The Tomb and Other Stories

by Stanley Salmons

  Gilphead thought quickly.

  “Ah. Er. It’s a special preparation. Not available on the N.H.S. I can let you have some for private prescription. Have to charge you, of course. Um, I can’t tell you how much, offhand. I’ll let you know though, okay? Phone you back. ’Bye.”

  He sat there, turning it over in his mind. And then he paid another visit to the Pharmacist.

  •

  Dr. James Gilphead reflected on the ups and downs – or, in his case, the downs and ups – of a medical career. Overall, he was pleased with the way things had gone in Upper Piddle. It was true that the birth rate had soared and they’d had to appoint another midwife and set up a new nursery. The opening of a branch of Mothercare in the village was a particular occasion for pride; it was the only one within a radius of fifty miles. There was even talk of building a school in due course. Sooner or later, of course, the General Medical Council and the Royal Pharmaceutical Society would have caught up with them, so it was a good point at which to take early retirement.

  The young man he’d sold the practice to seemed impressed with the newly decorated waiting room and well equipped surgery, the computerized patient records, and the fact that such a small practice was able to appoint a nurse/receptionist. But what had really clinched it for him was the positive, forward-looking atmosphere in the village. Yes, Dr. Gilphead thought, in one way and another he’d left the pretty little village of Upper Piddle in good shape.

  He continued to stroll across the silver sands of the Pacific Island, holding hands with a dusky maiden, and she turned to give him a dreamy smile.

  FLASH FICTION

  The six stories that follow belong in a category usually known as flash fiction or short-short stories. There is no agreed length for this style, although an upper limit of 300 words is common.

  At The Walls

  I saw the Roman Centurian at the Walls, just behind the Cathedral. Nothing unusual about that: you see these bearers of Roman gear all the time, leading parties of schoolchildren round Chester. I don’t wish to appear uncharitable, but most of them don’t actually look as if they could run through the ranks of barbarians wreaking havoc; in fact opening a can of baked beans would probably leave them gasping for breath. This one was different: he actually looked the part. Not tall, maybe five and half feet, but stocky, his neck and shoulders thick, his legs like trees, his face bronzed and weatherbeaten, the colour of his leather garments. He moved without apparent effort, despite the helmet and armour, the pouch, sword and dagger in his belt, a shield and two javelins.

  One thing really grabbed my attention, though: he came through the wall.

  I stopped and looked at him.

  He stopped and looked at me.

  “What are you staring at?” he demanded.

  “Erm, I was wondering why you did that,” I said.

  “Why I did what?”

  “Pass through that wall.”

  “What wall?”

  “I see, the wall doesn’t exist for you.” I thought about it for a moment. “What are you standing on, then?”

  “Haven’t I got it right?” he said, and sank a couple of feet until his knees were just above the ground.

  “Too low,” I said.

  “Oh.” Now he was hovering a couple of feet above the ground.

  “That’ll do.”

  I suppose there are some things that surpass human understanding, but I did my best to come to terms with it. I walked on, immersed in thought, and the centurion fell into step beside me. I trotted down the steps to Frodsham Street, and he floated serenely by my side.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said, as I prepared to cross the road. “The wall and the ground don’t exist for you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do I exist?”

  “You do at the moment,” he replied. “But in twenty seconds you won’t.”

  I’d had enough.

  “You know,” I said, over my shoulder as I walked off. “I’m sorry I ever met you.”

  I just had time to say it before the bus hit me.

  What was that you said? Why am I telling you this?

  Well, you did ask me why I came through that wall.

  [Chester Literature Festival, 2006]

  “Melanie” by Harold Marlow

  Melanie is fun. Melanie says “Hi!” to people. Melanie wears tops that don’t quite meet the bottoms, so when she bends forward you get a glimpse of white skin and a prominent backbone. Melanie is bra and stockings and ovaries and oestrogen and mascara and lipstick.

  Melanie is woman.

  Melanie is next.

  *

  “We’ve got him, Chief. Harold Charles Marlow. Booked him for rape and murder.”

  “Good work, D.I. Why on earth did he publish it on that site?”

  “Might have been a boast or a cry for help, sir. Even so, I was lucky to pick it up. If I hadn’t got caught in that traffic jam going home I wouldn’t have been reading flash fiction on my iPhone and I’d have missed it. I saw straight off what it was about. Just wish I’d got to him before he got to Melanie Banks.”

  On the Shuttle

  Bip-bip-bop-bop-bip-bop-bip-bop-bop-bip-bop-bip.

  Hi, Madge. I’m on the shuttle. Any probs? Right. Good. Everything okay for the meeting? Twice already, have I? Okay, then. Yes, coffee and sandwiches. Can you handle that? Right. Good. Well, listen, the last we heard we’ll be re-entering the atmosphere in two hours, so I’ll either be down at six o’clock or fried to a crisp! Ha, ha. Well, I’ll ’phone you either way. Eh? Ah, see what you mean! Ha, ha. ’Bye, then.

  Bip.

  Bip-bip-bop-bop-bop-bip-bip-bop-bop-bop-bop-bip.

  Hi, dear. I’m on the shuttle. All okay? Good show. Listen love. We’ll be starting the hot glide in two hours. Yeah, should be at the Spaceport at six o’clock. Call you when I’m down. Yes, the hover’s parked there. Oh. Well, just thought you’d like to know. Okay? ’Bye-ee.

  Bip.

  Bip-bip-bop-bop-bip-bip-bop-bop-bip-bop-bip-bop.

  Hiya Andy. I’m on the shuttle. How’re ya doing mate? Right. Good. Anything new going down there? Right. Good. Didja get the message from Orville? Already, did I? Okay, then. Look, give my best to Jim. Oh, isn’t he? Well, next time, then. We’ll be starting the warm bit in two hours. Speak to you soon. All right, old boy. Take care now.

  Bip.

  Bip-bip-bop-bop-bop-bip-bip-bop-bop-bop-bop-bip.

  Hi, dear, me again. I’m on the shuttle. Listen, you won’t believe this, but the schedule’s changed. Yes, unbelievable, isn’t it? It seems my mobile interfered with the navigation system and it’s put us on a different trajectory. I know. Unbelievable. What? Yes, apparently it’s a collision course with the Sun. Mmm. Bit of a bummer, eh? Must tell Andy. He won’t believe it. What’s that? About ten months to impact, the Steward said. But I’ll give you a buzz before then. Oh yeah, you can depend on it. ’Bye-ee.

  Bip.

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  Robbery With Violence

  The big bastard had a knife to my throat.

  “Stay cool, man,” I gasped. “Stay cool. Take my billfold. I don’t want no trouble.”

  I handed it over and scuttled off fast. Behind me, I could hear him laugh, a cocky, jeering laugh. He kept on laughing and I kept on running, right up to the moment it blew up.

  Exploding billfold. Standard C.I.A. issue.

  Sure ruined his day.

  The Cross

  It was midday and I was on the Rows when I heard the handbell and the stentorian “Oyez, oyez, oyez!” I moved to the railing and looked down on the High Cross, where a small crowd was gathering. A tour group of sunhatted Japanese hurried over, cameras at the ready.

  The handbell sounded again and the floor shifted slightly beneath my feet, like the deck of a ship at sea. The scene was more colourful now. Men in braided doublets of russet, umber or palest green pressed forward. One, sporting a plumed tricorn
hat, stood aloof, a cloak draped casually over one shoulder. Tightly bodiced ladies in linen caps took little notice but passed by, pinch-lifting heavy skirts to clear the dirty cobbles. Some ragged, barefoot urchins and older men in leather jerkins gawped from the side of the street. I looked down at my own unwashed feet and wondered idly where my shoes had gone. An item of washing swung briefly into my vision from the clothes strung above my head. I brushed it away.

  A handcart piled high with Cornish apples paused on Bridge Street. Behind it a coal-wagon drawn by two oxen creaked to a halt.

  Conversation ceased and the town crier began.

  “Hear ye, hear ye! By gracious permission of His Majesty King Charles the Second, in this year of Our Lord Sixteen Hundred and Seventy-One, by Order of the City Assembly all roofs of thatch are to be replaced forthwith by slate or tile. Hear ye, hear ye! On the morrow The Worshipful Mayor of the City, Mr Thomas Willcocke, Admiral of the Dee, will enact the beating of the bounds of Chester and will invoke the blessing of Almighty God on our crops…”

  And so it continued.

  Finally the crier rolled up his parchment and tapped it on his thigh. The deck shifted again, and my shoes were back on my feet. The Japanese tourists were taking pictures of the crier and each other. Twenty-five cameras, all recording the event.

  And not one would record what I had seen.

  [First publishedin the anthologyAn Anatomy of Chester, 2007 and reproduced by kind permission of the editor, Ashley Chantler]

  Xenophobia

  “Special Meal, sir?”

  “Yes, vegetarian.”

  As the hostess handed the tray to the passenger she noticed the number embossed on his wrist and her demeanor changed.

  “I’ll be round soon with tea or coffee. Unless you’d prefer a cup of oil?”

  She grinned knowingly at the other passengers with her small, pointed teeth. They caught on immediately and started to laugh and jeer. They were silenced by the android’s high, clear voice.

  “You humans will always find another group to persecute. At one time it would have been another religious or racial group. Now it’s androids. I suppose it’s a tribal atavism but it’s a basic flaw in a modern society.”

  The passengers’ faces set. The android had spoken bravely but not wisely.

  It did not complete the journey.

  The Creation Committee

  They fell silent as Big Boss entered and took his place at the head of the cloud.

  “First on today’s agenda,” he began, “Galaxy 2378, Solar System, Planet Number 3, known as Earth. The last time we discussed this was sixty-five million years ago. What was the status at that time?”

  “Vegetation was doing well,” C said proudly. “Clubmosses, fungi, ferns, palms, conifers, vines, and of course my giant horsetails.”

  D said, “And C’s vegetation made the atmosphere oxygen-rich, so I could fashion lovely big insects. Like my dragonfly – what a stunner: four wings, one metre span, fast and manoeuvrable.”

  “Plenty going on in the oceans, too,” A said, “From single cell creatures to fish and molluscs. The problem was B’s darned dinosaurs.”

  “It’s all very well being wise after the event,” B said indignantly. “It’s not easy to think millions of years into the future. What I created was a nice little lizard, a small green job, which spent a lot of time basking in the sun. How was I to know it would evolve into those ravening monsters?”

  “Well, like it or not, they came to dominate the planet. We gave them several million years and things got worse, not better. Herbivores like Edmontosaurus and Triceratops were eating all the vegetation, and carnivores, like Tyrannosaurus and Allosaurus, were eating the herbivores.”

  “And don’t forget the gang warfare,” A said. “Nasty, vicious groups, large and small, all bent on murder. When a troupe of velociraptors met a herd of stegosaurs there was mayhem.”

  Big Boss said, “We tried climate change, as I recall.”

  B said, “Yes, the volcanoes did a good job of poisoning the air and water. And higher temperatures and less daylight knocked off a lot of vegetation; less vegetation meant fewer herbivores, and fewer herbivores meant fewer carnivores. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough.”

  “No,” Big Boss said. “I remember now; I had to lob in an asteroid.”

  C moaned, “All that work down the drain.”

  “Come on, C, it wasn’t all bad,” Big Boss said. “When things got going again you made a lot of improvements: look how nicely your broad-leafed trees and flowering plants came on. I especially liked the flowers.”

  “But horsetails,” A said gloomily. “Why did you bring back the horsetails?”

  “I like horsetails,” C said petulantly. “Anyway, they were only small ones.”

  “So what’s the problem now?” Big Boss asked.

  “Boss, you remember that little tree shrew thing that survived the climate change and the asteroid strike? Climbed around at night, eating insects?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it evolved into primates of every sort, and now we’re stuck with the worst one of all: humans. It’s as bad as before: one group of land animals is dominating the planet. They’re plundering minerals, destroying rain forest, over-fishing the oceans, and polluting the environment.”

  “And the gang warfare,” A added. “Don’t forget the gang warfare. Nasty, vicious groups, large and small, all bent on murder. They kill each other in ones or twos or by the thousands – millions sometimes – and not even for food.”

  D pursed his lips. “They made some nice things, though,” the dragonfly enthusiast said wistfully. “Like helicopters. I did like their helicopters. And they used them to rescue people.”

  “Yes,” A snapped, “and they fitted them with rockets and guns to kill far more people.”

  “There’s good and bad everywhere,” Big Boss reminded them. “We’re looking for balance here. In broad terms, is life on this planet balanced?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “All right, what are we going to do about it?”

  “No need to do anything, in my opinion,” A said. “They’re well on the way to wiping themselves out. They’ve created a massive global warming problem and they don’t have a Plan B.”

  B looked startled. “What?”

  “Not you, B; a Plan B. They can’t agree on an alternative.”

  Big Boss nodded. “How long to extinction, do you think, A?

  “Maybe a hundred years. Not much more.”

  “All right. We’ll revisit the problem in a hundred years. Assuming things haven’t improved, and if they haven’t wiped themselves out by then, I’ll toss in another asteroid.”

  C’s shoulders sagged. “All that work….”

  “I’m sorry, C, but there’s no alternative. We must make it look like a natural disaster, otherwise some clever clogs will suspect there’s a higher influence behind it. That would never do, now would it?”

  They shook their heads vigorously.

  “All right, let’s pass on. Item 2: Galaxy 9835, Androcles system, Planet Number 4…”

  The Lecture

  You push open the doors to the lecture theatre and you’re greeted by a wall of sound. Four hundred students – medical students, dental students, nurses, and physiotherapists – can make a lot of noise. There’s no sign of it abating as you go to the lectern. You could shuffle a few papers, then stare them into submission. Instead you decide on a different approach: you pick up a marker pen and start to draw on the whiteboard.

  There’s a subtle change in the orchestra of voices, a diminuendo, a modulation to a lower key. They’re wondering what you’re drawing. They’re beginning to make suggestions to each other. Some are guessing correctly. You turn to face them.

  “Anyone know what this is?”

  Several hands go up. A girl in the front row says, “Squid.”

  “Absolutely right. Squid, Latin name Loligo forbesii. These are fascinating animals. Sperm
whales are also interested in them, but their interest is purely gastronomic: a squid makes an excellent dinner. So to keep from making itself a sperm whale’s dinner, the squid has a clever escape response: it’s jet-propelled. The mantle, here, which is like a muscular cloak, contracts and drives a jet of water through the siphon. Suddenly it’s no longer there.”

  You begin to draw again, this time a large triangle with the base at the top.

  “If you cut the mantle and spread it open you can find out how the squid does it. These,” you make two small circles below the top, “are called stellate ganglia, and nerve fibres run from each one to the end of the mantle, down here. To respond as fast as that the nerve fibres have to conduct quickly, so they’re big: one of them, the so-called giant axon, is one millimetre across.

  “Okay, you’re wondering what this has got to do with today’s lecture, so let me ask you this: which of our special senses passes the most information?”

  There’s a pause, then several students mutter, “Vision.”

  “Vision. Correct. The optic nerve carries about one million, two hundred thousand nerve fibres. All of them have to transmit quickly – quickly enough that if you see a mote of dust heading straight for your eye you can blink in time. If each of those nerve fibres was the size of a squid’s giant axon, you’d have an optic nerve forty metres across. Which would be kind of awkward, wouldn’t it?” You let that sink in. “So how is that we can manage the problem, and the squid can’t?”

  You’ve got them hooked. There’s a puzzle and they want to know the answer.

  You can give them the full story now, the flow of ions across membranes, the role of myelin, the analogies: the gunpowder trail versus a thousand miles of transatlantic cable. Forty minutes later you finish: