GEORGE AND HIS LITTLE BABY SISTER

My name is George, and I’m going to tell you a story that happened last year just after my birthday. For a few months, I had noticed that mum and dad were acting differently towards me – they weren’t paying me so much attention.
My parents were very happy; they laughed a lot, and even my father, who is quite serious, wouldn’t stop cracking jokes to everyone. I just couldn’t understand why they were behaving so differently. Maybe it had to do with my mum’s growing tummy…
One day at breakfast, they said to me: “George, we’ve got some good news for you; you’re going to have a little sister!”
“A little sister? So… that’s what’s wrong with you!” I said.
“What do you mean?” Dad asked.
“Well, you’ve been ignoring me because you’re going to have another baby!” I said.
Then they put their arms around me and told me they loved me just as much as ever and that even though I would have a sister, that would never change. But they changed, lots…
When Clare was born, it was like I was invisible. Mum and dad only paid me attention to scold me for not having finished my homework before dinner, or for not eating my peas. Day after day, it was like my parents had forgotten about me completely and they only had time for Clare.
One day at school in language class, the teacher came to my desk to see how I was getting on with the exercise, and told me: “Everything all right, George? You look sad…” For the first time in months, someone was worried about me, so I confided in her: “Yes, Miss, ever since my sister was born, my parents have been ignoring me.” Then Miss said: “You don’t have to be sad about that, George. Remember that Clare is just a baby and she’ll need a lot of care until she’s a little older. Don’t worry, your parents love you just the same, or even more!”
The next day, Dad was waiting for me at the school gates, but he wasn’t alone – my teacher was talking to him. I don’t know what she said to him, but from that day on, my parents started behaving towards me the same as they always had.
So I hope my story helps parents to understand that the love and attention we children need is always the same, no matter what.
 
THE END

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Living Is Easy With Eyes…

I felt the gentle waves push me ashore, as I swam to the surface of a deep and vacant dream. I only half opened my eyes yet the world’s life and colour invaded the blackness that had previously inhabited my mind. A tickling sea breeze triggered my suppressed senses. Where in the world had I found myself? The lunchtime sun glared into my eyes as I rolled myself onto my back, my skin tender and sore from the midday raise, my head pounding from the punishing waves. I looked down at my half-naked body - a smattering of cuts and bruises plastered my cherry tinted skin. How did I get here? My mind seemed blank, like it had been wiped clean, all my memories thrown away. I looked out far across the glittering ocean, the sun at its pinnacle in the cloudless sapphire sky. Even if I didn’t know why I was here or what happened prior to my arrival here, I couldn’t think of a more enchanting place to be if I’d tried.
“These are dark days indeed!” an unfamiliar voice hollered from a distance, somewhat blemishing my pensive state. I tried to haul myself to my feet; however my hands were abruptly restricted. I looked down in dismay at my firmly handcuffed wrists. With every movement I felt the handcuffs grapple my raw skin. They were a constant reminder of imprisonment, but I was clueless as to why I had been constrained by them in the first place.
“There is no escape from this island!” the strange voice came again. I turned to follow it, my steps frail like an elderly man.
“Where am I?” I murmured - my question barely audible. I carefully tilted my head back and scanned the tree line at the edge of the beach.
“We shall all perish on this godforsaken island!” the distressing voice called once more. I followed the voice twenty or more metres into the symmetrical jungle, my eyes were met bizarrely, by a man sat atop the most unnaturally shaped, olive green tree in the vicinity, its branches curved upwards and around the man, encasing him inside like an animal. What seized my eye though, was the extraordinary cliff which loomed over the entire side of the island. The cliff was completely made up of ruby stone from the foot to the ledge; every inch sparkled majestically in the sunlight. The man in the tree was fairly short and stout from what I could make out, his face punctuated by moles, bites and other boils of some sort. He wore a torn red t-shirt, the words J.Lypur written on the right side. Upon spotting me emerge from the glade, the man screeched in my direction again.
“They won’t let me! There is no escape! She won’t let me! This place is hell!” The man’s eyes lit up like a madman fleeing quarantine.
“Who are you?” I queried, not knowing what to expect in response.
“I’m Lypur. I’ve lived on this damned island for five agonising years and eight unbearable months, each day stuffed with madness, insult and confinement.” Lypur seemed to welcome my company, as he smiled with strange warmth from the treetop. He seemed an entirely different person from the one shouting nonsense from above just moments ago.
“It seems you’re blissfully unaware of the torture this island will make you endure.” The sincerity of his deep, Scottish accent sent a shockwave of terror thrumming through my veins.
“I don’t understand. How did you end up here? How did I get here? Why can’t we escape?” Lypur began a very measured dismount from the warped tree.
“I washed up on the beach one day just like you. I didn’t know how or why. Nobody here knows exactly why we’re here. They tell us it’s to work, research nature, plants and life on the island but, I tell ya, the things I’ve seen in this place, things your mind can’t process they’re so damn messed up.” Lypur allowed himself to plummet the last few metres of his descent. As the man drew closer, his large chocolate eyes gave the impression there was no longer a soul behind them. Judging by his matted grey hair and weathered face, he could have been a man of at least sixty. “But we are all here for a reason.” Lypur gestured towards my handcuffs. “Need some help getting those off?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I looked down in embarrassment of my restraint as Lypur disappeared behind several trees, a light sprinkling of rain pattered on the jungle foliage.
“Storm’s coming.” Lypur shouted from the midst of the jungle. After a short wait, Lypur returned, with a tarnished, old bolt cutter.
“Sorry, this was the best I could find, toolbox isn’t what it used to be.” Lypur captured the chain of my handcuffs between the callous heads of the bolt cutter and somehow managed to force the shackle to surrender to them, shooting hundreds of insignificant shards high above us, and then as gravity took inevitable control, back to the blooming, green earth. I grinned from cheek to cheek in delight at my freedom.
“That’s just the start for me brother. I really shouldn’t have done that for you. Alexandra will have me beaten for this. Don’t listen to a word of what she says, either. She’s had me trapped here for years, maybe one day I can get away from here,” Lypur said dejectedly.
“Alexandra?” I pictured some sort of jungle queen trapping men against their will.
“Alexandra’s in charge of everything that happens on the island. She knows everything that happens on the island, she more or less is the island.”
“Talk about female superiority,” I joked, soon realising it wasn’t funny. The sprinkling of rainfall was gradually increasing.
“What's your name anyway brother?” Lypur asked impatiently.
“Freeman, My name is Robert Freeman.” I offered my hand to Lypur and he strongly shook it, chuckling mildly to himself.
“That’s what you think!” All of a sudden he had broken out into an infectious hilarity at his own wit. He was keeled over in delight I couldn’t help but submit to his irony, and share his pleasure.
“That’s what you think!” he proclaimed once more, laughing like he had never laughed before. As we persisted in our childish tomfoolery, the light drizzle evolved into a tropical rainstorm of biblical proportion. I looked up to the heavens and beamed - I had never seen, felt or heard anything quite like it. As our fleeting optimism hung in its last moments, the hooting died down to a titter, the storm clung, then whimpered and returned to a placid shower. From nowhere a rigid metal truncheon struck my fragile skull. I sensed blood trickling gently down my face as my world began to twist and coil about me. I could taste blood in my mouth and the musty smack of chloroform teasing my nostrils. The aggressor tossed me to the ground with ridiculous ease. I could faintly see Lypur accepting the same assault as myself, our eyes locked for a moment before a bag was thrust over my head and the world turned black again.
I returned from unconsciousness in a heap on the stiff wooden floor. My vision was blurred and when I reached to feel my head, my hand returned crimson. As my sight returned to normality, I could make out I was in some sort of hut, alongside Lypur on the floor. I pulled myself upright and my eyes were met by a forceful, independent looking woman, dressed in a sharp black suit, looming over myself and Lypur.
“I’m Alexandra. As I hear you already know. I’m terribly pleased to meet you Robert.” I remained silent. Alexandra’s upper class accent sat flawlessly in line with her appearance. Her fiery red hair was tightly clasped behind her head, and her thick rimmed spectacles concealed her innocent blue eyes. Her freckly, pale skin appeared to be stinging from the sun. She stepped over me and leant down to Lypur, who was still curled up like a child in an unconscious ball of escape.
“Wake up, James,” she whispered soothingly in his bloody ear, he stirred momentarily, before she smacked him with all her might across his mole covered cheek. Lypur awoke with a start. “Rise and shine James!” Alexandra snarled. Lypur dabbed his weary eyes before propping himself upright. “Now Robert, I understand you may have a few questions regarding what we do here on the island, and how you fit ever so neatly into all of it, allow me to explain,” Alexandra stated, routinely.
“People on this island, they are taken from their typical lives and sent here, by whom or why, nobody knows. I arrived on this island eight years ago, in exactly the same state as you Robert; at first I detested this place, I couldn’t process the means by which I had arrived here, I didn’t trust anybody. Though gradually, I became infatuated with everything about this island, from the spectacular cliffs to the bouncy spring butterflies. After a while I overlooked my old life, such is my love for this place. I worked with a man named Jeremy; he used to adore this place as well, though he grew pessimistic of island life - he lived here for over more than forty years though, I dare say I would find such a stretch a little tedious!” Alexandra’s tone implored laughter, though was greeted rather bluntly.
“Jeremy used to be in charge here, he was a great leader and a brilliant man, until his unfortunate death just over a year ago-”
“How did he die?” I interrupted, to the barefaced disgust of Alexandra.
“That leads me on to your role, Robert if you will bear with me,” Alexandra grumbled. “Jeremy’s death was the result of a disease, which we believe, can only be contracted on the island. The disease, SFF we refer to it as, begins relatively harmlessly - tiredness and diarrhoea are some of the early symptoms. Though, the condition of the patient gradually deteriorates, vicious boils start to appear on the skin and subsequently, the disease seizes greater control over the body and, within a matter of days the ability to speak or move is lost, and only the torture of a slow and excruciating death awaits you,” Alexandra choked on the significance of her words. “and all that’s left is to end their suffering.” Alexandra shook herself down and regained her composure. “I believe that, if the disease was produced on the island, the cure can be found on the island. As James is evidently suffering from some of the early symptoms of SFF, and as you two are such excellent friends already, you can search the islands’ vast forestry together. Think of it as saving your own skin, James. There’s such a variety of plants on the island I’m sure you will find what we need in no time. Did you know there are one-hundred and eight species of plant life on this island that only exist here? It really is a magnificent place,” Alexandra managed to twist her mouth into a smirk, before turning her back on us, neatly making her way towards the exit. “And if miraculously you do find a cure, I will allow you both to leave the island, if you wish.”
I looked across to Lypur, his face unaffected by the proposition. Alexandra neatly left the hut, leaving the door open ajar. We sat in silence for a minute or two, not quite knowing what to say to each other.
“So what on earth do we do now? The disease sounds terrible.”
“I have to take you somewhere, James. But I have to know that I can trust you.” Lypur whispered, alert to who else might be listening.
“Of course.”
“Also, I need to know whether you feel the same desire to leave the island as I do. I trust that you do brother?” Lypur leaned in towards me, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek.
“More than anything.”
Lypur and I headed off from the cabin, deep into the dense, clammy jungle, as the sapped evening sunshine held on to its last moments on the horizon. We had been walking for almost forty minutes, through vast forestry, up steep and wearing inclines until finally we burst out from the jungle. Fresh, cooling air rushed into my lungs and the sweet sea breeze began to dry the beads of sweat on my brow.
“What exactly are we looking for?” I gasped, clasping my hands around the back of my head.
“You will know soon enough,” Lypur grinned knowingly, like a mischievous schoolboy. “We’re nearly there,” Lypur measured his steps along the steep, marshy track which we walked. James stopped unexpectedly. He carefully looked about him, before pulling a thick branch away from the tree line, watchfully placing it down on the other side of the track. Several more pieces of debris followed, until gradually, a blooming glade was made visible on the other side of the dense forestry. We peered through the opening for a wonderful, lasting moment. The rich grassy meadow was at least knee height, teaming with butterflies and creatures of all colours and shapes. It seemed like the secluded enclosure did not belong amongst such inadequate surroundings, such was the contrast to its exterior. I breathed deeply and felt harmonious with the island for the first time since arriving.
“Come on,” Lypur scuttled through the trees into the meadow. “There’s something else I have to show you yet.” The small opening broadened out into a magnificent field of delight. All around the perimeter, great oaks enveloped us within the meadow of escapism. Row after row of ripe summer strawberries grew along one side of the glade, whilst on the other, a large stockpile of wood and bamboo could be seen, next to a gloriously constructed raft.
“Sometimes when I’m here, I close my eyes and everything becomes so easy. I can forget about everything. All the pain and suffering, and the fear of not knowing what might happen, it all disappears. This is my escape,” James declared jovially. He gestured toward the raft which he had ingeniously built. “and that is our escape. Three whole years that has taken to build. How Alexandra hasn’t discovered it I’ll never know, this is the only thing that’s kept me going. At last I’ve found someone to help me escape this island. It’s the perfect window of opportunity. Tide, wind direction and current should all be with us if we head north. Plus the sun’s giving us just enough light to see what we’re doing, and cover us from any watchful eyes.” James chuckled somewhat disbelievingly.
“It’s fantastic, Lypur. We had better get moving quick before we lose the sunlight. How are we going to move that thing?”
“It’s lighter than it looks, the clearest way out is just down there,” Lypur pointed towards the far end of the meadow. “when we reach the track we will be about a hundred yards from the beach, silent running, as quickly and quietly as possible. Once we’re there, I’ll grab some food and water I’ve stashed nearby. You ready?” Lypur delivered his instructions with military precision. He had probably mulled over his speech a thousand times in his head.
“Absolutely, let’s go”
As Lypur had claimed, the raft certainly was lighter than it looked, though carrying it between the two of us was by no means an easy task. We crept down to the far end of the strawberry field, before fighting through twenty yards of vegetation and undergrowth. We reached the mud track which Lypur had spoken of. The soft, clay like texture of the mud meant that our feet sank deep into it, making lifting them out of the clutching surface very difficult. Each step sapped more and more of my already minimal energy, just the thought of escaping a life like Lypur’s drove me to continue. After what seemed an eternity, we gratefully felt our feet crumble the moist sand of the beach beneath them. Lypur approached the shoreline cautiously, scanning the surroundings before placing the raft at the foot of the lapping waves.
“You did a brilliant job, Robert. You stay here with the raft and I’ll grab those provisions and we are out of here!” Lypur whispered ecstatically, though with supreme vigilance.
Everything hung on the next few precious moments. I prayed that none of Alexandra’s jungle hunters spotted the raft. Lypur galloped off thirty yards down the beach, uncovering a couple of large boxes which looked almost too heavy for the ageing man’s fragile frame. As he stumbled back towards me I gazed out across the tranquil ocean. The sun had fallen completely behind the horizon by now, shielding us in darkness, though the neat crescent of the new moon looked silky and quenching in the sky. Each scathing tip was accented by the opaque sky about it. I glanced back down the beach towards Lypur who had covered most of the stretch with the boxes.
“Good to go?” I asked, feeling like a spare part.
“Go where?” an unmistakeable feeling of dread, fear and hatred infected my entire body in one solitary moment. The smug, upper-class voice came from behind me, before I had even turned around I knew what my eyes would be met with. The red headed, fire breathing, manipulating figure of Alexandra stood before us. Her long red hair fell carelessly at her shoulder, and she did not wear her usual thick rimmed glasses. She paced menacingly towards us; her slight, toned figure moving seamlessly, ruthlessly striding nearer and nearer, as if she were hunting a sitting duck, her lifeless blue eyes boring into and through us.
“No one leaves this island. You think you can just sail away into the moonlight? I tell you what to do, when and how, I control you! I own this island! I am this island! You have no idea how powerful I am. You don’t know what I am capable of,” Alexandra boomed in megalomania. “You disobey me, and you die.”
"You can’t stop us leaving! Look at you! You’re just a little girl with big dreams. You’re not capable of anything other than manipulating and beating people so you can order them around. I can tell ya right now, you can’t manipulate me, not anymore! We can see through your stupid little tricks and lies. You aren’t capable of anything!” Lypur yelled back at the fierce looking Alexandra. “You can’t do anything to us!” Lypur hollered in jubilation. By now Alexandra’s pale face had turned crimson, frowning furiously at Lypur’s disobedience. Her fists were clenched tightly by her hips. Slowly she reached down to her ankle. Pulling up her trouser leg slightly, she pulled the knife from its holster. She propelled the blade through the air with ludicrous accuracy and velocity for a woman of her stature. The razor sharp dagger thumped piercingly into the top of Lypur’s chest.
“Don’t you tell me what I can’t do!” Alexandra exclaimed.
Lypur’s astonished face turned pale as the blood drained from his head and poured from the wound. He stared at Alexandra in love and hate, for she had at last allowed him to leave the island, though had destroyed his dream of escaping it. He fell to his knees. I clasped his hand whilst he endured his agonizing last moments. He shut his eyes, and I knew that he was in the strawberry fields, and for him, living was easy.

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An Authentic Experience

Hard to blend in when you don’t speak the language. That’s the way it felt. She’d been there ten days already, watching flocks of sparrow’s wheel across Paris skies before descending to take their pick from the detritus left behind by the tourist hoards.
She felt no better than a scavenger herself, living off a stolen credit card.
Coming to Paris had been an impulse she didn’t really regret, except now she was in need of some human company, and daren’t use her phone in case they tracked her down.
She didn’t sleep well, fearing a knock on the hotel room door.
She’d seen the sights, bought the trophy goods from those exclusive shops lining the Champs Elysees. Visited Mona Lisa, hung out on pavement café’s, attended lecture tours at the Louvre, attempted to blend with Bohemian culture and failed, pretended to be Audrey Hepburn and failed, taken an exorbitantly priced taxi tour, scaled the Eiffel Tower and sailed along the Seine absorbing the magic scenery.
She was done now. The Metro held few virtues, the beggars and street poets few delights. The Flea Market provided few real bargains, and in the faces of the people of Paris she found weariness and a lack of spice. It wasn’t the way the movies had led her to believe.
She sat in the park listening as somebody was using the phone at a tobacco kiosk. He was American, dressed in Skid Row clothes and begging for someone back home to send him funds.
It could have been a line straight out of Henry Miller. He hung up in a huff and she watched as he approached a nearby bench where he slung the canvas bag he was carrying beneath it in disgust, placing a cigarette between his lips to contemplate the scene before him.
What he saw was what she had been looking at; a chocolate box scenario consisting of strolling figures, except instead of it being 1890 it was 2009, and far less colourful.
On impulse she sat beside him, and he ignored her out of instinct.
“You American, I’m American too?” She opened up.
The man glanced her way, scathingly. “Don’t tell me – you’re lost? You’re here to write a novel? You came to study Art, Design, History….love making?” He laughed, this time studying her face to search for contradictions.
“No.” She scowled, trying hard to be taken seriously.
He regarded her for half a minute. “I’m too tired to be bothered.” He leaned back to avoid her gaze. “And you’re invading my bed space for the night.”
She remained where she was. “I heard you on the phone…”
“No kidding. I was that loud eh?”
Was he being deliberately disagreeable, or did she give off something she failed to recognise. She had been ten days in the city that gave love to the world and no one had tried to pick her up.
It hardly mattered whether she liked his manners or not; she wasn’t there to judge.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” She asked.
He stared at her, weighing something in his mind.
“Why would you do that – you on heat?”
“No.” She grinned. “Nothing like that. It’s just nice to chat to a fellow American.”
He laughed at that. “Are you for real?”
She couldn’t blame him for not trusting her, it sounded lame even as she said it.
He directed her to a cheap café even though money wasn’t her main concern.
“Why me?” He asked when they’d been sitting there a couple of minutes and he’d got her to order food and cigarettes. He ate and smoked with equal vigour as she watched.
“I told you I heard somebody talking, and it was you. No other reason.”
He examined her more closely as he continued eating, until she became uncomfortable.
“You don’t appear insane, or entirely desperate for that matter. There has to be another explanation.”
“No.” She insisted. “I’ve been here almost two weeks, and just needed some conversation with a fellow American.”
“Get out of here.” He retaliated. “The city is packed with tourists from the mid-west. Just look about you.”
“Yeah, but they aren’t authentic.” She countered as he laughed in her face.
“And you think you are?”
He sat back. “I see it now – you’re after a cheap thrill – bumming round Paris. Got it in one. Pick the cheapest guy you can lean on – that isn’t me girlie. Go find yourself another fool.”
“No.” She said loudly. “No, that isn’t it at all. Why are you being like this?”
He paused, staring about himself as if expecting inspiration to fall into his lap. “And this really isn’t a wind up. You’re not doing it for a dare. Come on, where are your girlfriends hiding?”
“No girlfriends – no one. I’m here alone.”
“Then you really are a sad case.” He pushed the hair back from his face. “I really don’t care, stick around all you want. You won’t find it as exciting as you think. In the meantime, buy me a beer….”
She did as requested.
“You know…” He continued. “One of us is likely to get hurt, and it won’t be me. If this is some kind of experiment….” He leaned closer. “Let me tell you I generally disappoint women.”
“You won’t disappoint me, and this isn’t about sex.” She hissed. “Let’s leave it at that.”
He grinned, necking the beer. “You’re such a liar….., but you got my attention.”
“You trying to get me into trouble?” He demanded as she admitted to using a stolen credit card to get by. “You know what they do to people like that in France?”
“No.” She answered. “What do they do?”
“Well, it’s not pleasant…” He remarked, turning away.
Clearly he knew no better than she what might happen.
“You see I’m just like you – a displaced person.” She insisted.
“You don’t have a clue about me.” He snarled. “For all you know I could be about to jump your bones and steal that precious credit card out from under you. God knows I’m desperate enough.”
She ignored the provocation but not his next piece of advice, which was to move to a different hotel before the card could be traced.
The hotel she booked into was clean and cheap enough, but from the outside appeared little better than places the street whores took their clients, and certainly possessed an air of authenticity she breathed in each time she passed through the lobby.
Meanwhile he had borrowed money to take a room at a backpacker’s hostel as he waited for funds to arrive from home. It was a basic establishment, cramped and lacking in privacy (he told her), which was why he used her shower whenever he could.
He also washed out underwear using her sink, lounged on the bed and chain smoked the cigarettes she bought for him.
Who was using whom, she wondered?
“Why did you decide to come to Paris?” She asked.
“Why did you?” He countered.
He’d already told her his life story, which for all intents and purposes marked him out as a man that made ill-judged moves involving people who ripped him off.
It wasn’t a classic tale by any means and at any other time she’d have dismissed him as a loser.
She felt a little like a loser herself; the real reason she had come to Paris (that she kept to herself) was pretty stupid. She’d been having an affair with a married man and believed herself pregnant. She was not, as a matter of fact, but the impact this had on her was enough to force her to flee when she saw his reaction and realised she might be forced to face the consequences.
It was not something she could easily explain; all her life she had lived on lies, lies she told herself and lies she told others. Perhaps this was also a lie? She hadn’t decided how to play it. She didn’t want a man particularly, and not for sex. Perhaps it was simply company, or for comfort. She didn’t know, and would work it out as they went along.
“I get it – you’re in hiding.” He suggested.
“Hiding in plain sight.” She acknowledged, without adding anything to the remark.
“You’ll be caught. You any idea what French prisons are like?”
“You asked me that before – what are they like?”
She could see he imagined only the worst.
“I still don’t get it.” He said. “I’ve nothing to offer you.”
“I’m having an authentic experience.” She batted back. “What about you?” He made a bitter face at this suggestion that she reacted to by turning on him angrily. “Why do you even need an explanation?”
He shrugged. “Just keeping score I guess.”
“Well don’t. I’ll do that.”
“What’s that mean?”
Now she shrugged.
Clearly he was indifferent to her situation and would run the moment trouble came his way. So might she, but hadn’t decided her next move yet.
When the stolen credit card was eventually declined, they contemplated what to do.
“How much cash money do you have left?” He asked.
She checked her purse. “I’ve two thousand five hundred Euro’s and some change, plus my ticket home. What do you suggest?”
“In Paris that’s a couple of day’s expenses – for a woman like you. Me, I’m different…”
“Teach me then. Teach me to live cheap.”
He laughed. “You can’t very well sleep on park benches – better take that flight. Go home, face the consequences. I’m sure you can square it.”
“Not yet.” She said. “I’m not ready yet.”
They lived off street food, and for entertainment he took her to an old theatre that ran original movies in French and Italian. The place was ancient, with battered seats infested with fleas and they were both bitten.
“That authentic enough for you?” He asked as they sat scratching their bites beside the Seine while watching late night people ambling home.
“I’ll remember this when I get back.” She purred.
“Why just this?” He countered. “You’ll have a lot of time on your hands in jail.”
“I doubt that – it was Mom’s card I stole, and she can afford it. My stepdad’s a CEO heading up a global company.”
He regarded her dispassionately. “You don’t say, so all this time I’ve been hanging out with a Princess. What am I some kind of frog for you to turn into human form?”
She stared into his face, wondering why he reacted so angrily. If that was truly how he felt, then he could go to hell.
“You make it up. I’m through with honesty.” She snapped.
Next day, when he arrived at the hotel, he was waving a money transfer received through Western Union.
“What will you do?” She asked, realising it marked a high water point in their relationship, and maybe she needed to step up a gear.
“It’s enough for an economy flight home, or better still….I can go to Rome and live for a couple of weeks. Maybe something will come up for me there.”
She saw real excitement in his expression, contemplating her own position now the source of her finance had been extinguished.
It was tempting to throw in her lot with him, but that would mean a change of status. He might choose to abandon her once they reached Rome. She could easily become a drain on him and what was she offering as compensation? She wondered briefly about a swift seduction, but why pursue that route? She hadn’t finished playing her cards yet.
“If I cash in my ticket, will you take me with you?” She asked.
She recognised doubt in his expression as he regarded her suspiciously. “You won’t like Rome. I’ll have to live cheap. It won’t be pretty, and there’ll be no safety net if things go wrong.”
She knew it, but there it was. She had finally arrived at the point where fantasy and reality exchange places.
“I don’t care.” She answered. “To hell with security.”
They were due to meet at the railway station, and before packing she phoned home. Her Mom was outraged by what she’d done and stormed at her down the receiver.
“Mom, listen to me – I’m old enough to make my own mistakes. I’m going to Rome – I don’t have much money left. Can you send some; I’ll pick it up when I need it. I love you Mom, but I’ve got to go – I’m meeting someone….”
Her mother was not so easily put off and demanded more information from her daughter.
“I can’t tell you where I’ll be staying – I don’t know myself.”
There was something uneasy about her mother’s voice that caused her daughter to grow anxious.
“Mom, will you do what I ask?”
Her mother relayed the conversation she’d had with the wife of the man the affair had been with.
“No, I’m not pregnant – why would she say such an awful thing?”
She felt awkward having to endure the fallout like this and hung up without resolving anything.
The station concourse was crowded; she remained at the platform gate waiting, but he didn’t show, and after an hour she gave up on him.
Perhaps he had seen through her games, perhaps he had changed his mind and was simply travelling home.
For whatever reason, he had decided not to come. She wouldn’t chase after him, it was better they parted now even though she hadn’t finished with him, but what did that leave her with?
Clearly he wasn’t the real deal, but now she’d seen things for herself she felt certain she could turn this trip into the kind of authentic adventure she had wanted all along.
She had seen Paris, and now it was time to visit another city. Rome would do for a start. She would make it different this time, or she would move on.
The world was her oyster, and this was her chance to take the best of it. To hell with what she left in her wake.
Inside the train she moved confidently, going carriage by carriage until she came across what she was searching for.
It was a single man, obviously travelling alone and reading a copy of Newsweek.
She sat opposite, and after a few tentative moments during which she made sure to draw his attention, asked.
“Are you American? Are you travelling to Rome? Thank God I came across you…..”

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The Raven's Nest

It was May and almost windstill. The radio was on in the kitchen but neither Ragnar’s mother nor father seemed to be listening to it. His father was eating, the folded newspaper propped up in front of him, and his mother was turning the pieces of fish in the pan. Ragnar glanced at his hands involuntarily; they were almost clean.
‘My spanner’s gone,’ his father said, but Ragnar heard the accusing tone in the words. What he had really said was, ‘The spanner’s disappeared and I know it’s your fault.’
‘I haven’t seen it,’ Ragnar said, glancing at him in the hope he would look up.
His father made a noise in his nose and re-folded the paper vigorously.
‘I haven’t seen it,’ the boy said again.
‘Eat your fish,’ said his mother, and the crackling plate descended in front of him from her hand. He was still thinking and reached out for the salt in the middle of the table. The fish was good; he liked it so hot it tumbled about his mouth, breaking into flakes. There was nothing so good.
‘If prices don’t get better I might as well give up and go to Norway,’ said his father, scraping back his chair and tossing the paper onto the sideboard. He went out and closed the door behind him fiercely. The radio went on talking to itself.
Ragnar was thinking about ravens. He had heard they were very wise and could be trained. There were ravens close by; sometimes they fluttered overhead like pieces of ash from the volcano. They had voices made out of coal.
His mother was staring straight ahead as she ate. She looked very white and her eyes glittered. She didn’t seem to see the pieces of fish she speared and stuck in her mouth. Ragnar thought about that and about the spanner and about what his father had said. Why on earth would they go and live in Norway? He would be starting in a new school after the summer.
Then he remembered something. Two years before he had put a message in a bottle and thrown it out into the sea. He’d thought about it every day for a while but nothing happened; no message came back. Then he forgot all about the bottle and the message and the postman gave him a letter from Norway. His name was on the envelope. It was from a girl. She said that if ever he was in Norway he should come and visit.
He finished the last piece of fish.
‘Can I go now?’ he asked.
She nodded and didn’t even look at him. She was still staring straight ahead, chewing on a last piece of fish. The radio was telling them something about England, but Ragnar had banged the door before the voice had finished talking.
All day it grew stiller. It was not just windstill; it was even less than windstill. The sky had strange clouds that were yellowy and orange; Ragnar watched them from his bedroom window. He could see the waterfall on the edge of the skyline too; it came over the black basalt cliffs like a horse’s tail and fell a whole forty or fifty feet. On the other side was the sea. It was like glass, smooth as though you could walk on it for miles, right across the sea to America. Ragnar wanted to see America; he had heard Americans in the village a summer ago and he had wanted to talk to them but had felt too shy.
That night he heard his mother crying. It was a long, slow sound that went on flowing in the darkness, a kind of strange song. He had heard his father’s voice downstairs in the kitchen; he had heard the sound of his words but nothing of what he had said. A door had banged. For a long time there was silence, and then his mother had started crying.
There was a flickering of light. At first Ragnar thought it must have been the headlights of a car, but then there was a low grumble on the edge of the sky and he understood. He sat up and held back the curtains. There must be a moon; everything was lit in a silvery-orange brilliance. He could still see the horse's tail of the waterfall; the sea was a silver sheet.
He got up without a sound and dressed, and opened the window so he could climb out onto the roof ledge. He had his own secret route down to the ground; he had used it many times. In a moment he had thudded onto the soft grass and was away.
He ran until he realised he didn’t need to run. Then he stopped and looked all around him and got back his breath. The cliffs and the ridges that ringed the valley; the horse’s tail, the sea. For a second he imagined the first people that had come to Iceland – not the Norse settlers, but before them, the hermits from Ireland. They had come and stayed and gone again. He imagined what it would be like to find one of their boats in a cave no-one had explored for a thousand years. He, Ragnar, would be a hero in Iceland. He imagined his father closing the newspaper at the table and smiling, looking up and smiling.
The sky flickered with lightning. He wanted to see the storm; he wanted to get up above and see the whole of it. He chased up the ridge until his side hurt with the steepness of it and he had to stop again. He looked back and saw there was a light on in the farmhouse. He thought of his mother and he heard that crying again in his mind; that muffled, slow song of crying. And once again he thought about what his father had said about going to Norway, and none of it made the least bit of sense. He turned away, the stitch in his side gone.
As he turned, something black rose into the sky in front of him and made a noise like a piece of coal. The thunder muttered in the skies, long and slow. Ragnar went forward, onto the top of the ridge. There was something there, a silver glimmering. A circle, shining in the midnight darkness. He was trembling as he put one foot after another over the thin grass, closer and closer. He bent down and saw a nest of metal. The whole nest was made of metal: barbed wire and pieces of metal washed in from the sea, polished by the sea. It was a metal nest. And there on one side was a spanner. Ragnar reached out and took it. He touched nothing else. He held it safe in his hands, then put it deep into a pocket where it wouldn’t be lost. He stood and looked all around him and the moon came out from the strange clouds and poured a silver brilliance over everything. He felt lit himself, from his hair to his feet. His face glowed in the fierce brightness of the moon and he looked out over the sea and it was transformed into metalwork – a single hammered piece of jewellery.
He went slowly back to the house but he didn’t want to go back. In truth he didn’t know what else he could do or where he could go, but he knew he didn’t want to go back and he was sure he wouldn’t sleep when he got there. He climbed up to his bedroom and closed the window and lay down once more in the darkness. The storm had passed and the moon rode in the sky. The moon was a single silver eye watching the world and Ragnar looked out one last time on the horse’s tail of the waterfall and the black shoreline and the valley. Then he fell asleep after all.
He dreamed something very strange. He dreamed that the raven came from the ridge and flew down to the farmhouse. It rested on the ledge of his parents’ bedroom window. The window was open and it hopped inside. His mother’s jewellery box was open. The raven saw her wedding ring and clasped it in its beak.
Ragnar felt there in the room, watching. But he seemed to see through a strange mist. It was as though everything he saw was real, but he himself was made of mist, was like a kind of ghost. He wanted to reach out to rescue the ring but it was impossible. He could not have moved through the deep water of the room; he would have waded through a deep and heavy water, and all he could do was watch. The bird hopped back to the ledge, the ring glittering in its beak, and in a blink it had flown, back to its ridge and the nest.
When he woke up he did not know if he felt a great sense of relief or a terrible sense of dread. It was still early in the morning; at seven o’clock he would have to get up and be ready for school, but there was still fifteen minutes to lie and wait. The first thing he saw on the dressing table beside him was the spanner, and the whole story of the night before rushed through him, strange and eerie.
Life did not make sense, he thought. For the first time ever it came to him that life did not make sense. He was not sure if that was a relief to him or the realisation of a strange fear. But life did not make sense. It was about finding a spanner in a raven’s nest. It was pieces of things tipped out of an old sack onto a floor. Everyone’s sack contained different pieces, and everyone went down onto their knees once the pieces had been poured, trying to sort them out. All they could do was to worry about the pieces from their sack.
When he got up to get dressed, he heard his mother washing her face. In the house’s stillness he heard her washing her face and he stopped, a sock held in his right hand. He remembered his dream and he wanted to go there and then to check her jewellery box, for the dream had felt so real. But he was afraid he might meet his father, that he would ask him what he was doing and that he would feel foolish. The song of the water next door stopped and he imagined his mother rubbing her face with the towel. He couldn’t hear it but he imagined it.
Suddenly he realised something and looked up; he looked at the window and made up his mind. He would do it; yes, he would do it. He dressed and put the spanner in his pocket. He went downstairs and began his breakfast in silence. His father was beside him, his newspaper folded over. His mother was at the stove. Everything was as it always was; everything was just the same as ever and Ragnar felt angry again. It rose up inside him like black water from a well and he finished his breakfast and said he was off. He put his bag over his shoulder, went out the back door and banged it behind him.
He ran all the way up the hill. The sun was glancing off wet things; it shone and glittered on stones, it lit the horse’s tail of the waterfall ahead of him. But he saw none of that. Only once did he look back at the house he had left behind, the house where he had been born twelve years before. It was silent; he could hear nothing from it. But he did not believe in the silence, the peace; he did not trust it. He was not sure of it any more.
He turned away and walked up the last of the hill. Black wings rose up into the sky that was sunlight and rain. A voice made of coal, made of ashes. He saw the shining ring of metal and he went forward, bent down on his knees. Very carefully he brought out the bright spanner from his pocket, and put it back where he had found it.

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