For audio click here
Lotte owned two things of note, a brand new flat and a brand new bed. Yes, she owned clothes and a kettle, some LPs and some books, but the only thing she owned of any worth were the bed she was lying on and the walls that enclosed that bed.
It was her bed. She’d never had a bed she could call her own. She’d slept in beds in her parents’ house, but they were bought with her parents’ money. She’d called the beds in her rented accommodation hers, but they belonged to the landlords when all was said and done. This, though, was her bed, bought with her money, the only piece of furniture she could afford, for now. When you think of it, not even the flat was hers. It rightly belonged to the bank, but if the bank took the flat back, she could leave with her bed held high.
But despite being hers, it felt strange; a strange cold bed, in a strange cold, echoey chamber. The orange glow of the room swirled and coiled with each car that passed painting ghosts and ghouls on her wall. Although the blinds protected her privacy, they also seemed to make the shapes more sinister. Every now and again the room flashed blue as sirens sped past outside.
The neighbour’s Wet Wet Wet LP faded out and then started again as it had for the last three hours; Wishing I Was Lucky bled for the walls for the umpteenth time. Another cup smashed somewhere above her, accompanied by the screaming of people destined to kill each other. Lotte couldn’t make out the words, but she understood the anger.
Heavy curtains and earplugs had replaced towels and pots and pans at the top of the shopping list.
The communal intercom bleeped again; another’s man’s voice asking for Mandy. The front door buzzed. That was the fifth time that night. Who were all these men? Tricks? Mandy must be a working girl. That’s all it could be. Who else gets gentleman callers at all hours?
Boom! Boom! Boom! The fist was on her door.
Lotte froze.
“Let me in,” the man shouted. Boom! Boom!
Lotte imagined the door shaking in the frame. Was it strong enough to resist his rage?
“Let me in,” he shouted again.
Should she get up and see?
“Up here you idiot.” Mandy hissed from the stairwell.
A deadlock and bolt replaced curtains and earplugs at the top of Lotte’s shopping list.
Thursday, 9 February 2017
Wednesday, 8 February 2017
Lost in the Storm
For audio click here
The map on my phone was blank except for the narrow lane the driver was Schumachering along. No side roads, no villages and no sign of the hotel that would be my salvation. I could see our dot moving closer and closer towards the middle of nowhere. The rain lashed like a frenzied madam punishing her slave. Whips of wind crashing into the windscreen. I'd never given much thought to hell before, but this was the very embodiment of it. My phone screamed that the battery was reaching its own last breaths. Then with a peaceful dimming of the lights, it passed away leaving me mourning its loss in the darkness and feeling very, very alone.
The hotel appeared suddenly, like an oasis in the desert. Bright lights illuminating a plastic swan on top of a modern building. I suppose I'd been expecting the clichéd old mansion with creaky doors, squeaky floors, and equally decrepit staff, so this generic, soulless, edifice was a blessing in disguise.
I stood at reception looking like I'd swum there; the rain making the journey from cab to door like running through a waterfall. Water dripped off my nose as I checked in and was shown to my room. Finally, after two flights, one long cab journey, and only three hours later than I should have been there, I could relax.
I must admit I didn't much like the ground floor room that they'd given me. I am sure the huge patio door and veranda would have been perfect in the height of summer, but on a storm-lashed night they made me feel vulnerable. I drew the curtains, ignoring the shapes and faces leering at me from outside, stripped out of my wet clothes and plugged my phone in. A shower, read my book, then sleep was the order of the day.
I'd just soaped my privates when the light flickered for the first time, rinsed them when the light flickered again and then was shampooing my hair when they gave up the ghost; the darkness in the windowless bathroom was complete. I rinsed my hair then fumbled around for the taps, screwing them off. I stood in the silence of the storm listening for clues, there were none. I opened the shower door and reached blindly for my towel, stubbing my toes as I stepped out of the cubicle.
The bedroom was slightly brighter with some weak light coming in from outside. I closed my eyes and edged across the room, tiny, tiny baby steps.
Ouch! My toe on the other foot hit my suitcase. Fuck! My knee hit the side of the bed. I fell onto it and lay still, scared, in pain, listening for noise. I looked at my phone, no signal, no Wi-Fi and barely any charge. I thought about getting my book out before remembering there was no light to read by so I closed my eyes. If it this was how it was, I may as well sleep.
The rain continued to pound the veranda outside my window, and someone or something was knocking the window.
Tap, tap, tap, then nothing, tap, tap, tap. It's just a tree I told myself, just a tree.
Tap, tap, tap. Just a tree, but why so regular? A tree in the wind would be tappety tap, tap, tap, not tap, tap, tap. Should I open the curtain? No chance. I pulled the duvet around me for protection.
Something, someone screamed. An owl? A wolf? A person? The windows are closed the door is locked. I told myself and pulled the duvet even tighter around me.
Tap, tap, tap, the knocking continued. Whatever, whoever it was, was desperate to get my attention, to get into this room. Thunder crashed overhead sending me up towards the ceiling. The darkness seemed to be closing in on me. How would I ever get to sleep?
Tap, tap, tap, I told myself to ignore it. Told myself to relax. I was tired, so tired. I could feel myself winning the battle, falling to sleep, drifting off into the land of no...
I was bathed in light, the TV shouted at me, my phone bleeped. I sat up straight. My heart beat in my chest, in my temple, in my fingers. Who was it? Who was in my room? Who had turned my lights on? There was someone in my room.
It took me a few seconds to realise it was me that had turned the lights on and now the power cut was over.
The map on my phone was blank except for the narrow lane the driver was Schumachering along. No side roads, no villages and no sign of the hotel that would be my salvation. I could see our dot moving closer and closer towards the middle of nowhere. The rain lashed like a frenzied madam punishing her slave. Whips of wind crashing into the windscreen. I'd never given much thought to hell before, but this was the very embodiment of it. My phone screamed that the battery was reaching its own last breaths. Then with a peaceful dimming of the lights, it passed away leaving me mourning its loss in the darkness and feeling very, very alone.
The hotel appeared suddenly, like an oasis in the desert. Bright lights illuminating a plastic swan on top of a modern building. I suppose I'd been expecting the clichéd old mansion with creaky doors, squeaky floors, and equally decrepit staff, so this generic, soulless, edifice was a blessing in disguise.
I stood at reception looking like I'd swum there; the rain making the journey from cab to door like running through a waterfall. Water dripped off my nose as I checked in and was shown to my room. Finally, after two flights, one long cab journey, and only three hours later than I should have been there, I could relax.
I must admit I didn't much like the ground floor room that they'd given me. I am sure the huge patio door and veranda would have been perfect in the height of summer, but on a storm-lashed night they made me feel vulnerable. I drew the curtains, ignoring the shapes and faces leering at me from outside, stripped out of my wet clothes and plugged my phone in. A shower, read my book, then sleep was the order of the day.
I'd just soaped my privates when the light flickered for the first time, rinsed them when the light flickered again and then was shampooing my hair when they gave up the ghost; the darkness in the windowless bathroom was complete. I rinsed my hair then fumbled around for the taps, screwing them off. I stood in the silence of the storm listening for clues, there were none. I opened the shower door and reached blindly for my towel, stubbing my toes as I stepped out of the cubicle.
The bedroom was slightly brighter with some weak light coming in from outside. I closed my eyes and edged across the room, tiny, tiny baby steps.
Ouch! My toe on the other foot hit my suitcase. Fuck! My knee hit the side of the bed. I fell onto it and lay still, scared, in pain, listening for noise. I looked at my phone, no signal, no Wi-Fi and barely any charge. I thought about getting my book out before remembering there was no light to read by so I closed my eyes. If it this was how it was, I may as well sleep.
The rain continued to pound the veranda outside my window, and someone or something was knocking the window.
Tap, tap, tap, then nothing, tap, tap, tap. It's just a tree I told myself, just a tree.
Tap, tap, tap. Just a tree, but why so regular? A tree in the wind would be tappety tap, tap, tap, not tap, tap, tap. Should I open the curtain? No chance. I pulled the duvet around me for protection.
Something, someone screamed. An owl? A wolf? A person? The windows are closed the door is locked. I told myself and pulled the duvet even tighter around me.
Tap, tap, tap, the knocking continued. Whatever, whoever it was, was desperate to get my attention, to get into this room. Thunder crashed overhead sending me up towards the ceiling. The darkness seemed to be closing in on me. How would I ever get to sleep?
Tap, tap, tap, I told myself to ignore it. Told myself to relax. I was tired, so tired. I could feel myself winning the battle, falling to sleep, drifting off into the land of no...
I was bathed in light, the TV shouted at me, my phone bleeped. I sat up straight. My heart beat in my chest, in my temple, in my fingers. Who was it? Who was in my room? Who had turned my lights on? There was someone in my room.
It took me a few seconds to realise it was me that had turned the lights on and now the power cut was over.
Tuesday, 7 February 2017
Lost at Sea
For audio click here
The sand felt cold and clammy beneath Angela’s toes. The waves weren’t reaching the spot she was standing anymore, but the water oozed out of the sand every time she moved her foot. She watched the rain clatter off the sea, water on water violence. Her cagoule had long stopped being waterproof and she could feel her sodden clothes sticking to her skin. She sniffed hard and wiped her nose with her soaked sleeve. The horizon had never felt so close, the cliffs behind her lost in the clouds. Her world reduced to this lonely beach. The sea continued its retreat, each wave crashing millimetres shorter than the last, until one brave one broke ranks and tried to tickle Angela’s feet, just failing in its mission.
She loved the sea like this; grey and angry beneath the tormented skies. Who needed a tranquil blue sea with tiny breakers on golden sand, nothing to see there. This was nature at its finest, in its raw-power glory. But she hated the sea like this too; it was her nemesis. All her life they had battled over the same men and the sea had been an angry jealous lover. Her father, her husband, her son, her lover, each had fallen for its charms and had been blind to its dangers. Each had deserted her, recklessly running to its arms, before coming back and swearing never to go again. Only to give in to temptation at the next opportunity. But she won eventually, she counted them out and counted them back in again, except that was, for one.
He was out there somewhere. Lost at sea they’d said. Missing presumed drowned. She’d read it in the local paper. Frozen to the spot as she read the report. A report which spoke of his grieving widow and his children left without a father, but failed to mention the lover whose life had been torn apart. She mourned him, as she had fucked him; passionately, all-consuming, and completely privately. Just as no one had known the satisfaction he had given her, no one knew the pain that overwhelmed her. No one had noticed the spring in her step, so no one saw the stone in her shoe.
He was out there somewhere. She stared into the greyness, looking for clues. She listened to the waves, listened to the gulls, listened to the rain, listened to the foghorn. But none of them spoke to her, none of them told her the secret that they’d kept for nearly thirty years.
The sand felt cold and clammy beneath Angela’s toes. The waves weren’t reaching the spot she was standing anymore, but the water oozed out of the sand every time she moved her foot. She watched the rain clatter off the sea, water on water violence. Her cagoule had long stopped being waterproof and she could feel her sodden clothes sticking to her skin. She sniffed hard and wiped her nose with her soaked sleeve. The horizon had never felt so close, the cliffs behind her lost in the clouds. Her world reduced to this lonely beach. The sea continued its retreat, each wave crashing millimetres shorter than the last, until one brave one broke ranks and tried to tickle Angela’s feet, just failing in its mission.
She loved the sea like this; grey and angry beneath the tormented skies. Who needed a tranquil blue sea with tiny breakers on golden sand, nothing to see there. This was nature at its finest, in its raw-power glory. But she hated the sea like this too; it was her nemesis. All her life they had battled over the same men and the sea had been an angry jealous lover. Her father, her husband, her son, her lover, each had fallen for its charms and had been blind to its dangers. Each had deserted her, recklessly running to its arms, before coming back and swearing never to go again. Only to give in to temptation at the next opportunity. But she won eventually, she counted them out and counted them back in again, except that was, for one.
He was out there somewhere. Lost at sea they’d said. Missing presumed drowned. She’d read it in the local paper. Frozen to the spot as she read the report. A report which spoke of his grieving widow and his children left without a father, but failed to mention the lover whose life had been torn apart. She mourned him, as she had fucked him; passionately, all-consuming, and completely privately. Just as no one had known the satisfaction he had given her, no one knew the pain that overwhelmed her. No one had noticed the spring in her step, so no one saw the stone in her shoe.
He was out there somewhere. She stared into the greyness, looking for clues. She listened to the waves, listened to the gulls, listened to the rain, listened to the foghorn. But none of them spoke to her, none of them told her the secret that they’d kept for nearly thirty years.
Monday, 6 February 2017
The Mistake
For audio click here
“Yes, we loved your material, really loved it,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
George punched the air and wiggled his hips. This was amazing, amazing, this was the news he’d been waiting for the last twenty years of his life. Twenty years slaving over a sticky keyboard and finally, finally, someone appreciated his art.
“Listen, I see in your cover letter that you have written other episodes. Please send them over. No, better still come in to the office and we’ll have a chat, bring the episodes with you. How does 10 o’clock Tuesday sound?”
10 o’clock Tuesday sounded like music to George’s ears, sweet, sweet music.
“I told you, Mary,” George said when he put the phone down. “I told you it would all be worth it. I’m going to be a star.”
His wife smiled at him and patted him on the arm.
“Great news George, but don’t get your hopes up love, it’s only a meeting.”
“So, good to meet you, George,” Russell smiled and stretched his arm out signalling for George to sit down. “So good to meet you. So, you’ve been writing for twenty years?”
George took a deep breath, he could feel the sweat rolling down his back like rain on a bus shelter window. He nodded.
“I really loved your female characters; the way you get inside their minds. I honestly thought when I phoned you I was going to be talking to a woman.”
George smiled. He was mentally flicking through the pages of his manuscript wondering what female characters Russell could possibly be talking about. There was a nurse in one scene, but she only said two words.
“Especially Elaine. Elaine was a fantastic character.”
“Oh yes,” George said. The sweat had turned into rivers; there was no Elaine in his script.
“She was a feisty little minx. I do like a strong woman.”
“Oh yes.” George didn’t know what to do. This was terrible, terrible. it was the end of the world. Should he admit that Russell was not talking about his work or just go along with it?
“She was a joy to write, let me tell you.” he found himself saying. “Well, here are my other scripts,” he said, holding up his pen drive. “Hope you enjoy them.”
“Great, I can’t wait to get started,” Russell said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another meeting to get to.”
George stood up and noticed the sweaty silhouette of his bottom on the seat. He shook Russell’s hand.
“We’ll be in touch,” Russell said, walking George to the elevator, “soon.”
The lift brought George back down to earth with a bump. That was that, dream over, over, before it had even begun.
“George,” Mary’s voice echoed up the stairs. “George!”
‘I’m in the bath.” He heard his wife’s footsteps and the bathroom door swung open.
“It’s Russell,” she handed him the phone.
“Hello, Russell.”
“George, what a fool you must think I am.”
George didn’t say anything, but he agreed wholeheartedly with the man on the other end of the line.
“A whole meeting where I discussed the wrong script.” Russell was laughing, trying to make light of it, George was glad you couldn’t murder someone over the phone. “Anyway,” Russell continued.
Here it comes thought George, here it comes, terribly sorry for the mix-up, hope you can forgive us, good luck with your work, yada bloody yada.
“We loved your material, really loved it, we’re going to make a pilot.”
George dropped the phone into the bath.
“Yes, we loved your material, really loved it,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
George punched the air and wiggled his hips. This was amazing, amazing, this was the news he’d been waiting for the last twenty years of his life. Twenty years slaving over a sticky keyboard and finally, finally, someone appreciated his art.
“Listen, I see in your cover letter that you have written other episodes. Please send them over. No, better still come in to the office and we’ll have a chat, bring the episodes with you. How does 10 o’clock Tuesday sound?”
10 o’clock Tuesday sounded like music to George’s ears, sweet, sweet music.
“I told you, Mary,” George said when he put the phone down. “I told you it would all be worth it. I’m going to be a star.”
His wife smiled at him and patted him on the arm.
“Great news George, but don’t get your hopes up love, it’s only a meeting.”
“So, good to meet you, George,” Russell smiled and stretched his arm out signalling for George to sit down. “So good to meet you. So, you’ve been writing for twenty years?”
George took a deep breath, he could feel the sweat rolling down his back like rain on a bus shelter window. He nodded.
“I really loved your female characters; the way you get inside their minds. I honestly thought when I phoned you I was going to be talking to a woman.”
George smiled. He was mentally flicking through the pages of his manuscript wondering what female characters Russell could possibly be talking about. There was a nurse in one scene, but she only said two words.
“Especially Elaine. Elaine was a fantastic character.”
“Oh yes,” George said. The sweat had turned into rivers; there was no Elaine in his script.
“She was a feisty little minx. I do like a strong woman.”
“Oh yes.” George didn’t know what to do. This was terrible, terrible. it was the end of the world. Should he admit that Russell was not talking about his work or just go along with it?
“She was a joy to write, let me tell you.” he found himself saying. “Well, here are my other scripts,” he said, holding up his pen drive. “Hope you enjoy them.”
“Great, I can’t wait to get started,” Russell said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another meeting to get to.”
George stood up and noticed the sweaty silhouette of his bottom on the seat. He shook Russell’s hand.
“We’ll be in touch,” Russell said, walking George to the elevator, “soon.”
The lift brought George back down to earth with a bump. That was that, dream over, over, before it had even begun.
“George,” Mary’s voice echoed up the stairs. “George!”
‘I’m in the bath.” He heard his wife’s footsteps and the bathroom door swung open.
“It’s Russell,” she handed him the phone.
“Hello, Russell.”
“George, what a fool you must think I am.”
George didn’t say anything, but he agreed wholeheartedly with the man on the other end of the line.
“A whole meeting where I discussed the wrong script.” Russell was laughing, trying to make light of it, George was glad you couldn’t murder someone over the phone. “Anyway,” Russell continued.
Here it comes thought George, here it comes, terribly sorry for the mix-up, hope you can forgive us, good luck with your work, yada bloody yada.
“We loved your material, really loved it, we’re going to make a pilot.”
George dropped the phone into the bath.
Friday, 3 February 2017
Poetry Friday 31
Well we’ve
reached poetry Friday 31, a milestone of sorts falling as it does in between 30
and 32. Two poems this week. Hope you enjoy.
For audio click
here.
Meal Deal
The picture on
the screen
above the
spotty server's head
makes what we
are about to receive,
look delicious,
nutritious,
yet wicked.
We're giving in
to temptation,
to the ultimate
sin.
After a deep
breath, we unwrap.
But try as we
might,
we can't hide,
the mutual
disappointment.
We plough on
without appetite, Without
pleasure. You
leave yours half eaten.
I finish,
but without
satisfaction.
Shakespeare’s
Sonnet, Sonnet 18, Shall I compare thee
to a summer’s day, proves that Shakespeare didn’t live in Wales.
If Shakespeare lived in Wales.
Your face is
like thunder
your eyes cold
and grey.
Can’t remember
your sunshine,
you’re like a
Welsh Summer’s day.
You’re dark
morn to evening,
cold, like wet
clay,
a chill wind
from the west
you’re a Welsh
summer’s day.
Then quite
without warning
a smile bright
and gay,
it happens once
a year,
a sunny Welsh
summer’s day.
Despite all
your anger, I love you, I say
and I will
compare thee to a Welsh summer’s day.
I hope you
enjoy the poems, remember if you did please share them with your friends.
Have a great
weekend.
Thursday, 2 February 2017
Worth my While
For audio click here
It’s the best place in the world, she said. So romantic, she said, only a short walk, she said. Come with me, she said. I'll make it worth your while.
And me, being me, and only thinking with one part of my body, said okay then.
And to be honest, it was a lovely place, a little shepherd’s cottage with views of the ocean, only accessible by two footpaths; one to the road and one to the beach. Yes, the walk was hard for someone with an ankle problem, but the views alone were worth it. We had a whale of a time, making the fire, cooking the food over the fire, snuggling up in front of the fire. And then the stars, so many stars. No matter how many times I see a clear night sky freed from the light pollution of our towns and cities, I will never get over the sheer beauty of the millions of stars all competing for our attention. Oh, needless to say, she did make it worth my while.
It was day two when the trouble struck, going down to the beach, down the secret pathway, the path so thin that it would make Naomi Campbell feel fat. It was fine to start with but soon the shrubbery on the sea side fell away and the only thing between me and a sheer drop was a flimsy rope fence. I edged along trying to tell myself I could do it despite my legs telling me I bloody well couldn’t. I don’t know what scared me more, the threat of certain death to my left or watching Sian gambol along the path like it was an eight-lane motorway. The loose scree of the path made me even more nervous with my foot slipping with each step. If anything, the path was getting narrower and narrower. I had my back to the cliff and my beer belly hung over the drop. My brain told me not to look down. My eyes disobey sending me tumbling, plummeting into total panic zone. I froze. I tried lifting my right leg but it refused. It was on strike. I could go no further.
“What's wrong?” she yelled.
“I c c c c can’t,” I said.
“Come on,” she skipped back and took my hand, she pulled, but I didn't move.
“I c c c c can't.”
“Let’s go back then,”
“I c c c c c can't, I'm s s s s stuck.” I could feel the breeze around my legs and the warm sun on my face. Seagulls squawked and sailed on the currents.
“Jesus, you’ve gone white.” She got out her phone. “No signal, I'll go get help,” she said.
I heard the helicopter before I saw it; not surprising really as I had had my eyes shut since she’d left. The down draft was making me feel even left secure.
I could see the man smiling at me as he was lowered from the craft.
“In a bit of a tizz are we?” he shouted, as he wrapped the ropes around me and then signalled the winch to hoist us up.
I screamed all the way from terra firma to the inside of the helicopter. I’d clung to the man so tightly, I was in half a mind to propose to him, I don’t think I’d ever been so intimate with a complete stranger before.
I dreaded seeing Sian; what would she think of me? But that night, as we watched the lightning flash over the sea and cwtched up to the sound of thunder, she certainly made it all worth my while.
It’s the best place in the world, she said. So romantic, she said, only a short walk, she said. Come with me, she said. I'll make it worth your while.
And me, being me, and only thinking with one part of my body, said okay then.
And to be honest, it was a lovely place, a little shepherd’s cottage with views of the ocean, only accessible by two footpaths; one to the road and one to the beach. Yes, the walk was hard for someone with an ankle problem, but the views alone were worth it. We had a whale of a time, making the fire, cooking the food over the fire, snuggling up in front of the fire. And then the stars, so many stars. No matter how many times I see a clear night sky freed from the light pollution of our towns and cities, I will never get over the sheer beauty of the millions of stars all competing for our attention. Oh, needless to say, she did make it worth my while.
It was day two when the trouble struck, going down to the beach, down the secret pathway, the path so thin that it would make Naomi Campbell feel fat. It was fine to start with but soon the shrubbery on the sea side fell away and the only thing between me and a sheer drop was a flimsy rope fence. I edged along trying to tell myself I could do it despite my legs telling me I bloody well couldn’t. I don’t know what scared me more, the threat of certain death to my left or watching Sian gambol along the path like it was an eight-lane motorway. The loose scree of the path made me even more nervous with my foot slipping with each step. If anything, the path was getting narrower and narrower. I had my back to the cliff and my beer belly hung over the drop. My brain told me not to look down. My eyes disobey sending me tumbling, plummeting into total panic zone. I froze. I tried lifting my right leg but it refused. It was on strike. I could go no further.
“What's wrong?” she yelled.
“I c c c c can’t,” I said.
“Come on,” she skipped back and took my hand, she pulled, but I didn't move.
“I c c c c can't.”
“Let’s go back then,”
“I c c c c c can't, I'm s s s s stuck.” I could feel the breeze around my legs and the warm sun on my face. Seagulls squawked and sailed on the currents.
“Jesus, you’ve gone white.” She got out her phone. “No signal, I'll go get help,” she said.
I heard the helicopter before I saw it; not surprising really as I had had my eyes shut since she’d left. The down draft was making me feel even left secure.
I could see the man smiling at me as he was lowered from the craft.
“In a bit of a tizz are we?” he shouted, as he wrapped the ropes around me and then signalled the winch to hoist us up.
I screamed all the way from terra firma to the inside of the helicopter. I’d clung to the man so tightly, I was in half a mind to propose to him, I don’t think I’d ever been so intimate with a complete stranger before.
I dreaded seeing Sian; what would she think of me? But that night, as we watched the lightning flash over the sea and cwtched up to the sound of thunder, she certainly made it all worth my while.
Wednesday, 1 February 2017
The Bunker
For audio click here
“How do we know when the bomb drops?” Crystal asked.
Archie was cleaning his toenails with a knife.
“The TV will go off; bombs will mean no electricity.” He wiped the knife on the arm of the sofa.
“And then what?”
“Then, we stay put, minimum six weeks, maybe eight. The longer the better. Depends on the food stocks.”
“Can I still use my computer?” Ed asked.
Archie slammed his knife down. “No, I told you. No internet, no phones, not that they will work, but you never know, people might be able to trace us.”
“So, what will we do?” Crystal looked around the dank shelter.
“We’ll read, sleep, exercise, fuck. I don’t know.”
Jo giggled at the word fuck.
Crystal hoped the bomb wouldn’t drop tonight; she’d left her headphones up the house; she didn’t think she could stand six weeks of this drivel. She’d loved Archie, once. He was a kind, loving human being before he started on the survivalist thing. But once he’d decided the end of the world was nigh and he needed to build this damned bunker, he’d become a bit of an animal. Now they had to sleep in the bunker every night, alongside Ed and Jo, two complete strangers who’d answered Archie ads on Craig’s List.
Who the hell answers an ad on Craig’s List asking who wants to repopulate the earth?
It was madness, sheer madness, but Archie was not for turning.
With every passing day, Crystal thought about running away, of not going into the bunker at night with the other three. It was Hobson’s Choice, die a violent death, or spend the next eight weeks with this motley crew.
It was on the fourth night, right in the middle of the Big Bang Theory that the TV blinked and winked and crackled and then hissed into a blizzard of snow.
“That’s it!” Archie screamed. He almost seemed too happy. “That’s it.” They sat in the silence listening to the hum of the generator.
“Where are the explosions?” Ed asked.
“We’re soundproofed,” Archie said.
“Are we the only people alive?” Jo said in a whisper.
Archie shrugged. “Who knows who else built shelters?”
“It’s strange to think everyone is dead,” Ed said.
Jo burst into tears. “Even the dogs?” she said.
“Even the dogs.” Archie smiled.
Four days. Four days was all it took before Crystal was going out of her mind with boredom. Archie was pacing like a demented wolf.
“Archie sit down.” Crystal said.
“Polar bears,” Jo burst into tears as she had done every time she’d remembered another cute species that would have been wiped out by the bombs.
“Hey sweet cheeks, fancy a bit of this.” Since the bomb, Ed had taken to walking around in just his shorts. He got his pecker out at any given opportunity.
“Ed, I’ve told you, I’m not having sex with you.”
“C’mon love, we need to repopulate the earth.”
“Do it with Jo. Archie, tell him.”
Archie grunted. “He can have sex with you if he wants.”
Crystal had had enough. She stood up.
“Where are you going?” Archie said.
“I’m going to prepare myself for Ed. Ed come to my room in twenty minutes.”
Ed smiled.
But Crystal didn’t go to her room. She headed straight to the entrance. She’d watched Archie lock the air vault and knew the code, his mother’s birthday. She punched it in. Sirens wailed as the door slid open. She didn’t know he’d alarmed it. She had to be quick. She slammed the door behind her and ran up the steps, she felt pain in her ankle as she slipped, but she kept going. She could hear voices behind her.
“It’s too dangerous to follow her. Let the bitch go.” she heard Archie say.
She pushed open the top door and collapsed onto the ground, her ankle throbbing.
Crystal sucked in a few deep ones. The air in the bunker had been getting a bit putrid, it was good to be out in the fresh air. Except, this wasn’t meant to be fresh air, this was meant to be nuclear fallout. She stood up and looked around. The buildings were still standing where they had been four days earlier. Cars ran along the roads. Nothing had changed. There’d been no bomb. That bloody television must have been on the blink. Crystal thought about going back and telling the others they could come out of the bunker. She smiled to herself. She’d leave them to it.
“How do we know when the bomb drops?” Crystal asked.
Archie was cleaning his toenails with a knife.
“The TV will go off; bombs will mean no electricity.” He wiped the knife on the arm of the sofa.
“And then what?”
“Then, we stay put, minimum six weeks, maybe eight. The longer the better. Depends on the food stocks.”
“Can I still use my computer?” Ed asked.
Archie slammed his knife down. “No, I told you. No internet, no phones, not that they will work, but you never know, people might be able to trace us.”
“So, what will we do?” Crystal looked around the dank shelter.
“We’ll read, sleep, exercise, fuck. I don’t know.”
Jo giggled at the word fuck.
Crystal hoped the bomb wouldn’t drop tonight; she’d left her headphones up the house; she didn’t think she could stand six weeks of this drivel. She’d loved Archie, once. He was a kind, loving human being before he started on the survivalist thing. But once he’d decided the end of the world was nigh and he needed to build this damned bunker, he’d become a bit of an animal. Now they had to sleep in the bunker every night, alongside Ed and Jo, two complete strangers who’d answered Archie ads on Craig’s List.
Who the hell answers an ad on Craig’s List asking who wants to repopulate the earth?
It was madness, sheer madness, but Archie was not for turning.
With every passing day, Crystal thought about running away, of not going into the bunker at night with the other three. It was Hobson’s Choice, die a violent death, or spend the next eight weeks with this motley crew.
It was on the fourth night, right in the middle of the Big Bang Theory that the TV blinked and winked and crackled and then hissed into a blizzard of snow.
“That’s it!” Archie screamed. He almost seemed too happy. “That’s it.” They sat in the silence listening to the hum of the generator.
“Where are the explosions?” Ed asked.
“We’re soundproofed,” Archie said.
“Are we the only people alive?” Jo said in a whisper.
Archie shrugged. “Who knows who else built shelters?”
“It’s strange to think everyone is dead,” Ed said.
Jo burst into tears. “Even the dogs?” she said.
“Even the dogs.” Archie smiled.
Four days. Four days was all it took before Crystal was going out of her mind with boredom. Archie was pacing like a demented wolf.
“Archie sit down.” Crystal said.
“Polar bears,” Jo burst into tears as she had done every time she’d remembered another cute species that would have been wiped out by the bombs.
“Hey sweet cheeks, fancy a bit of this.” Since the bomb, Ed had taken to walking around in just his shorts. He got his pecker out at any given opportunity.
“Ed, I’ve told you, I’m not having sex with you.”
“C’mon love, we need to repopulate the earth.”
“Do it with Jo. Archie, tell him.”
Archie grunted. “He can have sex with you if he wants.”
Crystal had had enough. She stood up.
“Where are you going?” Archie said.
“I’m going to prepare myself for Ed. Ed come to my room in twenty minutes.”
Ed smiled.
But Crystal didn’t go to her room. She headed straight to the entrance. She’d watched Archie lock the air vault and knew the code, his mother’s birthday. She punched it in. Sirens wailed as the door slid open. She didn’t know he’d alarmed it. She had to be quick. She slammed the door behind her and ran up the steps, she felt pain in her ankle as she slipped, but she kept going. She could hear voices behind her.
“It’s too dangerous to follow her. Let the bitch go.” she heard Archie say.
She pushed open the top door and collapsed onto the ground, her ankle throbbing.
Crystal sucked in a few deep ones. The air in the bunker had been getting a bit putrid, it was good to be out in the fresh air. Except, this wasn’t meant to be fresh air, this was meant to be nuclear fallout. She stood up and looked around. The buildings were still standing where they had been four days earlier. Cars ran along the roads. Nothing had changed. There’d been no bomb. That bloody television must have been on the blink. Crystal thought about going back and telling the others they could come out of the bunker. She smiled to herself. She’d leave them to it.
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