The World We Would Live in by : David McVey, milk

The World We Would Live in

The bunker should have represented everything we feared most, all the paranoia of our time. It ought to have been a place we recoiled from, not a haven of hope and optimism.

‘In the future,’ Gavin announced once, when a crowd of us were in the bunker, ‘if there’s been no nuclear war, we’ll all have jetpacks for short journeys and go by monorail for longer trips.’

‘If you say so, Gavin!’ laughed Amanda, ‘Will I have a personal robot to deliver my jetpack to me in the morning as I eat my concentrated food pellets?’

There was more laughter, but Gavin insisted, ‘You can mock, but the boffins are doing amazing things with robots. By 1990, they’ll be doing all the boring work.’

We laughed again, but Gavin got listened to all the same. You did, if your father was a wealthy man who not only lived in a massive house in its own grounds but also had built a fallout shelter deep below the Victorian summerhouse. He was something big in the Scottish Office, Gavin’s dad, and if he thought things were serious enough to build the bunker, a bare room about the size of a small kitchen, then it seemed right to be worried.

‘If a bomb went off over Glasgow, would this thing really keep you alive?’ I asked Gavin once. He shrugged and said, ‘Probably not. I don’t know.’

Deep down we all knew this, and probably that’s what made the bunker something to enjoy rather than a place of dread. If the nuclear nightmare came true, this place would just be radioactive ashes, like everywhere else. Why not make it our refuge when we were at Gavin’s? Its clean, bare modernity (it wasn’t fully equipped yet – when Gavin’s dad started to load it up, it really would be time to think Apocalypse) inspired us to dream of sunnier futures than the one Kruschev and Kennedy and Castro seemed to be planning for us. I remember one Friday when we went straight there after school, about six or seven of us. We had all been in revision classes for O Grades and were wearied by them. ‘Maths is such a pain,’ said John, ‘why can’t they invent a machine that does all the work?’

‘Those big computers can do lots of calculations at once,’ I offered, thinking of the large structures the size of a house I had seen on TV, all blank white sterility and reels of whirring magnetic tape.

Gavin seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Ye-e-es,’ he said, doubtfully, ‘but computers will eventually get smaller and smaller. So small that they’ll fit in a room like this – or even on your desk.’

‘Never!  You’re talking rubbish!’ John snorted.

‘No, really,’ said Gavin, with some seriousness, ‘and there will be special small computers, just for doing calculations. Things you can hold in your hand. We’ll all have them.’

We did have other meeting places. There was a milk bar in the local shopping street, the common room in school and the shed in our garden, but it was in Gavin’s bunker that we talked of the future, of our hopes, of the world we would live in once the superpowers had sorted things out and the scientists and engineers were freed to push out the limits of the possible.

Gavin hoped to get enough Highers to do physics at university while Amanda was aiming to study medicine. ‘I don’t want to practice, though,’ she said, ‘I want to go into research. The way things are going, we’re going to eradicate a lot of killer diseases over the next few decades.’ She was already saying ‘we’.

John wanted to be a musician. He played electric guitar but wanted to study classical before exploring the possibilities of the new beat music. ‘Soon rock and roll will be as respected as classical - rhythm and blues too. In the future there’ll just be music.’

I had no ambition to be a ground-breaking scientist or an engineer who would create new wonders of the world. I hoped to scrape into university, get by financially, get a job and enjoy the fabulous shining future that was surely promised for us all. I also hoped I might share it with Amanda.

Another time we were in the bunker, looking at the catalogue for an exhibition at the Kelvin Hall; it was about technology and gadgets that would transform our lives. A lot of it was humdrum – new types of vacuum cleaner, dishwashers - but there were also some of the first robots; crude, clumsy toys, but things of wonder all the same. John was excited about machines for creating simple electronic music. I remember that there was even something about space travel for all, promised within our lifetimes.  One of the exhibitors was taking advance bookings.

Afterwards, as we started to make our separate ways home, I lingered in the garden, in the darkness, with Amanda. We held each other, safe from prying eyes, kissed and celebrated a timeless moment, one where there was no past or future. Then we looked into the evening sky, far beyond the faint skeleton-shapes of the trees, to where the stars flickered and gleamed.

‘Apparently you can sometimes see the Sputniks flying past, I said, ‘They say they look like shooting stars.’

‘You can,’ she said, with her usual certainty.  ‘Will we ever fly up there, into space, do you think?  You and me?’

‘I don’t see why not.  If all the money and brains they spend on trying to blow everyone up were turned to that, it’d be possible – and soon.’

We walked off together, beneath stars and satellites, into the future.

I think about Amanda still.  She did go off to study medicine, at Edinburgh, and though we tried to stay together, to triumph over distance (what was distance when space flight would soon be for everyone?), the link inevitably weakened and broke.  I’d had to stay at home.  University wasn’t for me, my parents said, and soon after my fifth year I started as a trainee in the council drawing office.  I haven’t seen Amanda since her third year at Edinburgh, over sixty years ago, now, a chilly day when I visited her and we climbed Arthur’s Seat and agreed it was no longer worth pretending any more. I met John once in the early 70s, when he played keyboards in a progressive band that had a gig at the Apollo.  Long-haired and spaced-out, he seemed happy when we snatched a drink in a nearby pub, but the fame didn’t last long. During the punk revolution, his band’s fortunes nose-dived and he left music.  For what, I don’t know.

With Gavin I quickly lost touch. Shortly after we left school, his father was transferred to a job in London. Their old house isn’t there any more. It was one of those West End properties that succumbed to subsidence from old mineworkings. The bunker is, of course, gone too – undermined rather than obliterated – and the whole site is landscaped.

My wife died a few years ago. She was not Amanda, but I loved her, after a fashion. Our children are abroad, Sam in Australia and Amanda (yes, you can disapprove if you like) is in Canada.  I retired many years ago.

I live in a modest house in Strathblane. There is a garden with trees and I often stand there on clear nights marvelling at the profusion of satellites blinking across the sky. I never got to travel in space, not with Amanda, nor with anyone else. I’ve never had a jetpack or a personal robot either. I remember Gavin, though, when I am sitting at my PC or using my pocket calculator or smartphone. Not all youthful optimism is misplaced, then.  And, of course, we haven’t had a nuclear conflict, yet.

I have few visitors and am often alone. Occasionally a neighbour drops by, the local kirk elder calls for a chat or on very rare occasions I entertain relatives. But there is a room in my house that none of these people are admitted to, that they will never see.

While my wife was alive, it variously served as a large cupboard, as a boxroom and, in extreme circumstances, as a spare bedroom. There are no windows. I have redecorated it and placed a lock on the door. There is a comfortable armchair and the walls are full of photographs of my wife, of my children – as babies, as graduates, and Amanda as bride and Sam as groom – and of friends. There is even a dog-eared picture of me with that other, earlier Amanda, taken in an instant photo-booth in Waverley Station.

There, I listen to music that I have loved, read books that mean a lot to me and try to recall periods of fulfilment and contentment. I dwell on the people and places and experiences that shine in the memory.

This room is now, of course, my bunker. I go there to shelter from despair, to re-acquaint myself with the past, the past that mattered, that worked, that made me happy. But this is no mere exercise in nostalgia. No; I intend my time in the shelter to help me re-learn the art of hope; I try once again to anticipate, to be optimistic. Life (and death) has robbed me of these capacities more surely than did the fear of nuclear annihilation.

I feel the need to go there now. I hope you will excuse me.

About the author

 David McVey lectures at New College Lanarkshire. He has published over 150 short stories and a great deal of non-fiction that focuses on history and the outdoors. He enjoys hillwalking, visiting historic sites, reading, watching telly, and supporting his home-town football team, Kirkintilloch Rob Roy FC. Did you enjoy the story? 

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Home Tastes like Gravy by Steve Gerson, sweet tea

Paste story here  

 

 

Home Tastes like Gravy

"I ain't got no light in my life, like it's goin' on dusk all day and the blinds won't let the sinkin' sun in for even a peek," she said to her mom on the phone. A shadow crept up the wall like lichen on an elm. Pipes in her motel room moaned, pinging to some Hank Williams' tune about loss and drink.

"Well, honey girl, whatca' gonna do 'bout that? Sit and take his shit, or get off the pot and hop a bus back home?"

"I know mom. He's miserable some of the time, spittin' out hurtful words like broken teeth, but then he'll sweeten up, tell me my nose is pert or he likes the breakfast I made him. And then, well, I guess I forget the bad words and tell myself how, sure, even in good weeks it rains a day or two," as she twirled the tips of her henna-dyed hair into rainbows.

"Huh, all I got to say. He ever get a job yet?" asking with about as much hope as a bird searching worms in a hailstorm.

"Now give him some time, Mom. I hear that doubtin' tone in your voice. He's tryin'. And it’s only been a couple or three weeks, so far.  He was out last week, checkin' the lube shops, bait and tackle stores, even the ice houses. He says times are tough. He's up against guys with high school degrees."

"You say last week he looked. And today?"

"He needed a break, so he's playin' some pool, maybe even bring in a buck or two, if he's lucky."

"When was he last lucky, girl? Same day catfish flew into boats?" And she paused to find the right words. "Listen here, Suze. I been waitin' on you to make a right decision. Even three cherries comes up ever so often on slots. I seen it. Now's as good a time as any for you. Tell you what. Hop on that bus and get yourself back here. Tell me when and where and I'll meet you. I'll fix you up your favorite—biscuits, meat-drip gravy, and sweet tea. Plus some of momma's hugs."

Suze chewed her fingernails a bit till a spot of blood bubbled up. Wiped it on the bed till it looked like a road. She thought of him, that time he balled his fists at her.  That time he slammed the door and said, “be back, or not, maybe.”  That time he laughed when she told him of her good memories about birthday parties back home, mom fixin’ a cake special, mom saying, “make a wish, hon.”  She looked past the motel room AC wheezing in the corner, past the flyspeck window, and saw a thin shaft of light easing through the blinds.

"Mom, meet you at the bus station on Wednesday. I'm comin' home."

about the author 

 Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

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PERCY ON PENGUIN BEACH by Guy Pratt,Cold Brew Coffee

 

Percy Richardson had just retired from a senior post with a firm in the city. He had received a substantial retirement lump sum and was planning to take a once in a lifetime holiday. Percy was a bachelor and a little reclusive. He usually spent his holidays in the countryside where he could indulge his passion for bird watching and photographing our feathered friends. He had sometimes joined groups on walking holidays on the continent, but this time he wanted to do something really different.

In a travel magazine he chanced on an article by someone who had traveled as a tourist to Antarctica. They had seen seven different species of penguin on the Southern polar continent and this sparked Percy’s interest and he began to look into the costs and possibilities of going there.

There were larger cruise ships that went down to Antarctic Peninsula which provided lots of on- board social activity, but if one wanted to get ashore more often a smaller boat seemed the better idea. Groups of no larger than a hundred were permitted ashore in one place at any one time, due to internationally agreed controls. Eventually he found a package that he felt suited him best – a group of about seventy people could travel on a smaller boat with an equal number of crew to look after their needs and take them on shore trips. Percy paid up and signed up for the trip.

After flying from Heath Row to Buenos Aires, where a couple of days were spent sight-seeing, the party were flown down to Ushuaia, at the tip of South America, to board their boat that was to take them down the Antarctic Peninsula and back via South Georgia and the Falkland Islands. In addition to the normal complement one might expect in a ship’s crew were a select group of experts on the natural history, geology and history of Antarctica. Percy was pleased to note one of these was a very knowledgeable ornithologist. Whilst at sea these experts would be giving educational talks about the many interesting things the passengers would be seeing when they went ashore and also guiding them on their shore trips.

Shore trips would be made in small rubber boats with outboard engines, called Zephyrs, similar to those used in commando landings. Each one could carry about eight to ten people and getting all the passengers ashore at one time would be no problem.

Although the boat had looked quite big, towering above them at the dockside before they boarded, once out to sea off Cape Horn, it pitched and tossed considerably. Percy miserably and queasily began to wonder  if it was all going to be worth it. However, within twenty-four hours he had found his sea-legs, his appetite had returned and everyone was enjoying thoughts of the prospects ahead whetted by the talks of their minders.

Nobody had seen any significance in the fact that the passenger list included a Mr and Mrs Richards accompanied by their son Gregory. They came just before Percy Richardson on the passenger list. The Richards had brought their son Gregory with them as a 21^st birthday gift, he was keen on travel and exploration.

Once down at the Peninsula regular shore trips were being made and things were going well. Percy was more than delighted when the opportunity came to visit the place where the Albatross nested and he managed to get some photographs. He had purchased an expensive telephoto lens for his camera especially for this trip. Each time they went ashore and he got some good photographs, he would hurry down to his cabin when he got back on board. There he would download them onto his laptop and edit them, saving the best.

When they went ashore at different places in the Zephyrs they would travel backwards and forwards in the same craft with the same guide usually to ensure everyone was accounted for. Often there would be a shore trip in the morning before returning for lunch on board and another trip ashore in the afternoon at a new location.

Percy Richardson’s portfolio of pictures on his laptop was growing to include elephant seals and Antarctic fur seals, some with their fluffy pups, and a prized shot of a solitary leopard seal floating on a small ice floe. Most of all he was delighting in photographing all the different species of penguin. He had already captured lots of shots of Adelie, Gentoo, Southern Rock Hoppers, Macaroni, with their distinctive yellow crests, King Penguins and Chinstraps. He could hardly wait for the next morning when they were going ashore onto a beach where they were promised they would see thousands of Emperor Penguins. Emperor Penguins are the largest of all the penguins, standing up to about four feet tall and they were told they would be able to walk about amongst crowds of them.

Nine zephyrs took the whole party ashore that morning, about eight of the tour party plus a guide in each one. Once ashore everyone was told that they could wander about freely as they wished, but be back at the Zephyrs in about three hours to return for lunch. Some of the guides set off to walk too, while some stayed with the zephyrs.

After about an hour Gregory Richards, limping very badly, hobbled back to the Zephyrs with his parents. He had climbed up onto some rocks, slipped, twisted his ankle badly and grazed his leg. Olivia, one of the guides, a Scandinavian girl with lots of polar experience and a first aider too, took a look at Gregory’s leg and as a precaution said she would take him back to the ship where he could get the ankle bound up and the graze treated.

This was quickly done and after leaving Gregory in the safe hands of the ship’s medical team she was soon back on the beach with the Zephyr.

Much further down the beach Percy Richardson was in the midst of the Emperor Penguins. It was just as they had been told, these large birds had no fear of humans. He could wander about amongst them easily and they took no notice. He might just as well have been another penguin himself. In fact, he was so close to them he didn’t need the telephoto lens on his camera. He sat on a small rock removed the large lens, putting it down beside him, and replaced it with the standard lens. Unfortunately, in his eagerness he forgot to pick up the telephoto lens.

He wandered on further amongst the throng, then noticing in the distance some members of the party were turning to head back to the Zephyrs, he looked at his watch and realised it would soon be time to return. It was then that he suddenly realised with horror that he was lacking his prized telephoto lens. He frantically started searching for it, trying to retrace his steps looking everywhere. Time was ticking away, but he was sure they would wait a little longer for him. It was a very expensive piece of equipment and as well as the financial loss he would incur if it was lost, he didn’t want to be without it for the rest of the trip.

At the departure point most of the Zephyrs had already set off back to the ship. Olivia was about to set off with her compliment in her Zephyr when she turned Harry Green, the guide team’s geologist and said “That’s all mine aboard. Who are you waiting for?”

“Only Mr Richardson” replied Harry “I don’t know where he’s got too?”

“Mr Richards’ son” responded Olivia “He sprained his ankle. I took him back to the boat a couple of hours ago.”

“Nobody told me” Harry muttered and then “Well, let’s all go then. I’m ready for lunch.”

A relieved Percy eventually found his treasured telephoto lens, hurriedly stuffed into his large camera bag and set off again. Looking at his watch he realised he was a few minutes late, but was sure one of the Zephyrs would be waiting for him.

Breathless, he arrived at what he was sure was the place, only to find no sign of anyone or any Zephyrs. Looking out across the sea towards the boat, he thought he could just make out the last two Zephyrs arriving back at the ship. In panic he started leaping up and down, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. All to no avail, the ship was soon under way and disappearing from view round a headland.

A distraught Percy Richardson sat on the beach, all sorts of thoughts racing through his mind. Would he be missed soon? Would they turn back to search for him? Then again, they might think he’d fallen overboard and he’d been told one would be unlikely to survive more than twenty minutes in those icy waters. How soon before another cruise ship might come along? It could be days and he had no food and although the Antarctic nights were short, temperatures dropped to well below zero.

Back on the ship passengers and crew were sitting down to lunch. One person did ask “Where’s Percy?” which provoked the response “You know Percy. He’s probably still down in his cabin downloading penguin photos onto his laptop.”

That afternoon the weather closed in with a strong wind, cold rain and rough sea. On board further shore trips were cancelled for the day. A cold, wet, miserable Percy sat huddled on a beach devoid of shelter. He was not a religious person in any way, but if there was a God he felt now was the time to pray. He’d never murdered anyone or robbed a bank, but if he got out of this alive, he promised he would repay everything he’d fiddled on the company expense account over the years.

On the ship, at four ‘o’ clock in the afternoon, the bar opened for Happy Hour, and for those who preferred, tea or coffee and cakes were served. It was a time when passengers and guides all enjoyed socialising together. As Harry Green turned from the bar he saw young Gregory Richards limping towards him with a stick.

“What’s happened to you?” Harry asked Gregory.

As Gregory explained his accident and how Olivia had brought him back to the ship Harry’s face paled with the awful realisation – this was Mr Richards’ son, so Mr Percy Richardson must have been left behind on the beach.

Gregory rushed to find the captain, and the ship was soon turned about. Tannoy messages and a thorough search confirmed Percy Richardson was not on board as they sailed back towards the penguin beach.

Fortunately, the daylight hours were long and at nine ‘o’ clock that evening five members of the crew including the ship’s doctor descended down the side of the ship into a Zephyr bobbing violently in a rough sea. A relieved, but shivering, almost gibbering Percy Richardson was wrapped in an emergency foil sheet and transported back to the ship.

Percy was fully recovered from his ordeal by the next morning and so thankful to be safe again, he decided he didn’t want to pursue any action against the crew.

The Norwegian skipper, named Frederickson, told of the time as a young man he served under a Captain Fredericks and he would sometimes be asked if the captain was his father, which of course he wasn’t. With all the Richards and Richardsons, Williams and Williamsons, Robins and Robinsons and so on, something like this was bound to have happened one day, but greater attention would be paid to passenger lists in future.

Back in England, Percy often tells his tale, perhaps a little embroidered, of being marooned on the Antarctic Peninsula like a modern-day Robinson Crusoe.

The accounts department of the company where he had worked for many years were one day surprised to receive a large bankers draft. An anonymous accompanying note simply said an ex-employee had just realised that whilst working for the company, he’d made a few “minor” errors in his expense claims.

   About the author

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

 

The Devil and the Deviousby Emma Ainley,black coffee

Until the end of last year, Chester brought his acting work into real life. Call this ‘living in a fantasy.’ Call this ‘just a dream.’ Chester had always been labelled as ‘crazy’ for his idealistic views and inability to stop playing characters when the curtains had closed. When he was thirty, his girlfriend was the latest to call him crazy – she needed a partner who was grounded in the real world, able to commit to a work life and a relationship.

            People knew Chester’s personality, even if he tried to mask it. Well, he decided, if they won’t accept him no matter what he does, he might as well do whatever he pleased. He’d always wanted to bring his villainous roles into real life. Ditching his real name, he was usually found intercepting radio and television broadcasts, leaving hidden messages in sports matches, or stopping tourist groups.

            Until last year – his fiftieth year. He needed money one day. He pushed himself into a suit of armour and trudged into a castle, waiting for the latest tour group. Tourists were gullible – none of them saw the creeping metallic arm reaching into their pockets, while they continued upstairs, into the daylight.

            Light blonde hair hid behind the dispersing crowd. A woman in her late thirties stayed in the room. Her eyes were on him as the room emptied. When he saw her eyes search him, and a smirk twist her lips, he knew everything was over for him. He thought he couldn’t breathe, and not because the chunks of metal were burying themselves into his skin.

            ‘The name’s Evelyn,’ she said when she approached him. ‘Something tells me you’re not working for the tour company. You’re not here to add to the atmosphere, are you?’

            He said nothing.

            Evelyn reached up to his helmet. ‘You’re the Devious One, aren’t you?’

            Chester, as the Devious One, removed his helmet and tutted. ‘You should be afraid. I’ve disrupted many holidays.’

            ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you trying to pinch a few quid off the tourists. You should set up a fundraiser. People would support you trying to get into power. They won’t help if you steal from them.’

            ‘Defeats the purpose of being evil.’

            ‘Anyway, you’ve got weird ways of trying to get into power,’ Evelyn continued. ‘Most people just go into politics.’

            ‘Tyranny’s more fun.’

            Evelyn snorted. ‘Well, don’t take anything from me. You know, I’m a strong leader. How about you show me one of your schemes? I’ll help, how about that? You could become the next famous thing, you know. A tourist attraction, maybe.’

 

A week later, Evelyn – under the name ‘Layla’ – and Chester became a duo. Chester wasn’t convinced about the idea of ‘being a tourist attraction’ while still exerting power over others. However, acting as more of a comic-book villain was a lot more fun than maliciously demanding money or interrupting broadcasts for the sake of it. Most of Chester and Evelyn’s attention was on the outdoors, tourist sites, and cities. Evelyn couldn’t join him all the time, but she had swayed his priorities towards having more fun.

            A couple of months passed. They had climbed up the outside of a clock tower. Seeing the view once they reached the top, Chester decided to speak.

            ‘Go on a date with me.’

            Evelyn dropped her mask. ‘What?’

            ‘Oh, don’t make me say it again… I mean, will you?’

            ‘…I’d love to, but… we’d have to be careful.’

            Evelyn gulped when Chester’s hood fell.

            ‘My father. Maybe you should see him from a distance,’ she murmured. ‘He wants me to get married and inherit his farm. He’ll destroy us.’

            ‘You chose to join me as a “tourist attraction,”’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t he disapprove?’

            ‘Yes, but there’s having fun in disguise, and there’s going back to the real world as yourself. I have a two-week curfew – that’s why I keep taking time off. He’d hunt me down otherwise.’

            ‘He doesn’t trust you?’

            ‘He’ll only marry me to someone he deems worthy – that’s why I’m not married,’ she said. ‘Tell you what – I’ll pay for a date tonight. You choose the restaurant. You don’t owe me anything, other than some defence against my father.’

            ‘I’ll try,’ Chester said.

 

Mr Bailey, Evelyn’s father, had set up cameras around the high fencing of his farm. Her father had called the police once to declare her missing when she didn’t come home. She’d been celebrating her birthday and had missed her curfew by a few hours. As the sun set, Chester approached the gates alone.

            ‘Wait on the hill,’ Chester told Evelyn. ‘I want to see him.’

            ‘Don’t do anything crazy. You can’t.’

Chester zoned out after this. He ignored the cameras – it was dark, and the cameras shouldn’t pick up more than the outline of his dark coat. Chester’s eyes followed the older man as he strutted around the fields. Mr Bailey’s silver waistcoat shone in the clear night. His back was turned to the house.

            Chester planned to watch him, of course. Maybe he could take a few things from the house. His jaw tightened when Evelyn bounded towards her father, her bag caught in her hair and wrapped around her head.

            ‘Hello, Pa.’

            ‘My Evie,’ he drawled, dropping the shovel. ‘You came home earlier than I expected. Usually, you try to drag out your time away from here.’

            ‘I-I needed to speak to you, that’s all, Pa.’

            ‘Good. Your father is always here for you. Have you found an heir to this farm, or would you like to hear my suggestions on who you should marry?’

            During the brief silence, Chester took the ladder and ascended the house. He lay flat on his stomach, in the centre of the roof. A top floor window was open, but not within reach yet. This window faced Mr Bailey, making detection likely if Chester were to climb through it.

            ‘It’s not about that,’ Evelyn whispered. ‘It’s not a confrontation, Pa. I want to ask something.’

            Mr Bailey shook his head. ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

            ‘I need more time in the city,’ Evelyn said. ‘I need more freedom. I’m sorry. I’ll help my future husband here, of course, but—’

            ‘Running a farm is a joint effort. You won’t be leaving your husband to his own devices,’ Mr Bailey bit out. ‘Your curfew is more than fair when there are people around here who need to be fed.’

            ‘You never gave me a choice of whether I want to own the farm.’

            ‘You are my only child,’ he spat. ‘You don’t get to choose.’

            ‘I’m still working at that café on weekends,’ Evelyn said, ‘and I’ve taken up a… new job, with tourists.’

            ‘You work on this farm. Earn as much as you want; I hold all your wages, Evie. Your life is mine.’

            Chester glared and started to descend. Evelyn nodded.

‘Honestly, it’s people like you who end up causing havoc with those protests. They should fire you; you haven’t managed to stop that Devious One either, have you?! You’re supposed to keep the public safe!’

‘Maybe he should just go!’ Evelyn hissed, side-glancing the roof. ‘It’s not our fault, Pa.’

‘Don’t take that tone with me. If you’re here to argue, I’d suggest taking a walk and returning when you feel better. Your work is going nowhere.’

            Evelyn said nothing as she left. Chester waited on the hill behind the farm – where Evelyn was supposed to be.

            ‘Don’t,’ Evelyn muttered when she saw Chester.

            Chester glared. ‘Why? I was going to watch him. I was going to grab a few things from him.’

            ‘He would’ve seen you. He’s no fool; he’s got alarms everywhere. I… I guess I’m a masochist at this point. I always return to him.’

            ‘Can’t we leave together? We can figure something out.’

            ‘Forget it, Chester,’ she said, and he stared at her. ‘We’d be like outlaws, on the run for the rest of our lives. He’s clever, and I can’t afford to leave.’

            ‘Evelyn…’

‘Look, I’ve had an idea anyway,’ Evelyn said. ‘I’ve got a neighbour that Pa knows well. She has a son. I’ll talk to him. Maybe he can help me.’

            She took his hands and kissed his cheek. ‘All I want you to do is enjoy yourself.’

            ‘I don’t need my cash,’ Chester said. ‘I’ll earn what I can, and we’ll get out somehow.’

            ‘What? No, that’s your money, you can’t—’

            ‘You won’t stop me. I’ll help you, and we’ll turn him in.’

‘…Then I’m sorry that I can’t repay you, but I will soon.’

 

Chester spent more time on his schemes and saving money. He spent more time alone, part of him wondering if the neighbour had become her real husband – it had been months since Chester had seen her. Wearing a masquerade mask, he waited outside the Bailey Farm and called Evelyn. Chester gawked at the sight of her – skinnier, covered in dirt, and wearing a torn summer dress.

            ‘Didn’t think you’d ever come back here,’ Evelyn said. ‘I thought we were meeting at the café tomorrow.’

            ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was worried about you.’

            ‘I’m sorry. Pa thinks the neighbour is my husband… We’ve been working on the farm every day. Why are you here anyway?’

            ‘I want to give up acting. Messing with tourists. Everything.’

            ‘What?’

            Chester swallowed. ‘A new life in the countryside. Your father can’t find you if we go far enough. I’ll pay for everything.’

            ‘A simple life, huh? I never thought you’d be the type for that,’ she breathed with a smile. ‘I’d love that. I’ll… have to get Fraser out of here first.’

            ‘Your neighbour?’

            Evelyn nodded. ‘He’s already married, and I’ve dragged him into this… I feel terrible.’

            ‘Don’t. I should’ve stood up to your father. I should’ve been on the farm instead of you and him.’

            ‘You’re very caring, you know? That proves you’re no villain,’ Evelyn teased, though her smile belied the croak in her voice.

‘I might be devious,’ Chester murmured, ‘but Mr Bailey is the Devil.’

            Evelyn turned away. ‘I’ll meet up with you tomorrow, love. We’ll go to that café and talk about this more. I’m sorry.’

            She fled back into the house.

 

‘Evelyn Bailey, 39.

            Beloved daughter and wife.

            At peace with nature.’

A choir surrounded the new gravestone. Each singer wore thin black robes, and none of them shivered. Drops of snow circled them, lingering in the air as if they were reluctant to touch the headstone. The choir sang in Latin and held out their music sheets, trying to share them with Evelyn.

Evelyn tried to keep her promise to go to the café. The wreckage of her car was found on a motorway ten minutes away from the city.

Chester stood out of view of the other – few – guests, with his hood over his head and his coat doubling as a cape. He glared at Mr Bailey, who stood tall and showed no emotion as his daughter was lowered into the ground. After the song, the attendants shuffled away. Chester did not move until the Devil – who only now had the nerve to apologise to his only child – sauntered out of the cemetery.

Chester’s eyes burned at the sight of the gold engraving. He opened his jacket, unveiling one of his favoured masquerade masks, and one of Evelyn’s masks.

‘I told you I’d give that life up, love,’ he murmured, the words almost startling him as the last of the choir’s echo died. ‘I’m not a hero. I should’ve done more. I…’

His already untidy black and grey hair slipped down his forehead.

‘Are you Chester?’

A thirty-something year old man wandered, hands in his pockets, behind Chester. Chester took a breath before facing him.

‘Yeah, I am.’

‘Fraser,’ the man said. ‘The neighbour. Evelyn’s friend.’

‘I… I owe you an apology.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t meet you before,’ Fraser said. ‘Evelyn wouldn’t stop talking about you. Your escapades as “villains…”’ He paused when Chester tensed. ‘That was an escape for her.’

‘I should’ve done more.’

‘Don’t think like that,’ Fraser said. ‘None of us saw Evelyn’s death coming. You couldn’t have known she’d get in a crash.’

Chester kept his face out of view. ‘How did you cope with Mr Bailey?’

Fraser swallowed. ‘I couldn’t. All I could do was allow him to mould me into a perfect, mindless follower, farmer, and husband. I wouldn’t allow any harm to come to Evelyn, so…’

Chester bit back a growl as Fraser unveiled his arm, littered with recent cuts.

‘That should’ve been me,’ Chester muttered. ‘I owe you thanks. I hope your real wife doesn’t have a family like that. And… thank you for protecting Evelyn. I should’ve been there for her.’

‘I tried. Mr Bailey… I’m sorry to say this, but you wouldn’t have lasted long on his farm.’

Fraser rested one gloved hand on the headstone and finally met Chester’s eyes.

‘I didn’t understand why you wanted to play a villainous role in real life.’

Chester huffed. ‘I just wanted a fun life. An escape from reality, I guess. It stuck. You could’ve been a proper nemesis to me, you know. Stealing Evelyn from me and playing the hero…’

‘No,’ Fraser said. ‘I couldn’t. Life isn’t a game.’

Chester gulped. ‘You’re right. I guess I’ll do some soul searching. The Devious One is dead, anyway. I might retire up in the mountains.’

Chester held his hand out, which Fraser shook.

‘Goodbye, Fraser,’ Chester whispered before leaving the cemetery.

 

About the author:

Born in Scotland, Emma Ainley is a student who is studying creative writing and the English language. She usually writes fantasy and speculative fiction – novels and short stories. She has her own website at thebookstartsnow.com

 

 

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