* * *
In the interview room the piglet faces of the policemen were inscrutable. Winifred had expected them to be angry, or disgusted or wary – anything but flat and expressionless.
Sure enough, they were curious. Who wouldn’t be? They wanted to ask her why she’d done it, to get some sort of explanation, to find out why she’d bludgeoned Chris to death with the book.
But they were clever interrogators. They were waiting for her to open up voluntarily. That way would be so much simpler.
And, after two long nerve-racking hours of tension, she cracked.
“It was a copy of Tales from the 100-Acre Wood,” she said, finally unable to stand the overwhelmingly oppressive silence. “That’s what I hit him with. It was a really heavy hardback.”
“Tales from the 100-Acre Wood? A.A. Milne? Now, I wouldn’t have expected that,” the first officer remarked in surprise.
“No,” his colleague agreed. “It’s not exactly the kind of murder weapon we normally come across.”
It was simply the first object to hand when she’d snapped, Winifred told them. “Besides,” she added, “it seemed appropriate in the circumstances.”
After that first admission she couldn’t shut up, the words – the chilling confession – just spilled out.
“He had it coming,” she began. “Every day – nagging, finding fault, treating me like a slave. Winnie fix this, Winnie clean that. Winnie wash my socks, Winnie iron my shirt.”
She let all the bile pour out. The policemen, nodding understandingly, offered grunts of sympathy, looking occasionally at the tape machine to make sure every detail of this bizarre domestic homicide was being captured.
“So what caused it? What was the final spark?” the senior officer prompted. “There must have been a tigger point – I mean, trigger point?”
Winifred closed her eyes, reliving the moments leading up to her husband’s bloody literature-themed demise.
“He wouldn’t stop. All day it was. All day, Winnie the dishes need drying. Winnie – the hoovering. Winnie – the lawn needs cutting.”
She shuddered, remembering the total, mad, enveloping rage that had engulfed her. “But that would have been all right if it hadn’t been for the dog.”
“The dog?” the interrogators chorused, bemused.
“Yeah, the dog. The dog mess. On the front door step. Chris spotted it. Could have cleaned it up himself, but oh no – he wanted me to scoop up the filth.”
Winifred leant in menacingly close to the detectives.
“And that’s when I let him have it – right across the skull with the A.A. Milne.”
The two coppers blinked, still perplexed, still not getting it.
“It was the way he told me,” she explained. “He stood there like Lord Muck, handed me the dustpan, snapped his finger and said: Winnie – the poo!”
Open Sesame
“Don’t do this. For pity’s sake, Elaine. Let me in. Please, please let me in.”
Terry pounded, meaty fists making the reinforced shelter door shudder in its titanium frame.
“I can hear them. Oh God, they’re breaking in. I’m begging. You’ve got to save me!”
Inside the concrete refuge, Elaine regarded the CCTV monitor with detachment, watching her husband’s face whiten as a crash echoed from the back of the house. His thumping trebled, but she kept her hand away from the switch that would unlock the deadbolts.
“Sorry, darling, but it would be a bit crowded in here with two and you know how I hate being uncomfortable,” she taunted over the loudspeaker. “Don’t make such a fuss. It will all be over in seconds. A few bites, a little pain, and then you won’t care…”
For a moment, he stopped hammering, stunned. His wet eyes blinked, appalled by her scorn and cruelty.
“For God’s sake, Elaine. This is no time for games,” he hissed. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. You haven’t forgiven me for the affair. I get it. You win. I’m humiliated. I’m grovelling. I’ll grovel forever, just open the bloody door.”
She leant into the microphone. “It’s not about your pathetic fling. I got over that ages ago. No, Terry, this is about everything else. How you look down on me, the contempt you show for my ideas, the way you keep reminding everyone how gormless and scatterbrain I am. Well, this is payback. Now you’re the one who’s looking stupid.”
Terry mouthed a frantic reply, but she couldn’t make it out, the words drowned by an inhuman screeching just behind him.
Elaine mused how chillingly amusing it was that real-life zombies should look so much like their horror movie counterparts. Terry, sadly, didn’t have time to notice, too busy trying to fend them off with a kitchen chair, stabbing desperately at one yellow-faced attacker, then another.
For moments Elaine was transfixed, then had to look away as Terry disappeared under the grasping, groaning, biting horde.
Shivering, she double checked the time lock clock. Terry had told her it was complicated, too damn technical for her simple mind to comprehend, but it had proved remarkably easy to program. A few pushes of the buttons and she’d been able to set it so the shelter door would remain closed well into 2030. By then, she reckoned contentedly, the plague-ravished humans would have perished, starved of fresh meat.
For her part, she had plenty of supplies – food, water, generator oil. Even little luxuries like ultra soft toilet paper and a ten thousand strong DVD collection to stave off boredom. Which made her feel pretty damn clever.
Terry appeared on the screen again, eyes vacant, mouth twisted and drooling, moaning, hands outstretched in a parody of his earlier pleading.
She was just thinking how fitting he looked as a zombie, when the shelter door bolts abruptly clicked open.
Instantly, she realised she’d made a fatally brainless mistake. Terry was right. She was a dumbo.
And at 20.30 – half past eight precisely – her husband and his ravenous new companions lurched inside.
The Babel Fable
A tremendous cheer went round our spotter plane – Central control had found Bert Higgins! In my relief, I cheered too; yelling until my lungs ached and tears coursed down my cheeks.
Three weeks of scouring every country and nation state had finally paid off. We'd located the Preston bus driver who was the only man alive who could save the human race.
It was incredible. Just when we'd given up hope and resigned ourselves to a global nuclear confrontation, this sudden ray of salvation shone through.
Twenty thousand volunteers had joined in the frantic quest to find Bert's hideaway. An army of idealists pledged to saving mankind had worked night and day, hour after unbearable hour. Now it was down to me to fly to Bert's mountain retreat in Tibet and beg him to help stop the impending carnage.
I'd been picked because I knew this towering legend. As his former boss, I was the only one that Higgins – the most important single figure of the 21st century – would listen to. In the last decade, since nuclear bombs had become so plentiful that any crackpot could pick one off the supermarket shelf, our world had become a frighteningly unstable place. Neighbour threatened neighbour, race turned against race.
The seeds were sown for global conflict and desperately we'd organised a peace conference in Geneva. But it wasn't working. There was too much mistrust and hatred. We needed a neutral, honest broker to chair the summit. Only one man was acceptable – Bert Higgins, a man who'd escaped into obscurity, taking his miraculous conciliatory talents with him.
The greatest diplomat ever known, Bert was a strange character. Blessed with a complex personality, a faith in basic truths and a childlike simplicity of purpose, he was the most enigmatic man I'd ever encountered. He said what he thought without fear or favour, and his judgments were renowned for their wisdom.
But if his character was a riddle, it was nothing compared to the paradoxical accident that shot him to international fame. He'd been driving his double decker bus through Preston's rush hour when a runaway pram car
eered in front of him. Instinctively, he'd jammed on the brakes and the front of the bus dipped violently.
Bert went flying through the windscreen and landed in intensive care. Fractured skull. Deep coma. Little hope of recovery.
Only Doris, his wife of fifteen years, kept faith that he would wake again. Undaunted, she kept a lonely bedside vigil. The doctors looked at her and tutted sadly.
Months passed. Bert showed no signs of stirring. Then a friend told Doris about a young girl who'd awoken from a coma after her parents played her CDs of her favourite pop songs.
Bert hated pop music – "That bloomin' racket!" was the kindest thing he ever said about it – but Doris thought the principle might work. She went out to buy a selection of Bert's favourite show tunes.
Now, no-one knows who mixed up the disks – perhaps it was divine intervention – but when she opened the box it didn't contain the hits from Cats, Evita and Les Miserables. Instead, there was an enormous selection of language CDs, covering everything from Egyptian to Eskimo.
Doris couldn't believe it. She wept bitterly. Later, after she'd pulled herself together, she decided to play them anyway. What the hell, she thought, a CD was a CD and she had paid for them. So began Bert's unconscious exposure to the voices of the world.
Three years passed. Bert's condition didn't improve in the slightest. Every day Doris made her audio pilgrimage. Every night she'd go home, slightly more drawn and stooped. Then, as the first autumn gusts stirred the fallen leaves, Bert stirred too. It was hardly noticeable at first, but within minutes he was struggling to sit up.
Doris had rehearsed what she would do on this day. I'll tell him I love him and I'll kiss the sleep from his eyes, she'd told herself.
But, as Bert rose from the dead and scratched his backside, Doris did what any normal, caring person would do… she fainted.
Bert seemed to be a bit put out by all the attention. "Aw, quit fussin'," he told his doctors. "There's nowt wrong with me that a good pint of ale won't put right."
And there it would have ended had there not been an international medical convention in town. News of Bert's recovery reached the delegates and they hot-footed it to the hospital.
By teatime, the ward overflowed with babbling doctors, all jostling to have a few words. It was an incredible din as dozens of national tongues clashed.
Doris put her hands over her ears, and Bert was about to do the same when he made a startling discovery. He realised he could understand every person in the room. Swedes, Spaniards, Russians, Romanians, Germans, Belgians, Poles, Chinese, Nigerians – he could converse with them like a true native. It was a linguistic miracle!
Of course, word soon leaked out and the world's press had him on the front page of every newspaper. And that's where I came in.
As the chief crisis negotiator with the peace charity World in Peril, I was trying to arrange a cease-fire between the Afghans and the Uzbekistanis in a bloody dispute over border infringements, but I couldn't find translators acceptable to both sides. Then I heard about Bert.
My bosses thought I was ready for the funny farm, but they pressed Bert into action. We locked the two opposing ambassadors in a room with Bert, as a mediator-cum-referee. When they emerged two hours later, the ambassadors weren't just talking – they were engaged to be married!
I tried Bert on other thorny international disputes. The results were always the same – agreement, concord, mutual understanding.
There was no doubt about it, Bert was a born diplomat. It wasn't just that he spoke everyone's language. It went beyond mere linguistic skills. He seemed to understand all points of view. Bitter rifts were healed, age-old feuds settled and a new spirit of friendship and co-operation flourished. No chasm was too wide for Bert's patient conciliatory skills to bridge.
There were some who argued that he was a messenger from God. New Age cults sprang up, worshipping Bert as the new Messiah. They'd hold torch-light ceremonies, chanting under huge glowing pictures of Bert's kindly face.
He always laughed at the suggestion that he was an icon, telling the chat show hosts: "'ee, lad, I'm nowt more than humble bus driver. I do my bit to help but this talk about me being some sort of angel is a load of old codswallop."
Sadly, Doris, the woman who had made this modern-day miracle come true, didn't take to their new lifestyle. She was a simple lass who couldn't adjust to Bert's high profile, high tension role. She high-tailed it.
Bert never really got over it, and from that day his enthusiasm seemed to fade. Church leaders begged, Presidents pleaded, Royalty commanded but Bert's heart just wasn't in it any more. He'd lost his vocation, his messianic mission was over.
I wasn't surprised when he decided to give it all up and hide from the world. Thankfully, the world was prepared to let him escape the limelight.
Until this moment, that is.
Now we needed his old multi-lingual magic again, and I prayed I'd be able to convince him to come out of retirement.
That worrying thought ricocheted around my mind as our plane landed at Beijing International and I raced towards a long-haul jet helicopter waiting on the tarmac, rotors already spinning madly.
Chen Lee, station chief from our Hong Kong office, was strapped into one of the two passenger seats. I leapt in beside him and we were off towards Tibet.
"Any word from Geneva?" I asked anxiously, as we sped towards the border.
He nodded. "The peace conference is hanging by a thread. The Irish and Israelis are refusing to sit beside each other in the cocktail bar, the Australians are accusing the New Zealanders of imperial expansionism and Luxembourg has threatened to annihilate any country that refuses to import its prime-time soap operas."
I gulped. Things could come apart at any moment.
In the old days Bert would have solved this tidal wave of international disputes in a few hours. He'd have had every delegate playing five-a-side football and swopping baking tips. Now, I wondered how he'd cope. Would he still have the magic? Would he still have that baffling instinct to instil compromise and companionship in everyone he met?
It had been years – long, hard, years. Years when Bert hadn't seen a conference table, hadn't touched a peace treaty. The thought that he might be rusty made me shiver. I couldn't admit it – even to myself. We needed Bert Higgins as sharp as he'd ever been. He HAD to be the saviour we so badly needed. The future of civilisation depended on it!
"Can't this contraption go any faster," I snapped. "Every second counts. Even now it may be too late!"
Chen put his hand on my arm. "We're going as fast as humanly possible," he said. "We'll get to Bert in time. I promise."
I wanted to argue – to scream my frustration – but he was right, of course. Everyone involved in the mission had pulled out all the stops. It was unfair to take out my nerves on him. Apologising, I closed my eyes, willing myself to relax.
I fell asleep to a troubled blurred nightmare of mushroom clouds and wailing women. Everywhere I looked there was death, destruction, the smell of defeat and despair. Apocalyptic images bled into each other.
Bert's famous quote spun round and round, echoing. "I'm nowt more than a humble bus driver… nowt more than a humble bus driver… nowt more than a–"
I awoke in a sweat with Chen Lee gently shaking me. He nodded towards the aircraft window. The majestic snow-topped Himalayas sat ahead of us – eerie, silent, mountains of ancient stone. We were on the roof of the world. We'd arrived.
Although our intelligence reports were sketchy, I told Chen not to worry, I had an idea how to find Bert. Leaving the helicopter, we trudged through the wind towards a village, silhouetted against the last rays of the dying sun.
Wary eyes watched us as we marched down the alleyways between the crude, stone-built houses. A yak-skin curtain twitched and a door slammed, but no-one spoke to us. The villagers were obviously deeply suspicious of strangers.
No wonder, I thought, that Bert had found this God-forsaken spot such an ideal hiding place.<
br />
Sure enough, half an hour later, we'd found him. We were huddled in an evil-smelling shelter with an assortment of Tibetans as his number 17 bus rolled up.
"Hello, Bert," I said.
"How do," he replied wearily. "I reckoned you'd come along sooner or later. I suppose it's about this peace conference lark?"
I nodded.
He sniffed non-committally and nodded to the destination board. "How far are you going?"
I handed over my handful of coins. "All the way," I said.
We rode with the other passengers – six villagers, three monks and a goat – until we arrived at the garage where Bert kept his buses.
Once inside, I explained the situation. Bert listened attentively while he brewed tea in a clay pot suspended over an open fire. He stirred the leaves silently, listening with his head cocked to one side, smiling sadly at the mess we'd made of things. When I finished he looked deeply into my eyes.
"It's a shame that you've gone to all this trouble, lad," he said with a sigh, "because I can't help you."
My brain did a mental somersault. Surely, I'd heard wrongly.
"Didn't you just hear what I've been telling you? The world is about to end and you're the only man who can stop it."
Bert shrugged. "I heard you, and I'd like to help, but I can't. Not anymore."
I was devastated. "But you can't reject us," I yelled, "the fate of mankind rests on your shoulders."
Bert looked sad, and then sheepish. Something was very wrong – very wrong.
Realisation came to me in a blinding light. "Oh, my God," I said. "You've lost the gift. You can't talk in tongues anymore!"
Head bowed, he nodded. "That's right, lad. It's amazing how quickly you forget languages when you're not using them every day."
Chen Lee's eyes went wide in disbelief. "But you can still remember something?" he asked.
"Oh aye. I can recall some cooking recipes in Mandarin, a few nursery rhymes in Swahili, a smidgen of Czech swear words, and I can still count to ten in Serbo-Croat."
I nearly screamed!
"In fact," he added, "there's only one phrase that I can still say in all languages."
My heart thumped. "What is it?" I demanded. "Tell me, man. All our lives may depend on it."
He was silent for a moment, then grinned apologetically.
"Fares please," he said.
Missing Signs and Wonders
Guest story by Chloe Banks
The clock was stuck at ten to ten when the miracles stopped. As the second hand juddered forlornly, people were not being raised from the dead, plane crashes weren’t yielding any survivors and limbs were refusing to grow back.
This occurrence was of particular significance and no little inconvenience to Mr. Henry D. Worthing. At the precise moment the phenomenal disappeared, Mr. Worthing was floating six feet above himself, watching in detached curiosity as nurses and surgeons scurried about him trying to stop an unexpected flow of blood. Mr. Worthing was a man of the world and thus determined to remain unperturbed by the peculiar sensation of watching his interior being man-handled. The occasional swear word drifted up to where he was loitering above the lamp, but he limited himself to wincing as scalpels were produced and alarms started beeping. Only after another few minutes, when the panic below showed no sign of abating, did he allow his curiosity to become more attached.
“Now then, Mr. Worthing,” came a voice from behind his right shoulder. “You appear to be in a bit of a pickle.”
Mr. Worthing turned and glared at the man floating beside him. Having no previous knowledge of such matters, Mr. Worthing couldn’t say for certain whether it was usual to find another person in your out-of-body experience, but he suspected that it wasn’t. He also knew little about angels, but he was fairly certain that this was not an angel. For one thing, angels shouldn’t have to wear glasses – certainly not ones mended with sticky tape – and for another, an angel shouldn’t have a violet splodge on the breast pocket of their shirt where their pen had leaked.
“Who are you?”
“I think I’m an interested party.”
“You think?” Mr. Worthing scowled. “Interested in what exactly?”
“Your survival, apparently.” The man sounded surprised. “I think I probably don’t want you to die down there.”
“Me neither,” said Mr. Worthing. “But I don’t see what it’s got to do with you.”
“If you do work it out,” said the man, “let me know, won’t you? I’m dying to find out – if you’ll forgive the expression. For now, perhaps you’d better concentrate on doing something about this situation you’ve got going on down there.”
“Why do I have to do something? If you hadn’t noticed, I’m the unconscious one. Why can’t you do something?”
“I’m busy.”
Mr. Worthing looked at him doubtfully. He didn’t look busy.
“You need a miracle,” said the man.
“I can see that.”
“Only, they’re broken.”
“Broken.”
“That’s right. The whole system of signs and wonders packed in this morning. Which means you, my friend,” he clapped Mr. Worthing on the back, causing him to bob dangerously close to the anaesthetist’s head, “are up the creek without a paddle.”
“How on earth can miracles break?”
“Over-population I expect.” The man assumed a sage expression. “Too many people needing a miracle, not enough miracle-workers. You know how it is.”
Mr. Worthing did not know how it was. Nor did he wish to. The average Joe might be curious about the situation – panicked even – but Mr. Worthing had been brought up better than that. Inquisitiveness and panic were vulgar. The erratic beep of the heart rate monitor drew Mr. Worthing’s eyes downward. He’d paid a lot for private healthcare. For the money the hospital had taken off him he would’ve expected to be watching the test match in his private room by now. Watching himself bleed to death in the presence of a dumpy man in pinstripe, was not an acceptable alternative. There would have to be a letter to The Times at least.
“You need to find your own miracle. Until the system’s up and running again you’ll have to fend for yourself, and I don’t mean to be crass, but I wouldn’t leave it too much longer if I were you.”
Mr. Worthing’s companion slid his glasses back up his nose and looked pointedly at the operating table.
“That’s all very well and good,” Mr. Worthing lied, “but how am I meant to find a miracle? I mean, where does one find such things even when one isn’t dying?”
“You should have a few saved in your past somewhere. Every time you did something entirely selfless that changed someone’s life for the better, you’ll have stored a miracle. You just need to pop back there and claim it.”
“How do you know that?” Although a gentleman in every sense, even Mr. Worthing had his limits. It was a benign tumour for goodness sake. It wasn’t even painful and look where it had landed him. He would definitely write to The Times and his Member of Parliament.
“To be honest,” the man leant forward conspiratorially, “I’m not sure.”
“Brilliant.”
“I just know that I don’t want you to die – for some reason you’ve been unable to tell me – and that miracles are broken and that you have to go back into your past to find your own instead.”
“And that you’re busy.”
“Yes. I definitely know I’m busy.”
“Brilliant,” Mr. Worthing said again, abandoning his lifelong belief that sarcasm was rarely funny and never necessary.
“It’s not my fault,” the man said. “You were the one who asked me here.”
“No I didn’t. I don’t even know who you are. You don’t even seem to know who you are.”
The two men floated in silence for a moment, until a renewed flurry of activity below caught their attention. Mr. Worthing winced.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it. But for the record, I don’t fe
el that now is really the time to be gallivanting through history.”
“You’re unconscious, Mr. Worthing. Nobody’s going to ask you to find the hypotenuse of a triangle or remind them what the capital of Australia is. Now’s the perfect time.”
Had Mr. Worthing not been feeling quite so put out by the whole situation, he might have had the grace to admit that the man had a point. As it was, he continued to scowl down at the scene below.
“Where do you suggest I start?” he said at last. “How do you suggest I start?”
“You don’t have to hang around here. You can go wherever you like. That’s the whole point of not being bound by the laws of physics anymore. Go on, go crazy.”
“So you mean I could just close my eyes,” Mr. Worthing closed his eyes, “and concentrate on some time in the past,” he concentrated, “and Puff! When I open my eyes, I’ll be…”
Mr. Worthing opened his eyes. The operating theatre had disappeared, leaving him unsure whether to be amazed, smug or just bloody annoyed. Instead of floating above a medical emergency, he was now standing ankle-deep in snow.
“Oooh, it’s like magic!” came a familiar voice.
With a sigh of resignation, Mr. Worthing turned. “I thought you said you were busy.”
“I am. Definitely busy.” The little man hopped up and down in excitement. “Do you know this place?”
“My old school.”
His uninvited companion frowned and rubbed his nose. “Your school? Not a good choice if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Worthing?”
“What do you mean, Mr… Mr…” Mr. Worthing folded his arms. “What actually is your name? I can’t keep referring to you as the little man, even in my own head.”
“Call me John.”
“Is that your name?”
“Think so. Does it matter?”
Mr. Worthing supposed that it didn’t. “What do you mean, not a good choice?”
“If you want to find a time when you did something completely selfless, I would suggest that your childhood isn’t a good starting place.”
“What about childish innocence? That must count for something.”
“I shouldn’t think so. But see for yourself.”
In the direction John was indicating, Mr. Worthing caught sight of a nine-year-old version of himself walking across the playground. It was all a bit too A Christmas Carol for his liking, but before he could protest, John had grabbed his arm and was dragging him through the snow in the wake of his former self. They caught up with him at the gate and walked footprintless at his side for a little way.
The boy was fully absorbed in those necessary activities of snowy childhoods. He jumped from foot to foot along the pavement, seeking out the fresh snow between the slushy footprints of earlier walkers. Every now and then he would detour to run a gloved hand along a low wall, scooping a handful of snow to smash against the next bench or lamppost. He had no inkling he was being kept company by his dying future self and an unlikely companion.
Mr. Worthing Senior was the first to spot the sobbing girl. “I remember her,” he whispered to John, though he might well have shouted for all it mattered. “Always crying about something or other.”
“What you crying for, Mel?” The boy came to a stop and dropped the snowball he’d been forming.
“Broke a window,” sniffed the girl. “Snowball had a stone in it and… and… Dad will be so cross.” She hiccupped. “I’ll get smacked for sure.”
Here she burst into fresh tears, leaving both Master and Mister Worthing shuffling uncomfortably.
“I suppose…” A light dawned on the boy’s face. “I suppose I could say that I did it.”
The tears stopped. “Would you do that, Henry? For me?”
“Course I would.”
John smiled at the boy and turned to his older version. “I was wrong, Mr. Worthing, you were a selfless child. Did you like her very much?”
“Couldn’t stand her. But her dad owned the best sweetshop in town and I got a month’s worth of gobstoppers out of her for that.”
“Ah.” John pursed his lips and nodded to himself for a few seconds. “Shall we go?”
“Probably best.”
They walked away through the snow in awkward silence.
“Cheer up, Mr. Worthing,” John said when they had rounded the next corner. “Nobody was ever selfless as a child. Can’t you think of a time later in life when you did something you didn’t want to for the sake of somebody else?”
Mr. Worthing thought. There had been that time last winter. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the Number 6 bus. He imagined the smell of wet coats and the feel of the sticky floor. He remembered the bubbling irritation as teenagers played music on the back row, and the scratching of the threadbare seats where the stuffing was poking out. He reached out a hand and felt rough fabric.
Mr. Worthing opened his eyes to the disconcerting sight of the back of his own head. He didn’t have to look to know that John was sitting beside him.
“Where are we off to?”
“Home,” said Mr. Worthing. “And I’ve had the day from Hell. I’m coming down with flu, had to make three people redundant and twisted my ankle on the way to the bus stop.”
“I thought you didn’t look very happy.”
The bus lurched to a stop and the doors slid open with a hiss. A woman, heavily-laden with an advanced pregnancy and too many bags, began to waddle up the aisle. The passengers around her became suddenly interested in the rain outside the windows or their mobile phones. Not one of them moved.
“Standing on that ankle, with a thumping head was the last thing I needed. But you can’t ignore a lady. It’s just not done.”
In the seat in front of Mr. Worthing, Mr. Worthing got up. With a limp and a sigh, he ushered the woman into the vacant place.
“I couldn’t walk for a week. I couldn’t even get out of bed for three days.”
John placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Worthing – may I call you Henry?”
“No.”
“Mr. Worthing, that is one of the most touching things I have ever seen.” John sniffed. “You are a noble man, sir.”
“Never mind all that.” Mr. Worthing extracted his arm. “How do I claim my miracle?”
“What miracle?” John looked blank. “You need to change somebody’s life for a miracle. You didn’t change this woman’s life, I’m afraid. You won’t have stored a miracle here. Unfortunate, but there it is.”
“For heaven’s sake!”
Mr. Worthing jumped to his feet and, pushing past himself, headed for the front of the bus. John trotted behind.
“Don’t be cross, Mr. Worthing,” he pleaded. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
The rain was hammering against the windscreen with a renewed ferocity as the bus crept into the stop. The two Mr. Worthings stepped out into the rain, one limping and coughing, the other muttering under his breath. As John fell into step between them, they simultaneously turned up their collars in a futile attempt to stop the drips.
“Are you angry, Mr. Worthing?”
“Of course I’m bloody angry.” Mr. Worthing forgot he was a gentleman. “Of all the ridiculous ways to die, this has to be right up there. Bleeding to death while I wander around in the past. What for? Nobody ever changes anybody’s life except in films.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. All of us change people’s lives every day. Life is full of collisions that alter the course of history. You are changing the future just by walking down the street.”
Mr. Worthing was fairly sure there was no point asking how John knew that. He seemed to know a lot of things pertinent to the situation, without seeming to know anything else. It was most trying.
“I’m sure I never changed anybody’s life while I was walking down a street.”
“Of course you did. You just never knew.”
Now a couple of steps ahead of them, the past Mr. Worthing collided with a man coming the other way, causing
him to drop his briefcase. Papers spilled everywhere, soaked in an instant. Apologising and cursing, the men scrabbled on the pavement watched by two pairs of invisible eyes.
“To you I bet that encounter was just another irritation at the end of a bad day,” said John. “But that man went on to miss his train because of it.”
“And?”
“And so he had to get the next one, where he found himself sitting next to a young woman reading the same book he was. They got talking and swapped phone numbers.” John stood back to let the man hurry past. “They got married last month, expecting a baby too. All because you weren’t looking where you were going.”
The green man had been flashing for several seconds by the time they approached the next crossing and its red alter-ego snapped to life when they were still two strides away. Still absorbed in his sprained ankle and the miserable weather, Mr. Worthing stepped out into the road without looking. A car skidded to a halt on the wet tarmac, inches from him. Oblivious to the chaos he’d caused, Mr. Worthing limped onwards, leaving his future self to peer in through the car window. The young lady inside was sitting very still, lips forming a cartoon ‘O’ of surprise.
“There you go again, see.” John tutted. “Shook her up so badly she caused a car crash at the next roundabout.”
“Good God!” Mr. Worthing hurried on to the pavement, reluctant to allow traffic to drive through him, even if he didn’t really exist. “I didn’t kill her, did I?”
“Nothing so dramatic. But she never drove again. Completely lost her nerve.”
The two invisible men hurried after the retreating form of past Mr. Worthing.
“What next?” Mr. Worthing asked. “I suppose that man in the tabard killed himself because I refused to stop and let him tell me how I could save a donkey for just ten pounds a month?”
“No…”
“Or that woman with the pushchair went insane because she thought I was her brother back from the dead?”
“Now you’re just being silly.”
“Whereas chasing yourself through the rain is sensible, is it?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m not the one doing it.”
Mr. Worthing stopped. He felt suddenly tired. A wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him as the rain and the past swirled around him in the street. John didn’t look too clever either. He was pale and, even in the drizzle, Mr. Worthing could see that he was sweating.
“How long have I got?”
“Not long. You’re slipping away Mr. Worthing – I can feel it. I beg you to think. It may not be too late.”
Mr. Worthing tried to concentrate. A time when he helped somebody out at great cost to himself, that was what he needed. Admitting he couldn’t think of a single instance of selflessness would be almost as embarrassing as dying there in the street with John looking on. He searched further and further back in his past.
“Got it!” He grabbed John’s arm and closed his eyes. “I’ve really got it this time, John. Let’s go.”
When he opened his eyes again, they were in an airport.
“Care to explain?” John asked between gasps as they sprinted through the terminal.
“Stockholm airport, 1993,” Mr. Worthing called back over his shoulder. “I’d been at a conference and wanted to get home but my flight had been delayed overnight. I had to sleep on one of the benches and was meant to be going on holiday that afternoon. If the flight was delayed any longer I’d miss my connection in London.”
They rounded a corner and scanned the scene before them.
“There I am!”
At one of the check-in desks, three places from the front of the queue, was a younger, slightly scruffier Mr. Worthing. The older Mr. Worthing took another step forwards and then swayed to a stop.
“Don’t give up!” John tugged at Mr. Worthing’s jacket as the dying man slumped on the nearest seat. “You can still make it. I know you can.”
John put an arm around Mr. Worthing’s shoulders and heaved him to his feet. Together they stumbled through the crowds of people to the check-in desk.
“There.” Mr. Worthing pointed at the man in front of him in the queue. He had his back to them as he scrabbled in his bag for a passport. “That’s my man.”
There was no reply. John was staring at the two men in the queue with his mouth hanging open.
“What is it, John?”
“It was you.” John turned to Mr. Worthing. “It was you all along. That’s why they sent me to you – whoever they are. It had to be me – don’t you see?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s how it works. It must be. You were my miracle then, so I had to come and help you find yours now.”
At the front of the queue, the young man was leaning over the counter, pleading with the clerk. Everybody behind him was looking impatient.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The clerk’s tone was brisk. “If you booked the wrong flight you’ll just have to wait for the next available ticket. I’ve got one tomorrow afternoon if you’d like to book that?”
“It’ll be too late.” The young man was almost in tears. “My final exams start tomorrow. If I don’t get home today, I’ll fail. I’ll pay anything to get back.”
“Sir, we can’t give you a ticket that doesn’t exist.”
“You don’t understand. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be studying at home, but my sister’s wedding – her husband’s from here see and they couldn’t wait, so…”
“If you could let the next person through, sir.”
“There must be something you can do. I’m begging you. Please.”
In the silence that followed this final plea, the younger Mr. Worthing stepped up to the desk. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I wonder if I might be permitted to swap tickets with this gentleman. I could take his one for tomorrow and he could go today.”
With a stiff smile, the clerk took the passport and ticket Mr. Worthing was holding out to her and began to tap at her keyboard. The young man straightened up and looked at Mr. Worthing with amazement and adoration. It was a look that was mirrored on his older self, standing invisibly a few yards from the desk.
Mr. Worthing’s breath was beginning to come in gasps as he looked from the young John to the older one.
“You’re the man I gave my ticket to. That’s why you turned up.”
“You’re the man who gave me his ticket. That’s why I had to come.”
At the desk the young John was showering the young Mr. Worthing with thanks. Their futures looked at each other.
“Mr. Worthing, if you hadn’t done that I don’t know what I would have done. Med School was everything to me. You missed your connection – and your holiday – didn’t you?”
Mr. Worthing nodded, but his attempt to speak was cut short by a sudden burst of pain in his chest, bringing him to his knees. For a minute he knelt, red-faced and gasping on the floor. “Help me, John. Tell me how I claim my miracle.”
“But I don’t know, Mr. Worthing.”
“You must know.” Mr. Worthing groaned. “John?”
No answer.
“John?”
But John had disappeared.
* * *
Mr. Worthing opened his eyes. He shut them again immediately. Everything was bright and white. Heaven? There was a smell of antiseptic and damp walls. Hell? After another two aborted efforts, he succeeded in keeping his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a splodge of violet ink.
Groaning inwardly, Mr. Worthing ran his gaze up to the broken glasses. Hell. It was definitely Hell. The last thing he needed now, was more inane optimism.
“What are you doing here?” His throat was sore, voice hoarse. “Can’t I even die in peace?”
John was not looking at him, but glanced down at the sound of his voice. “Back with us, Mr. Worthing? Jolly good. You had us scared in there for a bit.” He turned to look at somebody out of Mr. Worthing’s line of vision. “It’s all right now, nurse. He’s coming round.”
John patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, Mr. Worthing, nothing to worry about,” he said in a tone that suggested Mr. Worthing was either deaf or foreign. “You’re bound to feel strange for a bit. I’m Dr. Clark. I know we haven’t met but Dr. Joyce called me in to assist in the middle of your operation because there were some complications.” He patted him again in a failed attempt to be reassuring. “You’re fine now. We’ll explain more when you’ve recovered. For now, let Karen look after you.”
A clipboard appeared in Mr. Worthing’s view, followed by the nurse it was attached to. She was clearly under the impression that people who had recently had anaesthetic couldn’t hear whispering. “Difficult one was it, Doctor?”
“I’ll say.” John’s returning whisper was cheery. “Lucky I had to pick up some scans from my office or I wouldn’t have been in today. Mike has never had a bleed-out like that before. I’m damned glad I could help – your first death on the table can ruin a whole week.”
“Dr. Joyce said you performed a miracle in there.”
As Mr. Worthing closed his eyes again and allowed sleep to overtake him, he heard the familiar chuckle. “I don’t know about that,” Dr. John Clark said. “But he certainly kept me pretty busy.”
Spreading the word
If you’ve enjoyed this book, please, please tell your friends, family, neighbours, work colleagues, followers, disciples, pets, hostages and anyone you happen to be stalking. It’s probably worth mentioning it to your enemies as well.
And if you really want to make the writers deliriously happy, please give the gift that keeps on giving – and leave a review on Amazon. It’s a documented fact that 100 glowing reviews can heat a small town for a day…
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Fiddle of the Sphinx and other Quintessentially Quirky Tales
Mysterious new advisors plot to fool a Pharaoh, Willy Wonka resorts to desperate measures to rescue his recession-hit chocolate factory and a failing writer exacts a chilling revenge on her dismissive publisher.
That’s Why the Lady is a Vamp and other Quintessentially Quirky tales
A gold-digging bloodsucker gets a shock when she targets a New York billionaire, Watson sees red when Sherlock Holmes unexpectedly changes career and conmen come a cropper when they encounter a pensioner who thinks she's a pavement.
An Ugly Way To Go - and other Quintessentially Quirky Tales Page 17
