badges. Time froze for me as I saw the future. Lyn-Ilori? the female officer asks. Yes. I m Detective Watts. This is my partner, Detective Lyons. We believe you may be in trouble. I guide them into my living room and indicate the sofa. Watts and I sit down. However, Lyons walks to the window and peers through the curtains. What sort of trouble? I ask with concern. Have you noticed anything unusual? Lyons asks from the window. Anyone following you? No. Turning to the female, I ask, What kind of trouble? Lyn-Ilori, Watts says without answering me. That s an unusual name. What does it mean? I shrug off the nightmare images of my dead mother clutching me to her charred breast. I have no idea. Lyons moves away from the window and inclines her head towards the empty glass and bourbon bottle sitting on the coffee table. I can t sleep some nights, I offer. I have nightmares. Nightmares? His tone suggests this is an interrogation.

36 My parents died when I was young. I ve had bad dreams ever since. I don t elaborate. My dreams are none of their business. What kind of trouble do you think I m in? Watts face is filled with genuine concern. We ve reason to believe your life may be in danger. Over the past three years four women have been killed. They were all named Lyn-Ilori Tomlinson. Oh my God, I cry. With shaking hands I reach for a cigarette and offer the packet to the detectives. They both decline. Eyewitnesses reported seeing a delivery man moments before the women were shot. Have you seen any strange delivery vans lately? I shake my head, too stunned to speak. We d like to take you into protective custody, Lyons says. Tonight. But- Of course, that means you ll need to change your name. says Watts. No! You re in danger, Lyn-Ilori. We can protect you. Lyons steps between me and the front door. I won t change my name, I say loudly. There are plenty of other nice names, Watts says. My name is Angeline. You could choose any name you like. I won t change my name, I shout. My parents gave me that name. Only me. They told me I was special. You are special, says Lyons, knowingly. We know you re special, echoes Watts. But I m not! Rage is building inside me. They lied to me. Watts stands up and the two cops walk towards me like zombies. They lied, I say backing away from them There were others. What did you do to them? Watts asks softly. Nothing! I didn t do anything!

37 Where is the uniform, Lyn-Ilori? Where is the gun? We ve got a warrant to search the place, but you ll be a good girl and tell us where you ve hidden them. Can we come in? Detective Lyons face looming in the doorway brought me sharply back to the present. Sure. I held the door open for them. After all, their badges were their accessall-areas passes Lyn-Ilori, Watts said taking a seat on the sofa. That s an unusual name. What does it mean? De-javu gripped me. I ve no idea. I couldn t be bothered explaining it to them. Reaching for my cigarettes I offered the packet to the detectives. Both declined. Watts walked to the window and peered through the curtain. Have you noticed anything unusual? Lyons asked from the window. Anyone following you? No. They still hadn t told me why they were here, although I knew. Is something wrong? We have reason to believe your life may be in danger. Watts said. Her face was filled with genuine concern. Over the past three years four women have been killed. They were all named Lyn-Ilori Tomlinson. Oh my God. That s awful. Watts pulled a business card from her pocket. If you ever need to call me, any time of the day, here s my number. Have you got any holidays due to you, Lyn-Ilori? Lyons asked. Maybe you could take some leave. We think it s best if you go out of town for a few weeks while we continue with our investigations, Watts explained. Why? My hands shook. I waited for them to turn on me, to demand I tell them where the gun was hidden. You could be in danger, Watts insisted. But I don t have anywhere to go. My eyes darted towards the bedroom. How

38 stupid of me to leave the overalls in the wardrobe. Any idiot could tell the spatters on the bib and brace was blood. There s a safe house north of here. It s an hour s drive. I could make a phone call if you like. Watts smiled softly. Our main concern now is to keep you safe. We re currently warning other women about the danger they might be in, said Watts. Others! But I thought Are you OK? Lyons asked. He rushed from the window towards me. You re shaking like a leaf. I ll be fine. I thought I d taken care of them all. Lyons poured some bourbon into a glass. Wasn t I supposed to tell him I had nightmares and that s why I kept a bottle on the coffee table? He held it to my lips. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? Watts asked. I shook my head. I ll be fine. It s just a shock. I mean, I can t believe someone is killing women because of a name. How many women do you think are in danger? In all, we ve tracked down five women across the country. Maybe I might go on a holiday, I said sipping the bourbon. I could do with getting away for a while. Be sure to let us know where you go, Lyons said. And don t use your real name, added Watts. Huh? You ll need to change your name, Lyons said, a look on her face like I was stupid. To protect yourself, of course. For a brief moment I wondered if the dreams would stop if I changed my name, but I could never do that. My name was all I had to remind me of them. And if I change my name, they ll never find me in my dreams. I need them to find me so I can tell them I m sorry for setting the curtains on fire. But they shouldn t have told me they were having a baby. I was their world. I am their world. I am forever their

39 world. Talking To Walls Gary s old bones demanded more sleep. Normally he d give in to their pleas and pull the tattered blanket tighter over his thin shoulder. He almost did. With a sigh he shuffled his bare feet over the edge of the bed. His reflexes were not what they used to be; his feet didn t even flinch when he touched the cold floorboards. It was harder getting out of bed, but his mood was bright today. Awkwardly he hobbled to the closet. Today he chose his best outfit. Today he was meeting Gloria. Checking himself in the mirror he wondered where the years had gone. He was old now. Surely this had happened overnight, he thought to himself. He couldn t remember being this old yesterday. Then again, he couldn t remember a lot of things lately. It had only been a week, but he worried that Gloria wouldn t remember him? Even he barely recognised the washed-out blue eyes that snuggled contently behind a sagging brow. His nose had sprouted a few more hairs overnight. His teeth (proudly his own) seemed too big for his mouth, but the illusion was solely due to his shrinking appearance. At least his suit still fit, he told himself as he slowly turned left, then right, in front of the mirror. But the suit, like his teeth, looked too big on his small frame, like he d borrowed them from someone else. Giving an unexpected smile Gary flexed his arms, recalling a time when he wasn t just a sagging, frail, ex-hippy. Mildly happy with his appearance he grabbed the bouquet of flowers from the sink, his smile broadening as he pictured his lady friend s face when she saw them. Pink roses. Gloria had said they were her favourite. He was thankful he d remembered that at least. With a nervous hand Gary reached for the telephone and dialled the number for the cab company. A recorded voice announced, All our lines are busy. Your

40 call will be answered Gary hung up. I ll walk to the corner and hail a cab then, shall I? he said to noone. His lonely apartment remained silent; having already realised it was a rhetorical question. Well, you re no bloody help, Gary muttered to the hall table as he left the apartment. Living on his own had turned talking to the walls his only salvation, because he reasoned that it wasn t actually the same as talking to himself. He locked the door behind him, thinking he d soon have to relocate to a ground floor apartment; the single flight of steps was taking its toll on his hip. Gary cursed the irony. Old age had very little to do with his aches and pains. It had been a shiny new car that had ended his chances of competing in the Olympics. That s what he d told the doctors when he d opened his eyes in the hospital. There go my chances of competing in the four-hundred meter sprint, hey doc? The doctor had shaken his head. Obviously he was in cahoots with his hall table, Gary had thought. He might as well have told his joke to the hospital walls for all the accolades he received from the humourless doctor. For now he was as active as he could be after a near-crippling car accident. And while he mourned the loss of his mobility, it was at the hospital where he d met Gloria. Thinking of her made his aches disappear. In his right hand he held tightly onto the bouquet, but yellow cabs just whizzed by. Everyone s in such a rush. His left arm wasn t as functional as it used to, making it difficult to hail a cab and hold onto the bouquet. After watching three cabs whiz by Gary gave up, deciding to take the bus instead. He didn t want to be late. He was meeting Gloria at the fountain at noon. Checking his watch he wondered if she would she wait for him. Instinct told him she would. After all, she d spent all night with him once so he knew she was a patient woman. He smiled, thinking it was funny how he could remember every little detail about Gloria, whom he hadn t seen for a week, yet he couldn t be sure if he d locked his front door or not, and that had only happened moments ago. The doctors had said his memory loss was also due to the accident, although in fairness, he did concede that he d been losing his memory long before the car

41 crash. Gary couldn t remember much about his car accident, but he d woken up in hospital, dazed and sore. It had been dark and needing to use the bathroom he d shuffled out of bed. On his way back he d spotted an attractive lady seated in the waiting room. Hi. Visiting someone? He slowed down as he passed by, hoping her sad face wasn t a result of bad news. No. I m on a break. She smiled then and her cheery face brightened the dimly lit corridor. What happened to you? Last thing I remember is a car skidding in the rain towards me and I woke up here. How do you feel? He decided his joke about the Olympics hadn t won him any favours the first time around so he let the joke die on his lips. He opted for sincerity. Stiff and sore. I don t bounce like I used to. Gary eased into the empty chair beside her and introduced himself. Her name was Gloria. Such a beautiful name. It was at that moment Gary realised he missed his wife. An empty feeling coursed through him; he was fairly certain the feeling wasn t due to any medication. His wife had passed away ten years earlier. The big C. Cancer. God he missed her, but a knife-like pain tore through him as he realised in a panic that he didn t remember his wife, only the pain she d suffered due to the disease. As though sensing his internal pain, Gloria pressed her tiny hand on his knee. It ll be okay, I promise she said, and Gary believed her. They talked throughout the night, watching the sun rise together. It was a magical evening. What do you do at the hospital? Gary asked as she guided him back to bed. I m a volunteer guide. I help lost ones find their way. As the hospital came alive, Gloria suggested they meet at the fountain on Thursday. Today was Thursday. The bus finally arrived, halting Gary s reverie. The bus doors opened and Gary

42 was nearly knocked over by two giggling, teenagers in a mighty big hurry. Damn kids, Gary muttered. Why is everyone in such a rush today? The driver waved him on without paying. Gary made no objection. A free ride was a free ride. He sat at the front of the bus while the teenagers took the back seat. They immediately began cuddling and kissing and Gary smiled fondly. He d been young once, his birth certificate could prove it even if his body couldn t be trusted to vouch for him. Gary checked his watch again, worrying that Gloria wouldn t be there when he finally showed up. The park was now only one stop away. As he reached to push the stop button it buzzed. The teenagers scurried past him, almost knocking him over for the second time. Rude kids. The doors whooshed behind him, but the kids were either engrossed or rude (he guessed rude) and didn t take any notice of the old man they d almost knocked to the ground. Last thing he needed was another hip operation. Entering the park through the iron gates Gary headed straight for the fountain. He was shocked to find it gone. Panic set in as he stared at a magnificent tulip display. But no fountain. When had they moved the fountain? It was crucial he find the fountain. It was crucial he be there at noon! He was meeting Gloria at noon! I might be losing my memory, but I m certain I have these facts right. In fact, this meeting had been so important to him that, rather than rely on his tottering brain, he d written the details down. Now, reaching into his pocket the little slip of off-white paper confirmed that he was indeed meeting Gloria at the fountain on Thursday at noon. Approaching a gardener trimming around a tree with an electric machine, he called out, Where is the fountain? The gardener hadn t heard him over the noisy motor. Excuse me. Where is the fountain? He still hadn t received an answer but it was then he saw the sign to the fountain, to his right.

43 Hurrying along the path Gary s mood lifted when he saw Gloria. She was facing the cathedral with her back to him, but it was her. And she was as lovely as he remembered. An aura seemed to radiate around her. Swirls of yellow danced around her face, which he realised was the sun bouncing off her gold brooch. I m sorry I m late. He was out of breath, his heart was beating in his chest and Gary almost cried tears of joy. With a shock he knew it was love he felt. He remembered what love felt like. If he died right now he knew he d die a happy man. Gloria turned and smiled. You re not late. Are they for me? As Gary handed her the bouquet she blushed, He, too, blushed as her fingers brushed his. They re lovely. And my favourite. She kissed his cheek. You remembered. Gary took her hand. Can you believe they moved the fountain? Darling, they moved the fountain two years ago. Don t you remember? Gary shook his head. I don t remember a lot of things lately. At first I couldn t remember the number for the cab company. I almost got on the wrong bus... Gloria squeezed his hand. She d been waiting for Gary for ten years and her endurance was almost beyond its limits. Just a few more days and he ll be ready to ascend. Gloria couldn t explain how he needed time to recall the car accident and accept that he hadn t made it. It wouldn t have helped. Garry couldn t pass through to the other side until he d remembered everything on his own. Only he could recall the pain of the crushed bones as the solidly built car slammed into his tiny one, paralysing him into a coma; only he could relive being embraced by love and light as his life faded into the universe; Gary needed to remember walking along a lonely corridor with only a sweet voice as his guide. He needed to remember who he was and all he d done with his life. Most of all he needed to remember who Gloria was. He needed to remember that she the wife who d died ten years ago. She had been accurate when she d told him at the hospital that she helped lost souls find their way. Gary had wandered aimlessly amongst the hospital corridors for weeks after his death. No matter how often she had called out to him he had

44 always managed to go through the wrong door and end up back in the hospital, trying to tell the doctor his bad joke. The doctor hadn t heard. No-one had. Except Gloria. Selfishly, Gloria was glad Garry hadn t survived the accident. For too long she d endured a lonely eternity without her soul-mate by her side. She was thankful she could finally spend forever with him. And there would be no more loneliness for either of them. And no more talking to walls. What she missed more than anything was laughing at his bad jokes. And she had ten years of bad jokes to catch up on. How s your hip? she asked. As Gary started to tell his Olympics joke to Gloria he suddenly remembered everything. The Girl That Nobody Liked Marjorie Airwick was a girl that nobody liked. She was a sickly child. Growing up she was never far from a bucket, a box of tissues or a thermometer. She had large brown eyes, made to look bigger because of her sunken cheeks and eye sockets. And she wore glasses as thick as coke bottles which magnified her dark eyes so that she looked like the alien you saw in drawings. She had a way of staring right through you, too. Only those who knew better knew that she was staring into the space that you happened to be occupying at the time. Still, her blank look was creepy enough that you moved a little to the left or right, whichever direction took you out of her line of sight. She liked to watch old movies, Marjorie did. Black and white horror movies were her favourite. Sometimes, at the end of a movie, there were tears on her cheeks when the monster copped the silver bullet or wooden stake in the heart. But she suffered terribly from hay fever that unless Marjorie told you she was crying it could be assumed her eyes were runny from her allergies.

45 She was not a popular girl in school. Not with the students or the teachers. There was one teacher, Mr Church, who thought it was his holy duty to exorcise the demons he believed resided within the spooky child. He once made her drink holy water in front of the entire class. She had seen plenty of horror movies in her young life. She dropped to the floor and began shaking her body violently. The entire class fled from the room, screaming and in a state of apocalyptic panic. Marjorie went home to watch TV. It wasn t that Marjorie hadn t tried to make friends. But after an afternoon in her company, the children went home scratching and coughing and sneezing from imaginary ailments, and their parents never let them return for fear of catching bubonic plague. Marjorie s mother, desperate that she been seen as someone with a normal child, once paid Mrs Bright (a woman with ten children and a gambler for a husband) fifty dollars if the woman would bring her similarly-aged daughter to the house to play with Marjorie. Melanie Bright was a rude girl. She told Marjorie that she was being paid to play with her then proceeded to tell Marjorie what everyone in Calm Cove said about her behind her back. Hence, they never played together again. Even the bus driver was scared of catching something, so much so that he wouldn t let Marjorie on the bus unless she wore a mask. Hence, the reason Marjorie walked to school on the days she was well enough to attend. Nobody in Calm Cove thought Marjorie would amount to much. In fact, most were surprised she had lived to reach her ten years of age. She was a spooky, ailing child that never received cards at Christmas. For her birthday she got hankies. No boy in his right mind would dare send her a Valentine s card. Everyone, even Marjorie s parents, found the sullen girl un-likeable. They wondered what evil atrocity they had committed to be cast such an unfortunate hand. *** Mr and Mrs Airwick were a cheerless couple, although they had not always been

46 this way. They had been a gay pair once, dancing about town, hosting dinner parties, laughing and smiling. They d once been well like by everyone in Calm Cove. But Marjorie was a sick baby, and a sick baby became a sick toddler. A sick toddler got other people s children sick. The Airwick place became somewhere you didn t go if you didn t have to. Mrs Airwick whispered on the telephone that it must have been something from Mr Airwick s side that made her daughter weird. Mr Airwick was polite enough not to say anything that his daughter might overhear, but the way his eyes looked at her, like she had broken something very old and very expensive that could not be replaced, told her she was not liked by him either. Mr and Mrs Airwick, along with everyone else in Calm Cove, sort of hoped the child would fade away, like fog fading when the sun shone upon it. Nobody gave any thought to where Marjorie would disappear to; much like nobody cared where fog went, just so long as it lifted and took the essence that sent shivers down the spine along with it. The day of Marjorie s disappearance, her parents had been out shopping for a new television. (They had months ago given their weary TV set to Marjorie so she could watch movies in her bedroom until the TV died. Or the child, if that was the order in which Death chose to take their belongings.) Naturally, they had been frantic with worry upon discovering their only child was not where they had left her. They were somewhat relieved, they told the police, when it was discovered that their family pet was gone too; at least she wasn t alone. Blacky was an ugly dog with a coat the colour of midnight. His wiry fur did not invite patting. If you were brave enough to touch the dog, your hand ended up covered in tufts of fur, sticky with blood. And he growled and nipped and chewed with his mouth open and drooled over the furniture and stank like rotten cabbage even after a bath. He would have turned guests away, if they d ever had any. But Marjorie and Blacky were close. The dog simply turned up one undefinable day some years beforehand. Marjorie took to the dog and the dog to the child. They became inseparable that nobody ever remembered a time when Marjorie

47 didn t have that ugly dog by her side. There was no teething stage either, the way dog and master might take time to sort out the rules. Dog and child went together like bread and butter. And the Airwick s breathed a sigh of relief that something else would share the burden of looking at their daughter s sallow face. Blacky did what no doctor or Christmas had been able to do. He lifted the child s sprits. She still sneezed and coughed and got nose bleeds, but she did with the remotest semblance of a smile. It was as much of a smirk as the girl who had forgotten how to smile could manage. Yet, it would bring chills to the spines of the dead if her little smile happened to be combined with one of her vacant stares. Moving a foot either way was hardly sufficient anymore, one had to leave the room. Even though her spirits were lifted considerably, Marjorie was not a child that could be taken to friend s houses for dinner. Nor could she be taken on holidays. She would have gotten malaria in the tropics, pneumonia in the Alps, airsick all over the travel agent s floor. The Airwick s social life came to a complete stop the day Marjorie had been born. Again, they wondered what evil thing they had done to deserve such an unfortunate fate. So for daughter and dog to be missing meant a huge burden had been lifted off the Airwick s shoulders. Though, they did not say this out loud. Not even to each other. *** The police showed up right after Mr and Ms Airwick had tossed the empty bottle of sparkling wine into the bin. Oh, they did their best to appear distraught. And sober. But inside they were screaming with joy. Their cheeks hurt from giggling, but they had cleverly sucked lemons before letting the police inside to search the house. The police promised to track child and dog down. That s what they said, anyway. Mr and Mrs Airwick didn t quite believe they cared enough to look further than the ends of their downward turned noses. Hours turned into days. Days turned into a week. When their misfit daughter

48 and mangy mutt still had not shown up, Mrs Airwick decided to have a dinner party, desperate to invite over the friends who had stopped coming because her daughter reminded them of Wednesday Addams with spectacles. Mrs Airwick spent a busy day scouring every magazine on the shelf to choose a theme and select a menu. She visited every stationery store to find the invitation paper she liked best. And then she posted the invitations out, although the only people she knew nowadays happened to live in Calm Cove. Still, Mrs Airwick didn t believe in popping expensive stationery into letterboxes like they were junk mail. Their first party in ten years was too special an occasion for such informality. None of the dinner guests asked how the investigation into the disappearance of Marjorie was going. And the Airwicks didn t offer. Instead they poured wine and served food and played records on the player that had been so thick with dust with disuse, it had taken two cloth-wipes to clean it. Did you hear about the death at the school? their immediate neighbour Mrs Chifley said after she d consumed her third glass of wine. Mrs Chifley was a nurse at the hospital and loved to gossip. Should we have? asked Mrs Airwick. One of the teachers, Mr Church, was struck down with a cough so bad that by the time he got to hospital he d ruptured his insides and died. That is dreadful news, said Mrs Airwick. I hope it isn t an outbreak. Apparently it s an isolated incident. But the strange thing is, yesterday a young girl, Melanie Bright, came in sneezing so much that she burst the blood vessels in her head. What happened to the girl? Mr Airwick, who had just joined his wife s side, asked. She died. Mrs Chifley said this with the indifference of one who sees death a lot. And today there was a patient whose nose kept bleeding so much that he ran out of blood. It was that school bus driver, I think. What s his name? Mrs Airwick wanted to change the subject. She was having a lovely time, and talk

49 of death made her think of her daughter s golem-like face. Let me top up your wine, Esther. Mrs Airwick resumed her role as hostess. She was indeed having a marvellous time. And then the door bell rang. Mrs Airwick said later that a chill ran along her spine as she opened the door because she knew who it was. Not the police here to say, Sorry, but we need you to come immediately and identify your daughter s body. She knew, like she knew what day it was when she woke up that morning, that Marjorie and Blacky had found their way home. It is said by those who attended the party that the music suddenly stopped and the dinner guests hastily reached for their coats. And when Marjorie and Blacky entered the house people started sneezing and coughing and scratching from imaginary ailments. And Mrs Airwick appeared to have aged ten years that she looked ridiculous in her frilly gown. And Mr Airwick put the stopper on the wine and instead reached for the twelve-year-old whiskey and sat down heavily in the armchair. It is said that Marjorie looked at each guest as they left, smiled and thanked them for coming. They fled, telling others afterwards that it felt as though all the dead in Calm Cove had walked in behind the spooky child and her hideous dog. Her parents didn t ask where she d been. And Marjorie didn t offer. But Blacky seemed to stink worse than usual. Even Marjorie carried a waft as pungent as compost with her as she waved at the departing guests. Both child and dog were covered from top to bottom in dirt. Marjorie s fingernails were black, like she d been digging in the garden. The wiry fur of Blacky s coat was cacked in mud and dried grass. Marjorie closed the front door, walked down the hallway and stopped at the entrance to her room. The air suddenly grew chilly as Marjorie said to her parents, In all the years I ve played in our backyard, I never knew there was a deep well

50 beneath my sandpit. Blacky and I had an awful time digging our way out. Perhaps I should tell the police I found a pile of tiny bones down there. Mr and Mrs Airwick looked aghast at one another. There were enough to make up the skeleton of a baby, the young girl added. And with a smile reserved for those that have done wicked, wicked things she bid her parents goodnight. The Harvest Of The Damned Rachel said something funny that made Grant laugh out loud. So loud, snot blew out of his nostril. She began laughing hysterically at that, almost falling off the rickety wooden fence that separated their two farms. Okay, my turn, said Grant, reading off the lolly wrapper. What do you get if you cross a kangaroo with a sheep? Rachel didn t answer. An unfamiliar sound in the distance had suddenly caught her attention. Rachel, what do you get if you cross a kangaroo... She wasn t listening. Instead she stared towards the trees where the rumbling grew deeper and louder, as if gathering speed. Although it wasn t gathering momentum along the ground like the wild brumbies did whenever they stampeded through the bush. Besides, this sound came from the sky. Rachel, what do you get... She squinted. Funny how a noise should make me squint, she thought. But what the hell, she couldn t furrow her ears. Rachel! Shut up. Grant jumped off the fence. How dare you tell me shut up. I m telling my father, Rachel. You ll be flogged for displaying such insolence to a benefactor.

51 Rachel slipped down to the ground and took a few steps towards the trees. I want you to go home now, Grant said, moving in front of her to block her view. I won t tell my father, but I am mad at you. Grant! Shut up. Don t you hear that? She grabbed his arm and swung him around so he faced the trees. Then she pointed into the distance, yet before she could say what the? someone yelled out, Sweepers! They d been told this might happen. They d been told they might get visited again. But a Sweeper s ship hadn t been seen in the sky for many years. Not in these parts anyway. Everyone had believed they were safe. Just then a figure burst through the trees. It charged at them like an out-ofcontrol freight train. Rachel s heart stopped for a second until she recognised the figure. Get to the shelter, her older brother, Michael, shouted. He ran at them full speed and waved his arms like he was trying to scare the birds off a wounded sheep. Rachel and Grant were frozen to the ground like the rabbits they sometimes took pot shots at with Grant s dad rifle. Get to the shelter! Michael s voice boomed almost as loudly as the airships she now saw the tip of. The nose of the ships was shiny, conical-shaped and silver. Like a bullet. Rachel was momentarily blinded by the sun reflecting off the tip. It was like looking into an eclipse. Petrified, she reached for Grant s hand, but he slapped it away. Michael was almost upon them, thundering towards them as though he was a racehorse. He grabbed both kids by their collars and kept on running, wanting to get to the shelter before the Sweepers saw them. And while Rachel was good at running like her brother, Grant was not of their family so he did not have long legs. He stumbled and tripped over a rock, and as he came crashing down to the ground, he hit his head.

52 Rachel swung around to get him. Already, blood spilled into the soil around Grant s temple. Leave him, shouted Michael, pulling at her sleeve. Rachel s eyes widened. We can t leave him here. We have to. It s not him they re after. What do they want? Rachel asked, moments later as she watched Michael lock the shelter door and push an old set of drawers up against it. Michael motioned for her to silent. Somewhere deep inside she wanted to scream at the Sweepers, to tell them to go away and leave her alone. But she was a sensible girl, and her good sense told her to do as her brother said and stay quiet. Then, uncontrollably, she started shivering, although not from cold. Her best friend was up there, possibly bleeding to death, and the airships would be right on top of them any second now. What will they do with Grant if they find him? she asked. Her brother gave her an angry glare. Ssshhh, will ya? And hide under the horse blankets. Rachel hated the horse blankets, they made her sneeze and itch but she got under them anyway. As if the Sweepers are too dumb to look under a blanket, she thought. But she hugged her knees and prayed they were as dumb as they looked. She d seen pictures of them and heard all kinds of rumours - everyone round here had - like how the Sweepers took children to their towers, like how they sometimes only took the girls, like how sometimes the kids came back but they were never the same. No-one knew for certain who or what the Sweepers were or why they scouted the lands, or what it was they were even looking for. It was just rumours. But she d once heard they d come looking for riches and had found something different instead the godless in need of salvation. Come away from the door, Rachel said, suddenly worried that if they were here to take anyone, they d take Michael. He was smart, a good athlete and a

53 damned good farmer. He knew the land better than anybody. And he didn t need those fancy machines the other farmers needed to grow a good crop. He d inherited a lot of his skills from their dad. Rachel was supposed to take after their mother. But she hadn t yet learned to cook or clean, and she wasn t entirely sure she wanted to. But what else could she do? As much as she loved her family, their way of life was now hers and Michael s to carry on. At last she heard Michael shuffling across the dirt floor and then the blankets moved as he got in underneath. I wish mum and dad were here, he said. Rachel wished that too. Do the Sweepers take the parents? I guess so. I suppose they do. Sometimes. But why do they even come here? Surely we ve got nothing they want. I honestly don t know what they want. You know more about the Sweepers than I do. We won t get taught newmodern history till next year? Michael had finished school a year ago and now worked on the farm full-time, like a lot of young men his age from round here. He d wanted to go to university, but also like a lot of young men from round here, he couldn t afford it. It wasn t a sore point or anything like that, just a tragedy because Michael was the smartest person Rachel knew. What was a sore point was the growing clarity that she would be lucky to finish school, what with the way the summer crops were growing faster than they could be harvested. It was fast becoming every hand on deck. At last Michael said, I heard they believe we re so impoverished we need rescuing from ourselves. That they came looking for oils and riches and found poverty and despair instead. So they took us away and tried to change us, to make us more like them. They hoped we d become better people and we wouldn t be so poor that we d turn to crime or kill ourselves. I think they feel it looks bad on them if they don t do all they can to make us better.

54 But what if we re fine the way we are? Wealth isn t just about money. Don t the Sweepers care about who we are as people? Don t they care about our history, our culture? A deafening rumble overhead stopped any answer Michael might have been able to offer. And when the shelter door shook Rachel bit her hand to stop the scream from escaping. She reached for her brother s hand and he eagerly gave it. They held on to each other tightly, hoping it was the wind from the airships clambering at the door and not the Sweepers themselves trying to break it down. And then, when she thought she d scream and give away their location, everything was still and quiet. The great rumbling was now just a soft murmur, like the kind the brumbies made when they were on their way to destroy another parcel of land. But what devastation have the Sweepers made to our home, Rachel wondered? She and her brother stayed under the blanket for another ten minutes in case the Sweepers were playing a trick on them and waiting outside the door. They d heard that was one way they d captured children. I hope Grant s okay, she said in a quiet voice. He ll be fine, said Michael. How do you know that? It s who he is that protects him from the Sweepers. His dark skin will protect him. It s us they re looking for... because we re white. They think we re inferior and they want to make us live like them. Rachel hugged her knees tighter. But what if we don t want to live like them? Michael patted her knee. There was no answer for that. The silence was suddenly broken by a familiar voice outside. Rachel! Michael! The Sweepers have gone. Where are you? Grant! Rachel threw the blankets off. We re in the shelter. Are you okay? Yeah, what about you? We re okay? Michael said.

55 Hang on a sec, will ya? Rachel called out. Michael s got to move some stuff before he can open the door. While her brother moved the set of drawers Rachel scratched every part of her skin that had been exposed to the horse blankets. And as Rachel s skin grew redder and redder, till she was almost as red as the dusty earth outside, she wondered why her pale-coloured skin should attract the Sweepers. Weren t they all the same on the inside? Michael moved the furniture out of the way and Grant came bustling down the stairs. Rachel expected him to hug her in relief, like she wanted to hug him, but he stopped short. She d thought it was because he didn t want to get blood all over her, but when a flash of hard steel flickered across his eyes as he quickly looked her up and down, she realised for the first time in her life that it wasn t only the Sweepers who were affected by appearances. So, too, were our benefactors. The Puppet Masters Charlie Spinks closed his eyes, picturing his home. A lawn that needed mowing, a shed ready to fall down in the next strong breeze, gutters that needed cleaning, a window boarded up his run down shack was a better sight than what he saw if he opened his eyes bullets hitting the dirt around him. He heard the tiny metal soldiers ping into the body of his car. Focus, Charlie told himself. Focus and you just might get out of here alive. You re not walking out of here alive, yelled Fat Freddy, the man whose gun had shot the bullets. Charlie sighed. He really didn t need to hear the obvious stated; he already suspected death was coming for him. Further words of divination from Fat Freddy were drowned out as another round of bullets was fired into Charlie s car. I always knew a chick would be the death of me, Charlie muttered.

56 This chick happened to be Fat Freddy s wife. Charlie hadn t known who she was when she d walked into his office smelling like jasmine on a hot summer night. He hadn t cared either. He d been so captivated by her beauty that in spite of her telling him that Fat Freddy was a mobster who was likely to boil alive the person responsible for taking photos of him in bed with someone other than his wife, Charlie had still accepted the job. It had seemed worth it at the time. Much like cheating on his girlfriend had seemed worth it at the time. Charlie hadn t meant to cheat on Veronica, but when a cute waitress had whispered she loved him, he d been helpless to stop himself reciprocating that love. It wasn t until after she d stolen his wallet, his DVD collection and his dog, that Veronica had found out about his infidelity. Mostly because Veronica had loved that dog, and she hadn t believed a word of Charlie s lies that it had run away. When he d finally admitted the truth, Charlie had needed to move miles away to avoid Veronica s death threats. For a moment the air was quiet as the sun dipped lower and the acrid smell of gunpowder floated into the stratosphere, although Charlie doubted Fat Freddy had gotten bored and gone home. Then the putrid stench of bad breath mixed with beer slammed into Charlie s nostrils, and Charlie couldn t get out from behind his car fast enough. The volley of bullets ripped into his car like a can opener. They pinned Charlie to the dirt. Damn, Charlie whispered as he fell to the ground. I didn t want to die without meeting a playboy bunny. Then Charlie Spinks passed out. *** Veronica? Is that you? Charlie had been dreaming about nuzzling up against something soft like his exgirlfriend. Although, whatever he was nuzzling up with didn t smell as sweet as Veronica.

57 Who s Veronica? a male voice asked. Charlie was awake instantly. He opened his eyes and found himself pressed up against a mask of white fur. Jesus! Charlie shrieked. He pushed himself out of the arms of a giant white rabbit and landed with a thud on his backside. What the? The giant rabbit hopped up and tugged rather brusquely at its waistcoat. You humans can be so rude. What the hell are you? Charlie asked. What the hell do I look like? the rabbit snapped back. A giant rodent with no pants on, I might add. The rabbit punched Charlie in the arm. I am not a rat. And don t get sassy with me, Charlie Spinks. You asked to meet me. I did not. And how do you know my name? Instead of answering, the rabbit gave him the finger and poked out his tongue. Charlie rubbed his arm. He must have lost a lot of blood he was talking to a rabbit for god sake! Unless he was in a coma. In a coma on a boat. He shook his head. It had to be a dream. Charlie and the rabbit were the only passengers that he could see on the small steamboat. They drifted slowly along a muddy river. Charlie s initial confusion increased. One minute he d been on the sandy beaches of Southern California, and the next he was floating along the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. Okay, Charlie said with a chuckle. Where s the TV crew? The rabbit gave him a scowl. No TV crew here. Of course there isn t. Because I m really lying in a hospital dead and this is all in my head. If you say so. But you re not dreaming. The rabbit gave Charlie another gently punch in the arm. Don t you remember what you said? Right before you passed out, you said, I don t want to die before meeting a playful bunny. For a full five seconds everything was funeral quiet, and then the roar of

58 Charlie s laughter cut through the air so loudly that it frightened the birds out of the trees as he recalled what he d said the second before blacking out. What s so funny? the rabbit wailed. I may be playful, but I ve got feelings. It s not your fault, Charlie said laughing so hard his sides hurt. But I said I wanted to meet a playboy bunny before I died, not a playful bunny. Oh. I see. The rabbit turned his back to Charlie. I m obviously not pretty enough for you. And the wrong gender, Charlie added with a chuckle. Look I ve had a very strange day. I m sure I ll wake up in a minute and find out this has all been a bad dream. You won t wake up. The rabbit turned to stare off the starboard side of the steamboat but sightseeing was the last thing on Charlie s mind. Where are we? he asked the rabbit. Wherever you want to be, was all the rabbit would say in response, which was a lie because Charlie would definitely have chosen any number of locations over this weird place. The steamboat he and the rabbit were on headed towards a shoddy, wooden wharf that looked ready to fall into the water. Shading the wharf was an enormous amusement park, also looking very derelict. In the distance, Charlie saw a dozen or more mushroom-like towers stretching into the clouds with what appeared to be spaceships circling the towers. Nothing looks like it belongs in the same scene, Charlie muttered to himself. When the boat got within thirty feet of the wharf, Charlie finally noticed the captain. He was a gigantic ogre of a man with tattoos covering every inch of his body. Beneath the tattoos, he was puke green in colour and bald. The ogre peeled himself out from inside the small cabin. Have you got your ticket? he growled. Charlie shook his head.

59 You can t get off the boat without a ticket. There were no machines to buy one, Charlie offered. You need a ticket to get off the boat. The ogre s growl resonated from some place deeper than the riverbed. What s your name? Charlie Spinks. Like a hungry bear the ogre thrashed about his cabin and returned to the deck with a blue clip-board. Charlie Spinks? Charlie Spinks? Nope. You re not on the list. Oh, dear. You re not on the list. The rabbit danced and hopped back and forth. He s not on the list. He s not on the list. He s not on the list. Shut up. The ogre poked the rabbit in the chest, almost knocking him backwards into the water. You can take him to Administration for processing. Pinned against the railing, the rabbit wailed, I can t do that. I m already late. I can t possibly take him. I m late. I m late! The rabbit withdrew a watch from out of his waistcoat and shook it against his ear. What are you late for? Charlie asked. The memory of a book he had read as a child ballooned in his mind. For the trial, of course. The Knave of Hearts stole the Queen s tarts. Charlie s eyebrows drew in close together. Hang on a minute. That sounds like a book I ve read. Charlie had no time to ponder his situation any further. The boat stopped at the wharf and he and the rabbit got off. Charlie followed the rabbit along a cobblestoned street to a Victorian-styled building with the word Administration flashing above the door in pink neon lights. It was a bizarre mix of culture, but nothing in this place looked ordinary, Charlie decided. Still, he had expected the rabbit to take him to an office-like dwelling with desks and secretaries and files for processing. Instead, he and the rabbit walked into a pub. If Charlie hadn t been suffering a mental malfunction he d have laughed at his

60 own joke. Behind the bar was a vision of loveliness that made Charlie weak at the knees. Hello gorgeous, he drawled. What would you like to drink? She had long blonde hair and a see-through blouse. This is more like my idea of heaven, Charlie thought. Scotch on ice, he said in his sexiest voice. The woman turned to the rabbit and flashed a brilliant smile that was lost because the rabbit was too busy fiddling with his watch. Charlie nudged him. Rabbit looked up. Huh? Whatever. Will you leave your watch alone? Charlie snapped. You re like a deaf man with a broken radio. You don t understand the severity of my situation, the rabbit whispered. Oh, I get it all right, said Charlie. Off with your head. I take it you ve met the Queen then? muttered the rabbit. Take a seat, boys, the lady behind the bar purred. Charlie wandered over to a booth by the window and the rabbit followed. All right. What happens now? he asked. Why should anything happen? I m already late. I might as well not go and suffer the full consequences. What about taking me to Administration for processing? Thoughts of an ogre tracking Charlie down for being unprocessed made him queasy. The rabbit took his eyes off his watch long enough to roll them around in his head. We re in Administration. The Professor will be here shortly. You can speak to him. What s he a professor of? asked Charlie as shivers of suspicion danced up and down his spine. Absent-mindedness. Just then a crowd of people blew into the building like tumbleweed. Each person

61 carried a set of buff-coloured files; some carried their files in their arms and others carried them in boxes. Charlie saw one person bump into another, and then the two apologised for what felt to him like ten minutes. When they turned around they in turn bumped into someone else and began apologising again. It was like watching dominos fall. For over half an hour the crowd had bumped and apologised into every single last person. Then after the curious lot managed to make it to their tables, they set about sorting their files like old women in a bingo hall. Where are our drinks? Charlie said after the file-carriers had shuffled their files in silence for a full minute. Oh, there s no drinking allowed in here. But we ordered drinks at the bar. The rabbit smiled like he was explaining something simple to a very stupid child. The lady asked us what we d like to drink. She didn t say anything about giving us what we wanted, did she? No, she didn t, Charlie agreed. Look, this is ridiculous. We re in a bar. Charlie stood up. I m getting something to drink. The rabbit pulled Charlie back into his seat. Sit down. The Professor will be here any second. He says he s got something very important to tell us. I thought you were supposed to be playful, Charlie muttered rubbing his arm. Charlie stayed in his seat but he couldn t stop his impatience from increasing. Instead he turned to crowd-watching. His detective mind took in that each of the file carriers wore either a blue shirt or a brown shirt: blue for the open-file carriers, brown for the boxed-file carriers. The strange group, after finally getting themselves settled, had then gotten up simultaneously and buzzed about the room like bees collecting pollen. One person reached for another person s file and was instantly hit on the head with a stick of bread. It looked to Charlie like he was watching a game a five year old child had made up the rules to. Just then a man wearing a white lab-coat rushed into the bar shouting, I ve done

62 it! I ve done it! Charlie assumed this crazy-looking man was the Professor. He was right. Spotting Charlie and the rabbit, the Professor rushed over to their table. I ve done it! It s taken me all day, but I ve done it. And the rabbit is the key. Charlie was almost afraid to ask for an explanation. Nothing this morning had the look of ordinary written across it. Still, he was a detective and it was his job to ask questions. What is it you ve done, Professor? The Professor, who Charlie noticed was much younger than he looked, turned to him with a dazed look on his face. I haven t done anything. Why would you say I ve done something when I haven t? Then, as quickly as the fog of confusion had appeared, it disappeared. Oh, yes, that s right. I ve found the key. And what is the key? Charlie asked, hoping the Professor wouldn t slip back into his schizophrenic personality so quickly this time. The Professor turned and pointed to the rabbit. He s the key. The rabbit screeched and thrashed his legs under the table. He waved his fluffy arms wildly about. I can t be a key. I m a rabbit. A rabbit is most definitely not a key. A key is a key. What in blazes can a rabbit open? Tell me more about this key. Charlie was instantly alert. The rabbit was onto something. Sometimes a key was needed to open a puzzle. And this place was one hell of a puzzle. What key? The Professor stared at Charlie with a blank look on his face. Charlie clenched his fist to stop himself from throttling the Professor. He d had about as much as he could handle of this strange place. As a detective he was used to asking lots of questions, and he was used to hearing lots of lies, but he was not used to having conversations that would have been more appropriately carried out by inmates in a nut-house. Charlie stood up to leave. Neither the rabbit nor the Professor would stop him leaving this time. This place was too crazy for him. And if he was dead, and if this was heaven, then Charlie decided he would rather spend eternity with the gorgeous

63 barmaid than with these two asylum escapees. But the Professor did something that made Charlie pause in his tracks. He removed two books from within his white lab coat and plopped them on the table. One book was Lewis Carroll s Alice in Wonderland. The other was Emily Bronte s Wuthering Heights. Now, why am I carrying these around with me? the Professor muttered. Charlie s hand reached involuntarily for Alice in Wonderland. I ve read this book when I was about ten years old. If I didn t know any better I d swear this place was Wonderland. Suddenly the Professor s eyes lit up. Tell me about this Wonderland. Rabbit talks about it all the time, but none of us have seen it. I can t remember all of it, Charlie began, but it s a story of a little girl who falls down a hole and lands in a weird place where there s a talking rabbit, a mad hatter, and a cat with a stupid grin that pops in and out of thin air. Have you read this book? The Professor pointed to Wuthering Heights. That s a stupid question to ask a grown man. Well, I ve read it, said the Professor. And I met the main character, Heathcliffe, just this morning. Cranky fellow but who can blame him. He s the second key to my discoveries. Don t you know what this means? No, I don t. Indeed, Charlie didn t have any idea what the Professor was talking about. And he wasn t even sure that he wanted to know anymore. What he wanted was an electric jolt to wake him out of this nightmare. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined a place as peculiar as this. Don t you see? It s perfectly simple. The Professor s eyes widened. Then he clutched at the books. Heathcliffe is a character in this book. Rabbit is a character in this book. And they re both here. Which means we must all be characters in a storybook. Charlie gave a chuckle. You ve spent too long sniffing gas in the Bunsen burners.

64 Have I? Think about it Charlie. Every time a writer creates a character, that character is, in a sense, born. That individual gets a name. It gets a personality. It gets a past and a future. So it makes perfect sense that it also gets a soul. Want to hear the rest of my theory? Sure humour me, Charlie said sarcastically. We are those individuals, Charlie. We are figments of a writer s imagination. We get conjured up and we become very real. Every time a story is written, the story becomes real. Look all around you. Does any of this seem normal? The Professor sighed heavily. Alas, somehow when the story ends, we keep on existing. I don t think we re in Heaven, though. I think we re on some sort of temporal shelf. That is the craziest thing I have ever heard, and I ve heard a lot of crazy things in my line of business. Now, if you ll excuse me, I m going to talk to the lady at the bar and see if she wants to find a quiet place to grab a drink. You think I m insane, the Professor said. You may be right, Charlie. Or, I could be a neglected immortal creature, my poor mind left to rot into dementia. We could all be rotting away into delirium. Tell me something, Charlie. Haven t you ever wondered what happens to the puppets after the puppet-masters have taken their bow? Charlie said he hadn t. Perhaps you ought to give it some thought. I ll leave you to think on this in your own time. The Professor stood up and with a flap of his white coat he bid Charlie and the rabbit adieu and hurled himself out the window. He landed smack-bang in the middle of three naked men playing cards. Charlie shook his head. This place is a nut-house. The question is, how do I get out of here? Hey! You lying scumbag, a high-pitched voice shrieked from the doorway. The shrill voice had caused a sudden hush to fall across the room. Blue shirts and brown shirts froze mid-file. The rabbit tried to slide beneath the table. Even

65 the hairs on Charlie s neck rose. He pitied the poor scumbag the owner of the high-pitched voice referred to. Charlie Spinks, you lying, cheating, dirt-bag. Charlie turned and cringed. Looking madder than a feral bull and swinging her shiny red purse right at his head, was his ex-girlfriend, Veronica. I m going to kill you, she screamed. Charlie pinched himself on the arm. Don t bother, the rabbit said with a pitiful look in his eyes. You can t wake up because this isn t a dream. Charlie panicked, terrified he d be stuck in this mad world forever if he didn t focus and think of a way out of here. He stared into his hands, steadied his breathing, and pictured a field of daffodils. And then it came to him. He reached into his top pocket and pulled out a pen. I hope the Professor s theory is correct, he said to the rabbit. If not, I m about to find out if I m as crazy as the rest of you. On the inside cover of Wuthering Heights, Charlie quickly scribbled: Charlie Spinks closed his eyes, picturing his home. A lawn that needed mowing, a shed ready to fall down in the next strong breeze, gutters that needed cleaning, a window boarded up his run down shack was a better sight that what he saw if he opened his eyes bullets hitting the dirt around him. Aliens Will Be Aliens Be careful. You ll drop it, KlepKlep grumbled. But it s heavy! MobMob wailed. You never could understand the concept of gravity. Here let me do it. Once the heavy rock was in place MobMob let out a chuckle. What do you think they ll call these statues of giant heads?

66 Who knows? On a remote island like this it might be years before they re even discovered. I just wish we could stick around to see the expressions of the human s faces. No thanks. Last time one of us got caught it was ages before we were allowed to travel again. If I don t get home by tomorrow I m dead. I ve still got to pack, you know. KlepKlep and MobMob trudged up the hill under the cover of darkness. They did all their best work at night. Plus they got to use their fancy lights, which was always a treat. Good idea of yours to carve huge volcanic statues that look like your mother-inlaw s head, MobMob said. Yeah, but I still think her nose is bigger. MoMob turned back to look at the rows of gigantic stone monoliths that appeared to be walking down the hill towards the coastline below. Dark shapes with giant brows, pursing lips, and long, broad noses. Only the heads were visible. They d no time to carve bodies. A shadow was starting to form behind the row of rock people, which meant the sun was waking. Her brow and lips are much scarier than these, though, added KlepKlep. Hurry up, a third voice yelled. His name was DinDin. The sun is rising and I m not driving this thing around in the daylight. You know I have photophobia. Your night vision s not much better, laughed KlepKlep. DinDin scowled. We ve got to get over to the place they call Egypt. All right. We re done here anyway. Cramming into the spaceship the three aliens started roaring with laughter. Open an ale, will you, Egm? KlepKlep said to the fourth alien who had stayed behind to hold the door open. Its electronic mechanism had broken again and parts were impossible to find on this side of the galaxy. Egm passed ales around to everyone except DinDin. Ah, sorry DinDin, he chuckled. Designated pilot and all, you ve got to stay sober.

67 The others laughed even harder till they were rolling around the floor of the cabin. You lot are disgraceful. DinDin was green with rage but he was allergic to the alien brew anyway. It made him sneeze and break out in hives. Still, it didn t mean that he enjoyed getting lumbered with doing all the driving. I hope you have get brain freeze, he grumbled as he slid into his seat and strapped himself in. What are those pyramid-thingies we built called? asked Egm opening another beer. Klepklep and Mobmob looked at each other and burst out laughing. Pyramids, they chorused. Why are we going back? KlepKlep couldn t keep the smirk off his face. We re going to seal them all up. It ll be years before anyone digs through that rock. You lot are drunk, shouted DinDin from the driver s seat. Put your belts on. Oh, give it a rest, DinDin. We re thousands of miles away from any space trooper, Egm rolled his eyes. DinDin did a few loops anyway just to prove his point. Alien bodies were thrown about the cabin. Curses were uttered but mostly they were annoyed that they d spilled their brew. Steady on, DinDin, KlepKlep said. It s not every day one of us gets married. Three cheers to MobMob. They raised three cheers to MobMob. Boys, said Egm with a tear in his eye. This is best buck s party ever. Yes, agreed MobMob. Best bucks party ever. Thank you. What do you think the girls are doing? asked Egm. Certainly not playing practical jokes on Earthlings, muttered DinDin.

68 About the author: Music first captured the creative interest of D L Richardson. She got her first acoustic guitar at age ten, and in high school she sang with the school band. When she left school she helped form her own rock band where she sang lead vocals, played bass guitar, and wrote all the lyrics. At age 26 she realised she wanted to write novels for the rest of her life, or die trying, so she sold her equipment, quit pursuing a music career and began writing instead. She has not stopped writing since. She currently lives in Australia on the NSW South Coast with her husband and dog. When she s not writing or reading she can be found practicing her piano, playing the guitar or walking the dog. Discover other titles by D L Richardson The Bird With The Broken Wing Feedback