Underground Rivers

by Mike French

  When they arrived and joined her in her small lounge, they were surprised to hear what she had to say.

  “Hello, John, my dear,” she said, “and lovely, Margaret. I’ve been waiting to see you all day.”

  The middle-aged couple were shocked to have their names remembered by the old lady. It had been a very long time since she had last recognised them. “Come over and sit down, I’ve got something to tell you,” she said.

  “Something strange has happened to me. Yesterday evening I had a headache and went to bed after they gave me some pills.”

  John and Margaret couldn’t believe how animated Stella was, a great change from the usual quiet, frail soul who sat and stared at the wall.

  “During the night,” she continued, “I woke, or seemed to wake, in a bright, white hazy place where I was sort of floating above myself. Oh, don’t look at me like that, you two. I’m not ready for a straight-jacket yet! Anyway, there was a kind of pinging sound in my head and I could suddenly remember everything. I recalled you and your names, your dad and some of the wonderful things that have happened in my life.”

  “Crickey, Mum,” said Margaret. “That’s great news.”

  “Thank you love but I do feel very weak today and my whole body feels sort of empty. To be honest I think maybe this is the end. I feel like I’ve had a burst of energy before I go. A kind of clarity at the end.

  “Oh don’t say that, Mum,” sighed John.

  “No, don’t worry love,” she said. “I’ve had a lovely life and I’m an old woman now. You get to a stage where you’ve seen all you need to. I know in my mind I’ve had a wonderful time. Your dad was a smashing companion and you two have been marvellous to share my times with. Especially you, dear Margaret. You’ve been a wonderful daughter to have. I’ll never forget John bringing you home to meet us. We both loved you the moment we first saw you. Nobody else would have been good enough for my lovely boy. Anyway, I’m feeling very tired now and I’ll let you go home. I don’t think I’ll see you again, I think my time has come.”

  She wouldn’t listen to their protestations, saying, “It was lovely to get my mind back, even for a short while. I’m happy now. Remember, I love you both, always look after each other.”

  Stella Gorman passed away peacefully while sleeping that Sunday night. Her son and daughter-in-law were able to reflect later, that she had been happy at the end and they were pleased that she had regained her memory for those last few precious hours.

  Earlier that same evening at Ellen Nelson’s flat she was delighted to say, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” after Steve asked her to be his wife.

  They had been virtually inseparable since their meeting at ‘Franco’s’ and the love, admiration and respect they had for each other was always going to bring about this happy conclusion. Neither of them saw any point in waiting and they started making wedding plans straight away.

  A few weeks later, on the Friday afternoon, Steve met Ellen outside the library when she finished work and they walked into Dennisons Estate Agents to enquire about a home. After looking over the details of several uninteresting or too costly houses, they were losing interest in the day. As they were about to leave, Tim Dennison said, “There’s always this one, if you want a bit of a project. It’s just come onto the market and it’s in your price range.”

  The picture he showed them was of the cottage that had accidently brought them together all those weeks ago on the hillside overlooking the river.

  “Actually,” Tim said, “It looks a bit rough on the outside but it’s very well maintained indoors. Although nobody lives in it, there’s a maintenance man who keeps an eye on the basic jobs.”

  “Yes, we would like to view it,” said Ellen, while Steve nodded his agreement. A viewing was arranged for Saturday at 3pm and the upshot of that was the purchase some weeks later, of Ellen and Steve’s marital home.

  Unbeknown to either Ellen or Steve, there had been another three minor accidents outside the cottage in the last year. Each one of these involved two young, single drivers travelling alone. All these incidents, although resulting in a date or two, failed to produce a lasting relationship.

  It almost seemed that in some way, destiny had planned for Ellen and Steve, or a couple just like them, to be thrown together as they passed by. Then, if things worked out right, they would take over the old building and restore it to its former glory. Even Stella Gorman had played her part, passing away as if to a pre-arranged script.

  The newlywed Shawcrosses completely renovated the old cottage and once again it became a lovely, happy home.

  John and Margaret Gorman took great delight in seeing the place reborn. They had reduced the price considerably when they found that a young, engaged, local couple were going to buy it. They often popped round for a cup of tea with the newlyweds and as time passed by, all four became dear friends. So much so, that the Gormans became Godparents to little Thomas and Amy, the Shawcross twins.

  Now Ellen and Steve have finished their renovation project, the cottage is once again magnificently white. The gardens are a show of beautiful flowers and plants with neatly trimmed lawns and a flurry of tasteful touches, surrounded by a fine clipped hedge. The only thing that is left untouched, apart from a lick of paint, is the old stone nameplate next to the new front gate. It reads Matchmakers.

  A Brief Encounter

  by Vicky Woodhatch

  The over ground train rattled through the graffiti suburbs of North London, electric sparks from the overhead cables illuminated the gloomy urban sky. Sullen faces stood on crowded platforms, eyes flickering to the departure boards checking for delays and cancellations. Huddled together like penguins they protected each other from the bitter northerly wind. Jen envied the commuters their mundane travel to work; she craved the comfort of familiarity. Instead she was on this train on a damp Wednesday morning heading to a destination she did not want to reach.

  “I hope you know CPR?”

  “Sorry?” Jen looked up from her book; she hadn’t noticed him get on the train.

  “I said I hope you know CPR.”

  He had a round moonlike face, ruddy, he could have been blushing but she got the impression he always emitted a rosy glow. His hair was shaggy and fell a little into his eyes; he blinked excessively to try to remove it but failed. He wore a snug fitting suit with crumpled shirt, very much achieving the look of tramp-chic. He was grinning at her rather manically, the twinkle in his eye suggested mischief.

  She knew she shouldn’t really respond as he may see it as encouragement but then ignoring him was not an option, he was sitting right next to her.

  “Why?” she asked hesitantly.

  His grin got larger; she could tell he was pleased she had taken the bait.

  “Because when I saw you it made my heart stop.” He looked mightily pleased with himself.

  She groaned and exaggeratedly put her head into her hands in mock disbelief.

  “Come on,” he giggled. “You have to give me A1 for effort.”

  “No I don’t,” she retorted. “That was awful.”

  “Who are you the cheesy chat up line police?” The grin had not once left his face. Surely his facial muscles must be aching by now she thought.

  She laughed openly at him. He was a humorous character, full of mirth and naughtiness but with a pleasing dash of childlike naivety. He looked immensely pleased with himself not in a smug way, more like a child seeking approval. Although amused by his antics part of her was angry with him, she didn’t want to laugh today. She didn’t even want to talk. She had brought a book with her on purpose, reading on the train being the universal sign that you want to be left alone. The book allows you to not make eye contact with anyone; it gives you an anonymity bubble. This stranger, this goofy individual, had ploughed right through social etiquette and burst her bubble. How could she p
olitely indicate to him that although flattered she wasn’t in the mood for this nonsense today. Today of all days.

  “If I were the police I could arrest you for that line,” Jen’s face hardened a little. “But if you let me get on with my book I will let you off with a warning.”

  Her carriage companion dropped his grin and looked at his feet for a few seconds. She had disappointed him, which troubled her a little, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know the significance of her train journey. All he knew was that his efforts at being funny and charming had been snubbed by the rude woman on the train.

  “Ok,” he said stiffly. “Enjoy your book.”

  “Thank you.” She tried to put the warmth back into her voice but she could tell the damage had been done.

  He scouted around on the seat next to him and found one of the free London papers and pretended to be transfixed by an article on the London Olympic Games. She returned her gaze to her book but realised she was reading the same line over and over again. She felt wretched and just hoped that he would be getting off at the next stop. Her mobile phone disturbed her from her revelries. Her ring tone was Monty Python’s ‘Always look on the Bright side of Life’. It’s funny how ring tones can seem a hilarious idea when downloading them but when heard at full volume on a crowded train can be excruciatingly embarrassing. As she was grappling her bag open to retrieve the phone she noticed a sly smile on her neighbour’s face. She flushed with shame.

  “Hello,” her voice irritated. “Oh, Mum, hi, you ok?” She tried to lower her voice so the other commuters couldn’t hear her conversation but she was acutely aware that she had his attention. “I will be at the cemetery in about thirty minutes, I can get flowers on the way.” She saw a look of understanding cross his face. “Bye, Mum, see you in a bit.”

  Silence descended on the carriage as she put her phone back in her bag, she had the feeling they had all been privy to her conversation, no-one wanted to look her in the eye. She held her book up to her face as if a shield and willed the train to acquire light speed.

  “Did I pick a bad day to bother you?” The cheesy grin had disappeared, replaced with concern.

  “A bit,” she conceded. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you though.”

  “Well that’s where you are wrong, I am really good at taking abuse, you won’t believe how frequently I have the practice.” The corners of his mouth twitched as if itching to return to grin mode.

  “Ok you asked for it, I was minding my own business and then some goon sits next to me and starts chatting me up.”

  “Really where is this goon? I will give him a piece of my mind.” He looked around the carriage comically.

  She sighed and conceded that she had lost this fight, his determination to lift her mood was relentless, and a current she didn’t have the energy to fight against anymore. She smiled a warm but weary smile and exaggeratedly closed her book to indicate that he had won.

  “I believe I have heard somewhere that talking about your problems helps,” he said putting on a faux intellectual voice.

  “To a goon on a train, that I have only just met?” she smirked. “I would bore you to death.”

  “I am on my way to a business meeting in Cricklewood about paper laminators: I have a very high boredom threshold.”

  So she burdened this strange attentive man with her tale of grief. Today being the anniversary of his death, the day the world became a worse place to exist. She told the story devoid of emotion, like they had at the inquest. Fact after fact in meticulous order: timings, locations, police reports. While she spoke he remained mute and frozen, no fake sympathetic noises, no gasps of fake horror. He was absorbing her words, allowing her to empty herself of them, to be free from their internal suffocation. She hadn’t realised how much she needed to talk about her brother, to someone unattached to him. Bringing up his name at family occasions always caused upset and agonised silence, so his name was rarely spoken and only then in whispers. The weight of guilt, the possibility that she could have prevented it, the fact that she hadn’t noticed how just how bad things had become for him. She had been angry with him for becoming so isolated, for not returning her calls, for being continually unavailable. On the last message she had left on his answer machine she had been quite cutting, sarcastic about his lack of communication. How could she have been so callous, so impervious to his needs?

  She finished speaking, silence descended like a soft blanket. She looked briefly out of the window and noticed Cricklewood station disappearing from view.

  “You’ve just missed your stop,” she blurted.

  “I know,” he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” she persisted.

  “Really don’t want to go to that meeting,” he smiled meekly. “I’ll get off at the next stop and take the tube back, no worries.”

  “I can’t believe you stayed on an extra stop to hear my problems. I think I would have preferred to be in a meeting about laminators.”

  He blushed a little and put his hands through his hair, making himself look even more dishevelled.

  “It’s not your fault, your brother, it’s really not your fault. Please don’t blame

  yourself.”

  He looked her solidly in the eye. She nodded slowly.

  The train began to slow. He stood up reluctantly.

  “I had better get off at this one.” He looked out the window into the backyards of the terrace houses. “My name is Tim by the way. No cheesy chat up lines but if you want to meet up and chat again here is my number. Totally up to you, no pressure.”

  He handed her a rather creased business card with his smudged details on. She took it and smiled, carefully placing it into her handbag and zipping it inside safely. He turned once more before he left and waved goofily. She chuckled and shook her head. She didn’t know whether she would see him again, she didn’t know if she wanted to see him again. Those minutes they had spent in each other’s company had been special and a relief. She had shared her most intimate thoughts with this stranger because he was a stranger. Why ruin it with further meetings? Ultimately in her experience people only learn to disappoint one another over time. She wanted to leave this encounter untainted. So as the train slowed again she removed the business card for her bag and placed it into the waste bin that nestled between the seats. She left the train without the desperation she had felt on entering and allowed herself to smile at the antics of a shaggy haired commuter.

  Death Became Us

  by Shane M.A Laing

  The corridor of the run down abandoned hospital was rotting and decaying, blood stained the walls. Erica heard whispers crying out, sweat rushed down her face. She was frightened but knew she must walk ahead to find answers. Noise behind her made her thoughts crumble; to move forward could mean life, but falling backwards: death. Erica did not know what was to come; she felt fear holding her back. The only thought, playing on repeat within Erica’s mind, was there something she needed to know or see.

  All of a sudden a dark shadow appeared in the distance. At that moment Erica became cold; she felt a chill whither down her spine, as if she was beside a window. To Erica it felt as if someone was breathing on the back of her neck with the air trickling down her spine. She turned her head knowing she was moments away from something happening. There was a grey face; black hair surrounded yellow eyes which stared right through her. For moments Erica stood, her eyes widened in shock. Then she rushed backwards tripped over a toy in the process and fell onto the floor. When she looked up no one was ahead of her. Erica rose from the ground and brushed herself off. Silence withered through the corridor once again: just Erica’s footsteps were heard. Suddenly a door a few feet away from her slammed shut, causing the pace of her heartbeat to quicken.

  Erica got up, her hands shaking violently; she could feel something evil within her pr
esence. All she could do was await what was to come, but it seemed as if it was toying with her, playing with her head. In the background the sound of something heavy plummeting to the ground attracted Erica’s attention, leaving her panicking even more. Through her pockets Erica searched, until she pulled out her earphones. She fiddled around until finally turning the mp3 player on, music began to play. Even with the music, the thoughts rambled on, continuously on repeat.

  One question Erica had was, who exactly was with her and why were they playing with her? Erica stood with her head facing the floor, praying she would live. Hearing footsteps Erica tilted her head up, yellow eyes were gleaming towards her once again. It looked like a young girl. The girl who was discretely described in the new book Erica had started reading entitled Death Becomes Us; the name hit her, Elga Ford ... Erica screamed as Elga advanced closer at a fast pace, suddenly Erica’s body slumped to the floor, her eyes blackened and mouth ripped open. Beside her body laid a doll, its eyes black and its mouth wide open, as if it was Erica shaped as a doll.

  One week later, Anthony a smart and outgoing lad, strode towards the library. In his right hand, a suitcase which contained something of importance to him. The automatic doors ahead opened slowly. He entered the library smiling with happiness and joy; he had just been informed of a new book which was supposedly really mind blowing and creepy. Anthony had a passion for books; he found books a way of connection to another world. A world where Anthony was finally free of work, distractions and life. Anthony approached the escalator and stepped onto them cautiously, as if they were a danger to him.

  What was the name of the book again?

  Anthony stood on the escalator tracking through every thought within his mind for the name of the book. Suddenly he remembered: Death Becomes Us. It was supposedly written by a young and intelligent girl before she was brutally raped and murdered, by her own father, for he believed she was a witch. Word had quickly spread. Supposedly only three copies were ever made and Elga Ford’s spirit bellowed within each one. Two people, who had so-called recently read it, were distraughtly found dead with their mouth’s ripped open and a doll which looked identical to them beside them.