Winter2021

There are three dead bodies in my house, their blood draining out on my carpet. My family – my wife and two sons – are upstairs cowering in a cupboard. They would have heard three gunshots – loud, piercing, in their home. And they probably thought it was me being shot – three times. They would think it was me because I have never killed anyone before. I have never hit someone before. I have never smacked my children. I have never kicked a dog. I don’t swear and I hate the sight of blood. But not this blood, draining into my carpet.

I yell to my family, “It’s okay, I am okay. Don’t come down.” I don’t want them to see the blood. And I don’t want them to see me. It would frighten them because right now, I am not Miguel. I am Diego and they wouldn’t recognise me.

As a Mexican growing up in Houston, Texas, my late mother always used to say to me, “Vuela Bajo el radar y no te metas en problemas.” Which translates to, “Fly under the radar and stay out of the trouble.” My mother was a single mother, who raised me by herself after my father, Miguel, died in the crossfire of gang warfare. For me, my name is something that defines who I am, Miguel, and it reminds me every day to make my father proud. I wish he could see me now. Beautiful wife, innocent children, and a warm roof over our heads.

Racial profiling is nothing new to any Mexican who has ever lived in the USA. Wherever I go, I’m stared at and treated differently for the brownness of my skin and the foreignness of my accent. They stereotype me into the thugs from Mexico City. The brute bullies that prioritise the organisation of their drug cartels over kissing their children goodnight – trust me, I am not like them.

They kept calling me by a different name. They said, “We know it is you. You are Diego. You are the Snake Oil Salesman.”
And I kept saying, “No, I am Miguel, the computer salesman.”

“Where are our drugs?” they would say.
And I would respond, “What drugs? I sell computers.”
They laughed and said, “We understand, there could be bugs in your home. Someone listening in, eh? You know how to get hold of us. We will give you until Friday.”

‘But I am not Diego.’

‘But you are.’

I hopped in my 1994 grey Ford Contour and began driving for the nearest supermarket. Driving past the iconic white picket fences separated by beige driveways, they looked at me. Spying. As the traffic light turned red, they walked towards my car. “Where are your drugs!?” they yelled. But I have no drugs. “Oi, Diego! I heard you killed both Beroni brothers with your bare hands,” bellowed one of the blokes, with biceps making his shirt seem three sizes too small. But I don’t know who the Beroni brothers are. The light turns green.

It’s a Friday night, which means I need to buy ingredients to make my family’s favourite ‘Chiles en Nogada’. It’s a traditional Mexican dish, but with my own family’s twist – the walnuts in aisle 4. About five steps into the aisle, I notice three big men, all dressed in black, walk towards me. Staying true to my mother’s mantra, I turn around. I’ll get my walnuts somewhere else I thought. “Oi, Diego. Get ya brown skin back here!” Not this again. My walk towards the exit turns into a brisk walk, which transitions into a light jog and before I know it, I’m sprinting for my car. Keys in the ignition, foot on the clutch and I’m about to drive away.

“No exit.”

Although I’m in possible danger, I didn’t see the need to break the road rules. So I turn around and drive calmly to the other end of the car park to exit. The three men, all seated in the front row of their 2004 Hummer HV, stare at me through their tinted windows as they block the exit. The biggest of the three men rolled down the driver’s window and thundered, “We know you have the drugs, Diego. Pickup at ya house tonight or we’ll rat ya to the pigs.”

“I’m Miguel. I’m a computer salesman,” but before I had finished talking, they had already driven off.

Do I tell my wife? No, she’s too white to understand.

Should I tell the police? No, I’m too brown for them to listen.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had no options. Through no fault of my own I had been placed in this violently dangerous predicament. “Maybe I should be who they say I am”, I thought. The Diego alter–ego had been pushed on me, and I felt like I had no other option.

That night, after my family had gone to sleep, I went through my father’s old clothes and belongings, and found his old handgun. My dirty hands wrapped around the trigger felt so unnatural to me – but I had no choice.

10:37. The 2004 Hummer pulls up at my door, lights on, and the men still all in black. They storm towards my door, and I begin to panic. I’m flustered. I’m Miguel.

One of the guys opens the door, “Diego, where’s ya misses?”

“I’m not Diego.”

“Diego, brother, we were hoping we could force some happiness on your wife in return of your lovely exchange tonight.”

I’m Miguel –  a family man, first and foremost. Diego is left with no choice. I reached into my pocket. Bang. One dead. ‘WHAT? DIEG-’ Bang. Two dead. The third guy begins his bolt out of the front door. Bang. Back of the head. Three dead. Lying at my feet – Diego’s feet.

What have I done? Does this mean they win? Does this mean I am like everyone else? Does this mean I am Diego? No, I’m Miguel; right?

My hands are shaking, and I call the police and tell them three people have died in my house.

They ask, “Sir, who’s calling?”

From above, Edinburgh was merely a monotone mass of snake-like streets melting and moulding into start-ends and end-starts of undecipherable chaos. A system slowly but surely tending toward disorder and chaos. And yet, most of those in the city were oblivious to the inner-workings of the system – its state of present a result of the past and cause of the future. At least, that’s how some saw it.

Somewhere in the heart of the chaos was a dainty little coffee house on the corner of a dainty little street that once passed, you would forget the name of immediately. That coffee house had always seemed to Blair as being both there and not there – in a state of superposition – until abruptly, she would turn a corner and it would present itself to her out of the rank mixture of sordid cigarette smoke and morning mist that permeated the lungs of the city.

She would step decisively up the creaky staircase – taking in the woody scent of mahogany blended with the rich aroma of coffee – to the second floor from which she could glimpse the expanse of the city. As always, she would sit at the same round table that had the slightest of tilts so that when she placed her daily cup of tea on its smooth surface, the tea would sit lopsided in its cup. Blair always wondered if it was the cup or the tea that was lopsided. She guessed it would depend on whether you asked the cup or the tea – the tea would argue extensively, “I am most obviously not the lopsided one; I always sit parallel to the earth because of fundamental truths such as gravity and my state as a liquid.” And the cup would argue back, “But how can I be lopsided if I sit flush to the table? For all intents and purposes, it is the only thing that’s real to us, because it is what we both sit on.” And Blair would elicit the minutest of giggles because no matter whether the cup thought the tea was askew or the tea thought the cup was crooked, the tea would taste the same.

She’d pour a drop of milk in her tea, watching as it exploded in a milky-malty array of chaos and beauty. The milk’s white tentacles would reach down, down, deep into the depths of the tea but would inevitably slow their descent and freeze in the brown liquid like insects entrapped in amber, catching the morning light and sending it swirling to conjure an image of suggested life. And then, with one sharp, calculated stroke through the mixture with a brushed-silver teaspoon, the frozen fractal of milk would splinter in a kaleidoscope of shades of milky-white and malt-brown, infused with more gnarled chaos, becoming and unbecoming, until each molecule of milk and tea would lose that small amount of kinetic energy it possessed, once again stilled.

What would lie in the cup at this point, anyone could predict. A near-homogenous mixture of milk tentacles and malty tea globules coalesced in an almost-opaque image. But Blair knew that the closer she looked, the more unpredictable the image became – no number of logistic-differential-calculations of Newtonian certainty could ever predict the position of any one milk tentacle or tea drop. No mathematician could ever shout “QED!” because the closer they looked, the more chaotic a seemingly unchaotic image would become.

And no matter how hard Blair tried to replicate the sharp movement of the teaspoon each time she sat down to have tea, the infinitesimally minute variabilities in her first stroke would set the tea exploding, swirling and churning in a completely new unpredictable pattern of disorder – a gorgeous, grandiose supernova that was only present for that fleeting moment in time, because when she stirred her tea the next day, she would experience an altogether different explosion of milk-tea and tea-milk, folding into itself in new a chaos-pattern.

More interesting still, when she made the same movement of the teaspoon through the tea, with accurately replicated sharpness, but in the opposite direction, the milk would not coalesce back together into its original state of order. She’d note with fascination that the opposite movement would not undo the chaotic result of the first stroke, that it wouldn’t wrench back the milk’s tentacles to their original state. Like all else, she observed, its small system of order would be jerked uncontrollably by some strange, invisible force into disorder and chaos. Unequivocally beautiful.

She sat there on that morning of nineteen-seventy-something, back arched, sipping on her storm in a teacup. As always, she would note with a slight frown and crinkle of her forehead that she didn’t particularly like the taste of tea. The corners of her mouth peaked into a smile, realising the absurdity of it all.

Placing her cup down with the faint clink of expensive china, she flicked her hazel-brown eyes to look out of the window within touching distance of her rickety, round table. In fact, it would be a disservice to call it a window, it was one colossal pane of glass, stretching right round the side of the coffee house, wrapping it like a large, transparent ribbon. Its surface melted and moulded, flowed and folded in on itself – the disturbed surface of a lake, warping into self-reflexivity. And Blair would just sit. And watch. Pigeons flying unpredictably, their wings beating, sending the smouldering, suffocating cigarette smoke around them swirling in chaos-patterns. People walking, their boots making dull, wet thuds sapped of any resounding volume – evidence of greasy cobblestones made tar-black by age and filth and neglect. Through the dripping glass of the window, everything was ever so slightly distorted as light refracted in on itself; Blair could never be sure that what she saw was truly what lay beyond that glass. She heard the faint utterings of small talk outside on the street corner…

“Goin’ to be a cold one today, weathermen are saying 5.00°C.”

Blair scoffed. “How self-glorified those forecasters were with their insurance of 100% rain and 0% error. Out of pure spite, the weather would soon bring something utterly unpredictable.”

“Why would anyone ever want to be Newtonian like those weathermen, anyway?” Blair deliberated. “If only they saw truth for what it – truly – was, a swirling, spinning, seething storm in a teacup that, without a doubt, tasted different to everyone.”

Goohle Inc. Customer Number 18342543U8F Customer Profile|correct as at 2021-05-20.

Certain specific personal details from this profile report have been redacted.

You gave several pieces of information upon your registration. Your name is Jack Bramolgen. You are male. Your mobile phone number is +61 476323458. From this phone number we can tell you live in Australia. You registered your birthdate as the 2006-10-23. Hence, we can tell you are 15 years old, therefore you are eligible to be one of our customers. You became one of our customers via your iPhone 12 Pro. You have no credit card or [name of money transferring service] account registered, hence we have deduced that you have no income of your own and therefore are a member of, at the very least, an upper middle class family.

This deduction was confirmed when you gave us access to your location, almost immediately after you registered. From the amount of time you spent at 73 Pembrush Parade in a certain upscale suburban area, we deduced that this was your home address. You also spend a lot of time at a private single-sex secondary education institution in a neighbouring suburban area, hence we deduced that this is where you attend school.

A few days after you became one of our customers, you downloaded our photo storage app that requires camera and microphone access to be granted. Naturally you accepted these, which allowed us to listen to you. We heard you talking to an individual who we assume to be a friend of yours, about how you needed a new pair of football boots. We then proceeded to show you ads on our browser.

You also used our news sorting service. You seem to read many stories about transgendered people, in particular opinion pieces on these individuals. We assumed that you were embarrassed by this, as you have deleted the notifications pertaining to this topic. We also heard conversations between you and you friends on this subject, where phrases such as ‘your gender isn’t a choice’ were said. However, more stories were recommended to you on this topic, as it afforded us a considerable amount of advertising revenue.

Apart from this, it did not appear that you had anything to hide from any of your school peers, or your family for that matter, at least not in terms of family; it appears you live with both your mother and father who are married and happen to be customers of ours. We frequently hear the phrase ‘Can I please have a turn on your phone?’ in a high-pitched voice; it would therefore appear that you have a younger sibling, presumably a sister.

The slightly mundane nature of what we know about you changed about three months after you became one of our customers. You entered a relationship with a member of the opposite sex; this became obvious with the number of photos you took together, as well as the conversations you had. She also happens to be one of our customers (Customer No. 24578925DJK). After approximately two months in this relationship, you shared intimate images with this young woman. After doing this our records show that you immediately deleted these images from your phone; however, customer 24578925DJK did not delete the images from her phone.

Approximately five months later, the relationship ended. We had no direct evidence of this; however you have had no interactions with Customer 24578925DJK for a sustained period of time. Further, she appeared to be spending more time with one of our male customers than she did with you. Our suspicions were confirmed when we heard you cursing both Customer 24578925DJK and her new partner. This relationship appeared to significantly affect your mental health as you accessed multiple mental health charity websites. This episode did, however, give us further opportunity to target advertisements to you.

Just as you seemed to be recovering from this episode, Customer 24578925DJK’s new partner found the intimate images that you sent her, and without any communication to you, proceeded to send these images to a large number of students in your grade at your school. They did so via the aforementioned photo storage service that we own and operate.

After this event, you logged out of all of our services for a two week period. However, we registered an increase in customer numbers in your area after the images of you were shared.

Customers are encouraged to check their privacy preferences to ensure that your privacy concerns are addressed. We appreciate your continuing use of our services. We take the privacy of our customers very seriously at Goohle.

A suffocating fog had descended upon Angel’s Grace. The motel, usually bright with chatter and activity, lay dormant, enveloped in thick clouds of water vapour and suffering a perpetual drizzle. In typical Louisianan fashion, the exposed brick walls and wide-hipped roofs lent a homely air to the building, inviting weary drivers in from the road with the promise of rest. A flickering neon sign hung precariously above the entranceway, sporting in large blue letters the words: Come, one and all. God welcomes you!

The low hum of an engine filled the night as a 2004 Honda Civic slid into view, scattering puddles off the highway tarmac. Powerful headlights bore through hazy air, illuminating the building as the sleek vehicle slid into the parking lot. Car doors swung open to reveal two dark figures, stumbling towards the motel door and clinging to thick coats. The shorter man knocked – once, twice, three times – then turned to his companion, shivering in the dark.

“Surely, this time?” he muttered.

“Let’s hope so,” replied the other.

Inside they were met by a large, portly man, who beamed at them through a handsome white moustache.

“Ah – we have guests! Come in, come in,” he beckoned.

The pair stepped into the warmly lit foyer, revealing bearded, olive-skinned faces and charcoal hair. Taking a look around, the men sighed with relief. A warm fire blazed beside enormous armchairs, and a few people sat eating at small oak tables. The innkeeper ducked behind the bar, then turned with a welcoming smile.

“My name is Terrence, and this here is my wife, Jenny.” He gestured to the matronly woman behind the counter. “This is our place. By the love of God, we welcome you to Angel’s Grace!”

Grinning broadly, the taller man reached out and shook Terrence’s hand. “It’s been a long day, my friend. Any chance of a bed and a meal? We can pay.”

“Of course, of course!” replied Terrence. “Separate rooms, I presume? That will be $50 each – ”

“Actually, we’d prefer a single room,” interjected the shorter man. Terrence paused and looked up. He glanced at his wife, who shot him a momentary, but distinguishable, frown.

“What did you say your relationship was again?” he inquired. His tone, previously warm and welcoming, hardened ever-so-slightly, and the twinkle in his eyes had retreated.

“Brothers,” replied the taller newcomer.

“Ah, wonderful!” beamed Terrence and, as though nothing had happened, pulled out his logbook and began writing.

While he was occupied, Jenny sidled over. “What would you boys like for dinner? Sausages, steak? Beer or spirits, perhaps?

“Oh, no thanks; we don’t eat those kinds of foods,” replied the smaller man. “Do you have fish?”

“Well, um, I suppose so, yes,” stammered the hostess, taken aback. “Can’t say I’ve ever had someone refuse a steak on a night like this, but I suppose we may have some salmon in the freezer…” She bustled off.

Terrence finished writing and looked up. “One bedroom for the night, with breakfast? That’s $65. What names can I put you under?”

“I’m Imad, and this is Hasif,” replied the larger man, gesturing to his companion.

“Imad and Hasif, hey? I’ve got to say, haven’t heard those ones before…” Terrence winked at them knowingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t spill. You can keep your real names to yourselves, if you like.”

Hasif turned to Imad, a question forming on his lips – but the taller man smiled sadly and shook his head.

“Here’s your room key. You’ll find your pillows on the mattresses and Bibles by your bedsides. Sleep well and pray that in your dreams you shall be met with the Lord’s divine love.” Terrence turned around and made to leave the counter.

“Sorry, Terrence, but there is one more thing,” Hasif blurted out.

“Anything, anything at all,” the innkeeper replied.

Hasif continued, “Is there space in the room to pray? We haven’t completed our Isha obligations, and now is the perfect time.”

Terrence froze. After a long pause, he said, very slowly, “I’m sorry, I must have misheard … Did you say ‘pray’? It’s not a Sunday, so why would you…” he trailed off, his face paling.

“Well, we’re Muslim,” Hasif responded. “We pray to Allah five times a day, and we are overdue for our evening worship.”

For a long time, Terrence did not move. He simply stood there, mouth agape, staring at the two middle-eastern men before him. It seemed as though he wanted to say something; but every time he tried, he made small choking noises like some dying animal, and abruptly shut his mouth. Eventually, he spun around, strode towards the door behind the bar, and slammed it shut behind him.

Hasif looked at his brother. “You don’t think…?”

Imad said nothing, his wringing hands telling Hasif everything he needed to know.

“Gentlemen!” Terrence reappeared behind the counter, this time with Jenny. The American’s glare was cold and detached, and his wife stood behind him, shielding herself behind his large frame. He was brandishing a rolling pin in one hand and pointed a large, sausage-like finger straight at Hasif. “I must ask you to kindly leave.”

Hasif threw up his hands, protesting, “But…we didn’t do anything!”

“I don’t care,” Terrence said, contempt seeping from his words. “I know what your religion does, what you people do!” His voice rose as his face turned an ugly red. “We don’t want you child-killing women-hating bomb-loving Muslims in our house! Take your demons away from here! AWAY!”

Hasif and Imad retreated with shouts, hands in the air.

“Okay, okay,” pleaded Imad. “Put the weapon down – we’ll leave.”

“You bet you will, cowards!” roared Terrence, triumphantly.

The brothers dashed out, flinging open the car doors and diving inside. With the screech of rubber on tarmac, they sped off. Breathing heavily, Hasif turned to Imad from the passenger’s seat.

“What did we expect? Inshallah, we will someday find a place that truly deserves God’s grace.”

My mother knelt on the floor in a dishevelled heap, choking on grief as she mumbled in incoherent sounds. To commemorate my father, Hank Williams, she had created a shrine inside the bookshelf, a portrait of him surrounded by books, flowers, and peculiar gems. His glaring eyes watched over the entire living room. Although the supposed ‘accident’ had happened two years ago, she still rarely smiled, instead hangs her head low, mourning his supposed ‘death’. Standing across the room, I avoided eye contact with the depressing shelves in the kitchen as I disposed of another postcard from Hank in Hawaii that arrived in this morning’s post.

I spat in his face and yelled, “GET OUT! Get out, you disgraceful old man! And don’t ever come near this house again”.

At least, that’s what I should have done as he’d run away. But my spineless body wouldn’t remotely articulate something so aggressively rude to his domineering stature. Instead, I stood frozen at the front door, watching him drive away after saying he had ‘fallen for the woman of his dreams’. That putrid adulterer running off to Arkansas, or Ohio or wherever people like him go. As if my mother’s love wasn’t enough for his insatiable narcissism. My face contorted with the thought of my mother blaming herself for Hank’s disappearance. To save my mother from suffering such a cruel heartbreak, I decided it would be better to tell her of his untimely death. I spent the next few years discarding any and all messages sent to me to ‘stay in touch’, a selfish thing to say after walking out on us.

Although trying my best to avoid touching, looking, smelling or generally going anywhere near the bookshelf, it became increasingly harder to ignore the shrine’s gradual growth. A cluster of bizarre gems littered the shelves, along with vibrant crystals and various small herbal bags with stitched writing on them (each reading a different charm; good luck, peace, hope). A cheap glare radiated off the accessories, revealing many of their smooth and plastic textures. The glare illuminated the price tag left on an emerald, green crystal; the hieroglyphic figures vaguely read the sacred price of $99.99, numbers used by swindlers, hoodwinkers and grocers. An exorbitant price for (on closer inspection) a common rock, no more significant than my middle finger.

“Hey, Mum, what’s with all these hippie decorations?”

“Well, my psychic was telling me about positive energies that communicate through your brainwaves. These ‘decorations’ are helping to balance my chakra and better connect with the spiritual plane.”

A confusing answer was shortly accompanied by a lecture on herbal remedies, clairvoyance, and communication beyond the grave. And how my birth, because of its correlation to stars, is directly responsible for my own personality. I told her how ludicrous that sounded and my scepticism for this ‘psychic’. She ignored me, explaining how all Sagittarius are like that.

“You spoke… to Dad?”

“Not directly, it was through Mistress Sylvia DuVal. Her natural ability,” (unlikely) “to communicate with the dead. I know it may sound unbelievable, but she could tell me intimate details only he would know”. (Expertly crafted lies, by a heartless Charlatan.)

Although fascinating, I naturally – couldn’t help but search through the trash, finding her spending record for the card. Clear as the insanity dormant in my mum, the bill read $22,000, a tremendous loss. Spent on anything from chains, rocks and amulets, to curse removal therapy and tarot readings.

“How could you spend this much money? On something that’s not even real!”

“You wouldn’t understand. She’s helping us overcome this struggle of grief. Mistress DuVal is helping us lift the curse placed on us since your father’s passing.”

The superstition of ‘curses’, echoed through my ears, tensing every muscle in my body as I tried not to grind my teeth too loud. The charlatanic nature of this con-artist had preyed upon my mum, feasting upon her cold hard cash, like a vulture first to a carcass.

“Just try her once, if you’re so sceptical. Come to tomorrow’s reading. Apparently, my Venus is in Scorpio.”

It was inevitable that I would meet her if I wanted any chance for these bills to stop coming. Her den was tucked away behind a local pizza joint, and although entirely overshadowed, in looks, smell, and taste by their rival neighbours, her bright fluorescent sign could catch even the blind’s attention. The inside was tackier than I could have ever imagined, the most stereotypical furniture a psychic could have. She had plenty of leopard print rugs haphazardly placed, a lion’s buffet taxidermized as décor. Artifacts from different cultures were strewn across the wall along with posters of psychic abilities to fully endorse her supernatural power and an actual crystal ball displayed on the table. The invasive decorations weren’t the only notable aspect; hordes of intoxicating candles consumed her lair with concussion-induced scents. Seated at the table currently was the newest victim, an elderly woman getting a clairvoyant reading from cards.

“As you can see here, this means you’ll have a long and prosperous life. If you continue down the path, you’re heading… Now, will that be cash or credit?” She was dressed in an over-the-top headdress that screamed overcompensating, as well as a long cloak enshrined in shiny and glittery jewels.

“Oh my, it is excellent to finally meet you,” she purred. Although her voice was gravely from decades of smoking, she still spoke with a soft and calming tone that would falsely put you at ease. Her bony fingers clenched mine, digging deep into the skin, while her frozen touch nullified any feeling in my hands. Immediately after taking a seat, a brochure appeared in my hand, containing the various ‘packages’ her service offers.

“Have you come for your fortune to be revealed? Exorcism? Possibly help with a lady friend?”

Starting with an entrée of palm readings, I sat quietly containing my internal frustration. The gibberish dribbling out of her jaw enticed my mum to the edge of her seat. I sat comfortably back, counting the figure print marks on the crystal ball and the number of self-portraits on the walls.

The arrival of the main course, ‘communication from beyond the grave’, so to speak, was a spectacle that instigated a red hot fury in me. DuVal’s performance heavily incorporated hand gestures, motioning them to swim through the sea of spirits around her. How Hank got from his vacation in Hawaii to the astral plane, is a mystery in itself. The only certainty was her experience in improvisation and exploitation. She made vague statements and loose connections to insult my intelligence, and one phrase, in particular, made a vein burst.

“…Your father tells me… That he loves you. Wishing he told that to you more often before the accident. And that…”

He left of his own free will, and his pathetic attempts at contact were more out of obligation than love. The rage that had been boiling inside, culminated into this singular moment; I would not let this narcissistic witch continue. At that moment I thought I would explode; however, just as I took a deep breath, I looked over to my mum. She sat there completely immersed in the experience, with a grin ear to ear, a smile filled with hope and wonder. An expression I had forgotten she had. I was too engrossed burying emotions under rage and pessimism, that I had left her dealing with grief where she resorted to a vulture for closure rather than her son. Afterward, I met her outside, and as soon as the fresh air was breathable again, I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her in close. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone, I should have been a better support to you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dear, I know that grief can make people want to be alone.”

“It won’t happen again, you don’t need to rely on some money-grubbing psychic, to support you. I’m here.”

Sunlight shines through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the boardroom, lighting up the motes of dust lazily making their way down to the suits surrounding the table. The door swings silently on well-oiled hinges as I stride into the room. A few men look up from their phones before quickly dismissing my presence. I do work here after all. Well, in a way.

The severed finger makes a wet thump upon hitting the mahogany table. Judas, my employer, takes note of it with the briefest flick of the eye before turning back to his budgeting discussion. I glance around the room, taking in the scent of gluttony oozing off the killers around me. Not killers in a direct sense, that’s what I’m here for, but they have certainly sent many asunder before their time. Nothing personal of course, all just a matter of business.

Judas wraps up his discussion with a curt gesture, taking a closer look at the bloodied finger.

“Ah thank you kindly, Adam. Your payment will arrive shortly.”

“Thank you.”

“Your next job is again rather standard. Kill the target, finger for confirmation.”

He slides a card over towards me, carefully avoiding the finger.

Name: Isaac Morales
Son of Abraham Morales
Heir to the Morales Crime syndicate.
Distinguishing features:

Dark Black Hair
Blue Eyes
Moon-shaped birth mark on neck.
Young.

“That’s it? No photo?”

“Hmm? Well, we couldn’t manage to snap one,” Judas acknowledges with a cavalier shrug.

“If it ends up being the wrong person,” he says with a wink, “You can always just try again.”

“Understood.”

***

The wind meanders across the compound, whispering from door to door. It finds its way down the stairs sending leaves into dizzying spirals. Once down the stairs, it lengthens its stride, galloping across the courtyard and whips the grass into bedlam. It presses against the wall surrounding the compound, searching for a way out. It eases past the man guarding the small entrance, hidden away in the corner of the compound, before slipping under the door. Once out, it finds another man quietly pressed against the wood. Listening.

The arctic-like breeze pries at my clothing, trying to get its icy fingers closer to my skin. I huddle against the door scarcely breathing, my ears primed for the tell-tale signs of a guard deciding to have a quick peek outside.

The heavens are perfectly clear, amplifying the sharp piercing cold that bites at my exposed skin. Thousands of stars shine above like twinkling eyes looking down with cold indifference. Is God up there too I wonder, watching, passing judgement upon my soul?

The guard shoulders his rifle and stifles a yawn. Dirt crunches as he shifts his weight from right foot to left, leaning towards the door handle.

I hurry backwards into a crouch, blade at the ready.

The guard eases the door open, unaware that the reaper has begun to delicately wrap its fingers around his heart. His head leans forward a few inches, taking in his surroundings through a fog of fatigue.

Cold steel meets flesh, the Reaper clenches its fist.

Wraith-like, I slip through the door.

One dead.

I figure that on this particular job only three need to die, four including the target. One at the entrance, one at the stairwell and one inside the room. Oh, and of course Isaac himself. I don’t know why I try to minimize the deaths; my employer certainly doesn’t care if I over-indulge. Besides, even a single murder will result in eternal damnation. I guess I just like to tell myself I have some semblance of morality despite my profession. Maybe God will look kindly upon my poor wretched soul when he realises that I at least tried to be righteous in a way.

I move deftly across the grass courtyard, stealthy footprints marking a trail in the dew. I arrive at the stairs, a silent breath of wind. Slowly, carefully, I ease a single foot on to the first step. I’m careful to place my foot to the side of the step, the centre always creaks you see. One step after another I delicately make my way upwards. The fool of a guard is facing away from the steps out towards the balcony, as if something is going to fly in from there. The Reaper quietly chuckles as I nonchalantly make my way towards the man’s back.

Two dead.

I wipe my blade on the body before approaching my target’s door. Quite frankly this has gone smoother than expected. I press my ear against the wood once again and listen. The room is occupied. I slowly draw in a breath and hold it. I let the vibrations emanating from the door pulse through me, the only interfering sound the beating of my heart…

…one individual…

…near the door, breathing calm…

…a sound further back…

…a childish giggle…

Wait. A giggle?

I place my hand on the door handle, cold steel biting into my skin. I apply a slight pressure, it’s not locked. Strange…

I whip the door open, knife flashing out blindly towards where I think someone is standing. The blade sinks into something soft with a wet thud. Guess I heard correctly. In one motion I open the door the rest of the way and step forward to guide my victim soundlessly to the ground. The carpet is soft to the touch. At least he can bleed out on something comfortable. No… she. The person I’ve just struck doesn’t even look like a guard, dressed in loose comfortable clothing.

The Reaper goes about its business, more slowly this time…

Three dead.

I stand up confused. This is the room, yet aside from the woman lying on the floor I can’t see anyone else.

Where the hell is Isaac Morales?

There’s a cot near the back of the room. I hear a rustling emanating from within. The source of the giggle? I approach the cot on lithe feet, a knot forming at the back of my throat. I peer downwards.

… the Reaper falls silent…

The child looks up at me, his innocent blue eyes lock onto my own. He reaches out towards me with a giggling curiosity. I reach forward and he wraps a cubby little fist around my index finger, completely enthralled. I softly run my hand through his dark black locks. With utmost care, I push the child’s head to the side and gaze upon his delicate little throat. Bile burns its way up my neck. I begin to shudder. For there, upon the angel-soft skin of the child’s neck, lies a small crescent moon.

Jerusalem: the holy city, near the birthplace of Christ and conflict, became a battlefield once more. Night fell over the holy land – but not darkness. An incessant orange haze engulfed the nighttime as buildings set ablaze provided a constant flare illuminating the chaos for all to see. The smoke continued to billow from the rooftops of so many buildings hit by so-called ‘defensive’ airstrikes. And a thick, black dust cloud formed from the countless plumes of smoke scattered across the city and filled the air with its toxic stench. Under one such smokestack walked Evner and his team. The six men were armed head to toe with military equipment: gas masks, body armour, helmets and their US supplied Browning machine guns and M-1 rifles.

The men rounded the corner of a derelict and destroyed street. That was when the first shot fired. “Get to cover!” commanded Evner as he dived behind the nearest pillar in sight. The gunfire intensified as the men scrambled for something, anything to shield them from this wall of lead. Evner and his men immediately returned fire at the unidentified combatants with a hailstorm of machine gun rounds.

The firefight raged on before he heard the dreaded word bellowed by a member of his team: “GRENADE!” His vision was filled by a deep, seemingly endless void of darkness. To the best of his understandably shaky recollection the following series of events went something like this:

Evner awoke dazed and confused in a dark, candlelit room. He slowly took to his feet but as he did, he heard quiet Arabian voices, from an adjacent room. Instinctively he reached for his rifle but found it missing. The voices grew louder and louder before finally the door to Evner’s room burst open revealing two men, or rather a man and a child. Feeling defenseless and naked, Evner reached for his only remaining weapon, a grenade. The man, on seeing Evner’s hands, immediately put his own in the air.

“If I don’t go home, you don’t go home!” exclaimed Evner in desperation. To his surprise the man couldn’t have been calmer in his response as he pointed to his chest and head. Evner looked down to discover the source of his intrigue only to reveal several blood-soaked bandages covering his wounded torso. “We are here to help you my friend,” stated the Muslim man calmly, “you got hit pretty badly by a grenade, so why don’t you go ahead and put that one down?” Evner slowly lowered the grenade onto his belt as he saw that this mystery man was not in fact armed.

“Please, have a seat my friend, you’re still very weak,” said the old man with his son trailing behind.

“Why are you helping me?” asked Evner in a quizzically cautious tone.

“I am a physician; it’s my job.”

“B-but, I’m a Jew and you – you’re a Muslim.”

“An acute observation, my friend, but you and I, we’re not enemies. We are two people who happen to find ourselves disagreeing on a simple matter of geography.” The man had amazing calm and trust in his voice that brought a sense of relaxation to the whole room.

“That’s one way of putting it. Last I was told our people were at war.”

“No, my friend, this is not war. War has an end, this does not. You are fighting for your cause and I for mine – the love of humanity.”

Evner contemplated his response. “You know, history is full of wars, fought for a hundred different reasons, but this war – our war – I want to believe… I have to believe that it is all worthwhile because our cause is just.”

Without skipping a beat, the man replied, “and is it?”

The right words seemed to elude Evner as he stared into the bright, orange light of the candle and made eye contact with the young boy sitting opposite.

“Where are my manners?” said the man breaking the silence, “My name is Aaban, and this is my son Fareed.”

“Evner,” he replied as he shook Aaban’s hand.

“You got a family?” asked Aaban.

Evner looked away, unable to maintain eye contact. “My father had a job in Poland before the war, so I traveled there with my mother and two sisters. When Hitler swept through all we could do was run.” A solitary tear graced Evner’s cheek as he continued, “I think about them every day, being dragged away by those Nazi pigs as I hid in a cupboard and watched … I later found out they were taken to Treblinka and well…” he trailed off.

“I’m truly sorry to hear that Evner.” Strange enough this comment was coming from an Arab, but even stranger was that Evner believed him.

“I was also in Europe during the war – I worked, voluntarily as a medic,” Aaban reflected. “There I discovered the worst part about treating those boys, was not that they had their flesh torn, but that they had their souls torn out.”

A deafening silence filled the room. Evner’s eye once again caught the young boy’s and he saw that the boy was paper-thin. Evner reached into his pocket, pulled out his chocolate rations and handed it to the boy as he beamed back at him, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Evner with a smile.

Just as Evner found some peace in the world, it was disturbed by the sound of hurried footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Quick, get under the floor-boards,” whispered Aaban. Evner obeyed without hesitation, attempting to silently hide under the creaky wooden floor.

Two heavily armed men, stormed into the room with PLO branded across their chest.

“Where is he?” the men demanded to the horror of Aaban and his son.

“I’ve no idea what you are talking about,” lied Aaban as his son began to weep. The men searched the room violently and returned to Aaban, proudly brandishing a bloody cloth and an Israeli army jacket. This time words failed Aaban. The men pointed their rifles directly at the pair as Aaban pleaded for his son’s life. “Housing Israelis, hah?” shouted one of the men. Before Evner could hear a response a far worse sound engulfed the room: bang, bang.

The floorboards above him began to darken in colour as the blood of his protectors seeped through the cracks onto his shaking face – a pool of blood, sweat and tears formed. Helplessness, shame, despair – emotions all too common for Evner. Violence seemed to follow Evner; there was no escape, no relief from its perpetual grasp.

The cold January sun emerges from the horizon, and I can hear the click-clack of my steel boots on the clear stone pavement. I haven’t worn them in a while, so my legs are already sore. Walking up Pennsylvania Avenue, I can just see the spire of the US Capitol poking out from above the landscape.

It is a special day today. The election results are being ratified, meaning they’ve called me in for heightened security. I haven’t worked here for several years now, but the memories come flooding back as I enter through the metal detectors, greet my old buddies at the gate, and walk up the steep stone steps.

Taking my old spot in front of the glossy wooden doors that precede the Senate floor, I greet each man and woman who walks through. At first, I was nervous greeting each Senator, but now it’s a past reminiscence. I still recognise a few of the more matured faces as they walk through, and, as the last one enters, I swing the doors closed. There’s a raised level of commotion within the floor, which I only assume to be because of the election certification. A telly greets me in the hall, one of those 50-inch 4K screens. There’s no sound, so I am not subject to the Trump ramble that is displayed, but I can tell the rally is only a few miles from here.

After November, especially where I live, there had been a continuous vomit of propaganda about the so-called ‘steal’. I can see Trump’s mouth moving like a motorboat, and the subtitles underneath his greasy orange mug say it all:

“Go fine people and stop the steal! They are taking away our victory, and we are doing nothing to stop it!”

The rumbling continues louder this time, and an emergency message flashes simultaneously across all the screens opposite me:

WARNING: INVASION IMMINENT

Hundreds of thoughts rush through my head. What could it possibly be? Has a civil war erupted, or has Kim Jong-un finally pressed the nuclear button?

The rumbling is just getting louder and louder, and I still have no idea what is going on.

Abruptly, the rumbling goes quiet. Then, like it was a pause for dramatic effect, a thunderous crash reverberates through the building. Men and women clad in viking-esque clothing stumble through the wide wooden doors and from my position I can see the outside steps. It is pure chaos.

Trump 2020 flags and, amazingly, Confederate flags are being flown all around the grounds by these quasi-barbarians, and the Capitol police can do nothing but watch aghast as they are overpowered by the sheer force of the invaders. Most of the ‘army’, if you will, are not armed but there are a select few carrying weapons I’d only seen in my advanced-grade military training. Chants of ‘Stop the Steal’ and ‘Pence is Dead’ echo around the building, and I can still picture in my mind the guillotine that hangs outside with the words: ‘For Pence’ painted on the side. At that point it took everything not be physically sick.

Suddenly it dawned on me. Vice-President Pence, who was confirming the election results as we speak, was behind the very door that I was guarding. The stairs to my left were almost directly opposite the entrance, and so I knew it was only a matter of minutes until they found me. I had to act fast.

One of the invaders managed to make their way up the stairs, so I quickly undid my belt and started swinging it around my head like a snake, hoping he’d get the message. He starts hollering to the rest of the crowd, knowing that if I was there something important was behind me. Knowing this, I quickly moved to the right. Just as planned, the crowd that emerged behind followed me through the passageway to another corridor, away from any danger. At that moment, I break into full stride to escape the clutches of the crowd and manage to dip into a small room as the barrage passes through. My heart is beating out of my chest.

I know my situation is perilous and if I stay here any longer, I will be in grave danger. Waiting for the stampede to end, I emerge from my hiding spot. I look left down the hall and manage to catch a glimpse of the group returning from where they came. I start running in the opposite direction, and scramble down another long hall. There’s another man in the distance running towards me, and my heart is in my mouth as we get closer to each other. I am praying that it is another security guard, but as I get closer, I see he’s dressed in a suit.

It’s Senator Romney! My prayers have been answered, but the job is not over yet. I start yelling and pointing in the other direction, but he seems as unsure as I am as what is happening. I grab his jacket while we pass each other, ripping the entire left side. At this moment it seems to be the last thing that matters. Thankfully, he seems to get the message as I am too tired at this point to muster any conversation. We both scramble back in the opposite direction and manage to find an escape route that takes us between two kitchens, a few offices and past a balcony.

Finding a supply closet, we both clamber to lock the door behind us. Sitting down on two overturned buckets, both gasping for air, thinking that this was the last place I’d expected myself to be in this morning.

A letter to the shutter man,
The paid perspective presenter,
The purchased opinion of the people.

So, I’m a monster to you?
You’re not scared?
In a comfortable chair you dream up a line for the paper’s ugly forehead:
‘Tris Hutchins, An Unrestrained Savage.’
Insert the photograph you came right up to my face to take.
Came so close to yank at my words.
“Your statement on recent events Mrs.?!” hit my face, warm breath, spittle and all.
Throw yourself very near a woman you write to be capable of ‘viciously attacking anyone anywhere’
not afraid?

The few words you got your grubby paws on were pulled out too violently to be of any elegance whatsoever, caught me at a time I could’ve kept loose change in the bags under my eyes and was cracking under the incessant interrogations, heated until brittle, well-played.
Although I know the time you took, working your every waking hour to drag me into that state was worth half the small fortune he tossed you.

Captured me crying in a sleeping bag,
across the back seats of my defaced 1993 Ford Aspire.
Can’t imagine that ending up on the front of the devil’s rags. Couldn’t let the people develop any sympathy now, could we? No, that one went straight to the man himself, ‘look at her now Gerry, this one’s in the BAG’. Seduced by the chemical smell of your new car, blinded by the glinting refractions of your watch’s crystalline details you see nothing, but a profit curled up in that sleeping bag. I saw such clean, pristine trinkets on a perpetually filthy being, a nauseating contrast.

Your method, so simple, yet so devastating. Build them up, let them snap, break them down. Hate to think of how many people like me you have unwaveringly terminated.
Hate to think of how effortlessly you could be paid to end someone’s career.
Their relations.
Their lives.
Finger always on the trigger of your beady-eyed camera; sees all, but never a full story.

Now I, the profit in the sleeping bag, have a lonely thought drifting around my mind,
Hush money was the better option, Tris, could have bought back the happiness wrenched from your semi-conscious body, could have fixed your broken knuckle.

‘Money can’t buy happiness’. Rubbish! A phrase dispensed by the wealthy to keep the less fortunate content with their meaningless little lives.

It’s only logical that happiness can be bought, and you help make this abundantly clear to me, the only observable facial features left unhidden by your camera as you stalked up to the car window to observe the crying, sleeping-bag woman, was a tear-stained grin.

Your purpose has been fulfilled.
Your target reduced to oblivion and your client satisfied. As always, Gerry’s lamb will be served exactly as he ordered, slow cooked, tender to the point it’s falling apart on its own.
No hopes; I’m dreaming only about what could have been if the attention of a rich man at a pub had never sunken its hooks into me, if instead I was blessed with a poor man, just forced by an Average Joe.

The pathetic cries of a poor criminal with a broken nose could be easily ignored. He may have even been vincible in a court case, because a criminal could not afford the persuasion of the people, a poor man could not afford you, and a life, blissfully unaware of the cunning skid that you are, could have been a life worth living.
But that will forever be nothing more than a dream, as the nose that was broken belongs to the face who could afford to have it showcased to the people as three broken legs, a severed spinal cord and a broken heart.
“Should have given him more than just a broken nose.”
My tongue is swollen and throbbing, punished mercilessly for letting the words be dragged from my lips, ‘He deserved worse than a broken nose’ would have been more suitable. It was a stupid mistake to make and is going to hit like a brick come the court case in a few days. That’s not to say that Gerry’s lawyers don’t have enough to extinguish my allegations already; the man is rich. Nonetheless, it can be guaranteed that it will be the cherry on my allegation’s headstone.

To me, it’s cruel and unfair that after all this torment, after all this anguish,
no heavy stone be dropped,
the suffering will never be stopped.

Regards, your whimpering sack of revenue.

“’And as he falls, he keeps telling himself. So far so good…
So far so good… So far so good. It’s not how you fall that matters. It’s how you land’”

                              Matthieu Kassovitz (La Haine)

The daily commute to work on the crimson bus is a memory wrenching stare into the past.
The man’s iPhone screen repetitively goes blank after minutes.
The cursor line on his unfinished text messages and emails flicker.
Videos play and don’t stop.
The ambience of the air conditioning circulates him but isn’t absorbed by him.
The man observes the drab concentrations of the East London landscape.
Dark corridors hide between the derelict red-brick terrace houses.
All he sees is crime.
Pavement stained with innocent blood.
Innocent in that those young men had it rough in their early years. Innocent they were, struggling to provide for their ill mothers and fathers; doing anything they could to support their alcoholic, drug-ridden and abusive households. Innocent they were, standing behind the wall that obstructed their self-worth, identity and potential.
Yet, all of their innocence sunk ruthlessly into the flesh and bone of other youths on the tip of a blade.
A quick action that spares no time for rational thinking.
A sigh leaves his mouth.
He rests his head on the seat in front and diverts his gaze to his polished black leather shoes and briefcase.
The phone screen goes blank again on his lap.
Ever since the series of events that took place five years ago, he had matured into a man.
He had bettered himself.
He had closed the door on his previous life.

For now, at least.

“This is Westminster”, echoes the voice of the female announcer.
The man awakes from his musing as the doors swing open like a kick and slam shut like a fist.
He strolls off the bus, leaving the past behind.

For now, at least.

Ascending the flight of sharp-cornered stairs, he reaches his floor.
Normally, bodies are slouched over the desk with a pen positioned in one hand and the other, cupping the headset on their ears.
Their pretentious voices filled the room amongst the continuous ocean of ringing phones.
Days were the same old, same old.
However, it came to the man’s realisation that the atmosphere was unusual today.
Bodies were more upright.
Some eyes trailed him as he walked up the rows.
Voices were less robotic.
Conversations were more meaningful.
Though, a few, especially the younger employees, looked as if they were worried about something.
When the supervisor came around to their area, their nervousness morphed back into a more professional façade.
“Hello this is Crisis Support…”, they theatrically said.
Refresh page, refresh page.
Their eyes still following the man.
There was a melody of fingernails swiping iPhone screens and keyboards pattering as social media pages were refreshed.
The man sat down at his desk quite comfortably, exchanging looks under the heavy surveillance until, almost immediately, a call came through.

It was for him.

“Hello this is Crisis Support, what is your crisis that I can assist you with today?” he said routinely and enthusiastically.
“I… I just… stabbed another lad,” an undeveloped voice stuttered. The man momentarily sat in shock as his whole childhood flashed before his eyes.
He then quickly collected himself.
“What is your name?” the man blurted
“Um…Alex… but why is that relevant, you gonna’ snitch on me or something?!” the young boy exclaimed.
“No, I am not, Alex. I am here to help. My name is Alex. Sorry, I mean Jack” the man nervously laughed.
“Is the other boy responsive or unresponsive?” he said.
“I… I don’t know. I ran away,” the young voice said unhurrying.
“Okay, Alex. Where are you now?” the man said quietly but directly.
“I’m… sitting on the edge of me bath,” the youngster declared.
“Alright, Alex. Where is the object you used against the other boy?” he communicated to the adolescent on the other side of the line.
The cold-hearted visions of his youth became vivid as he looked into his reflection in the monitor screen with his fist clenched.
His humane side remained with the brief quietness of the call.
“I dunno’. I dunno’ if he’s okay. I dunno’ what I was thinking. I dunno’ if I will be able to live with myself,” the boy cried to the man on the other side whose reflection stared into him.

The faint end of call beep sounded.
The man lamented.
His past had never gotten so close and personal before.

For now, at least.
The air had gone silent.
Two men of a well-built physique entered the floor in dark suits.
Their badges, arranged sturdily across their temperament, glimmered in the smallest amount of sunshine that shone into the dull room.
They sauntered up to the man as if they had seen him before.

And they had.

“Jack Arthur Hamer. You are under arrest for allegedly being affiliated with gang-related offences involving the use of aggravated assault on an individual. This information has been provided to us by a member of the public through video footage shared on social media. It was recorded at the time of the alleged offence,” chided one of the towering men in a monotone voice.
The man’s future plunged into his shoes.
His reflection on the dark screen transformed into a video.
The ‘Undo’ option at the top of his screen in clear view.
But this time there wasn’t any going back.
He knows damn well that past actions cannot simply be undone.

The caption of the video reading:
‘Ah’ yes. The Unrelenting Past’.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXAre you, are youXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXComing to the treeXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXI told you to runXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXSo we’d both be freeXXXXXXXXXX

Account to the United Nations Committee
12/9/2004

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

12 – Sarah Davies, Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea
2/11/2000

The following is the account ofXXXXXXXX  whose name has been redacted for their own protection.

I was with Henry Cooper, when it happened. We were escorted from the hotel by two guards XXXXXXXXXdressed in military attire, long black boots, silver buttonsXXXXXXXand communist insignia. Soundxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx reverberated in the empty halls while a littered incandescent glow led us towards the elevator.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I clenched my fists holdingXXXXXXXXXXa film camera following detailed instructionsXXXXXXXXon what to and what not to filmXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXfor my own ‘safety’. The doors opened into a room where there were circular tables covered in layers of white and red fabric, and expensive cutlery. No people filled these seats; however, several young women exited the kitchen, XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX and carried extensive cuisines of the finest qualityXXXXXXXXXXX whichXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX were placed on each table. Our journey at the time was departing from the capital to the Del Rei Tongmyong Temple, 130° southeast. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

We were escortedXXXXXXXXXXto a coach that had not seen the light of day for some time. Dry leather seats in small rows ran horizontallyXXXXXXXXXXXrestricted by the tinted windowsXXXXXXXX andXXXXXXXXXXXXXXexposed electricals which hadn’t been replaced since original renditions. Inside the coach, ‘volunteer,’ tour staff, the driver andXXXXXXXXXXthe military personnel’s piercing eyes followed us.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXHenry moved to the back – hoping distance would compensate his discomfort.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The first soldierXXXXXXXdarted his eyes in every direction and suggested in a foreign tone. “You can… use camera now,”The bus was started up, XXXXXXXXXXXX with a mechanical groan. I pulled the camera XXXXXXXto the window, and observed the carefully craftedraftedXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX streets, imperfect concrete and high-rise buildingsXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Tall statues of past leaders XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXcenterd the courtyards, were tall posters, read vague promises of “independence,” forXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXthe ‘the people’. Small finely dressed people navigated the courtyard on their commute, looming as large masses from train stations. I had never seen such a perfectconfusedsociety, maybe this ‘was a superior unknown city’. Music echoed in a static distorted fashion…

XXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWhere the dead man called outxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxFor his love to flee xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxStranger things did happen here,xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxNo stranger would it bexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Turn that rubbish off,” a foreign voice yelled. The static distortions of the hymn faded.

We shifted to the fringes of civilisation. The outskirts of the city crossing a crumbling concrete bridgeXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Just like that the urbanised paradise changed, streams and irrigation below navigated the grass fields, culminating in a primary river below. Gravel banksXXXXXXXXXX littered the edges of the water. Henry dragged his finger against the glass and pointed towards a small, frail boyXXXXXXdressed in black who pulled his clothes off and ran into the water. The child rubbed XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXdown his body, covering every inch of his skinny exterior. I saw the fear in Henry’s eyes staring into empty space, his jaw rested motionless; he had never seen anything like that before, not where we were from.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“This is farming region,” The tour guide solemnly whispered, as he gazed across the empty bus. “What is grown here … given to the state and distributed.”

“How does that work…. with the distribution?” Henry added, “Where does the food go? Who decides who gets what?”

“No questions,” the soldier interjects XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

Instantly the scenery changed, perfect cities were replaced by expansiveemptyrice fields, and sparce villages. My camera captured such a contrast, where emotive citizens chartered their fields. The farmers-XXXXXwell fed, depressedresilient people worked cattle, ploughed new fields and turned over past soils.

“This is…” Henry paused, “not what I expected …”

“That’s why we are here… to see something different.”

“But not like this.”

“Why not?”

“This doesn’t fulfil our needs.”

“Well maybe it should… we are journalists, we capture what we see.”

“Not what we want to see, I know that. But this doesn’t support anything.”

The second soldier stormed down the aisle. “Turn off… NO recording here.” Shaking, I carefully folded down the camera and delicately replaced the lens cap. The road opened into a small village, dirt roads navigatedXXXXXXXXXthe chartered streets, meniscal limited houses; garbage and murky water littered the surroundings.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXDelicate children played in the streets, surrounded by wastelands of grey and brown muted grass. A darkXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX palateXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXwas thrown across the structures where cracks leaked through the walls. The bus groaned angrily, as it ascended to the mountains, leaving behind the fields and villages. The static whispered…

‘are you, are you, coming to the treeXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXThey strung up a man, they say who murdered three.’

We jolted to a halt. “This Del Rei temple,” the tour guide illustrated, gesturing to leave the bus. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXThe marble structure was magnificent, elaborately crafted red tiled roofs, with sets of grey stairs surrounded by perfectly manicured blossoms.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“It’s incredible…” I pause. “Who would have thought?”

“I mean … it doesn’t make sense… What about the other places, that we didn’t see?”

The serenity was interrupted, a man was thrown down the stairs. He stumbled, picked up his bruised body. He screamed, “It wasn’t me! Who do you think you are?”

The soldiers descended the stairs in unison.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX He shuffled his feet, blood oozed down his lip and disjointed movement didn’t prolong theXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXsoldiers.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. The man only had energy to limp across the temple floor. He was forced into the hardXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXgroundXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. He erratically threw his hands, kicked rapidly, but was still held firmly to the ground. BANG! a rifle echoed, followed by simultaneous shots. The second soldier ran towards me, where he threw his body weight into mine, and knocked the camera out of my grasp.

“Get off her!” Henry dashed towards him. Teeth clenched, with hands ready. He darted his fist towards the soldier, who quickly dodged to the side and replied with a brutal kick to the chest, thrown across concrete helplessly. From the ground, Henry collected himself.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX “You think no one will know … we have proof. You aren’t so smart now are you?”XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bullets ricocheted through his body; red painted the floor below him. His body collapsed slowly. I began to scream and pushed against the soldiers; water fell down my face. The static began…

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx“Are you, are youxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXxXXX

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxComing to the treexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXX

xxxxxxxxxWhere the necklace of hopexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Side by side with meXXXXXX

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxStrange things did happen herexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXx

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxNo stranger would it bexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXX Xxxxxxxxxxx  in the hanging tree,”xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXX

13.William Hague: Petrograd, Russian Federation
3/18/2000

Cold. Bitter. Freezing. Miserable. A tad chilly.

All these are descriptive of the times they are in.

The first hateful drops of rain loom wearily from the great grey sky and detonate on the windshield.

[14th May 2021, before the incident]

The radio blares at him nonchalantly, spitting out its absolute garbage and dreary commentary to further his irritation. [In the passenger seat of silver sedan, MAN sits by other MAN.]

“Standards have dropped in terms of this S WORD they call music these days aye,”

REDACTED wisely and intelligently proclaims.

“Honestly though, this is a blatant disgrace on the history of music, whatever this is,” REDACTED further explains

[Second man sits reluctantly; somewhat bemused by comments of REDACTED.]

[REDACTED is clearly unaware of my presence; noted through conversation and body language – must learn home address; recommending continue with movement tracking.]

[15th May 2021, still before the incident]

[REDACTED is sitting at his dining room table, reading a newspaper. The room is a rather grand affair, decorated in modern art, with the large oak table serving as centrepiece of the room.]

“What’s for dinner love?” REDACTED cries out to his wife in the kitchen.

“Roast’s in the oven with the potatoes,” SHE yelps back.

“Roast again?”

“You make dinner then if you’re not pleased.”

[REDACTED snorts at this response, clearly displeased at the thought of having to do anything to aid around the house. The house itself is a dreary suburban spectacle, awash with grey and glass. What’s more important is the fact I’ve found it and his routine, meaning I know when he is and, importantly, isn’t home.]

[16th May 2021, again still before the incident]

[I sat perked in the bush beside REDACTED’S house once again. Again, it was raining down on me, but I was unbothered. Again, REDACTED arrived home around 4.40 pm, fumbled the key in the door lock, immediately planted himself this time on the couch and flicked on the telly. The wife gets home around 5.30, and, after glaring at REDACTED for a minute or so, got to work on dinner.]

[To an outsider like myself the marriage looked cold, with not even a semblance of love visible over the time I’ve been spectating.]

[With camera raised, I peered over the picket fence and took a few photos of REDACTED sitting isolated glaring at the TV, somewhat reminiscent of a mental patient sitting in a padded room in a straitjacket. REDACTED remained like this until around 7pm, when the wife called him reluctantly for dinner. The two sat at the table in silence with the occasional glance at the window, or to ask for salt and pepper.]

[The stiff breeze commandeers the tree limbs throughout the suburb, howling and whining against white letter boxes and rows of fences. Rubbish bins were flapping and falling, framed with flashes of lightning and backgrounded by the sound of thunder and pelting rain. REDACTED’S car leaves the driveway at around 11 pm. It should be noted he drives with the lights off and is gentle on the throttle so as not to make noise, perhaps to be a considerate neighbour, perhaps to not be noticed leaving. Personally, the latter idea resonates with me; it is clear REDACTED isn’t behaving normally and hence must be up to something. I will find out, mark my words, I will. I snapped a couple more pictures of the house and empty driveway before trudging off into the storm]

[9.30 17th May 2021; present time. The Incident. ]

[S WORD has well and truly hit the fan here at REDACTED’S house. After trying to find out where he went last night, my actions have had some dire consequences. Legal action has apparently been filed against me. Everything was going fine, I was taking photos as usual from my spot in the shrubbery, when all of a sudden, a twig crunched beside me and a firm and brisk hand was placed upon my shoulder. REDACTED glared down at me, bewilderment in his eyes, followed by slight confusion, followed by what I considered to be rage. He planted a fist in my camera and then my face; I’m yet to decide which punch upsets me more. He told me, me of all people, to: “Leave immediately and stop taking pictures of me and my wife”, which somewhat confirms my suspicion of him being up to no good; why would a person with nothing to hide care about me taking photos? What irks me the most is the fact that he has ruined my story through his selfishness and through his patheticness. I could easily have whipped something up about drugs; I don’t buy his claims of going to the chemist to buy lozenges for himself that night, a receipt can be faked very easily these days. Nor do I buy that his relationship is cold like I witnessed due to his crippling and terminal illness – complete horse S WORD in my eyes.

REDACTED’S name has been removed for legal purposes. His life has been found to be as normal as can be; recommend disciplinary action for creator of assessment.

The distinctive rustic aroma of ‘The Brazen Head’ fills Ian’s nostrils as the doors swing open. The pub wasn’t pleasing to look at, but for like many others in the room it was a second home for Ian and his friends. The smell triggers a rush of dopamine in Ian’s brain as though it knew what was about to happen. The Irish weather is at its finest, pouring with rain, but Ian didn’t mind, he saw it as an excuse to stay inside the warm confines of the pub. Friday night drinks had become a tradition for Ian, Thomas, Isaac and Sean. A rite of passage almost, which they envisioned would last forever. Ian’s shivering from his clothes soaked by rain, caught the attention of one the staff who stoked the fire.

“A round please,” Ian says to the bartender. Ian had drawn the short straw and had to buy the first round.

“What a game; Dublin were by far the better team, absolute class,” exclaims Sean.

“No way, did you see the movement of Cork? That was on another level,” argues Isaac. Their conversation was normally limited to football, with arguments becoming more and more heated as the night continued and beverages drained. Ian wasn’t a drinker, or at least not anymore. In his younger days maybe, but at fifty-three and the void that alcohol left, he had decided to stop. So, while the others inhaled copious amounts of liquor, Ian remained indifferent. Isaac who couldn’t generally handle his alcohol was getting handsy with a waitress, much to the annoyance of the waitress and the owner.

“Get out now,” says a burly bouncer staring menacingly at Isaac, arms crossed, guns blazing.

“Eh, don’t be such a prude. I’m just having some fun,” stumbles Isaac.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” booms the bouncer.

“Just go Isaac,” Ian pleads.  Isaac finally turned around and stumbled out of the pub.

“You three out as well,” says the owner smugly. In frustration they leave, irritated by his antics.

The bitter chill of a winter Irish night whips the friends, a shock briefly exfoliating the alcohol. They begin strolling down the cobblestone road. Dublin isn’t the safest during the day, so at night Ian was especially on edge. The other three didn’t have a care in the world, dulled by the effects of Guinness.

“I’m famished; I reckon we pop in for a snack at Tesco’s,” said Ian.

“I could do with a bite, but only if you’re paying,” smirked Thomas.

The door swung open, “Dinggg” as though a trip wire has been set off. The four menaced the aisles, stopping at the chocolate section. “Boooommmm,” Ian was flung against the aisle with the immense force of a formula one car. Ian’s eyes fluttered open. He was lying face down, ears ringing profusely. He looked down to see a sizeable gash in his leg and a piece of metal lodged in his abdomen. His head was hazy as though he’d woken up from a wicked hangover, except it wasn’t a dream. The store looked like the battle of the Somme which Ian had fought in. At the pit of his stomach, he could feel butterflies fluttering around. Ian attempted to stand up, but to his dismay his leg had been severely damaged by the shrapnel, but in haste he stood up, only to pass out.

Ian’s opened his eyes, his breathing laboured, as he was still in a state of shock. He looked around to see a drab hospital room. Everything in the room was white except for Ian’s leg which was covered in blood. The headline on a TV above his bed reads: “12 dead following the bombing of a popular street corner. IRA has claimed responsibility, but has not given a reason for the attack”.

“Wwwhat happened,” Ian stammered. His wife, Sarah and his mother stood there, unable to tell Ian the terrible news. Finally, Sarah found the courage to tell him.

“I’m so sorry, no one knows why it happened,” she said while attempting to hold back the tears.

“The boys, are they okay?” he pleaded. She stayed silent. Ian’s eyes were now clouded by tears. “Tell me,” he exclaimed.

“Isaac and Sean are injured, but should make a full recovery,” she said.

“What about Thomas?” he pleaded.

“He was taken to the hospital but succumbed to his wounds,” she struggled to say. Ian’s face became a blank slate, as though it were void of emotions. He didn’t respond, the only hint of emotion was the tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she murmured.

“It’s my fault we went into the store anyway, I’m to blame,” he mumbled, looking directly at the wall.

Months passed and Ian slowly recovered physically, but there was still an emotional void where his friend used to be, filled now by guilt. Ian looked in the mirror, seeing nothing but skin and bone, as though the incident subconsciously was associated with food. The doctors had told him it was PTSD, but Ian thought what did that even mean; it’s just an excuse for someone to act erratically after loss.

“You need to eat breakfast, Ian,” pleaded Sarah.

“Not now. I don’t feel like it,” he snapped back.

“You need to eat; don’t you understand you’re tearing apart this family,” she exclaimed. He didn’t respond, instead he walked out the front door and slammed it. Sarah sprinted after him but tripped on the doorstep.

Ian walked, with purpose. Everywhere he looked he could see Thomas, his flowy red hair, his distinctive gait. The streets of Dublin were bustling, cars going back and forward. Ian kept on walking, straight onto the road. “Slammm”.

Rain droplets silently run down my window, collecting and pooling at the bottom of the windowsill. I imagine myself as a raindrop, pointlessly falling, transparent, defeated. My room is hollow and empty, appearing almost uninhabited, a single foam mattress on the floor, a few scattered clothes lie on bare floorboards and an unscented candle, flickering subtle light into the room. My dreams are full of colour, excitement and unlimited opportunities. But on awakening I am instantly shot back to reality.

I slowly tread to school through decrepit concrete neighbourhoods. Broken dreams and beer bottles scattered endlessly across the pavements. Shady looking individuals stare unable to act until night. Each step hurts knowing I’m walking to school, my secondhand shoes squeaking…. passed down from child to child, regifted from thrift shop to dollar store to me.

As the first school door swings open, so do the bad thoughts and self-doubt. Prying eyes lurk around shady corners. First period Maths; I hate Maths. I sit in the middle row of the classroom, next to the window. The classroom walls look tortured with class artwork from younger years. Years of graffiti drawn on the desks. There is more history here than in our textbooks.

Strolling back home, head down. Observing the pavement, hoping it would open up and let me fall through to another world, another reality. The days are slow and draining, they seem to blend together so that I cannot recall which day of the week it is. These thoughts are pushed aside as my attention is drawn to the one well-maintained house in my street and its usually manicured almost tortured garden. Its very existence acting as a beacon of hope to all of the possibilities of what could be achieved if time, effort, and water were applied. I notice that the garden is looking unkempt, the grass hasn’t been mowed in a while, there are weeds growing amongst the flowerbeds and leaves strewn across the path and on the front verandah of the house. Where is the gruff, elderly gentleman who normally patrols and controls this garden?

As I arrive home, Joy, the neighbourhood watchdog and chief gossip, waves her arms vigorously about to catch my attention, shuffling eagerly across to me in her fluffy slippers. She asks after Mum, then quickly relays the latest news which is that Mr Harvey who lives three doors down “in the neat white weatherboard with the lovely garden” has had an accident, falling off a ladder whilst trying to clean out his gutters,  She continues, “He’s been in hospital for over a month and had to have several surgeries. He’s home now and has help with meals and house cleaning but he needs help in the garden too.” I can tell that she’s volunteered my services, pointing out that the money would obviously be very helpful given the “situation at home”. Apparently, I’m to report to Mr Harvey on Saturday at 9am …tomorrow!

***

Arriving just before 9am at the white weatherboard, the garden on closer inspection wasn’t looking so lovely at all; the weeds had taken advantage of the situation and I could see that many of the plants had died during the last hot weeks of Summer. I had my work cut out for me that was for sure. Having no experience or interest in gardening, I felt apprehensive as I walked up the wooden steps to the large wooden door. There was no answer to my multiple knocks on the door. Perhaps he had forgotten or wasn’t home, maybe he doesn’t require my help. As I turned away, a large groan comes from behind the door, followed by aggressive coughing. I held my breath as the door slowly opened, to reveal Mr Harvey, tall despite his age, holding the door frame for support. My heart felt like it was stuck in my throat, and I couldn’t speak; he stared at me. I managed to muster up the courage to say hello and let him know that I’m here to work in the garden. He looked me up and down with critical eyes and sighs.

After working away in the front garden for a couple of hours, my back was aching and I had enormous blisters forming on the palms of my hands. I’d had enough and longed to give up and run home, but I didn’t.  Joy is right, we need the money. Mr Harvey sat in his well-positioned rocking chair on the veranda watching me and giving orders. I continued till 1pm, the agreed time and then slinked off exhausted, dreading having to return the following Saturday.

After working for over a month, I begin to look forward to my Saturday gardening work. It turns out that Mr Harvey isn’t as grumpy as he looks, and he’s shared some amazing stories of his time in the military and the lifelong friendships he made during the hardest times in his life when he was stationed in Vietnam. I’ve talked to Mr Harvey more than I have ever talked to anyone else; he is a good listener and I feel comfortable in his presence.

I start to see more and more gardens on my way to school, huge old trees with twisted branches, flowers in pots on front verandas even the school oval is looking greener. The early morning light shines bright, my new shoes are effortlessly taking me to school; the first door swings open….