You've Had Your Chips - a short story

You’ve Had Your Chips

At first it seemed a marvellous idea. A microchip implant which meant you never had to carry (or lose) money, keys or ID ever again. What freedom! Especially for someone like Sarah who had a brain like a sieve and was forever forgetting things. Once she had even lost a flight through forgetting her passport! 

Sarah was indeed the first in her neighbourhood to have the implant and extol the benefits of a smaller handbag to all her friends, neighbours and colleagues, though eventually it became mandatory, so she needn’t have worried.

Of course she felt a bit sorry for all the locksmiths, shopkeepers and others who lost out when keys and cash became a thing of the past, particularly the homeless. Though strangely the homeless soon started disappearing from the streets, so presumably they had solved the homelessness crisis. Either way, it was nice to see clean streets again and not get accosted every time she went out. 

The council grew satisfyingly efficient. They always remembered to start the birdsong tape at six every morning to brighten everyone's day. So much better than the old days of slippery bird poo and scavenged binbags everywhere. They also lined the streets with attractive no maintenance plastic trees which never shed any leaves or caused any root damage and each remained green all year round possessing a discreet solar panel at the top to power the driverless vehicle plugged in at pavement level.

Years went by and things became more and more expensive with transaction charges added to every electronic purchase but Sarah didn’t worry too much. They had to pay for all this new technology after all. And it was so convenient. She just went out less in the evening and had fewer holidays. Anyway you could get some lovely second hand clothes these days. She had never realised before.

Then one day Sarah went into work and it was announced there would be a special departmental meeting at 11am. Sarah wondered what it could be about. She soon found out. Her department was being closed and they were all being made redundant. Those closer to retirement age weren’t so upset and immediately started planning all the holidays they were going to have, much to the irritation of younger staff like Sarah.

From that day forward Sarah went into overdrive applying for new jobs. She had never been unemployed in her life before and wasn’t about to start claiming benefits now. No money wasting holidays for her. However many of the jobs she was qualified for in banking no longer existed. The electronic technology was rendering them useless, hence the closure of her department.

Eventually six months and many interviews later Sarah landed a job in a bank of a different kind, a DNA bank where she became a risk calculator for insurance companies. It was better paid and Sarah reveled in her tenth floor glass office – the first office she’d ever had all to herself.

To celebrate Sarah decided to throw a party inviting all her former colleagues. Only seven turned up out of the thirty people Sarah had worked with. Out of those thirty it turned out that fourteen had died. Sarah was shocked. She had been so absorbed in looking for a new job, she had only kept in touch with one colleague who was equally determined to find another job, Lisa, who had eventually taken a pay cut to work in an Estate Agents. Jeff the relationship manager had been killed in a car crash but the others it seemed, had all died of heart conditions, even Paul and Jason, who had only been in their forties, one while running a marathon. 

‘I can hardly believe it.’ Said Lisa. 

‘I know.’ Said David. 

‘We must be jinxed! Maybe we should all go for heart tests.’ 

‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Stuart chipped in. ‘I saw Jason’s widow the other day. She said just before he collapsed that he had a tingling pain in his right arm.’ 

‘I thought heart attacks affected the left’ said David. 

‘So did I’ said Sarah. ‘And I’ve had to learn a bit about medical conditions for my new job.’ 

‘She said much as she misses him, the insurance has come in handy as he was about to run out of money after their cruise.’ added Stuart.

‘Nice’ said David. ‘I hope my wife doesn’t say the same about me if I conk out. We’re also about to run out of money if I don’t get that departmental job I’ve just gone for. ‘

‘Well as long as you haven’t got a tingling pain in your right arm, you should be alright.’ joked Stuart.

David blanched. ‘Funny you should say that.’ He said. ‘Here. Pass me that fish knife.’

‘Why. What are you going to do with it?’ asked Stuart.

‘Something I suspect we may all need to do.’ replied David. 

They watched as he rolled up his shirt sleeve, tied a napkin tourniquet around his arm and used the tip of the fish knife to extract the microchip.

                                                                               ©LS King 2020

Spirits - a Short Story

And now for something completely different...

                                       Spirits

Fergus McCullen wended his uncertain way back to his bedsit illuminated by sulphur street lights forming orange pools on the pavement, the rain driving so hard it splashed back up off the slabs, but Fergus didn't mind. It was summer and the rain was almost warm for once, echoing his own warm and wet state of mind. He pished himself and the rain obligingly washed his trousers. He didn't have any underpants on. In each of his hands he held a flimsy loaded carrier bag, perilously close to disgorging its contents at any moment. He breathed a sign of relief at making it over the flyover, liquid sustenance intact. He should be home soon. Perhaps he would take that short cut across the wasteland. There shouldn't be anyone to give him gyp or rob his cannies at that time of night what with the rain pishing.

He trudged off the road just before a clump of trees and onto the unlit muddy path by the stream that led to the arse end of his estate. He felt weary and suddenly quite tired. These week long seshes were starting to catch up with him. He wasn't as young as he used to be.

Next thing he knew he had tripped over a tree root on the path and head first into the congealed stream, hitting his head on a half-submerged supermarket trolley on the way down. Somehow he managed to scrabble back onto the bank where he fruitlessly searched for his carrier bags, before realising to his dismay that they must have landed in the stream. 'Aye f***!' he exclaimed, sinking to his knees.

Fergus didn't remember how long he had been searching the stream using a large branch he had found nearby but he was sick of it. To make matters worse, some eejit was lying on the path getting in his way every time he tried to progress along it and giving the prostrate figure a kick didn't make the slightest difference.

The rain petered out and dawn slowly broke. A couple of drunken youths sauntered along. Fergus shouted out to them to help him find his cannies but they ignored him. They had however acknowledged the figure lying on the path and given it a testing kick. When the kick was answered with no response they searched the figure's pockets and relieved him of his loose change and a watch. Fergus watched them in disbelief as he recognised the watch. It was his pirate Rolex from his former landlord's trip to Spain. He looked at the figure on the ground. Same shirt as him, same trousers as him, same shoes as him, same face as him…? Fergus felt his face with his hands in growing alarm. 'Jeez, I am still me.' he thought with some relief. 'But who the f*** is that?' His relief quickly evaporated as a terrible realisation dawned upon him. 'Oh ma God! I'm deed and that's ma body o'er there!'

Fergus spent the next few hours rooted to the spot watching as a brown boxer dog eventually lolloped along the path and licked his body's face, shortly followed by its owner, a stout florid man with a shaven head and neck tattoos who, after prodding the figure with a Doc Martin, rang the Police on his mobile, his boxer dog still trying its best at resuscitation. Fergus watched as first the Police arrived, shortly followed by the Paramedics, and he was photographed, tagged and put in a body bag to be trolleyed into the ambulance. He snuck into the ambulance unchallenged and hitched a ride next to the CPR trolley to Glasgow Royal Infirmary where he was admitted to the Mortuary.

'Well that's a tenner you owe me Angus. Didn't I tell you we'd have the first one by 8am?'

'We don't know it's alcohol yet.'

'Ha! Smells like a brewery! Though it'll probably be the fall into the stream that killed him granted, but it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been drunk.'

'That's cheating.'

'No, just extenuating circumstances. Tenner please.'

Fergus watched in horror as, bet honoured, they cheerfully set about scissoring his clothes off and joking about his lack of underpants and the urine they found in his shoes.

'We've got a right one here Prof. Can't even be arsed to go in the bushes. Bet his flat's in a right state.'

'Well PC Kirsty will soon find out and give us the low-down. Here's his ID in his coat lining. An off licence loyalty card, surprise, surprise. Looks like someone's already helped themselves to a watch and any small change'

Fergus watched as they set about disembowelling him, de-braining him and putting various other bits of him in specimen jars. His liver was a particular cause of jocularity, being enlarged to over twice its normal size, though his shrunken 'pea' brain was also scorned. They then added insult to injury by speculating his age at 55.

'But I'm 43!' he wailed.

He thought about his bedsit and suddenly found himself there amidst a scene of domestic devastation, no sheets on the stained mattress, old newspapers and dirty food containers everywhere, health hazard kitchen and bathroom, cigarette butts and pennies strewn, threadbare curtains dotted with cigarette burns from hours standing at the window. An absurd thought about 'tidying up' before PC Kirsty arrived occurred, but when he tried to open the cupboard under the sink to locate a decade old bottle of bleach he dimly remembered, his hand went straight through the knob and nothing happened. PC Kirsty arrived with a female companion and they both changed into white protective suits and, much to Fergus's affront, face masks, before beginning to root through the pathetic remnants of his forty three years, taking photographs and bagging and tagging anything either suspicious or otherwise of interest. They were more respectful than the post-mortem surgeons, albeit repeatedly marvelling at how people could get themselves into this state and how sad it was they seemed to be seeing more of this sort of thing these days, if somewhat disparaging about Fergus's evident inability to pay for his own funeral, judging by what they found. 'Well how was I supposed to know I was going to die at 43?' he thought bitterly. 'I'd have tidied up, bleached the sh*te out the bath and left you some friggin' teacakes if I'd known!'

Fergus's funeral at the local crem two weeks later was no less a grim affair, only PC Kirsty, her companion and a locum vicar present as the service was mumbled with the greatest economy of tribute paid to a deceased known only in name and cause of death before the red velvet curtains finally closed on Fergus's life.

Having watched his bedsit being stripped into a skip, fumigated and redecorated ready for the next occupant and then the said new occupant whooping with glee at opening the door for the first time into their new bedsit before starting on the whiskey, Fergus found himself at a loose end. He was getting used to being dead now and rather bored. And god, did he need a drink, especially after all he'd just been through. He also found himself increasingly angry at being dead, and so prematurely, none of his childhood dreams of becoming a trucker realised. To the point he gave old Tam the hobo a good shove for outlasting him as he drifted towards his old haunts in the city centre. That man had hung about the precinct like the bad smell he was since Fergus was a nipper and must have sunk twice as much booze as Fergus including meths. How the f*** did HE get away with it?

Fergus finally entered the Mackintosh Arms, his favourite drinking den of old, until his friends de-friended him one by one forcing him to embark on a solo drinking career.

And blow me if that wasn't Bill Dunstan at the bar with a whiskey in his hand and wearing a pale blue suit. What was that b***ard doing in a suit? Bill had actually been that trucker that Fergus aspired to be. Before it led to an argument from which their lifelong friendship never recovered, that is. Fergus found himself salivating at the sight of Bill's whiskey. He could see it, he could smell it, he could almost taste it. It was within his grasp. He reached, but as usual his hand went straight through. 'Bill!' he shouted! 'Bill! Gi' us a drink, you tight b***ard!'

But Bill of course could not see Fergus, though he felt a shiver in the warm-bodied bar he couldn't explain as Fergus drew near.

'Bill!' Fergus struck him on the back, and again his hand went straight through. He thought he saw Bill's eyelids flicker involuntarily as he half turned. A thought occurred to him. 'Well ah'm no nancy boy, but ah ken what would happen if I walked into him.' Fergus tested out his theory and walked into the broad expanse of Bill's back.

Much to Fergus's amazement he could suddenly feel the glass as a real solid glass and pick it up with his hand. His hand??? He looked down and saw a far chubbier hand than his own and with cleaner nails lifting the glass to his lips. He drained the contents in one. Whiskey had never tasted so sweet. He ordered another and another, revelling in his new physicality. He ordered a home made lamb and ale pie. It was so long since Fergus had last tasted food, real food, even when alive. 'Steady on Bill. Dinnae forget that round of golf tomorrae' a face he did not recognise chided him. 'F*** off.' He replied cheerfully in Bill's voice then laughed manically at the sound of his new self. The strange face looked taken aback and then scared before hastily making its excuses and leaving. Wise man, thought Fergus. Then he went through Bill's pockets to find out how rich he was. He was gratified to find a roll of notes in his breast pocket. Several hundred.  And then another roll of notes in his trouser pocket. 

'Trucker, my arse!' he thought. 'But this one's for you Bill you old b***tard.' And with that, Fergus drained his sixth whiskey of the night, impressed that his new body was holding up so well. Several drinks later he treated himself to a local hotel and drank the mini bar dry, staying for weeks and taking full advantage of room service and satellite TV. A wife and some children he did not recognise eventually began visiting and repeatedly pleading with him to go home, telling him he wasn't well and that he'd had a breakdown. He laughed and eventually agreed to go home with them. He hadn't had sex for years after all and Bill's wife wasn't a bad looking hen. Let the revenge go on.

Fergus was impressed to find that he owned a fine 1950s art deco style home in the suburbs with a swimming pool, everything white and brand spanking new. His wife Kaitlin was pleasantly easy on the eye, her aquiline nose and short dark bobbed hair set off by designer suits which neatly encased her petite but bosomy figure. Way out of his league, he thought with satisfaction as she swept their people carrier into the driveway, he in the passenger seat. He could take or leave their two chubby couch potato boys whose only interest in life it seemed were x-boxes. 'They'll be boozers' he thought with satisfaction as he showered later in the en-suite, his unwitting wife waiting for him in the bedroom. He felt suddenly excited as he towelled himself dry. He had purposefully drank little this evening. It had been so long. At least five years. He cuddled up to Kaitlin in bed. 'I'm not sure about this Bill.' She whispered. 'You've been behaving so oddly lately and I still haven't forgiven you for abandoning us like that. You haven't even had that appointment with the shrink yet'

'Ssssshhh' he replied kissing her.

Suddenly there was a whoosh and before Fergus knew it he was ousted and standing outside the bed watching Bill whispering strangely emotional-sounding reassurances and promises into Kaitlin's ear as he slowly began to make love to her.

'You b***ard!' he screamed and launched himself onto the bed, but he fell right through it and the floor into the kitchen below. He was a mere spirit again.

He never saw Bill in the Mackintosh Arms again and eventually found through trial and error that the only drinkers whose bodies he could hi-jack for any length of time before eviction were those of truly hardened drinkers whose strength of character and personality were too compromised and weak to fend off or eject him. Fergus took maximum advantage of his next joy ride - Pete, an out-of-work postman - jumping off the top of his tower block once he had run through the man's redundancy payment. He had once raped a girl anyway Fergus realised with a jolt when he had taken him over body and mind, so he deserved everything he got.

A retired Judge who had once given Fergus Community Service for theft and a binge-drinking female student followed next, whom he forced to turn lesbian for his delectation, greatly surprising the male students in her circle whom she had previously been both generous and enthusiastic about bestowing her sexual favours upon. Both ended up felled by alcohol poisoning and Fergus took great delight in visiting the local Infirmary to find out what the post-mortem surgeons made of both of those. Quite a meal as far as the girl was concerned, her pretty face making the national papers as a tragedy, not to mention a disturbing comment on our times. Fergus chortled to himself and resolved to look out for similarly stunning female students to hi-jack and hit the headlines with.

If Fergus had been better educated he could have fantasised that he were Zeus assuming different bodies and shapes, except they weren't exclusively his and moulded for his express use, but other peoples' and taken without their permission, but either way he was having a ball! Who would have thought that death would turn out to be the best thing that had every happened to him? Sometimes he didn't even drive his hosts to an early grave, but merely traded them in when he grew bored or their health started breaking down and he just couldn't be arsed to put up with a failing body, too sick even to enjoy a jar.

Regrettably his own neglectful boozy parents were long dead as he'd have enjoyed taking his revenge on them too. All those hours locked in his room and days only fed when they sobered up enough to remember. That was the thing about booze or even drugs. Children only get fed when their boozy or trippy parents are hungry and remember, and since they seldom are, going without becomes an occupational hazard. Eating out of neighbours' dustbins, or better still, from the bins behind cafes and restaurants almost became a way of life for Fergus.

But the Head Teacher who didn't believe him when Fergus tried to tell him what his home life was like was probably the next best thing. Thus was Mr Trevor Pangbourne's fate sealed. Luckily he turned out to be all too ready to have his retired body hi-jacked, having retired to the South of France for the sole purpose of drinking himself to death at a leisurely rate amid convivial ambiance and within sight of a mediaeval castle. The worst of it was, no ex-pat pal even raised an eyebrow as they toasted their late friend, which irked Fergus no end as he left the provincial graveside.

But his spell in the South of France gave Fergus an appetite for the travel he'd never experienced in life and he found that just by imagining a place he could be there, an advantage he didn't have when inhabiting an earthly body.

He was shocked to see how narrow his life had been in his filthy Glasgow bedsit on the dole and on his tod. Now he felt even more angry and cheated. The only certificate he had ever attained was his birth certificate. Ok, and death certificate. But what had his life amounted to? What had it all been about?

He felt an urge to return to the city of his birth. He felt sure that's where the answers lay. Invariably he ended up in the Mackintosh Arms eyeing up a brash shiny-suited young prospect who was regaling the saloon with his mobile phone Salesman of the Month coup, but whom Fergus sensed was already out of control. Multiple jars later and after a thrilling high-speed Police chase weaving dangerously around the ring road in the young salesman's Fifth Series convertible (Fergus had never learned to drive), he rounded the evening off in a head-on collision with a bus, hardly a dent incurred by the bus, but the poor salesman's bragging silenced forever in the concertina'd car, Fergus felt slightly guilty as he regarded the smoking wreck. How could he continue doing this having met the Pope on his astral air travels?

He shrugged. The salesman had annoyed him, rubbing his failure's red nose in the salesman's precocious success. He deserved it.

He wandered the streets and entered a hotel, peeking into various rooms for vicarious thrills. Then he came across an empty one and decided to treat himself. He had no physical need to lie on a bed but it was kind of nice anyway, so he did. Suddenly he noticed arms and legs emerging from the walls and as their faces appeared he recognised the victims he had joy-ridden into the ground, including the salesman from earlier that evening. They crowded in on him until their faces seemed only inches away from his. He felt suddenly fearful, then laughed. What were they going to do to him? He was already dead. Play their cards right and he might even show them how to enjoy themselves and dispel their bitterness towards him.

'McCullen!' exclaimed Mr Pangbourne, his face looming the largest. 'I think you'd better come with me young man. The headmaster wants to see you.'

'But you are the Head Teacher.'

'I refer to a headmaster of far greater authority than myself McCullen, for it is St Peter himself who wishes to see you.'

'And what if I refuse?'

'You'll be incarnated as an amoeba and have to start your chain of personal evolution all over again. An average of 10,000 lifetimes until you graduate to even the most primitive human life form again. And you know how you always hated doing homework.'

'Oh.' Fergus replied and, meek as a lamb, rose from the bed to follow Mr Pangbourne into the tunnel of light which now emanated from the hotel room's flat screen TV, his other victims forming a human cortege behind.

©Laura King

Renaissance

The theme of this year's 500-word Commonwealth Short Story Competition was 'Women as Agents of Change'. Here's my entry - since I didn't win!

Angela Downie looked out from the rooftop Widow's Walk and noted one of her residents Ronnie catching the surf already. Not bad for 82, she thought, patting her spaniel Oscar. She went into the sun room where another resident Betty was reading and made herself a cup of tea. Oscar bounded over to Betty for a tummy tickle. After tea, Angela embarked on her morning round of greeting the residents, making sure they and the staff had everything they needed, ending up in everyone's favourite place, the petting zoo at the end of the garden, which never needed the slightest intervention from Angela bar the odd vets' bill as the residents looked after the animals as if they were their own children, even those who had professed to be less than keen when the first goat appeared.

This morning, the female residents were gathered excitedly in the lounge awaiting the makeover lady, prized for her independent make-up, hair and fashion advice. Lois touched her arm 'I wish I'd known all this forty years ago you know.' 'Tell me about it' said Angela. 'I didn't realise I'd been wearing the wrong type of foundation and the wrong bra size for years either. Who needs surgery when you know the tricks of the trade?' 'Well we've got the facelifting exercise lady on Thursday' replied Lois 'Ah, so we have.' said Angela 'I shall look forward to that'.

When she established 'Renaissance', Angela had intended to remain a business auditor, appointing a professional management team to run the community. Instead she quickly found herself becoming so bound up in the lives of the residents and her ambitions for them that she had ended up selling her consultancy to focus full-time on her new genre of elderly living which, whilst unlikely to make her a millionairess, paid for itself by a comfortable margin, and inestimably in job satisfaction.

Those long fruitless years of trying to have children with her former husband seemed so far away now. Irrelevant almost. However it was her elderly father Graham's death in an NHS hospital, following the most horrendous ordeal after a routine hip replacement turned infected which led to Angela deciding that if she could save just one elderly person from a lonely end in an anonymous hospital or care home at the hands of abusive or indifferent staff whose idea of withdrawing treatment included 'food and liquids', then her maternal instincts might still have a role.

A national newspaper invitation to form an active and interested 'family' of older citizens in a former Victorian hotel by the sea for no more than standard care home fees had attracted more interest than she dreamed and it took many months of sifting to establish which applicants were most likely and willing to embrace Angela's ideas for living life to the full to the end. She felt bad about those who hadn't made the final interview, but took the pragmatic view that if the blueprint worked, she would in due course franchise it so that many more had the opportunity.

She smiled as she took a photo of Brian and helped him with his match.com profile. 'Be honest now.' She winked. 'Women can't stand liars. Take it from one who knows'.
She went down to the basement cinema to set up for film night, Oscar trotting behind. Tony Hancock's The Rebel had won the hat pick. Jack and Sylvia waved from the gym 'You've only got two and a half hours until the circle dancing' Angela joked, poking her head round the door. Jack and Sylvia chuckled.

©LS King 2011

A Short Story about Alcohol

The Set Aside Scheme

It's not something that happens overnight you know. It takes a lot of hard work, determination and dedication to achieve it. I would say it probably took me a good ten years from the time I left school and at first I really hated it and struggled to overcome my barriers. But over time you do. Over time you even learn to enjoy it despite yourself, and you find your tolerance builds and the world seems a better place.

It's true I wasn't much good at exams at school but the DSS put me on a youth training course in metalwork when I left. And then another one in woodwork. I tried for over twelve months to get a job in the conventional way, but an apprenticeship fell through and there just wasn't much around in Kegford. The DSS suggested I should move elsewhere with more prospects but I really didn't have it in me to leave the only place I'd ever known. It also struck me as wrong somehow that I should have to leave my home town to find a job. Then I was asked to attend a special interview with the DSS who threatened to stop my money if I didn't go.

Well this big man in a blue suit, must have been in his 50s, asked me what I planned to do with my life.
I shrugged. He asked me what I knew about politics. I shrugged again. He then asked if I'd ever heard of the European Union Set-Aside scheme?
I said no.
'Well it's a bit like this young man.' He said. 'They used to produce far too much food in the European Common Market and it all got wasted in butter mountains or wine lakes. There was just too much of the stuff, supply outstripping demand and all that. So rather than continue to waste vast quantities of milk and meat and everything else, they decided to bring in the 'Set-Aside' scheme where farmers were paid NOT to over-produce food and to leave a certain percentage of their fields fallow. Ever thought about becoming fallow?'
'You, you, mean, killing myself…?'
'No of course not lad. Mr Major may be anxious to reduce the unemployment figures, but we’re not barbarians.'
'Then what?'
'Are you willing to be set-aside?'
'Set aside…?'
'I mean paid for doing nothing. Your own pad in your home town with all your friends and family around, enhanced benefits and no signing on?'
'What's the catch?' I asked. 'There must be one.'
'Shame' he said. 'You're a smart enough lad - I'm sure you could make something of yourself. I normally reserve this offer for those I can see will be a waste of space.'
'Offer?'
'Well the catch as you're sharp enough to register is you'd have to become an alcoholic.'
'WHAT???'
'Because once you're a registered alcoholic, you can sign on the sick indefinitely and get far higher benefits than being on the dole, aside from not showing up on the jobless figures. This also means less hassle from the DSS as no one really expects an alcoholic to recover, never mind work again.'
I sat in the chair stunned. Would any of my friends believe me? A man offering me money for drinking?
'Look at it this way, girls get themselves up the duff to get a free flat, but that option isn't open to a young man with limited prospects. Look, I don't expect you to make up your mind straightaway. Sleep on it and we can meet again next week. But there is one condition of the scheme you need to be aware of.'
I looked at him in askance.
'Strict and utter confidentiality is required - in fact you must sign the Official Secrets Act to take part.'
'And if I don't?'
'I don't suppose anyone would believe you anyway. But those of our set-asiders who don't toe the line get their benefits stopped immediately. And that's just the start. They can then find themselves accused of fraud and be forced to pay all their benefits back. Lose their flat or hostel space. Prison even.'
'I see.'
'Good. I think we understand one another. I'll get the paperwork prepared.' He said, getting up and shaking my hand.

And that, dear Eileen was the start of it. I had no other notion of what to do with my life so I signed. I'd never been popular at school, never had a girlfriend, never expected my life to amount to much. What was the point? My own dad hadn't had a job since the pit closed. My mother had never worked at all. The scheme enabled me to move into my own place and eventually escape from grim reality most of the time, once I’d overcome my dislike of the stuff and swallowed what pride I had.
I never bargained on meeting you. I was 43 and scarcely been kissed. Always too self-conscious about my pigeon chest to undress in front of a girl. Those couple of kisses with Sharon Flett after the school disco all those years ago was about it. And now my teeth were starting to grey, along with my hair. I hadn’t bought any new clothes for years though I was just about still washing them and myself regularly and not yet p***ing into milk containers and leaving them on windowsills. Then one day I overdosed and landed in the rehab clinic...and met you.'

'Oh Martin.' She held him closer. 'What are you going to do?'
'I don't know Eileen. But you can do better than a bloke in the early stages of liver disease.'
'Suppose I don't want to. Anyway, you've cut down your drinking.'
'As much as I dare. If the doctor should twig any improvement though, the DSS is bound to find out and cut my benefits and no one will want me in the jobs market now.'
'I'll support us both.'
'On your salary as a rehab centre assistant?'
'Just for a while Martin. Until you can train up and do something as well.'
'I honestly don't know if they would let me, let alone if any employer would give me the time of day with a completely blank CV. Don't forget I signed the Set-Aside agreement. I am a man surplus to the nation's requirements'
'Not to my requirements.' She reassured him with a kiss. 'You've got to stop thinking so negatively.'
'If only I could. This is the first time in years that 'Countdown' hasn't been the highlight of my day.'
'I've got you tickets to be part of the studio audience for your birthday' she beamed. 'And the Jeremy Kyle Show. In fact, why don't you sell your story? You wouldn't need the rotten government's money then.'
'I daren't Eileen. I'd get done for breeching the Official Secrets Act plus I'd have to pay back every penny I've ever had. No newspaper is going to pay that sort of money for my story.'
'We'll think of something' she said. 'This evil scheme needs to be exposed. I wonder how many of our clients at the rehab clinic have also signed it.'
'You mustn't even think about it pet. I shouldn't have told you. I just couldn't help myself. I'm so happy to have you in my life. I never thought I'd find someone who didn't mind my pigeon chest. Sharon Flett was very cruel when she felt under my shirt after the school disco.'
'I hope she dies a very lonely old woman' said Eileen.
'So do I.' said Martin 'Just thinking about her makes me need another beer'.

They married two years later in the Hospice as Martin's liver disease finally turned to cancer and set about claiming him. Eileen was devastated when her first task as a new bride was to bury him and, her second, to clear out his flat to give back to the council.
Unable to face returning to work at the rehab clinic for many months, Eileen signed off with depression. One day she idly started sifting through a box of Martin's personal papers and found that he had kept a journal of his life from the day he signed up to the 'Set Aside' scheme to the final days before entering the Hospice. She began typing it up and editing it before submitting it to a publisher. Three rejections and a year later she finally received an acceptance from a Misery Memoir publisher and Martin's journal was published.

'Set Aside' quickly became a publishing sensation and while the current government blamed John Major's government, they were at a loss to explain why the Set-Aside scheme continued to this day, unquestioned and unchallenged, and apparently still accepting new recruits with the addition of an obesity box as a career option for the long-term unemployed.
Eileen found herself invited onto the talk show circuit and received more than a few funny phone calls late at night, threatening her, though whether this was from nutty members of the public or MI5, she wasn't sure and changed her number regularly. She also lost her job at the rehab clinic as a result of all the publicity and trying to counsel clients into admitting they had signed up to the Set-Aside Scheme, which apparently counted as 'political coercion' which amounted to 'gross misconduct.' She considered going to Employment Tribunal to get it back, but was doing well enough out of the book and the whole incredible story as it was. In time, she gave up her own council flat for someone who needed it more and moved to a detached Victorian house in the leafier suburbs, treating herself to a canary yellow Alfa Romeo and planting an orchard in her beloved Martin's memory in the garden.

A year later, the day before Eileen was due to discuss selling the film rights for the book with an option to play herself, she was found slumped dead on her living room settee by her housekeeper. Alcohol poisoning. A shock in more ways than one as the housekeeper had previously never observed more than an occasional bottle of wine about the place and knew Eileen's strong views about excess, having spent her working life observing its devastation every day as well as what it did to Martin.
No further word was heard about the 'Set Aside' scheme, though statisticians noted the death rate amongst alcoholics in their 40s and 50s reached an inexplicably high spike over the following 24 months. Supermarket discounting was blamed.

By L King 2011
Copyright asserted by author.

Why We Had To Kill Gyles Brandreth

The short story reproduced below was inspired by British TV celebrity Gyles Brandreth publicly declaring that the English language and its literature should be simplified, suggesting that we take our cues from txt spk. Mr Brandreth also studied at Oxford, so it seemed a fitting place for him to meet his literary nemesis.

Why We Had To Kill Gyles Brandreth

Dear Mother & Step-Rather

I trust this missive finds you both well. And Patches too. Is his tail still outrunning him?
Silly hound. How I miss his stupid face and lopsided run. I wish we were allowed pets. On the plus side you will be glad to hear I am progressing well on the Masters front. Might even finish with time to spare and do something else next term. A little C&G in something useful for the real world perhaps. English Lit only begets English Lit teachers and the odd impoverished writer as we all know. Of course this place has its temptations, but they don't tempt me. Curry night in Hall on Fridays is about the high spot of my week. No honestly. You don't want to believe everything you hear. You must stop worrying about me, both of you. I'm a big boy now and you must know I am not into being a party animal. Nor do I watch copious quantities of SkySport – decidedly lacking in chess. But it’s a rum enough place as long as you keep your nose clean. I joined the Book Club last week, though naturally I am the most sophisticated one there by a mile. I can’t believe anyone still thinks Dan Brown is good. I would say they must need lobotomising, if they hadn’t already been! ; - ) But I might be able to do something with them I suppose. Thanks a mill for the extra thermals by the way. It does get somewhat parky in these old buildings at nights, despite the radiators on at full blast. I know. Why don’t I ask for the latest iPod just like any other son? As if your other sons aren’t expensive enough. Mind you I suppose it’s true to say I’ve cost you a fair bit in other ways.
I wish for your sakes I could say that I didn’t mean to kill Gyles Brandreth. But for what it’s worth my agent says the after dinner speaking engagements are stacking up for when I get out. I’ve even got a six-figure book deal would you believe? Apparently a murderer who can string more than a marketable sentence together, never mind wield a best-selling pen without a ghost writer in sight is a real rarity. They are hoping to explore the inner recesses of my murderer’s mind like few others.
Perhaps I will tell them I did it for Rag Week - that will shut them up!
Actually we did it, myself and three keenest co-conspirators from my Facebook Group 'Banish Gyles Brandreth' for Queen and country. Or rather the Queen's English and the good of the country. A country which is now rewarding me it seems, cursory obligatory sentence notwithstanding. Even less if I can convince the shrink I don't pose a danger to other celebrities, though it's hard to promise anything on the Alan Titchmarsh front (sorry Mother). And Matt is quite keen to see the back of Graham Norton when he gets out according to his sister. Chloe's always been sweet on me and confided the other day in the visiting room that she thought the BBC might be saved if only it weren't for Jonathan Ross. I told her no. It's almost as if Gyles Brandreth has given them a taste for blood and now they want more.
It was all meant to be so innocent - an invitation to a Teddy Bear's picnic on the Parson's Pleasure preceded by a short punt from the Cherwell boathouse, conversation and Pimms flowing. Once there, we knew he would make a beeline for the 1937 Steiff bear and sniff its head which would be saturated with chloroform (snuck from Matt's laboratory). Then it would be a simple matter of putting him over the side of the bank and letting nature take its course. Quite romantic. Pre-Raphaelite you might say, but for his want of flowing locks.
Then we realised that Teddy bears alone probably wouldn't be enough to lure him up to Oxford and put his name forward to the Oxford Union to head the motion 'Why Spelling Doesn't Matter Anymore' against Professor Maurice Holbrook's English Laboratory lot with dinner in his old college New College, beforehand. I don't mind admitting my fingernails were quickly bitten down to the cuticles. Worse still, Mr Brandreth was utterly charming at dinner, to the point I almost lose my nerve. It was only all the celebrity namedropping that galvanised my resolve.
As I suspected he used his habit to good effect, convincing the chamber that the likes of the late Willy Rushton, John Wells and Ted Hughes agreed with him that there were far too many words with confusing spelling, pronunciation and nuance, many of them superfluous to requirements, therefore the entire English language should be overhauled and streamlined, and mobile phone texting was leading the way in this regard.
'Esperanto!' heckled a wag from the floor.
'Thanks, but I've got an Expresso' retorted Gyles smartly.
When the general snorting had subsided, Professor Holbrook countered that it was outrageous to suggest that England should simplify its language when other countries such as France, Italy and Spain to name a few, seemed perfectly content to confuse us with theirs without compromise and where was our national pride?
'I suggest you ask Margaret Thatcher about that.' replied Gyles, ‘since for better or worse she instigated the rise of the 'me first' individual and thus, the self-expression of the 'me first' individual. I am proposing we regain some national pride by leading the way in language matters.'
'Or look complete nincompoops when no one follows our lead and we are left with chav text speak in lieu of our once rich linguistic and literary heritage.' retorted Professor Holbrook.
'Hear hear!' I scarcely restrained myself from shouting.
It was such an evenly-matched debate I was on the edge of my seat throughout, not least as we were unlucky enough to have a fairly tipsy and easily-swayed (in more ways than one) crowd in that evening.
Suffice to say that the English Language won by a margin rather than the landslide I had hoped for as the Nays passed through to be counted. Little did Mr Brandreth know that the hanging jury had already ruled. Afterwards we insincerely offered Mr Brandreth our profuse commiserations.
He then enjoyed a private drink in the President's room, regaling him no doubt with accounts of the good old days when he himself served as President and showing him the panelling wherein he had etched his name and the window out of which he had pissed into the rose bushes beneath, unwittingly soaking two homosexuals as they illegally canoodled in the mid 60s, one of them Nick's father (long story).
Nick, Matt, Richard and I ostensibly returned to my base, St John's College, but in reality around the block. Once we had ambled past enough CCTV cameras to convince we really had gone home, we put up our hoods for the final leg and chose our doorway to lie in wait. How splendid we all agreed it would have been to have a Brandreth burning in the Broad in the style of Bishops Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer, tied to a stake and surrounded by all the books he'd ever written. Regrettably Oxford's streets were not as quiet as they once were and Oxford's shops no longer the mass producers of surfeit cardboard box kindling of old.
Two hours we waited. The skies began to drizzle. Was the man going to gas on all night? Highly likely since he had once tied with Nicholas Parsons on a 12½ hour continuous public speaking World Record breaker.
No risk of lock outs these days anyway. With 24 hour porterage, Mr Brandreth could get back into New College and his Fellow's Guest Room any time he wanted. Not that he would have need of such a facility after we had finished with him. Finally at 2.30am with the Union now in virtual darkness, Mr Brandreth emerged, escorted to the front gate by the President who pressed a complimentary Union umbrella into his hand. We donned our Scriptum Viennese ball masks and as soon as the President was out of earshot we pounced, throwing Richard's extra cloak over Mr Brandreth's head.
'Aaaaargh!' was his muffled response before he bit the nearest thing to hand, Richard's forearm through the fabric as Richard held the cloak around his neck.
'Aaaaaaargh!' was Richard's rather less muffled response.
'Ssssshhhh Richard!' hissed Nick. Just get on with it. Remind me why we didn't use chloroform again?'
'Well you can't kill someone without telling them why they have to die. It's the least they deserve.'
'Yes, it's the least I deserve.' nodded the cloak as vigorously as it could under the circumstances.
Despite our Literary pretensions (and in some cases degrees), we were all addicts to re-runs of the Saint and any Bond film going (a separate Facebook group) and could only nod in silent acquiescence, despite the dangers inherent in a conscious Gyles Brandreth.
'Righty ho. I'll tell him', I said, anxious to get the business over. 'Mr Brandreth, despite losing tonight's debate on your motion effectively proposing the deliberately engineered dismantling of the English language and ultimately, its literature, we feel that such heresy deserves underlining in red ink to truly make the point. We further believe that this can only be achieved by your deliberately engineered demise for the benefit of those who don't listen to debates, but enjoy reading about murders in the Daily Mail. As well as being a strike for our language and heritage, it will also serve as a strike against celebrity culture and pedestrian murder, for we intend to be creative about it.'
'What a brilliant concept' opined the cloak. 'How will you kill me?'
After a stunned silence, I replied 'Well we considered a number of ways Mr Brandreth but we finally settled on the kidnap, the stabbing through the heart with a 19th century dipping pen nib in parody of the pen being mightier than the sword and the replacement of your blood with Quink's finest in lieu of embalming fluid. We were then going to leave you on the steps of Oxford University Press as a horrible warning.'
'Immortality gentlemen. How can I ever thank you?'
'What?' at least two of us spluttered.
'Well you profess to hate me, yet here you are offering me the career move of my life. All my out-of-print books would be back on the shelves within a month and my obituaries at least five column inches wide. In fact my demise could run and run.'
We were so shocked we lost sufficient grip on the cloak for Mr Brandreth to wriggle free.
He stood before us dishevelled in penguin suit with his bow tie undone, but defiant, despite a nosebleed. 'Yes I suppose I am vainglorious and insufferably smug. All that and I read minds too.' he said as if he could divine our crestfallen faces beneath the masks. 'I also laugh at death, along with the obituaries of my friends.'
'We had one ready for you in reduced English Literature for the Oxford Student newspaper' I offered.
'Oh yes…?' He asked, smiling now.
'It said 'Gyles Brandreth Woz Here 1948 - 2009'
He laughed, open merriment in his eyes. 'Suppose I told you all this dumbing down was Nicholas Parsons' idea and I nicked it. You've got the wrong man you know!'
'We wouldn't believe you' I said, feeling humiliated.
He grew more serious 'Well your faces might be obscured but I can see you are all young men on the rise, anxious to make your mark. Me too. From the opposite end of the spectrum. I was a young man who made my mark (admittedly with the luck of the devil, notwithstanding hard work with a following wind) and now I am anxious that my mark should survive me. Deal gentlemen?'
'Www what do you mean?' asked the first of us to be able to speak, Matt.
'What say you carry on with your plan to kidnap me but instead drive me to an isolated holiday home where I can camp out incommunicado for six months, safe in the knowledge that no one will visit until at least April. If one of you gives me his credit card I can have all my groceries delivered online. Not only will faking my death give me the publicity boost I need to take me to the end of my life and beyond but enough peace and quiet for six months to finally knock out that saga that's been taking up headroom for so long.'
'How did you know my family had a pad?' asked Nick
'A calculated guess old fellow. One of you was bound to have a scarcely-used second home in the family.'
'And what about us. What do we get out of it?'
'The realisation that you don't have to kill your least favourite celebrity to become famous. And an easier conscience.'
'I for one must admit I didn't really want to kill him.' whispered Richard into my ear.
'Naturally you could still get into hot water' warned Mr Brandreth. 'Sent down twice as it were, once from Oxford and thence to prison.'
'I suppose it won't get any harder to find a job afterwards than it is after here in the current climate' mused Nick. 'And we could finish our degrees for free.'
'We have a deal then I take it?' proffered Mr Brandreth.
No one took his hand so I made an executive decision and took it, shaking it firmly.
'Now let me put that cloak back on, lend me a mask and we will masquerade as party goers wending their drunken way homewards. Presumably one of you has wheels…?' Matt being the eldest lived in a small terrace off Botley Road complete with that holy grail, a resident's parking permit for his Alfa 156. The coast being housemate-clear, we had a quick pee and tea break at the house before setting off for Sidmouth. Mr Brandreth was in high spirits for someone contemplating his own end and regaled us with stories of four decades of social climbing derring do, opining that 'the cheek shall inherit the earth my boys, that other adjective was just a Pythonesque mishearing on the Mount' to the extent that entertained as I was, I was ready to stop in Axminster to find a piece of carpet to wrap him in. And however much I began to warm to him, my large dipping pen nib remained immovably poised against his back and ready to pierce his heart should he try anything. I began to regret the dutch courage I had earlier imbibed on an empty stomach in the form of Balkan vodka shots, which made me feel nauseous and paranoid by turns.
As it transpired, it was a heroin addict in a speeding car who did for Mr Brandreth. The punk came out of nowhere flying over the inky hills in his beamer at well over the 40mph limit, smack bang into the back of us lurking in the dip of a hill. We four escaped with whiplash and cuts, but poor Mr Brandreth was inadvertently slain by the dipping pen nib, as I was thrown against him. 'Identical to Byron's best pen. I chose it especially.' I whispered comfortingly as he gasped his last and I peed myself.
'Tell it to the judge' said Richard as we foolishly fled the scene, inspired by the heroin addict who had already gone, having divested his spare tyre of its stash of gear. Needless to say I did. Frankly I got the distinct impression I was not believed. So here I am dear parents, hoisted by my own petard, as Shakespeare would have it.
But you are wrong in saying I have let you down. You will dine out on this for the rest of your lives. As indeed will I.

Do visit soon.

Your etc son

Brett

©LS King 2009

The Lost College & Other Oxford Stories

Next Tuesday night in local pub Far From The Madding Crowd sees the launch of a second book of Oxford short stories - 'The Lost College & Other Oxford Stories' by the OxPens writer's co-operative, of which yours truly is a member.

This follows the success of our previous anthology;



which was launched almost two years to the day in the same pub in 2006, to a gratifyingly packed venue with copies flying off the table, and which, with the help of various marketing-minded members of the group, went onto enjoy success and profit for all thirteen of we contributors (if not quite enough to renounce the day job), beyond our intially-modest breaking even hopes, being both Blackwell's and Waterstone's no. 1 local fiction seller for some time.

Far from 'vanity publishing' (a process by which you hand an over-inflated sum to a shyster for a set number of often poorly produced books over which you have virtually no quality/editorial control - and who seldom offers after-sales or marketing services), knowing ourselves to be quality and capable writers, we made a conscious decision that we wished to take control by publishing ourselves, using a reputable 'publishing partner' to produce a high quality, bookshop saleable collection on a par with anything to be found from a terrestrial publisher.

This enabled full cost/editorial/jacket control, the option of marketing help and to go the print-on-demand or POD route so that if our first volume was less than a success we didn't have boxes of the darned things cluttering up our living rooms and tying up assets we didn't have for years!

Thus we have been able to order them in batches of 100-200 as needed and mostly supply Oxfordshire shops directly (gift as well as book), not forgetting to ensure a presence on various online bookshops including Amazon. In addition we have solicited reviews wherever we can and been lucky enough to have an author friend or two in a high-er place who has been happy to say nice quotable things about us, and genuinely so - we didn't need to bribe them or anything! We also had the splendid luck of the aid of one of Oxford's finest artists, Valerie Petts, with our lovely eyecatching wraparound jackets.

As a group who have often had agents and publishers come and talk to us over the years, we realised some while ago that the majority of authors (however good) are depressingly now shut out of mainstream publishing, with most publishers and agents refusing to take on new authors and having dispensed with the 'readers' who used to read slush piles to pick out the next JK Rowling, so the DIY approach made ever more sense rather than an UnpublishedWriters4Justice stunt abseiling down the Houses of Parliament to get noticed! Not least since those of our members who have been conventionally published in the past now struggle as much as the rest of us to get anything further published in this increasingly competitive climate.

Sure we've had endless meetings labouring over every comma and the odd disagreement along the way, but we've (nearly) always managed to stop short of inkshed, and most of us have been pretty pleased with the results.

Should you be stuck for an Xmas or birthday present for the Oxfordophile in your life, you can purchase either or both titles here;

The Lost College & Other Oxford Stories

The Sixpenny Debt & Other Oxford Stories

I've slightly reduced the body count in my latest short story!