Welcome

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Welcome to Richard Clarke’s Weblog.

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This blog was created as a space for my writing after I read about an author who on the back of 30,000 online readers was offered a six-figure, two-book deal. I’m not so deluded as to expect such a response, but it was certainly the inspiration for putting my work ‘out there’ to see what might happen.

I do hope you enjoy the stories, please feel free to comment and I’d be grateful if you would forward a link to this site to everyone you know.

If you are an agent or publisher interested in my work, please do get in touch by leaving a comment, which will send me an email with your details.

May this blog find its way …

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Meridian

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The Great Hope

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A mass demonstration against a looming global conflict descends into chaos as a supernatural event bursts into the crowd. Ferocious anomalies are striking down thousands on a daily basis across a vast and powerful country, pouring fear into the hearts of a proud people.

As the political leaders bay for blood and the military prepare to attack the enemy massing on its border, Agent Tian Brooke frantically investigates the events while battling disturbing and intoxicating visions …

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Published here are the first two chapters of the story that perhaps one day will find the right agent and the right publisher. I have completed the first four chapters of what will become an eighty thousand word novel. I am pleased with the progress I am making and with the way the story is shaping up. The beginning is complete and the first two chapters are a taste of the piece. I am thoroughly enjoying the work of writing the middle, the meat of the story, and I have a marvellous end in mind with a twist I am sure no-one will see coming.

I would love to become a published novelist. It has been my wish since I started writing in 1995. For me, Meridian is the great hope of perhaps one day realising that dream.

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All material is copyright © Richard Clarke

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Meridian - I

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One

Events

“Lauren,” Tian shouted above the clamour, as his breathing quickened.

“I’m here.” He felt the Chief tug the back of his jacket.

“They’re pushing them away from the Village.” He pointed ahead to the shimmering shield.

“Arandene?”

“Princess Park’s in Arandene.”

“It’s a possibility, but the park’s not big enough to hold a crowd this size,” Lauren said. “There must be a hundred-and-fifty-thousand people here.”

“More to the point, you said the Village.”

Tian stayed low and remained calm, as he weaved passed a woman in a billowing purple dress who blew a large silver whistle. Passed a man who angrily shouted and jumped, his scarlet shirt ripped. Passed a woman with pigtails and a bereaved look on her face, her mouth gagged with a black scarf. Passed a man in a green and brown military jacket who threw a black sphere in the air, the sphere popped, and thick, pungent yellow smoke blanketed the crowd.

Through the undulating mass, between the banners with hand painted slogans, brightly coloured flags and fluttering streamers, Tian caught sight of a wall of men in black. The road ahead forked, and the left fork was blocked by shielded, baton wielding police. He could not work out how deep their ranks were, for the air was heavy with a haze that stung his eyes. Someway down the left fork, though, the corridor of tall buildings was filled with shimmering red and blue flashing lights that extended back at least a block.

Grey police airbees throbbed above him in the grumbling, leaden sky; their lights incessantly flashing, their cameras and monitors trained on the marching river. Within the comfortable confines of one of the floating vehicles was Daxa. Ahead and behind Tian was the densely packed, steadily flowing crowd. To his left and right were pastel four storey buildings, their plaster and brickwork chipped and broken, their dark wood window shutters rotten, their glowing, flickering advertisements hung askew.

Tian caught a blur in his peripheral vision, and he instinctively covered his face as a bottle bounced off his head. It clattered on the ground off to his left.

“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.

He nodded sharply and rubbed his stinging scalp. The bottle was one of dozens sailing overhead toward the police. The armed, uniformed men were protected by a clear, shimmering concave shield that extended between the shabby buildings to a height of two floors, it completely blocked the narrow road at the left fork. The troopers shifted from foot to foot as bottles, streamers, smoke spheres and fire crackers were thrown at them. As the objects bounced off the shield ripples emanated across its surface, like stones thrown in a still pond.

“Daxa,” Tian said, looking up, his hand to his ear.

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“What’s going on?”

“The march is being diverted away from Parliament Village. Police have blocked all the streets leading into the quarter. I’ve word they’re to guide them from where you are in Tanamary Street through Arandene and on into Princess Park.”

“Their aim was the Village,” said Lauren.

Tian began to make out the low, dull drone of the shield generator as they approached the left fork. Its humming harmonics pitched up and down with every missile that hit the glistening surface. A large, oval stone bounced off the shield, to a raucous cheer. It was quickly followed by another, the trickle of stones and then bricks soon became a flood. The police tightened up, closing their ranks.

“Daxa, what’s going on ahead of us?”

“Sir, the protestors are probing the shields set up at the ends of all the roads intersecting with Tanamary Street which lead into the Village. Two are buckling though all are presently holding. The police are attempting to reinforce the weaker shields. The Royal Guard at General Kalaman Barracks are being deployed in support.”

“We’re at the end of General Kalaman Avenue, the shield’s still solid here.” Tian said, as he looked up. The sky was darkening. “What’s happening at Woolfe Street?”

“The shield is buckling, sir.”

Tian ducked again as another bottle clipped his head, then shattered on the pavement. He turned to see the man in the ripped scarlet shirt yelling, his face was contorted with anger, spittle flew from his mouth. The woman in the purple dress shouted profanities and shook her clenched fists, her eyes were bloodshot and bulging. The woman with the pigtails and gag covered her ears with her hands and sobbed. Petra tossed her hair and laughed as they danced. Tian stumbled and fell, his black trousers ripped and his knee scraped along the road. Lauren gripped him by the arm and dragged him back onto his feet.

“Tian?”

“I’m fine, it’s nothing.” His heart pounded, as he quickly brushed his trousers down. He dabbed his knee and felt grit in the wound. Perhaps he had done more than just graze it. He straightened up and looked at his hand, there was blood on his fingers. A heavy droplet of water landed on his index finger, diluting the blood. The crack, crack, crack of weapons fire punctured the air, followed by a wave of screaming.

“Agent Brooke.”

It was Daxa. “Yes?” Tian replied.

“Sir, the Woolfe Street shield has collapsed. The protestors are surging into the ranks of police, they’re brawling and throwing missiles. The troopers are fighting back, they’re firing warning shots, using their batons and firing pepper gas into the crowd. The police are being pushed back. The Royal Guard are being rushed in behind them.”

He turned to Lauren. “It fits?”

Lauren nodded sharply as he pulled a black felt pouch from his leather satchel. Tian stood on his tiptoes straining for even a glance at the breach. He caught site of a thick white fog flooding into the protestors from the end of Woolfe Street. The screams of hundreds again filled the dead still air. Droplets began to fall as the air cooled rapidly. Tian was pushed in the back as the crowd began to surge.

“Damn it,” Lauren growled, as he tripped over himself, his palmtop spilling from his hand.

Tian dove forward and caught the monitor before it smashed on the ground. He gripped Lauren’s arm and thrust the silver device back into his hand.

“I’ve got you, Chief, keep at it,” he said, as the flow increased speed and urgency. “Daxa.” A high pitched screeching blasted into his head. The two men wrenched the wireless receivers out of their ears. “Hell fire.” Tian craned his neck upwards, the clouds were rupturing and rain was cascading. The airbees sparkling red and blue lit the low hanging weather; the sky was a bruised canvas.

“Tian.” Lauren tugged his sleeve and pointed to his palmtop. The tiny instrument displayed a glowing map of the immediate area. There was an eruption of golden light emanating from the junction of Woolfe Street and Tanamary Street, pulsing from the centre of the clash.

A single fork of lightning blazed from the furious sky and struck the road at the junction. A crashing boom pounded the air. Glass shattered in a wave from the centre of the strike outwards. Tian grabbed Lauren and wrenched him to the shaking ground, covering him with his body. The coffee cup was a simple, white ceramic affair which suited the quiet café. He clamped his eyes shut as white noise howled. In a slow and deliberate manner, he lifted the wide rimmed cup to his lips and savoured sips of the deliciously sweetened milky drink.

Tian absently gazed beyond the vacant wooden table before him into the wild gardens beyond the open bay window. The abundant flowers burst with vivid colour, their lush scents gently drifting in with the cool spring air; their fragrances a pleasant contrast to the heavenly aroma of bubbling coffee and freshly baked pastries. If only the gentleman sat behind him would stop rustling his broadsheet newspaper and the two teenagers to his left stop publicy engaging in their lust, all would be well.

His legs were casually stretched out under the round table, instead of tightly tucked under a cushion-less metal chair. He held a thick brand-new paperback, instead of a fifty-page report in need of review by yesterday. He thumbed a battered postcard of the Miasara Rille range, instead of urgent, red-lit pagetabs. His body pleasantly ached with a contented tiredness that seemed to ooze out of him in long, lazy waves. His head slowly lolled forward, his mind pleasantly unruffled, his eyes steadily closed.

The scraping of wood on tiles jolted him.

A slim woman in a little black dress sat down at the table opposite.

Tian sat upright, awake.

She blew a long lock of light blonde hair away from her face, as the young uniformed waiter delicately placed a coffee cup and a tall glass of iced lemon water before her.

“Thank you,” she said in a low, warm voice, her face lighting up as she smiled.

The waiter bowed at the waist, an almost imperceptible gesture, and quietly withdrew. The thin sprinkled layer of dark chocolate mixed with the creamy foam, as she slowly stirred her coffee. Her hand was slim, smooth and unblemished, she had long fingers and manicured, unpainted nails. He could just make out fine hairs on her tanned, bare arms. The slope of her shoulders were a delight, the elegant curve of her neck, her sensuous, full pursed lips … she stared at him, her eyebrows raised.

Tian promptly looked down, and, despite having only just started the novel, he opened the book midway through the last chapter. He fixed his gaze on a single word and held it. What was he playing at: gawping at a stranger? Why didn’t he just drool down his shirt as well?

He had to steal a peek, despite expecting thunder. His anxiety was transformed into elation, for she was smiling kindly, and, it seemed to him, knowingly. He involuntarily brought a hand to his cleanly shaved face and cleared his throat. A glob of grit-laden phlegm landed by his side. His body felt broken and beaten, as though he had been in a street fight that he had badly lost. Her beautiful pale blue eyes sparkled with gentle humour. He was lying on top of Lauren, soaking in the freezing rain, his head fiercely pounding. With his palms on the cobblestones, he forced himself to his knees and winced as sharp pain shot through his wound. He screwed his eyes tight and ground his teeth. As his laboured breathing and the smarting subsided, he shook shattered glass from his jacket and slowly sat up.

He stared numbly at a long, dense river of prone bodies haphazardly draped with banners, flags and streamers. Here and there, one or two people silently raised themselves up on their hands and knees, their faces blank and unmoving, like mannequins. The woman with the pigtails and the gag lay directly in front of him, stiring. The man with the ripped scarlet shirt and the woman in the purple dress lay beneath her, unmoving.

None of the street lamps were lit, nor were any of the advertisement hoardings or the rooms in any of the buildings, nor were any of the walls splashed with the primary colours of flashing police lights. The air was filled with powdery dirt, billowing grey, black smoke and thousands of sheets of fluttering white paper, and the only sounds he could make out were the crackle of flames, the teeming of rain and the rumbling in the sky.

As Lauren noisily cleared his throat and spat, then began the struggle to sit up, Tian trained his gaze upward to the shadowy buildings beyond the haze; the glass in every window had shattered leaving only jagged shards in the window panes. Further up and a police airbee had crashed into one of the dilapidated roofs, its power dead, its engine grid hung precariously over the edge of the building. Broken bricks and smashed slate had spewed out into the street and rained down onto the prostrate crowd. He looked further up still into the growling, imperious weather; the sky was empty of traffic.

He pushed himself onto his unsteady feet, his aching body bent at the wiast, his hands gripped his legs. As he stood upright, and with cautiousness he felt reserved for a man twice his age, he turned to the silent, static river behind him. Another airbee had crashed into a building on the opposite side of Tanamary Street, while one had smashed into the middle of the street itself; the vehicle must have slammed into the protestors.

“Daxa,” he whispered. He had to get over there. How many had died, how many were injured?

The air roared with thunder, a shockwave reverberated in his bones, sheet lightning blazed across the wrathful clouds; night became brilliant day and screaming tore through the stillness. Tian whipped his head back toward Woolfe Street, pain throbbed through is neck. The street was again filled with murky darkness, though he needed no light to know the anguished cries were coming from the epicentre of the event.

“Come on.” He dragged Lauren to his feet.

Shooting jolts pulsed up his legs as they picked their way through the sprawl of tangled bodies. He gripped Lauren’s arm, guiding him through the uneven carpet of twisted limbs, as the Chief shook his dead palmtop.

A bony, shaking hand reached up to him. Tian looked down at a woman’s contorted face, tears fell from her terrified eyes and blood dripped generously from her temple. Pushing thought to the side, he forced himself to press on. He simply couldn’t allow himself to stop. Now was not the time.

His skin tingled and his scalp was suddenly cold. “Can you feel it?” he said, rubbing the goose flesh that had sprung up on his arm.

“Yes,” Lauren replied. “Can you hear them?”

Tian closed his eyes: there was a distant wailing. “Sirens?”

“I think so.”

So, the pulse hadn’t knocked out the entire city, then. If sirens were closing, then police, troops and the Royal Guard would not be far behind. He pushed his leaden limbs into a run, and though he desperately tried not to, he couldn’t help but kick legs and step on arms as he jumped over clusters of inert bodies, and side stepped the waking who tugged at his trousers and reached for his sleeves.

A hand grabbed his ankle. The air was forced from his lungs, as he slammed into the rain and blood drenched road, narrowly avoiding glass. Ahead was a dead man in a dark blue shirt and brown trousers lying on his back. Tian inched closer, his nostrils flared as his breathing raced and his blood ran cold.

Suspended in the air around the body were thousands of tiny pieces of blue and brown fabric, little clumps of flesh, soft tissue and globules of blood. Each element was being drawn to the body. He focused on a fragment of cloth as it settled into a gap in the shirt, like a missing puzzle piece, leaving no trace it had ever been removed. In a few brief seconds, the display had ceased and the corpse was whole.

“Lauren, tell me you see this?”

“I see it, I see it,” he replied, crouching next to Tian.

“We have no recorders?”

“Everything’s dead.”

Tian looked up toward Woolfe Street. An old man was on his knees, his head was in his hands as he rocked back and forth, his gaze on the body in front of him. Another man stood motionless, another turned in slow circles, his eyes darted from one body to the next. A woman screamed and pulled at her grey hair, as the eyes of a silent young girl were fixed as wide as those in the sockets of the dead face she stared into. Had they all witnessed the same event?

The air throbbed with the thump of approaching airbees, the clanging sirens from above overwhelmed the cries of distress on the ground. Shouting was then added to the discordance, as police and troops poured into the street, belting orders, their weapons were trained.

Tian pushed himself to stand upright, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a thick neck chain, his leather backed ID hung from it. As the shiny badge came into view, he was bathed in a translucent, golden cigar shaped tube of light. He ran a soaked hand over his face and scratched his beard. As his breathing leveled out, he allowed himself a brief glimpse into his punch drunk mind, he found only incomprehension. He looked to Lauren through the Chief’s tube of light, his friend’s mouth was covered with his wet shaking hand, his eyes glazed over.

~

As the agent jumped from the battered armoured carrier onto a slimy surface of glistening mud and machine oil, Tian lowered his eyes and listened. He was just able to make out the low-pitched thump of engines close to the carrier’s position; their air cover flew dark with sound dampened. The agent looked up into the downpour; electricity popped incessantly within the thick, rolling blanket of pendulous black cloud.

Tian’s arms were tightly folded, his limbs locked, his gaze firmly ahead. His crisp shirt’s stiff mandarin collar dug into his neck. The form of his brilliant white shirt was levelled out by blood red epaulettes with shiny gold piping. Trams could run on the creases in his freshly pressed black trousers, and his black shoes shone as brightly as they did on his passing out parade. There was comfort to be found in the orderly lines of uniform.

Ahead of him, dozens of helmeted troops in desert colours and body armour, with belts of ammunition slung over their shoulders, fanned out from five personnel carriers, and ran toward South Bayoun’s white stone gatehouse, their utility packs slapped against their sides, their bulky weapons trained ahead of them. Off to the left, beyond the secure compound’s high stone walls, sensors and elemorphic fences, lightening forked to the ground. The belting crack of thunder was immediate.

The agent turned and looked back toward the stationary vehicles. Tian’s team of three in black followed closely behind, they were weapon-less and lugged heavy-duty cases through the foul weather.

The troop’s lieutenant marched ahead, erect, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, seemingly oblivious to the lashing storm and the stupidity of his manner. A tight phalanx of six soldiers guarded the officer and Tian’s people as they made their way through the thick mud to the open arched doorway.

Tian squinted, for beyond the squat gatehouse there was the vague outline a much larger facility hidden in the shadow. Lightening blazed and a hulking, angular building loomed out of the pitch black, as thunder reverberated through him.

“Lieutenant Chance, thank God you’ve arrived,” a Corporal said, as he strode out of the gatehouse into the sheeting rain.

The Lieutenant stood at ease before the drawn soldier. “Has discipline broken down here, Corporal?”

The Corporal snapped to attention and saluted, his hand shaking. “No sir, my apologies, sir.”

Chance casually returned the salute, a gesture that appeared to be laden with sarcasm. “Name?”

“Goodman, sir.”

“Are you the highest rank here?”

“The-the only soldier of rank left, sir.”

Tian stepped forward, his shoes squeaked on the smooth, black reflective floor. He glanced at a display by his feet to find her name. “Agent Nyah.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent replied, as Tian’s view of events dipped down to the mud.

“Time is ticking.”

The facility’s locking mechanism popped with a booming clang that echoed around the compound. The great, black iron doors sluggishly opened, crackling sparks were spat into the rain as the wheels ground in their runners; the screeching of metal on metal sent shivers racing up and down Tian’s spine.

The soldiers quickly inspected their wrist power meters, snatched last checks to ensure helmet mounted cameras were filming and cooling to their assault rifles was activated. Lieutenant Chance strode forward, his hands on his hips, and peered into the facility’s darkness. He took in a long breath, and then waved the troops in. One by one, they stepped into the South Bayoun facility.

An array of virtual windows appeared at Tian’s feet, his eyes flitted from one glowing display to the next. He settled for a moment and watched as the soldier on point slowly stepped into the cavernous training arena, his camera translated the wall of blackness ahead of him as a vague, dark fuzz. He switched to a soldier who stepped toward a smashed console, the blanket of broken glass that littered the rubble strewn floor crunched under his boots. Another soldier came across several scattered assault rifles; it appeared from the dozens of blackened shell casings about them that some of them had been discharged. Another stood before one of the many hundreds of wide, wall mounted holographic projectors. The deck-to-ceiling device was dead, which was odd as even offline a dull, rainbow glow should emanate from the optics.

“Agent Brooke.”

“Yes, Nyah?” Tian replied.

The agent moved back and to her left. A scuffed black combat boot came into view, followed by another lying directly next to it. Agent Nyah panned her camera up to reveal legs clothed in desert colours. Tian’s chest tightened. Nyah then zoomed in on the head; it was spattered with dirt and crusted blood. Eyes that had once held life were wide and glassy, and a mouth that had once passed breath was dried out and locked agape.

Nyah moved to her right, another dead body lay in the filth, the arms were spread. Another body was face down in a dusty corner. Another was curled tight in the foetal position.

Tian lowered his head. “Badge seven-seven-three.”

Dozens of beams of torchlight bounced off the curved frosted mirrored walls and the labyrinth of floating, gleaming floors softly lit through coloured gels. Police in dark slate-grey uniforms with peaked caps inched through a thick haze of stage smoke, silently picking their way through a sea of motionless bodies that appeared to be afloat on an undulating fog.

The agent turned away from clear platform shield and the troopers below, and slowly made his way across a wide golden octagonal floor. He gingerly stepped over a slim, pale arm decorated with sparkling rings and bangles; past twisted legs in fine heels and hosiery, and shone his black pencil torch ahead of him. The sharp focused beam picked out seven golden steps that led up to a large circular level. Two semi-clad male bodies were slumped on the steps. To his left were another seven golden steps that led down to a lower circular level. An almost identical pair of male bodies was slumped on them.

The agent ducked below an idly spinning glitter mirror and slowly climbed the steps, seemingly careful to avoid the dead. Once at the top, he stumbled toward the platform’s cocktail bar and gripped its golden handrail. Shattered bottles lined the bar’s smashed mirrored walls and coloured liquids had run down the gleaming surfaces and pooled on the floor. Tian gave the scene just a cursory once over, for his vision was taken by the agent’s hands: his knuckles were white, his hands and arms shook, and laboured breathing filled Tian’s cold chamber. He looked to a display for the name of yet another new addition to his mushrooming department.

“Nice and slowly, Fields,” he said quietly, reassuringly. “There’s no hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” came the rasping reply.

Fields stepped down into a secluded alcove and crouched by a long corner sofa with a leopard-skin print. The body of a tall man with a glistening bare muscled chest lay sprawled across two cushions; his eyes were fixed wide open and glazed. The body of a petite woman in a short fitted red dress lay across one of the arms, a low cut, high heeled red shoe dangled from a slim foot. Tian’s view of events dipped to the floor, the breathing was short and shallow. He had to get him out.

“Agent Fields, you may go offline.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The image froze. The only sound to remain in the reflective black chamber was the low, soothing hum of the air conditioning. Tian took a step forward and crouched in front of the unmoving three-dimensional image, mindful of his knee dressing.

“Pull back to time index seven-thirty-four-spot-seven-thirty-nine.”

Torchlight starkly lit the pale face of the dead woman in the fitted red dress. The pain he saw locked in time behind her solidified corneas spoke to something terrifying. Every single corpse he had observed from these wretched events had that same naked fear etched into the fabric of their passing.

He stood sharply, turned his back to the sofa, and fixed his gaze on the smooth, dust-free floor. The constriction in his throat eased a little as he massaged his temples. Thank goodness his stomach was empty. He raised his head, stood perfectly still, and tried to drop his thoughts, tried to find a moment, a space within which he could rest, a gap presently hidden from him but where he was certain ease resided. He compelled himself to breathe slowly and steadily, to stand with his spine straight and his hands firmly by his sides. Form locked.

What was he doing? Who did he think he was? What made him think he was qualified or experienced enough to handle this ridiculous situation? To say he was out of his depth was the understatement of the century. How was he expected to sit before Croft and give a rational explanation for something he barely understood, for something that defied logic? He saw the symptoms but was blind to the cause. But then, they all saw the symptoms as plain as day. He huffed loudly and slumped.

Ahead of him, a hairline crack appeared in the dance floor. A smooth sliding door quietly hissed open and Gates Lauren stepped in. The Chief’s tanned skin did nothing to mask the heavy black bags beneath his eyes, nor did the chamber’s dim light mask the fact they were bloodshot. His frame was hunched, his face set, his jaw locked. Tian took Lauren softly by the wrist and led him to three silver chairs by the door.

His Investigative Chief sank onto the metal and looked down; his hands in his lap, his fingers tightly interlaced. His head lolled forward, and thick shoulder-length hair that had been grey for as long as Tian had known him flopped before his face. Tian slowly sat down as Lauren looked up, his pale blue eyes flitting.

“I … I didn’t think it would actually happen to us.” Lauren’s voice was low and scratchy. “I thought by knowing it so precisely that somehow it would just be prevented.”

Tian sat forward, his elbows on his legs, his brow furrowed.

“It’s ludicrous, now I think of it.” Lauren shook his head rhythmically as he looked ahead. It was not the first time they had been dumbfounded by events. Tian patted the Chief’s knee lightly and forced a smile. It seemed to work, for Lauren’s face cracked a little and a faint smile curled upward.

“We saw it,” Tian whispered.

“I know.” He sat up and stretched his shoulders. “But, what does it give us?”

Tian sat back and raised his hands. “Well, we now know it is a molecular disruption that is causing death.”

“We don’t know that, though. Fine, we’ve always believed a molecular disruption of some description was taking place, but we don’t know what’s causing it. And I tell you, I don’t even know how to begin to explain the kind of molecular disruption that took place after the blackout. That, to me, was a magic show. Not to mention the fact the source of what you call ‘intel’ that led us to Tanamary Street in the first place is leaving me increasingly agitated.”

“I understand.” His head was beginning to ache; pain was steadily building behind his eyeballs, pressure was forging its way to the forefront of his attention. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hard, his eyes closed. It helped a little. What he really needed was to reacquaint himself with the bottle of single malt tucked away in the back of his desk drawer. “We need to talk about that further, I know, but now is not the time and this is not the place.” He looked back into the Chief’s eyes, it seemed that fear had replaced bewilderment. Why did he say that? “Look, Gates, I’m sure you and I would both settle for a simple explanation for the cause of our intelligence. Frankly, though, right now, I’m just grateful we have it. Don’t let …”

The door slid open and a tall, immaculately dressed officer entered.

“Ouch,” Tian said, grimacing, as he stood and pointed to the white patch on Will Daxa’s forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Sir, I have a lousy headache,” Daxa replied, in his long, warm eastern drawl. “I could do without the nausea as well.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Sir, I remember the pulse, I remember the sudden and complete loss of power in the vehicle, and then, I don’t remember a great deal. My airbee landed on a roof and, I’m told, I smacked my head on a panel. We fell only a few feet, and we all walked away from it with just a few bumps and bruises. We were the fortunate ones. The crews that hit the deck were not, nor were the people beneath their vehicles.”

Tian could not think of it. Not right now. “Should you even be here?” he asked, the last thing he wanted was to exasperate the lieutenant’s injury.

“Probably not, sir.” He pointed to the scene. “This morning’s event?”

“Yes,” Tian replied, slowly, as he cautiously turned back to the sofa.

“Do we have a count yet, sir?” Daxa asked.

“No, not for the whole of Jeradine, but as we stand, Tanamary Street is in the order of ten-thousand dead. And so far, today, there have been seven other events.” He pointed to the nightclub. “This was actually the first.”

“Where is it?” Lauren asked, as he stood.

“Silk Mills tucked away in Holdale. I understand it’s a rather fashionable establishment, even considering the lack of content.”

They stood side by side and faced the leopard-skin sofa. Tian and Lauren folded their arms as Daxa clasped his hands behind him. Motionless, they breathed steadily and quietly, and stared at the dead. For once, a certain stillness surrounded Tian, and, surprisingly, the lull in the chamber’s noise and activity was reflected in his head. The turbulent, swirling formation and dissolution of his thoughts and emotions had suddenly settled with the silence. It was as though his outer and inner environments had merged. They were both like a flat calm. It wasn’t a profound plane of peace. It was just a momentary glimpse of quiet, for which he was grateful.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Daxa’s head turn to him. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me.” Tian nodded almost imperceptibly, his vision on the dead woman in the fitted red dress. The lieutenant paused for a moment longer, then about faced, his shoes squeaking on the floor, and marched out of the chilly room.

In the aftermath of events, Tian often stood still in the centre of the unnerving, frenetic chaos, soaking in the charged atmosphere that followed the ferociousness that flared for an instant and caused horrific pain and appalling damage. He could describe the smells, the tastes and textures of each scene they had investigated in exhaustive detail. They had all meticulously analysed and catalogued thousands of images, sounds, samples and readings. They had written hundreds of reports which ended with colourful impressions and theories but precious few conclusions of any substance. They had looked upon the desperation of the dead again and again, and it seemed no amount of skill, effort or luck could begin to explain what was causing such outlandish and spectacular anomalies that killed in such frightening numbers.

Lauren placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it tightly. The Chief glanced back at Silk Mills, sighed, then turned and left. The door hissed closed.

He looked upon the woman’s smooth face, his throat again constricting, for her and the fact he had no answers. All he asked for was a clue, a sliver of something behind the facts, a toe-hold on the inside of what she had seen and what had caused her to die. She blinked. The solution had to be there, right in front of him, glaring at them, and despite what Colonel Croft incessantly ranted, this was not Yarcatzn. She blinked again and smiled, as the teenagers kissed and played with each other’s hair. Tian hid behind his book, his head shaking, a wide beam creeping across his face.

“Can you remember a time when you were so uninhibited?” she asked.

“No, ‘uninhibited’ is not a word I know too well.” He looked down into his half full coffee cup, not quite believing he had just replied so frankly and effortlessly.

“That’s a shame.”

Glancing up, he caught a mischievous smirk. “I really wouldn’t know.” He cleared his throat as he felt his face flush. He needed something, anything at all. “So, you sound like you were born in the city?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, from behind one of the mustard facades in West Palentine.” She held his gaze, as her smile transformed into a grin. “You were not?”

He looked away. “Ah, no.”

“I’d say you’re a east country lad, Yaltran maybe.”

“Further east, Black Barn.”

“Really?” She frowned. “You hide it well.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“My name is Petra.”

“T-Tian. Tian. Tian.” He coughed. “My name is Tian.”

~

Meridian - II

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Coming …

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Meridian - III

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Coming …

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Meridian - IV

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Coming …

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The Brief Life of Tia Green

~

~

What if you woke to find you had unlimited power?

~

Tia Green is having a very bad day. The rain has soaked her to the skin; she has battled another muggy rush hour only to arrive late at the office, forcing another run in with the lecherous thug known as her boss. Her self esteem has never been so low, her fantasies of a carefree life never so vivid.

That evening, after stumbling upon her boyfriend in bed with her best friend, Tia’s suffering spikes to new heights. In its aftermath, she discovers a magical change in the fabric of her existence: she can do anything, she can be anyone and go anywhere. High on her newfound power, she ditches all that holds her down in favour a fabulously rich and indulgent lifestyle. The veil of glamour soon fades, her insecurities quickly return, those who have trodden on her wander her mind, and those who irritate prick her senses. Her unlimited power leads her to choices that carry unforeseen and terrifying consequences …

~

I wrote Tia Green in 2004 in a blur of inspired frenzy. The original work was in need of some crafting and I spent a few of the middle months of 2008 redrafting the piece. The story is in six chapters and all are available to read.

~

The story is inspired by, ‘The Words of My Perfect Teacher’, by Patrul Rinpoche.

~

All material is copyright © Richard Clarke

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The Brief Life of Tia Green - I

~

One

Sparkle

Tia Green stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.

She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?

Her heart sprinted as she looked up and then bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low. She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.

A woman roughly pushed past her.

“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.

Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene? Stupidity was something she excelled at, why encourage it.

She looked at her black plastic watch, but was unable to see it properly, her glasses were wet. She hunted for a tissue, even a torn, scrunched up used one would do. Her train was going to be here any second. Come on, come on. The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform. Was that wheel squeal she could hear in the distance?

“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”

A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.

“Hmm, yes, I’ll have a skinny cappuccino.”

The doors slid closed with a resounding thud just as Tia was about to jump on the packed, graffiti-ridden train. Damn it. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman, stood by the door, sipping her cappuccino. Perhaps she’d burn her throat.

Fifteen minutes later, and five minutes late, another train arrived. She glared at her watch, willing the second hand to slow down. Maybe things would be fine, there was still time to be on time. The train doors slid open with a pained screech and a groan, and a dozen tired, sullen faces glanced wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players turned up to eleven, workmen in their dusty and paint stained t-shirts and ripped jeans sat on rusty tool boxes, while sharply suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Well, it didn’t matter how many were on the train, she had to get to work.

The doors slid closed and trapped her black raincoat. A quiet, still voice in the back of her mind knew that giving it a good hard tug was not the thing to do, and the material ripped loudly as she did so. Oh, now that was just wonderful. She couldn’t afford repairs; it was days until payday, and even then, she couldn’t afford it. It was muggy, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and now her coat had long tear in it.

As the train inched painfully slowly towards the filthy city, she glanced up and stared at a tall man’s greying nasal hair.

The train slowed to a stop.

“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”

The sound faded to silence. It didn’t matter what the driver said, for it meant only one thing, she would be late. Her teeth clenched as she stood rigid, her breathing racing.

It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick marching toward her. What possessed people to invent open plan offices? Why couldn’t there be just a little room for her to duck into so he could simply wander by without noticing her, but no, little rooms didn’t exist anymore. It was a conspiracy. Now the weasel would see for sure she was late.

Her glasses promptly steamed up as she stepped into the overheated office. She glanced over the thick lenses and could just make out Nick’s pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist. Perhaps if he shook his head a bit more vigorously it would fall off. Wouldn’t that be fun?

“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” Nick said. He should have been born a drill sergeant.

“That bloody man,” Tia spat, as she took off her dripping coat and held it in front of her, the rip was a good ten centimetres in length. “All I wanted was some coffee.”

“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a few words and have the whole world understand you.”

“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to her colleague. “Some geriatric idiot pushed in front of me in the coffee shop and made me miss the train.”

“Why’d you leave it so late?”

“I … I hadn’t.” Even if there were eight or nine people in the shuffling queue, she had always managed to buy a cup of steaming coffee and be on the platform for the train a good five minutes before it pulled up to the platform.

She looked at Michael and shook her head in bemusement. He smiled at her, kindly, warmly. He had a gorgeous smile and a beautiful face. Actually, come to think of it, he really wasn’t that good looking at all: he had a funny chin and thick eyebrows, but there was something seriously hot about him. That cute little ass, maybe. No, stop it, now. He had a wife. Not to mention her boyfriend, Craig, was in her creaky bed sleeping off his night shift.

She sat, sighed, and turned to her aging computer.

“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, cradling the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just won’t open … No, I don’t know.” If I knew what was wrong would I be phoning you? “I just can’t … okay … right.” Double click on this. “Yep.” Double click on that, and, well what do you know, zilch. “Nothing, once again.” What was it with her and machines? “Reboot?” How original.

“Bloody hell,” she spat, as paper jammed in the ancient printer … again.

Another file was dropped in her overflowing in-tray.

She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard.

Inside, she screamed and screamed until her head exploded.

Her gaze was on the indifferent white tiling, as she absently stirred her instant coffee. The hell with it, she added another heaped teaspoon of white sugar. And then another. Loving sickly sweetness, how could I not adore you? If only everything could be sweetness. But then, why was it everything she loved was so terribly bad for her? The hell with it, with each sip, she relaxed another delicious degree. Caffeinated sugar was a wonderful way to calm the mind.

“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”

Pain charged through her. Was that really necessary? Her hands shook as she slowly and carefully placed the mug on the counter and turned to Nick, who stood tall in the tight doorway to the office’s confined kitchen, arms folded, exit blocked. The stinging gave way to throbbing.

“Well?” he asked.

Her breathing steadied as she wiped the cooling coffee from the sleeve of her white blouse with a tissue. “Look, I’m sorry. I missed my train, I didn’t mean to.” Just don’t ask about the keyboard.

“With this much work to do you will make an effort to be in on time.”

With this much work to do why aren’t you out there doing some of it?

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”

Her cheeks burned as she looked up at him, shaking her head vigorously. That wasn’t true and he damn well knew it.

“Your appraisal is due tomorrow and I’ll be the one writing it.”

Her heart pounded, she felt sure it was threatening to leap out of her chest. “Yes, I know.” She couldn’t face another year without a pay rise or a bonus. She desperately needed to get her credit card bill cleared, and she worked as hard for the damned company as anyone else. And that included the office tramps that regularly dropped their designer pants and miraculously received healthy pay rises.

Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.

“You do know it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”

She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.

“I want to give you a great appraisal.”

She wanted to shove a red hot iron in his face.

He smiled crookedly.

Huffing, she slumped back in her chair, her face dropping into her hands. Her brow creased and her stomach tightened as a lump promptly grew in her throat. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness.

It was one twenty. Well, she was damned if she was going to work through another unpaid lunch hour. Cooling air was needed, a brisk walk to clear out the rancid energy from her veins. Actually, what she really wanted was a little therapy, or perhaps even a lot.

She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted girlfriends from way back would admire and complement her taste, and chiselled men in elegant suits would but her cocktails and ask for her number. Rubbish. Even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of beans would be luxury.

God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …

Who or what was she kidding? Her wardrobe was ridiculous, pitiful, and she certainly didn’t have flash strappy heels for a foxy skirt. Why did people think shopping made them feel better? Did it make her trains run on time? Did it solve the fact she wanted to rip Nick’s throat out? Did it make Craig treat her any better?

Her mind’s eye saw her workload piled higher than a skyscraper. She grunted and hung the apparently gorgeous skirt back on the rail.

“Hiya hon,” she said to Miranda. “Oh, I just need to chat.” She stared at her monitor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. Are you in tonight?” Her brain was slushy, sloshing mush. “It’s just work and, you know, stuff that grinds.” What was she doing in this deathly dull job? “All right, sweetie, I’ll call you later.” Refusing to put the receiver down meant not having to look at the spreadsheet. It was elegant logic.

“I know,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “I said to her, Liz, he’s not going to like it and she said, well, I don’t care and I said, well you better, there are girls here that don’t like it when you’re flirt with their boyfriends and she said …”

“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “Have you seen her after just one glass of wine, she’s all over them like a rash with her tight tops and her skirts that look like belts? I tell you, John wouldn’t stand for it if I was like that. Not that I care about what he thinks. He can go and …”

“Don’t get me started on men,” Anna said. “My Jason’s as bad as you’re John. Four pints of larger and he thinks he’s God’s gift. I tell you, when he’s drunk, if his thing was half as enthusiastic as he is I’d have no complaints.”

It wasn’t laughing; it was the cackling of gnarled witches as they were about to fly off into the night hunting prey. Tia glanced at the gossiping girls from the corner of her eye and saw them with the years piled on, their skin slack, mottled and wrinkled, white hair in plastic curlers under worn and faded headscarves, their taste in decency long gone, still wittering on about so and so and what he or she had done and when and how and why it was so terrible because they had said and behaved in such a way and, I know, Martha, tell me more, more, more rattling, prattling, rolling bloody noise, for God’s sake why wouldn’t they just shut up? Why was this endless conversation over glossy magazines full of pictures of perfect teeth, perfect spouses and perfect lives so fascinating? Why couldn’t she connect? Why had she been born a mouse?

Aloneness prowled the backdrop of her mind as emptiness echoed through her. She stared at her screen, the spreadsheet had become a blur of colour and random characters that vaguely formed letters and numbers.

“We don’t see her very often …” No, no. “It gives me great pleasure …” Not quite. “She graces the covers of our …” Nope. “Truly one of the brightest stars in the galaxy today, and we don’t see her give interviews very often, so, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the enigmatic, the vibrant, the dearly loved, Tia Green.” The audience goes wild, as she gracefully enters from stage left and throws a little wave, casually dressed in a designer silk blouse, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Another file landed on the top of her in-tray with a sickening thud.

There were fifty copies of a thirty page report to copy and bind. The melodic sound of the grey behemoth soothed her mind; finally she stood restfully still as the photocopier happily munched its way through a rain forest. It was a pause in which peace had managed to make an entrance through a side door. She smiled.

Nick’s hand lightly brushed her buttocks as he walked by.

Bastard.

There was a bang and a puff of acrid smoke from the photocopier, followed by the lights going out with a moan as a groan rippled across the office.

In the semidarkness, she picked up the phone and dialled home. They had been forced to sit at their desks twiddling their thumbs for over an hour without power. The gossiping girls revelled in Nick and Rita’s distress, as they acidly commented on their attempts to sort out the loss of electricity. The line connected and bleeped in her ear. Engaged again. What was keeping Craig on the phone?

Michael sat down opposite her. She couldn’t help it, she smiled broadly. It was criminal the way her heart lit up when he was around.

“Well,” he said, “I think Rita’s going let us go.”

Her feelings were ridiculous.

“Oh?”

Would he be kind to her, gentle?

“Yeah, I managed to catch her in the corridor; she’s been on to head office.”

Did he make love slowly, tenderly?

“Uh-huh?”

Or would he be passionately rough with her?

“Maybe in ten minutes or so.”

Either would be fine.

“Good.”

She fanned herself with a cardboard file, then picked up the phone and dialled home. Engaged again. And besides, married or not, his wife with child or not, Michael would never want her, not in a million. What would possess him to be interested in a short sighted, unfit, boring, almost thirty, size fourteen data processor? I mean really, she was just so desirable.

“If I may have your attention, please.” It was Rita, the office manager. She always avoided Rita, even though she appeared to be a kind person. How did that explain Nick? “We’re letting you go. I would like volunteers to come in early tomorrow. We have a lot of work to catch up on and the sooner we get started, the better. Overtime will be paid.”

She shook her head, of course she’d come in; the credit card wasn’t going to pay itself. It was three forty. Well, at least she’d be home early for a change.

The door alarms bleeped loudly as she sprinted for the train. She stepped into the filthy carriage just as the doors slid shut with a hiss and a slam. Perhaps her day was improving. There were only a few vacant seats left in the newspaper strewn carriage.

She slumped into an empty seat and gladly closed her eyes. Wave upon wave of tiredness seemed to ooze from her limbs. True happiness would manifest in the stillness of the suburbs. A muddy boot brushed her tights. She looked down; well of course they’d laddered at her ankle. The culprit was a stick-thin, spotty teenager with greasy, brightly coloured hair. He wore smudged sunglasses even though it was overcast and looked like rain. He bobbed his head and murmured off key, his mp3 player blaring at full volume. A young woman sat next to him in a black business suit, she read the early evening paper while eating a thick, glistening burger. It stank like rank sweat.

In her mind’s eye a giant snarling, scaly monster, with acidic drool dripping generously from its blackened, six inch fangs, leapt out of her body and bit the heads off the teenager and the business woman. She turned her head and looked out of the scratched window, trying not to laugh.

She shook her umbrella and stepped into her building. Not one drop of rain while she was on the train, and then, just as stepped from the carriage onto the platform, the heaven’s opened up and emptied a freezing ocean on top of her. Bloody typical. She kicked off her sodden shoes and tiptoed down the corridor, then stood before her front door and hunted for her keys. They were undoubtedly in the deepest, darkest corner of her ancient handbag. Ahh, there they were.

She froze. Now that ‘Ahh’ was in her head, right? Except for the rain battering down outside, there was silence. Her paranoia knew no bounds these days.

“Ahh.”

There was no way on the face of any earth that those groans were in her head. Her breathing bolted off the blocks as adrenaline flooded her body. She knelt quietly and slowly lifted the letterbox lid and listened.

“Ahh.”

There were two people in there and one of them was without question female. She ground her teeth as rage tore through her bones radiating anger to the hairs on her skin. She forced the key into the lock and burst into her flat to see Craig climbing off Miranda.

It wasn’t true. She couldn’t believe it, didn’t believe it, desperately needed to deny to it. But reality forced its way onto her retina. Her boyfriend and her best friend were naked, beneath her sheets, staring at her, horror on their glowing faces. No, no, it simply couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. It must be a terrible mistake. It had to be. He surely wasn’t … she surely wasn’t … they weren’t. Her stomach clamped tight.

Her body went numb in a lightening wave from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Then, there was constriction in her stomach and a tickle in her throat. The remains of lunch would soon be on her carpet, which, she saw, was strewn with clothes.

She dropped her bag, shoes and umbrella, turned and ran.

“Sweetie,” Miranda whispered.

“Tia,” Craig called.

There was no direction, just down one street and then down the next. Her feet were soon bleeding, her tights long destroyed on the concrete. Still, she ran and ran, as the cold, sheeting rain lashed at her face. She didn’t feel it. She was soaked to the skin, her suit likely ruined, she didn’t notice. As energy began to haemorrhage from her, her jog drifted down into a walk, her limbs grew heavy. She stopped, dead still, in the middle of the street.

Pure, blissful peace washed through her, cleansing her, lifting her. She felt herself shrink into a miniature ball of white light, untouched and unstained, as though she was in her mother’s womb. The ball exploded into blazing fire.

The bastard. The bitch. How long had they been mauling each other? How many ‘sleep ins’ had he used to cheat on her? It was unbelievable. She wanted to push Miranda into a corner, to stare her down, to yell at her, slap her around a bit, rip at her clothes and call her a slut, a liar, a filthy betrayer. She wanted Craig on his knees, his head low, begging for pity. She wanted to kick him in the teeth and then grab his crotch and squeeze and squeeze.

The coursing storm dissipated and she laughed out loud. A moment later, she howled with laughter, her cheeks and her sides hurting. It too subsided as quickly as it had arisen and she slumped to the ground, curled up into a tight, foetal ball and sobbed.

They’d been together for almost a year. He had only just moved in with her. She trusted him. And as for Miranda, they went to school together.

She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, to find herself drained, and her mind perfectly still, without even a single thought to ruffle the placid surface of her mind. It was as though she were a blank sheet of paper, like the future was suddenly wide open to endless possibility. Clear light surrounded her; it was warm, loving, all pervasive and endless.

She forced herself to her feet and stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.

She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?

Frowning, she turned through a slow three hundred and sixty degrees. Her handbag hung from her shoulder, her unopened umbrella was in her left hand, shoes were on her feet and her tights were smooth and unbroken. She looked down and opened her palm. A sparkle of curling, flickering, diamond light danced in her right hand. It tickled.

Looking up, her heart sprinted as she bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low.

She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.

~

Two

Freedom

Tia stood stiffly in the long queue for coffee, her heart madly banging in the tight confines of her chest. No matter how forcefully she imposed scenes of still ponds, quiet summer days or plain old silence in a dark room, her breathing would not slow down. She should be in her home, soaking in a deep, hot bath generously sprinkled with soothing lavender crystals, not stood waiting in the cold for poor, lukewarm coffee hoping to goodness she wouldn’t miss the train to work.

She wiped her glasses again and looked at her watch for the fiftieth time in five minutes. It was a little after eight. The grubby white clock that hung askew on the train station wall matched her watch. And even if both her watch and the station clock were somehow wrong, the arrivals and departures monitor had her morning train listed as being due to arrive in one minute. And even if the monitor was somehow broken, the station was full and everyone around her was rushing toward the platform. It was without a doubt first thing in the morning.

A woman roughly pushed past her.

“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.

Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene?

The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform.

“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”

A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.

The woman screamed, doubled over, hopped and then held her face in her hands. Tia’s hand darted out to help her.

“Don’t you touch me,” the woman shouted hysterically.

“What?” Her blood ran ice cold. “I … I didn’t do anything.” She shook her head vigorously; her eyes locked wide, as she slowly backed away, turned, and bolted for the train.

Tia wrapped her raincoat around her and tightly folded her arms as the doors slammed closed, sealing her in. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman stood on the platform, shaking her fist and shouting; her face red and contorted. Tia couldn’t help it, the laugh formed like a bubble in her stomach and burst out of her mouth. The old witch shouldn’t have pushed in.

She turned and faced a dozen tired, sullen faces glancing wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players, workmen in their dusty shirts and ripped jeans sat on tool boxes, while suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Oh, this was joyous, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and … actually, no, she wasn’t going to be late. She had in fact caught the train and she was in fact going to make it to her desk on time.

A faint aroma of fresh mint filled the carriage.

The train stopped.

“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”

The sound faded to silence. Her mind’s eye saw Nick marching toward her, a giant watch the size of a tractor wheel on his wrist, each tick of the second hand a hammer blow to the head. Her fingertips tingled.

It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick goose stepping in her direction. She jogged into the office, her head hung low, and ducked out of sight into a little, tucked away room. As her glasses steamed up, she prayed the weasel hadn’t seen her.

The door was wrenched opened. Nick pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist.

“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” he said.

“Sure,” she whispered, her hands held in front of her, feet side by side.

The door slammed closed.

“That bloody man,” she spat, as she shook off her coat.

“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a word or two and have the whole world understand you.”

“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to Michael, lovely Michael, hotter than hot Michael. “It’s Nick, he’s such a …” She took in a long, slow breath. “I don’t want to swear.”

Michael smiled at her; he was always warm and kind with her. Why wasn’t Craig like him? Actually, Craig could go to the deepest depths of blazing hell and so could Miranda for that matter. In fact, tonight, she was going to have a clear out. Her wardrobe had absolutely no need for size ten shoes, crisp white double cuff shirts or trousers that needed dry cleaning. Her building’s bins had just been emptied; she felt a delicious urge to fill them to the brim. Actually, no, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be at all fair on the other residents, her dear and charitable neighbours. Ah well, she’d just have to have a wild bonfire instead.

She grinned, broadly. The thought lit her chest with a glow that took her back to the deliciousness of morning coffee. Now there was a story she could not wait for Michael to hear. It was just as outrageous as the one that included graphic details of what she would do to him given half a chance and an empty bedroom room. She squeezed her eyes closed, as an image of Miranda climbing off Craig flashed across her mind. Her throat constricted as she slumped resentfully in her seat and turned to her computer.

“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, as she cradled the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just … erm … actually now it’s working.”

All the documents she needed printed out smoothly. Her in-tray was close to empty. She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard. Her heart remained untroubled.

“I mean really,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “What does George Christian see in the tramp? She’s only been in one film and that was some foreign, subtitled rubbish …”

“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “I even heard he’d been with that slag model, Lia Bright, the one in the shampoo ads. She’s only had half of Hollywood in her bed …”

“Yeah, but you know what,” Anna said, nudging Julie, “if I had her figure and looks and George Christian between my sheets, I tell you, I certainly wouldn’t kick him out bed if I’d heard he’d been with a few tarts …”

Tia sank in her chair and rubbed her temples. The grating noise was loud and unrelenting. How could they go on so without pause? A smile lazily curled upward as she imagined Marie, Julie and Anna talking domestic politics with as much zeal.

“Yes, but darling, if he did in fact divert the funding to health,” Marie said, “I feel sure the public would be deeply grateful. Our health system, that which belongs to you and I, is far more important to the nation than a new motorway.”

“Honey, I do genuinely see your point,” Julie interrupted, her hand held politely aloft. “But the Chancellor’s proposing to cut funding from not just one perhaps isolated project, but from three major expansions of the network. Surely, if one doesn’t recognise the need for greater road capacity now, this will impact on an already fragile economy in few short years.”

“You know, ladies, it may not be considered an election winner,” Anna said, “but I sense a shift in the public mood. I feel that higher fuel and health duties to pay for these and many more highly valued projects to come would win support. The state’s infrastructure at all levels needs to be maintained with the utmost care.”

She stared at her screen. She was not looking at the spreadsheet. Her phone rang.

“Tia Green.”

“Sweetie, it’s Miranda.”

She slammed the phone down and fled from her desk.

Black coffee dripped onto the white tiled floor as it spilled over her mug as Tia vigorously stirred it. She paused suddenly and laughed hesitantly, her eye twitching, as she then added another two spoons full of sugar, then another two, and another two. She sipped the coffee, rhythmically, over and over. It was so good. Sugar on the brain, what a wonderful way to erase the image of Craig climbing off …

“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”

Pain sped through her, her breathing raced as she slammed the mug on the counter, and slowly, deliberately turned to face Nick. He stood in the tight doorway, his arms folded. She rubbed her sore arm as wrath torn her apart.

“Well?” he asked.

“My train was delayed. It was not my fault,” she said, in a low measured voice.

“They’re always conveniently delayed, Tia. It’s an old tale. With this much work to do you will make an effort to catch an earlier train.”

She ground her teeth.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”

Her face flushed.

“Your appraisal is due tomorrow, I’ll be the one writing it.”

She hated him.

Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.

“You know, it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”

She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.

“I want to give you a great appraisal.”

An image of Nick running through the office naked popped into her head. He was slapping his buttocks, making train noises and lifting his knees up high as he ran. Nick stood back, slipped out off his crumpled jacket and dropped it on the floor. He pulled his red pencil thin tie loose and unbuckled his trousers.

Tia stared agape. “Nick, what are you doing?”

He quickly pulled off his white shirt, kicked off his shoes, comedy socks and trousers. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his faded shorts.

“Nick.”

She turned away as his shorts landed on the floor.

“Woo, woo, woooooo,” he hollered, turned, and ran through the office toward the main door. He slapped his buttocks and lifted his knees up high as he ran out into the street and disappeared out of sight.

Tia’s body was numb as she slid down the kitchen counter and sat on the floor, staring at the little pile of Nick’s clothes.

“It’ll be all right,” Rita said quietly, as she handed her a clear plastic cup filled with freezing cold water.

She gripped the cup with both hands and gulped at the water, spilling much of it down her chin.

“Would you like some more?”

She nodded sharply, her gaze low and fixed on her senior manager’s untidy desk.

“Maggie, would you?”

“I’ll bring two,” Rita’s secretary replied, as she left the small office.

Tia looked up into Rita’s warm hazel eyes. Her boss had a weather worn look about her, but instead of it giving her an air of the bitterly defeated, which she had always assumed was the case, it had in fact shaped her into a soft and beautiful woman. There was genuine compassion emanating from her. How had she not seen or felt this before?

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded again. “Have you … found him?”

Rita sighed. “No, we haven’t, but I just received a call from the police for they have.” Her brow furrowed. “He just took his clothes off in front of you?”

Tia looked down at the threadbare carpet, her cheeks burning. “Yes.”

“What would possess him to do that?” Rita leant back against her desk back, shaking her head. “In all my years I’ve never seen the like.”

Flashbacks. That was plausible, wasn’t it? Was she seriously going to suggest this? “Perhaps …” No, she couldn’t. Could she?

“Tia?”

Maggie quietly pushed the office door closed and handed her the cups of water.

“Thank you,” she said, and gulped one of the cups dry. No, her mind was made up, she simply could not. It wouldn’t be right. Things were bad enough without her heaping more manure onto it.

“Tia, what were you going to say?”

“I … well, I read somewhere that sometimes people who have taken … say drugs, can have sudden flashbacks and do strange things.” There, it was done.

“Yes, you know I’ve heard that too,” Maggie said, as she stroked her chin.

“I’ll have to mention it to the police when they get here,” Rita said.

“Maybe they would test him anyway,” Tia said. “I mean, if it’s obvious to us then it must be to them too.” That had to be true, didn’t it? That made what she had said okay, right?

“Still, it’s certainly worth a mention. Tia, the police may need to talk to you, but after that, would you like to go home?”

She shook her head sharply. Right about now Craig and Miranda would be mauling each other beneath her fresh white linen. Her brow creased, she put her head in her hands as emotion rose in her throat. Why had they betrayed her? She wanted to curl up in a ball and howl. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness. She needed some air, a rest, a walk … actually, what she needed was a little therapy.

“Maybe I could just take an early lunch.”

Rita smiled warmly. There it was again, that wave of compassion.

She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted … oh, come on, even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of peas would be luxury.

God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …

Her clothes went baggy. She dropped the skirt on the floor. And then fainted.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sweat poured from her temple. She clung to the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. A nail broke against the porcelain. Oh God, no, she loved her nails, at least, that was what she was supposed to think, if only … the nail repaired itself. Her mouth was open but sound did not form.

She raised her head with forceful effort to face her reflection in the streaked mirror. Her glasses lay discarded on the wet counter; her crystal green eyes had no need for them. Perfect visual acuity picked out detail like snapshots. She was a foot taller. Her figure was a trim and sensuous hourglass. Light blonde hair fell in bouncy waves. Lips were a luscious full red. An exquisite, unblemished face was blessed with a sprinkling of delightfully faint freckles.

As her breathing raced her mind sank into white hot fear. This had to stop. She had to calm down or there was going to be another collapse. Control had to be imposed, order needed to be restored. Her heart began to slow and her breathing began to ease. A flat untroubled surface gradually returned to her mind and her skin dried as if by the light of a summer sun. A restful sigh floated from her lungs. There, now that was much better.

She looked down at the coarse cotton of her short and baggy blouse. It was no longer possible to tuck it into her trousers, for the waistband was far too big. The trousers were also far too short; she could see her lower legs through laddered tights. Actually, that was all nonsense; her clothes gently hugged her figure as of course they would. Her blouse was a one-off designer number in cream. Her tailored trousers were an elegant cut that accentuated her flawless curves and showed just enough ankle to be playful. And her feet were magnificently displayed in low cut black heels with open toes. How about a cute little gold ankle chain? No, definitely not: too trashy.

She closed her eyes and took in a long, slow breath. A delightful aroma of freshly cut roses drifted over her. She was cleansed and fit, her toned muscles full of vitality. The pain of looking upon her dull, downtrodden reflection was a discarded shadow from another lifetime now thankfully quashed. She was perfection itself. Her heart broke with joy.

The bathroom door opened. Hell fire, her colleagues were going to go lose their sanity when they saw her. Come to think of it, would they even recognise her? Her lips curled into a faint smile. Of course they would recognise her, they wouldn’t know any different. But to complete the picture, she needed a tear, nothing overly dramatic, just a suggestion of ongoing distress.

“Are you all right, Tia?” Rita asked, as she placed a comforting arm around her shoulder.

Did her weak nod indicate continued unrest?

“The gentleman who brought you back from the shop has just left. He was concerned for you, as we all are.”

“Thank you.” A burst of bright, intoxicating pleasure burst in her chest. “If it’s okay with you, I’d now like to go home.” But not on my own.

“By all means, but I insist, you’re not going on your own.”

“Oh?”

Did he make love slowly, tenderly?

“I’ll ask someone to take you home.”

Or would he be passionately rough with her?

“Uh-huh.”

Either would be fine.

“Shall I ask Michael for you?”

She smiled.

Tia kicked the door to her empty flat closed and pushed Michael toward the bedroom.

“Tia, no, please, this can’t possibly happen.” Michael shook his head and raised a defensive hand. “I can’t do this, I have a pregnant wife.”

“Hush.”

She slung her arms around his neck and kissed him. His lips were locked. Or were they? Her senses exploded as he kissed her like no other had. She couldn’t wait any longer. She pushed Michael on the bed and climbed on top of him. As he ripped her blouse open, scattering the buttons, she tugged at his belt buckle.

The next morning, she awoke to find him staring down at her with puppy eyes that overflowed with love.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered huskily.

She grinned stupidly as her heart danced. And just to be sure, she turned to her ornate full length mirror. Yep, she was still blonde, still had freckles and still had a radiant, flawless smile. She lifted the sheets. And boy did she have wonderful breasts.

Michael frowned. “Are you okay?”

She turned to him. “I’m fine.” And kissed him. “We’d better get up or we’ll be late for work.”

They held hands as they strolled to the train station, a teenage giddiness in her stride. The sun shone upon them from a pristine, cloudless sky, a faint breeze kept her skin just the right side of cool.

The woman pushed past her in the coffee shop queue.

“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly, flushing with rage. With her right hand, she softly brushed the still air. The gust of wind blew the woman to the right; she lost her balance and fell over with a scream.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, red in the face, as a man helped her back onto her feet.

“I was merely assisting in the movement of a filthy cheat from the position she had stolen.”

“What gives you the right?”

“Oh, there’s no particular right.” Tia giggled. “It’s just that I can.”

It was a pleasure to see the rude old bat miss the train by a whisker, while sipping a luscious morning brew, which was truly the finest blend she had ever been served. She laid back into the antique cushions and rested in Michael’s arms. The rest of the grubby train may well be full to bursting with passionless zombies, but she shared a marvellously spacious, exquisitely furnished, first class carriage with her man.

They stepped onto the terminus’ dusty train platform. As they left the aging station, she glanced at her gold, diamond encrusted watch. It was ten past nine. Ah well. Her pace slowed, as her fingers caressed the palm of Michael’s hand. She passed the dirty blue cabs lined up at taxi rank and stepped from the forecourt into a muggy, polluted morning. Suburbia surged from the over ground trains into the claustrophobic high-rise forest, chasing after overcrowded busses, squeezing into packed trams and pouring onto cramped underground trains.

This was ridiculous. It was nonsense. It was a pointless, unending, relentless march to the far reaches of nowhere. It was too much. She hated the stinking city. She loathed the rat race it created. And she quite simply could not face one more day in the office, her overflowing in-tray, the gossiping girls, the loathsome I.T. And then there was Nick.

She stood dead still as humanity surged around her.

“I dreamt of a free and better life,” she sang at the top of her voice. Blimey, what a wonderfully warm, soulful singing voice she had. “I saw sunshine on golden rays.”

“To ease her long born strife,” Michael sang, extending his hand to her in a stage pose, “to live joy for all her days.”

“I am your guiding light for I did fight.” She twirled with a man in a pinstriped suit who wore a bowler hat. “I held true so very long.”

“She yearned and then she prayed.” A hundred voices sang to her as he held her aloft. “Her heart and will were strong.”

“I screamed, I yelled, I prayed.” He gently lowered her onto the bonnet of a car, as soaring strings filled the crisp, clean air. “Freedom for all, freedom.”

He span gracefully away as bus conductors, traffic wardens, businessmen, policewomen, builders, doctors, nurses and nuns smiled and danced with Michael and the man in the pinstriped suit.

“She is our guiding light who wills us all to fight,” the cab drivers sang in perfect harmony, huddled together, holding flat caps to their chests. “She’s a leader to believe in.”

Tia leapt to the ground and fell to her knees, her eyes skyward. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Freedom for all, freedom,” she whispered with her hands over her heart.

“Ladies and gentlemen, she is the brightest star in the galaxy today, and, as we are all aware, she rarely grants interviews. That is why, tonight, instead of my usual three guests, I am dedicating my entire show to only her.”

The audience frantically clapped and screamed.

“Yes, indeed, you know it to be true.” The chiselled presenter took in a breath. “My dear ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the enigmatic, the vibrant, the dearly loved, Tia Green.”

She gracefully entered from stage left. The audience were on their feet rapt with delirious abandon. Tia wore a fitted, designer silk blouse; tight blue jeans and brown leather cowboy boots. As she approached the beaming host’s sofa, she tossed her hair, threw a smile and gave her audience a little wave. The cheering reached fever pitch.

Her heart glowed.

~