A Worm Turning, by John Garland

John was the sort of man, ladies said, who filled them with an urge to straighten his tie for him, or to smooth down the tuft of hair which was always sticking up at the back of his head, no matter how recently he had combed it. Margaret was always doing this for him: it was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place. She also chose what trousers and socks he should put on; or rather, she had a way of glancing pointedly at what he had chosen for himself, so that he knew she would prefer him to wear something different. “I only want you to look nice, dear!” she would explain. She was always being helpful in other ways too; taking care that he didn’t eat or drink too much, and reminding him to be careful of his weight. She asked bright questions about how he was getting on at work, and suggested ways in which he might improve his chances of promotion. Sometimes when he was speaking she corrected him on minor points of grammar or pronunciation, or suggested that his friends had probably heard one of his favourite anecdotes already. She was also always brightly helpful in suggesting ways in which he could improve his hobbies, and would draw his attention to how much better the results were when he acted on his ideas.

          She herself wasn’t always completely happy with the way things turned out. At times she found him distinctly evasive about what he had been doing when she wasn’t there. It irritated her that he wouldn’t let her know his computer password, making some feeble excuse about “security” and she was suspicious of the way he closed down the screen when he heard her approach, when all she wanted to do was help him. There might even have been a faint trace of sarcasm in the way he proposed that it might save time if she laid out his clothes for him, valet-fashion, instead of waiting for him to dress and then disapproving of his choices. On the whole she didn’t feel that it was anything much to worry about; at least, not yet. Nevertheless, someone more sensitive than Margaret might have detected the subterranean rustlings of a worm finally turning

Remorse, by John Garland

"Right, let’s get started. I’m Bill, you’re Arthur, and we’re having this meeting because you tried to shoot me".

“I didn’t”, said Arthur. “It was an accident. I explained that at the trial, but they didn’t believe me”.

"No surprise surely, was it, sunshine? Because let’s face it, you’ve got form; plenty of form. And I was in my car at the traffic lights, and you were up on the balcony on the block of flats, and you fired your gun at me. And since I’d never seen you in my life before, I’d like to know why”.

“It wasn’t my gun. I’ve never had a gun. Someone left it there, and I picked it up to have a look at it, and it went off”

“Oh yeah? And you’re surprised the jury didn’t believe you? If it wasn’t your gun, who d’you think might have left it there?”

Silence.

“Can’t say, or won’t say?”

More silence.

"Look, this isn’t going well, is it? This is supposed to be some kind of pilot scheme of crooks talking with their victims. Supposed to do some good. Sounds like a load of trendy rubbish to me, but we’d better give it a go now we’re here. So I’ll have my say, then you can have yours: okay?

   "So there I was, sitting in my car at the traffic lights, with the window down because it was hot, when suddenly this bullet comes whistling right past my nose and smashes into the dashboard. Didn’t touch me, as it happens, but not a nice experience, though I’m not the sort of guy who scares easily. It was a new car, very smart, cost me a packet, and there was a lot of damage. You might say, well, the insurance company paid up and it all got put right; but it’s not the same again, is it? And then the time I had to waste, signing statements for the police, and giving evidence at your trial, not to mention this talk now. I’ve got a pretty important job, and I was working on a really big deal at the time, but I had to hand it over to someone else, and now he’ll get all the credit for it. Now even if what you say’s true, and it was an accident, it still caused me all this hassle, which I could have done without.

   "And then, what if the bullet had gone a few inches to the left? I’d have been dead, and what then? I don’t think Becky, that’s my wife, would ever have got over it, because, I’d have to say, she idolises me, and so do the kids. And then there’s my firm; they place a lot of reliance on me. And it would be a waste, because I’m going to achieve big things before I’m much older. And all that would have gone, snuffed out; even if your shot was an accident, which personally I don’t believe it was. A tragedy.

   "So, I’ve had my say. Now you can have yours. Are you sorry for what you’ve done?"

“Yes”, said Arthur, “Now I’ve heard you, I am sorry. I’m very sorry that I missed you”.

The Shadow, by John Garland

Where am I? More to the point, who am I? I must approach this problem logically, scientifically.

I have just come to full consciousness, and I find I am standing in a wood. The sky above is black, and there is a moon, so it must be night-time. How did I get here? I have no idea.
   The moon is full, and I must have good night-vision, because I can see my way through the trees. There is a path, and I walk along it, since it must presumably lead somewhere. All around me I an hear the faint night-noises of the wood. I make as little noise as possible. I am interested to observe that, despite the darkness and my loneliness, I am not afraid. I suppose I can speak, but there is no point in doing so, since there is no-one to talk to. I wonder what language I would be speaking? I have no way of telling.

After I have walked for some time, the wood gives out, and I find myself on open grassland. There are signs of cultivation, so I must be near a human settlement. Some sheep are dozing on the grass: they see me and run away, bleating. I wait for a while, in case dogs or a shepherd may be roused and come to investigate. Nothing happens, and I resume my walk.
    Finally I can see a village. There is no-one in sight. What shall I do when I eventually meet someone? Should I knock on a door? Do I ask them where I am? Will they understand what I am saying? What if they attack a stranger who suddenly appears? I must go cautiously.

Ahead of me is a tall, blank wall. The moon is shining so brightly that it casts my shadow on it. Is that really me? those ears, that jaw?
     Now at last I understand. I am not a man. I am a werewolf.
 
           AAAAAAARRRRR!

Alone, by John Garland

I only knocked on her door because I was in such a difficult fix. I’d always enjoyed taking long walks on my own in remote areas, and in the past I’d always been completely safe, but this time a whole series of things went wrong. There was heavy mist on the mountain-top, and somehow I contrived to lose my compass. The result was I must have taken the wrong path down, so when it lifted I realised I was in a completely strange valley, miles from where I should have been. Then the sole of my boot started to become detached, until after a few miles it was only hanging on by the heel; and at this point I knew I’d got no chance of getting back to my car until well after dark, and then it started to rain. So when I noticed this isolated old farmhouse some distance from the road, I thought the most sensible thing was to go and ask for help; and she answered the door.

          It was no more than a cottage, stone-built and whitewashed, with very small windows set back into the thick walls. It was quite likely centuries old. And she matched it: small, with a mass of wrinkles on her weather-beaten face. I started to explain my difficulties to her, but she then gestured me inside with little more than a grunt, and I found myself on a wooden settle beside the fire in the dark little parlour.

          It was clear that she lived there on her own. Now in my years of walking, I’d generally found that men and women in isolated farmsteads were quite garrulous: they met so few people that they were glad of an extensive chat with any passing stranger, and often it was quite difficult to get away. I thought I was in for one of these experiences when she explained that I could catch a bus from the crossroads, but that the next one wouldn’t run till tomorrow morning. Then she had a look at my boot, said that she’d got some glue which would fix it back together again, but that it would need a few hours to set, so I’d better stay there for the night. Well, I was very grateful for the hospitality, and thanked her profusely, though I was a little surprised that she was so open with a total stranger. I settled back,

anticipating a long, one-sided conversation on the bad state of the world, the ruinously low level of farm prices etc ,as the fee for my night’s rest. But strangely enough, I had to do most of the talking. Despite my prompting, it was hard to get more than a few brief sentences out of her, and these were generally cryptic and most puzzling when I reflected on them afterwards. When I commented that very few people must pass that way, she said, “Aye, there’s not many come - and fewer go”. Wasn’t she lonely, here on her own? “I don’t lack for company”, she said, without elaborating. Wasn’t she alarmed by reports of robberies on remote farmhouses? “Nay, I’m plenty safe, as long as I’ve got them”. She made a gesture out with her right arm, but I had no idea what she might be indicating. I saw a couple of very dark old portraits on the wall behind her; a man and woman from a past century, crudely done by some country artist. Were these her ancestors? “Aye, my great-great grandparents. But they’re still with me, you know”. Finally, in a desperate effort at a new subject, I remarked that in the 17^th century this part of the country was notorious for its witches. “Still is”, she said, and left it at that. I gave up at this point, concluding that she must be more than a little mad. Finally she fetched me a mug of tea from the kitchen and announced she was going to bed. I could stay here in the parlour, since there was only one bedroom, but I would find rugs and blankets in the chest. I said I was happy with that, since as an experienced country walker, I was accustomed to bedding down almost anywhere. Then she left me.

          I drank the tea, which was unlike any tea I’d ever tasted, but I couldn’t sleep. I realised I was a little light-headed. There more I pondered on her odd remarks, the stranger and more sinister they sounded: “I don’t lack for company ….. Not many come, and fewer go” What on earth did she mean? I got to my feet and looked around the room. Besides the ancestral portraits, there was one other picture, dimmed by dark brown varnish. It appeared to be some religious scene, but I couldn’t recognise the details. The only book was a massive old bible, which I opened, knowing that many country people wrote their family details on the flyleaves; but instead I found a mass of small unintelligible diagrams and a script of characters completely unknown to me. Turning to other pages, I found similar writings in the margin of the text.

          Was this woman from a family of witches, I wondered. Or, worse, did she consider herself to be a witch? Who knew what strange archaic fantasies lurked in her mind? But if so, what did she intend for me? By this time I was fairly sure the tea must have been some kind of drug. Was she waiting for me to fall asleep? And then what?

          I’m writing this down as a record, in case anything should happen to me, but also in order to keep awake. I don’t intend to go to sleep. If she, or anyone else, tries to come for me during the night, I’ll be ready for them.

……………………………….........................................................................

          (The manuscript breaks off at this point. The presumed author, James Douglas Wright, is currently being questioned by the police in connexion with the death of Marion Armstrong, the elderly and reclusive owner of Underknotts Farm.) 

The Sleeper, by John Garland

It was a very large home-made card. His address was correct, and neatly written, but the rest was clearly the work of a small child. On one side was what was meant to be a tree, drawn in felt-tipped marker, complete with oversized red apples. On the other, beside the address, the child had written, in large, clumsy letters, “Dear Uncle Mike This is my tree I hop you like it”; the message being accompanied by a smudge of the child’s hand.

Mike turned it over several times, puzzled. He was nobody’s uncle: indeed, as an only child himself, it was genealogically impossible. With a growing feeling of alarm, he gradually realised what it was all about.

They had told him, you’re going to be a sleeper. Don’t do anything at all to draw attention to yourself; especially, don’t attempt to contact any of us until the message comes. Then you must take the appropriate actions immediately. Then they had explained the system of codes, and made him learn them all by heart. He was told that under no circumstances should he write them down. So he had learnt them by heart, and hadn’t written them down, but oh dear! That was years ago! Right now he was pretty sure he could remember most of them if pushed, but ……..   Think, man, think! This was going to be very important!

First, the spelling mistake: the missing letter E. That meant he must contact Agent E, if he could only remember the right address. But supposing he’d moved in the intervening time? Well, that was beyond his, Mike’s, control: he could only do his best. Now the child's handprint: he was sure that indicated a degree of urgency ….. Or was that indicated by a footprint? Really he couldn’t remember! Next: the message to be passed on. That was conveyed by the picture on the front of the card. So a tree with apples meant … what? He couldn’t for the life of him recall! As for all the other coded symbols he'd been made to learn: stars, parachutes, mobile phones, whatever ….. What on earth did they mean? It wasn’t his fault; the system really was ludicrously complicated! He wasn’t cut out for this work!

The only one he was absolutely certain about was the picture of a clock, which meant “general alert”. Well, if that was the best he could do, he’d better do it, hadn’t he? He was sure he’d got a spare postcard of the Big Ben tower somewhere ….. Yes, here it was, that would have to do. Or did a picture of a building mean something else?  Why had he ever let himself in for this?

He addressed the card to Agent E, at what he sincerely hoped was the man’s address, and wrote as follows:

      “I’ve just received a beautiful picture of an apple tree from my little niece, complete with handprint. She’s a real star! No doubt she’ll be wanting me to get her a mobile phone for her birthday. Whatever next; parachuting lessons, perhaps?”

Praying that this covered all eventualities, and hoping that the word "niece" didn't have a coded significance of its own, Mike dropped the card into the letterbox round the corner and then staggered home, emotionally shattered.

A week later, his phone rang. It was Helen. After a few opening bits of general chat, Helen said, “Sarah told me they’d been doing postcards at her playgroup, and she’d sent one for you! She keeps asking, “When am I going to see Uncle Mike again?” She always calls you that nowadays; isn‘t that nice? But do you know, the silly little thing told me she’d forgotten to sign it! So if it did reach you, it was from her! I do think her teacher should have spotted it wasn’t signed, don’t you?”

Mike couldn’t remember the rest of the conversation: afterwards he suspected he’d cut Helen off  rather abruptly. But when he’d had a sit-down and a stiff drink, he reflected, well, at least war hasn’t broken out, and neither has anyone come to arrest me, so with a bit of luck no great harm’s been done. I’d better go back to being a sleeper, and just pray that this time no-one wakes me up!