Walter froze mid-flow, his fingers floating above the suddenly hostile keys of his laptop. He could smell coffee, pastries and, for the first time that morning, himself, stale in the warm air. The novel he had been writing, so vivid and insistent in his mind these past months turned dull and lifeless as coal. More coffee, perhaps, he wondered, as his first and only novel shuffled quietly out the door, never to be seen again.

Sophie braced herself once more before the tidal-wave of bestsellers that made up the whole, towering wall of the bookstore. She grimaced, eyes moving from vapid, boys’-toys nonsense to self-serving memoir to undeserving literary dud. It’s just a lottery, Sophie, just a lottery. Yours will be there one day, right there at the crest of the wave, and your heroine… Sophie paused, incredulous that she could have forgotten the name of her heroine. It was… it was… it was on the tip of her tongue. She lived in Sophie’s head, she commented on her friends, she laughed at Celebrity X-Factor with her. But the heroine was slowly shuffling away through the store, never to speak to Sophie again.

James was so taken off guard he actually yelped, right there in the queue in Sainsbury’s. He covered it up with a cough, but ruined that with an almighty grin. Inspiration could strike at any moment, he knew, as if arriving from the heavens on a cosmic ray of primordial idea, fresh from the creation of the universe, and he loved that moment more than anything else. Someone brushed past him as they slouched through the queue. James’ grin faded slowly as he realised he had completely forgotten his killer plot.

Everyone had a novel in them. "If only", the story-vampire sighed, and shuffled on its way.

(PS. I am thinking seriously about turning this idea into a novel. I think it has some real potential)

At reception there was Katrina. Always Katrina, never Kat or Kathy, thank-you. Like the soft musak, she was always there, as was her smile, as starched and gleaming as her uniform. Between applications of blueberry crush nail polish, when she thought no-one was looking, she would take out her screenplay and read it through once again. And she would sigh once again as the young heroine caught her boss' eye, as they found themselves alone for the first time, that first kiss as the sun set on a perfect day. And she would put it away once again, vaguely uneasy at the ageless young heroine she had created, unfairly immortalised on the page, and she would reapply her lipstick, but just a bit thicker this time.

“So,” said Mike, sitting back and settling his drink in his lap, “were you there?”

Jack shook his head. “Nah. Seemed a bit – I dunno. When I came back, she was gone. Just like that.” His voice tailed off into the head of the Guiness he was holding against his lips.

Mike brought his Becks up. “To Delenda.”

Jack nodded, widening his eyes in a pretend comic exaggeration and took a sip. “To Delenda.” He smacked his lips. “Funny thing. She left me a message.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Got it this morning. Just reminding me to renew my travel card tomorrow and –“ a wry, distant smile, “- reminding me to meet you here.”

“You told her?”

“Aye. I wouldn’t remember to go to work in the morning without her giving me a wee nudge.” Jack paused. “Have remembered. She said ‘Goodbye’. I wasn’t expecting that. She never said it before.”

“Well, she knew, didn’t she? Four years. To the day. Tick, tick, tick.”

“To the hour. Minute - second, more like.”

Mike took another drink of his beer. “So, you need to buy a new jacket now or what?”

“I think they can replace the core, but I’m going to get a new one anyway. Time for a change. Kind of feels like the right thing to do, you know?”

Both men sipped their drinks in the fuzzy chatter of the pub.

“How ‘bout you?” asked Jack. “You fancy getting one? Step into the twenty-first century finally?”

“Are you kidding? I get a girl, and Cat’d kill me. I get a guy and – no way am I having a guy inside my clothes. Way too gay.”

Mike snorted. “It’s just a voice, you spaz. Look – see that moving picture on the wall. Those aren’t really tiny people in there. It’s called a te-le-vision. We have those in the future.”

“Fuck off. So, you getting a girl again? Can’t you just get Delenda Two or something?”

“It’s like – what were they called – Cabbage Patch – remember them? No two the same. Something about culturing the gel and setting the matrix. You get to trial it for a week; make sure you don’t hate it. You should get one. Fucking incredibly useful. Takes your calls, books stuff – she even suggested a present for Mother’s Day last time, then went off and ordered it. Mum loved it, too. Get one. You’ll wonder what you did without it, seriously.”

“We’ll see.”

#

“To Leial.” Jack raised his Becks.

“Off to the great gel-pack in the sky. To Leial. We get four-score years, she just got four. May she and Delenda meet up in the lounge in gel-heaven and kind of get it on, like sexy, little angels,” declared Mike.

“How many have you had, you lightweight? Should have stuck to Guinness, mate. You can’t handle that pear cider at your age.”

Mike slapped his belly. “Well, they stopped the LoCo Guinness, didn’t they? Regular stuff was turning me into a fat bastard.”

“You are a fat bastard.”

“And you’re a hypocrite,” Mike smirked. “Who said ‘I’m not getting a jacket with a guy in it, that’s for puffs’?”

“I never said that.”

“Did too. Four years ago. Right here.” Mike paused, looking about the pub. “Well, over there, I think.”

“Never said it. And he’s not just any old AI, mate. Check it out.” Jack opened the flap of his coat, revealing the lining. “A KBR Apple iFamulus, son. Fucking dogs’, he is. Connects to any other iFamulus I’ve got –”

“– which means none!”

“– yet – I plan on getting a pair of those trainers soon – and to my house and my car and my work. Runs it all. Little pocket genius, he is.” Mike sat forward, putting his beer down and waving his finger at Jack. “Get this, right. He supports Hearts. Out of the box, he supports Hearts. Had to keep him then, didn’t I? And he’s mental – you should’ve heard him at the game on Sunday, ranting on like a tiny wee McCoist. Cat’s supports Thistle, and she was giving him an earful – stuck it on the speakers it was so good. Me and Cat were pissing ourselves laughing. You should get more than one, mate – link them up. You’ll wonder what you did before with just one.”

Jack sighed into his cider. “Just wait, mate. Four years. You miss them, you know. Even though they’re not real. ‘S funny how much you miss her. Always so polite and cheery.”

“Delenda?”

“Aye.”

Mike made a face. “Stone-age, pal. They could put her inna watch now, or an earring or something.”

“Funny you should say that.” Jack reached into his trouser pocket and took out a brochure. He unfolded it, slapped it on the table in a puddle of beer and turned it on. He and Mike watched the display for few moments, and then Mike looked up to see Jack’s smug grin.

“No need to get a new jacket, this time,” said Jack.

Mike looked back at the brochure, wincing as the display slowly rotated. “Seriously? Under the skin?” Mike shook his head slowly, making a face like he was smelling week-old fish. “I heard about that. That can’t be healthy.”

“They said the same thing about microwave surgery. Luddites like your poor self will always find something to fear at the cutting edge, while the rest of us march bravely on.”

“Aye, cutting’s the right word, alright. Could ask them to trim some of your belly while they’re at it!”

“I’m going to ignore that, since I don’t speak Caveman. She can see what I see, hear what I hear. We can talk without one of these,” Jack tapped his earpiece. “Perfect.”

“Nah,” said Mike, finishing his Becks. He mimed an alien bursting out of his chest, flopping out onto the bar table. “Never catch on. They’ll be after you with the pitchforks and the flaming brands inside a week, zombie-boy.”

#

Jack sighed and lowered himself uncomfortably into the chair. He would have to lose some weight. She did keep telling you.

“To Nepenthe, then,” he said.

++To Nepenthe,++ said Mascaron, the voice sounding in Jack's head. ++May she rest in peace.++

Mike nodded and sipped from his gin and tonic. “Nepenthe.”

++Haecceity would like to say a word, Jack.++

Sure.

~~I’m sorry she’s gone, Jack. I’ll miss her. We all will~~

Me too, Hek. Me too. Thanks.

“Man, I liked Nep,” said Mike. “She was – she was always so positive, you know? Outgoing. Hek really liked her too. They used to talk about Iain Banks – sorry, Hek, Ian Rankin – all the time.”

Jack nodded absently. “Yeah?” He looked up, blinking although the pub was only dimly lit. “Sorry – yeah, you’re right. Positive. Outgoing.”

Mascaron, he thought. Could you sleep for a minute?

++Of course++

Jack sat forward, almost hugging the bottle of mineral water. “Mike, tell Hek and the rest not to say anything to Mascaron. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”

“’Kay.” Mike made sure his famuli had heard. “What’s up?”

“It’s just –“ Jack waved his hands limply. “You know, when Nepenthe shut down, I just – it’s so quiet without her, you know?”

“Is this about Mascaron? I thought you got him pretty quick, to be honest.”

“You think so?”

“Not in a bad way, pal. I’m sure I’ll feel the same way when Hek – you know, when she – you know it’s only four years. They don’t get long.”

“That sucks. Fuckers could make it longer, I know they could. Fucking gel-atrophy my arse.”

“Yeah, well, everyone’s got to make their money somehow. Didn’t think you’d get a male, though. It’s always been females with you; Delenda and Leial and the others. And Nepenthe.”

“It was just so quiet, you know. In my head. And the others were pretty quiet, too. They were a bit down. So I went straight down to KBR Apple and – I just couldn’t get another girl, though. Not so soon.” Jack turned his head away from his friend.

“Jack, are you -?”

“No!” Jack looked back over his shoulder through the crowded bar. “Nah. Just seeing if the footy’s on yet, is all.” He stared at the news on the floating screen for just a bit too long, and then turned back to the table, smiling just a bit too broadly at his friend. “Nope, not yet.”

++Is it convenient for me to return?++

Umm. Sure, Mascaron. Of course.

++Your heart rate is elevated beyond your health-care provider’s recommended limit. Shall I -?++

- no need. It’s okay. Just need to lose some weight, is all.

++Well, you need to try harder, because it keeps finding you again.++

Cheers. Thanks for that. Sarcasm’s just what I need. Go chat to Hek.

“When do you go?” asked Mike.

“Week after next. She always wanted to see New York, but work just never took me there. Head up the Freedom Tower, do the tourist thing – she collected photos of New York. Old ones, mostly. Made a few images of her own. They were pretty good.”“I know. Hek printed some of them for me on the walls at home. They looked like watercolours. All greys and greens. She always got the crowds right – the streets just seemed full of people, full of energy and life.”

“That’s the ones. Yeah, they were pretty good.” Jack sipped his water. “So long, Nepenthe.”

#

“I’ve got to tell you,” said Mike, sitting back on the bench, his drink untouched, “I’m still not too sure about this. Not at all. But I’m going to go along with it, for his sake.”

Jack nodded, jerky little movements. “I know, Mike. It’s tough. It’s pretty damned weird for me, too, believe me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this happening before, anywhere.”

“Me either. When people find out… We have to have a funeral. A proper funeral once – you know.”

“We all agree. A proper funeral. No question. I’ll come back, when it’s time.”

“But you’re right, too. This is what he’d have wanted. But, you know, if I thought for a minute that you had anything to do with –“

“Ask Hek, Mike. Ask her.”

“I have. She told me, and I believe her. An embolism, right?”

“I couldn’t do anything about it. By the time I’d got nanos to it, it was too late. He’d been starved of oxygen for too long. He just died in his sleep. He didn’t feel a thing.”

“Nepenthe always got on at him about his weight. Stupid bastard should’ve listened.”

“We all told him.”

“I know. There’s nothing you could have done. Well,” said Mike, raising his glass. “Here’s to Jack. Who knows. Maybe now he’ll get to meet up with some old friends. Gone, but not forgotten.”

“Gone, but not forgotten,” said Mascaron, slowly working Jack’s fingers round the glass. He would get the hang of this eventually, he knew. He raised the glass. “To Jack.”

THE END

Three knocks rap out on the door, but I cannot answer. She had said there would be seven knocks, not three.

Three is a trinity, and holy, but seven is even more holy still. The many-faced Beast of hell, who holds the great sinners in his three mouths, also cherishes the number three. Brutus, Judas and Cassius, eternally consumed, body and soul, by Lucifer Light-Bearer, the traitor-cannibal of the lightless pit. Three knocks will not make me answer.

The three knocks come again, but I close my eyes and they turn to birdsong and honey. I open my eyes and they have gone.

My phone rings. I let it ring seven times, then pick it up. I know who it is. "My angel."

"Ahh - good morning, Mister Devon. We're calling with important information about a forthcoming private equity opportunity. First of all, can I ask if you own your own home?"

It is her. I smile. “This home and everything in it belongs to God and all his heavenly angels,” I tell her.

She knows this already, of course, and laughs. “Well, Mister Devon. I’ll take that as a yes. You should know that Dundee Investment Services specialises in bringing unique market opportunities, well in advance of publication in the specialist press and websites, for risk-conscious people like you who want a positive return over a short period. And with Dee Eye Ess,” – that’s how she says it, although she sometimes calls it ‘Dis’ – “we can make sure it happens right away before this opportunity leaks into the specialist press and your returns are severely restricted.”

“Thank you for calling me, Jean,” I say.

There is a pause on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, sir?”

I am not insulted by this. The world is a large and confusing place, with many, many people who want to talk to me and tell me what to do, where to go, what to wear, what to eat, what to touch and how. An angel like Jean, who must offer guidance and spiritual resolve to so many thousands, cannot be expected to remember every voice she hears. But I remember hers, and she always lets the phone ring seven times before I pick it up. “Yes, Jean. You rang last week and told me about acquiring an early release in A. C. M.? You told me how much I should ask it for, but that I should only let it go for seven. I’m still holding on. I hope you’re pleased.”

Another pause. For an angel like Jean, not bound by the laws of physics that keep us mired in the dirt, I imagine her talking to another hundred lost souls in that briefest of pauses, helping them all as she has helped me. “Mister Devon, of course I remember you, Mister Devon. It’s very good to talk to you again, and I’m glad that investment is working out for you. As a valued customer who has experience of our quality of service before, I am sure you will be keen to snap up this new opportunity before it disappears.”

“Well, Jean, I grabbed the last one with both hands. Tell me what I need to do this time. Is it another early release? The bell went quite quickly last time, and I only just got away. The Good Lord was watching over me, of that I am sure.”

“Mister Devon, I can assure you that with a minimum of time and investment on your part, right now, you can acquire another early release to supplement your existing investment with significant short-term gains.”

I am smiling now. “That sounds delightful, Jean. Please tell me more.”

Jean tells me all about the new opportunity she would like me to pursue. Time, it seems is critical, and there is only a very small window. I take this a clue; sometimes Jean can be cryptic. She mentions ‘portfolio’ again; several times, in fact. I know my Latin – I was properly educated. ‘Port’ meaning entrance, and ‘folio’ meaning leaves. The main gate to the municipal park, if you haven’t got it already. There is a public toilet there, and it has a very small window. Small enough to get one of my investments through – Jean may be cryptic, but she always gives me enough to go on.

“Jean. Thank you for that. Can I ask, however, what I should do with my existing investment? I told it three, like you said, but am waiting for seven. Should I keep waiting for seven?”

“You told it three? I’m not sure – oh, I see what you mean. A. C. M. is fairly low at the moment, and there are – Mister Devon, I’ll be honest with you, although don’t tell my supervisor I said this – there are some concerns about its longevity. I’m not sure how long it can last in today’s climate with the projected growth figures looking so anaemic. You may never get seven, Mister Devon.”

I look over at the door. As if on cue, there are another three knocks.

“Jean, I hear what you are saying. It is getting a bit thin in there. Should I just kill it and dump the body?”

There is a pause on the phone.

“I – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, Mister Devon. I think we had a crossed line there for a moment. Did you say ‘kill it’?”

“Yes, Jean. A. C. M. – Alastair Cunningham Maxwellton, from the Junior School. He got let home early – released before the bell went. I was waiting, just like you said, and I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. You would have been so proud of me, Jean. So. Should I just kill him and dump the body? There’s not much room in that cupboard for another investment right now.”

There is another pause. Jean is silent for some time.

“Mister Devon. Ah, Mister Devon…”

“Yes, Jean?”

“I think Master Maxwellton has proven to be a bad investment. Dump the body somewhere it won’t be noticed. Be sure to remove the teeth and fingertips. Be at the park gate at 2pm tomorrow. Your new investment will be there, on time. Goodbye, Mister Devon.”

“Goodbye, Jean. It’s been a pleasure, as always.”

Another three knocks come from the cupboard, fainter now. I collect Old Faithful from under the stairs, and take the key off the hook. Where would I be if it wasn’t for my angel Jean?

THE END

They were like children, really, thought Reyha Kruchow, as she looked out over her father’s workfloor. You didn’t feel sorry for them, that would be wrong, but you did have to iron on a smile each and every hour of the day and do your best for them, no matter what. Like children, they could get moody and frustrated easily, and it was often a chore – if one that Reyha Kruchow bore on broad, forgiving shoulders – having to remind them just how much she and father did for them.

Being cosseted by the Emperor’s mighty Imperial Guard for so long, being told where to go, where to live, what to do, what to eat; they came out after decades of service less like the heroes she was proud to remind them they all were, and more like prisoners, blinking into some unrelenting sun. No matter how strong and brave they had once been – something else Reyha never tired of mentioning – no battlefield enemy was quite like civilian life, no foe so inexorable, so inscrutable, so impervious to the training they had trusted all their lives. Confused, often angry – bitter even, although those ones she sometimes had a harsh word for – as they realised how abandoned and alone they now were, her father’s company prided itself in taking on ex-Guardsmen, and Reyha Kruchow prided herself on caring for them like her own children.

There was Corporal Denning, for instance, still going through orientation at his needling machine. She watched him as he tried to thread the flax through the pivot, his mechanical fingers slipping time and again on the waxed cord. He caught her glance, saw her watching him. His grey face flushed red as his lips drew together in a white line, but it was a familiar look from a new start, and she could indulge him without a warning. She smiled down on him from above, wriggled her own slender fingers in midair to show she appreciated his difficulties and mimed the required action slowly and carefully, until he bent back to his task. Perseverance was the key, especially where a worker had lost a limb, and amputees were especially welcome at her father’s company. While there was nothing so heart-warming as the fragile look behind the eyes of a granite-faced ex-trooper when she smiled her most welcoming smile and patted his square-set shoulders and told him he could start that day, it was all the more touching when the poor man had suffered some terrible injury.

Reyha’s gift was empathy, and she knew they valued her for it, even if they couldn’t quite bring themselves to say so. Turned away from everywhere else, they knew that here, working for Reyha and her father, they could find work amongst others like them. Rewarding work. And when she sat them down in front of their machines, pointing out the rows and rows of ex-comrades-in-arms and now valued colleagues-in-commerce that lined the workfloor like a parade-ground, she always asked for, and always got, a ‘thank you’ for her trouble.

“Do you know how lucky you are?” she would ask, and they would always nod, and sometimes the happy tears in their eyes would catch in her throat. They were all so very lucky.

The man and the bar had become one. Both marinating in cheap alcohol, the stained, brown leather of his coat seemed an extension of the peeling bartop surface. Both the bottle before him and his sweaty, pasty skin glinted dully under the hotlights in the yellowed ceiling, one draining the contents from the other. He had spent the morning trying to tell various people just what was wrong with the country, or the people, or both, but none of them had stayed to hear the wisdom of his many years. Why? His foul breath, perhaps, his permanent, monobrow frown. His vague and watery eyes that only focused inwards. His fingers, maybe, dancing and twitching in the puddles of spilt dreams before him, forgotten puppets whose master has long abandoned them. No-one old enough to be in a bar is naïve enough to get caught in conversation with a man like that. And I was going to go up to this man? This man who’d already glanced at me with such hopeless eyes several times, no light of recognition in those pitiful shallows, just a glimmer of drunken delight at seeing a young woman sitting alone in the corner. Go up to him and say what, exactly? “Hi, Dad. How’s it been? Remember me?”

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