When is a Tasmanian Tiger like a mouse? Well, never. But scientists from Australia and America have got close. They’ve brought back to life a gene from the extinct Tasmanian Tiger after implanting it in a mouse.
This world’s first is being applauded by science. But it scares the hell out of me. The Holy Grail of biology is being muted again – can we bring back a dinosaur? Now, do they really think, if they did, it would stay in a cage?
Whenever you introduce new life into an ecosystem, it rebalances itself. We know this. So the simple existence of that gene in a mouse will do the same. It may not be noticeable, but theoretically, it WILL occur.
And now it’s been done once, it will be repeated over and over again. And every time it’s done, our planetary ecosystem shifts in ways we have no idea. They say science and creationism cannot co-exist.
Wanna bet?

(c) Anthony North, May 2008

I’m often scornful of celebrities. We seem to be infatuated by them, and the more our infatuation rises, the more extreme and bizarre their behaviour seems to become. It makes some people wonder if it will ever stop.
Of course, it all seems so pointless. But could it be that celebrities play a vital role in modern culture? I think they do – and it isn’t an enhancing role. Rather, it helps to tie us up in chains of consumerism.
On one level, celebrities are more ‘perfect’ than the average person. Of course, this isn’t true, but their beauty, etc, makes it appear so. And the upshot is, we spend, spend, spend to emulate them, not realizing that perfection is an unreachable goal.
But they also work on a psychological level. They are open with their problems, the abuses they’ve suffered, and in this they appear to be repositories for our angst. Like cultural psychotherapists, our own problems are reflected back to us.
This power over the wallet and psyche fulfils another vital function of super capitalism. Whenever they do something you can guarantee the picture is all over the media. Indeed, there has been an explosion in media alongside the celebrity’s rise.
Big Biz likes this. For the bigger the media gets, the more ads Big Biz places. This is, infact, a control mechanism. For if Big Biz withdrew ads from any one media source, that source would be struggling to survive. Hence, the media doesn’t risk it, and only reports on news friendly to our consumer culture.
We seem to be informed a lot about celebrity, but not much else. This is why.

© Anthony North, April, 2008

HOW IT WORKS?

And as he walked through the wasteland, he knew his life was entering a new stage. He had questioned much of late – not only his life, but his society, his culture, his meaning …
And the sun burnt down upon him, and as he wandered he felt he lost his mind. Demons assaulted him from all sides, and he descended to the ultimate point of knowledge.
Touching this knowledge proved difficult, at first.
But he persevered, tried to make sense of it all, and eventually he saw, he knew – all was visible. And it felt good.
And he returned to the village, and he told his friends of what he had seen, and they did not believe him. But he knew it to be true, and he began to preach.
And one day someone came to him and said: I can see it, too. And from then on, there were two to tell what they had seen, and then there were four, and then there were eight, and then what they had seen came to the knowledge of the shaman.
And the shaman approached him and said: you tell lies. And he said he did not. And he said it with conviction, and his eyes burned with truth, and as the shaman looked into those eyes, he knew that old truth was no more. And the people rejoiced.
And the people found purpose and he said: build a temple, and it was so. And it was a mighty temple, and it imbued the people with good works, and they looked after the temple and looked after each other, for he had told them it was good.
And the chief heard of what they had seen and went to him and said: is what you have seen more powerful than what has been seen before? And he said yes.
And the chief feared the village over the hill, for they were powerful, and they stole their food. And the chief realized new power in the people who had seen, and he rallied them, and said: what you have seen makes you strong and we no longer need to fear.
And they went out in strength to the village over the hill, and the blood flowed and they were victorious. And the chief made a pact with him, one to tell of the truth, the other to guarantee the power of truth, and as the ages passed, and he and the chiefs came and went, great works of humanity were achieved, and great works of art advanced the knowledge of the world, and also the blood flowed as rivers, as the truth they had seen became predominant.
And finally, the scribe gathered the tales of what had been seen. And he took his parchment, and he began:
I am the Lord,
Thy Idea.

© Anthony North, April 2008

One of the central elements of our humanity is our ability to remember. Through memory we access an unlimited theatre of thoughts and experience from our unconscious. But why do we have a memory, and how does it work?
It’s a funny thing, is memory. In many ways I think it is peculiarly human, in that we have a conscious and unconscious mind. Most animals are thought to work through instinct, as if controlled at a species level.
The thing that separates us from the animals is our technology, and to become the technologist, we needed the ability to remove thoughts from our conscious in order to concentrate on a task in hand, thus needing a memory store we call the unconscious.
We couldn’t ‘be’ without this, for it seems that when we sense the world, everything that can be sensed enters the unconscious. In other words, we see, hear, smell and feel everything. It is this factor that, I’m sure, lies behind much of what we call the paranormal.
But if we ‘remembered’ all of this all of the time, we would suffer information overload, making it impossible for us to concentrate. Hence, we have a ‘filter’ which selects only the information we want at that particular time.
Perhaps this is why different people have very selective views of what they experience, even their beliefs being based upon this selectiveness. Maybe if this ‘mechanism’ was better understood, we would learn to understand, and tolerate, others more.

© Anthony North, April 2008

The number thousand seems innocuous enough, but it has been at the root of some of the most dangerous influences mankind has suffered. A thousand years is a millennium, a symbolic time span, which developed into the concept of Millenarianism.
Best described by Prof Norman Cohn in his book, The Pursuit of the Millennium, it is the belief that a major transformation of society is about to occur. Movements formed from the belief see the existing society as corrupt.

It will be destroyed by a powerful force.

In this sense, it forms the root of the belief in Apocalypse, or Armageddon. The Book of Revelation itself is the usual blueprint in the west for what such transition will involve.
From early Christianity, to present-day Al Qaeda, the Millenarianist impulse involves violence, ranging from self-destruction, to turning that violence upon others. And it does not just include major movements.

The Millenarianist mentality lies behind many cults.

The Branch Davidians and the horror of Waco is a classic example. Even 19th century Native Americans adapted their religion in the Ghost Dance, and the active belief that their worship would result in the destruction of the white man.
In this sense, we can often see Millenarianism as an act of desperation – a plea for a better world, invoking extreme or supernatural forces because normal means have collapsed. But there are numbers and there are symbols. When they mix, watch out!

© Anthony North, April 2008

Rivalry is good. We are all aware of this. A rival ‘ups’ your game; demands that you try harder - takes away the cosiness of your comfort zone, your satisfaction that you’re trying your best.
Often rivalry improves more than your own standards. Take debate. Ideas are thrashed out, leading to all sides being heard, and a balanced view arising. In politics, such debate is how societies are regulated, proving the importance of such rivalry.

Yet rivalry can be a religious thing.

Some elements, here, are obvious. God verses the Devil – an understanding of good and evil. Indeed, mystical traditions such as alchemy are grounded in rivalry.
Alchemy is about opposites, best symbolized in the alchemical image of the face of the beautiful young woman on the reverse side of the face of the wise old man. Rivalry, it seems, is more fundamental in the religious sphere.

The idea of good verses evil led to western ideals.

Fundamental to our way of doing things is the idea that things can be normal or abnormal. What is ‘normal’ is whatever we see ourselves as being. Everything else is abnormal, or wrong. This is rivalry in concept, in philosophy, in our very bones.
Yet this form of rivalry can also lead to persecution, to conflict, and is maybe the wrong way of looking at it. In eastern philosophies, rivalry is seen in terms of influences towards preservation and destruction. Yet they are held together by a life force which provides balance.
Maybe this is how rivalry should really be seen. For in balance, each side is weighed, but the conflict is stopped. I think we could learn a great deal from eastern mysticism – the west’s rival, as it were.

(c) Anthony North, April 2008

Now there’s a title to get you confused. If something is efficient it cannot be inefficient, surely? But in the crazy world we have created nowadays the two do not always follow. For instance, a PR message can appear efficient, but is full of spin.
Underneath so much of the modern world this factor rings true. A politician can appear efficient, but increasingly they are proving to be totally inefficient.

Such an argument goes to the heart of Big Biz.

The beauty of today’s corporate world is said to be that it runs with the perfection of a machine. Maximising everything to its utmost potential, nothing is wasted, and the end result is profit for all, and a service next to none.
In many ways, this is quite true. But there are problems in such an approach. First of all, it ends up being an unbending machine indeed. Everything is down to procedure, and any deviation from the norm becomes impossible.

And we’ve all been on the receiving end of this inflexibility.

But the major problem goes even deeper. Because this type of inflexibility may be essential to the running of a machine, but it is counter to good order.
Essential to any non-machine is the idea of surplus. Things happen in life that cause disruptions to the system, or even create sudden higher demand. But have you noticed that whenever our corporate world is faced with such a blip, it fails to provide?
Machines are machines, and societies are societies, and sadly the two cannot possibly meet. But too many who think they know seem to think they can. And as long as this is the case, the efficient will always be ultimately inefficient.

© Anthony North, February 2008

I write a lot about the paranormal. However, over the years I’ve been accused of being both a sceptic and a believer. How is such a thing possible? Surely I must be one or the other?
It is to my great delight that I’m not classed as one or the other. Rather, I take a middle ground on the subject, accepting that most phenomena happens, but not accepting classical interpretations such as spirits of the dead, etc.

I take a different approach.

Rather, I believe that if we are ever to understand what is going on, we must accept present knowledge, and move forward taking this knowledge with us, and taking just one small step at a time.
To not do so is to take huge leaps into the darkness of knowledge, and this is nothing more than perpetuating a belief system. Hence, I am labeled a believer for accepting phenomena happens, and a sceptic for trying to place known ‘mechanisms’ onto the subject.
The purpose of paranormal research is, to me, to look at what is said to happen, then look at what our knowledge says is capable of happening, and then extending that knowledge system just a little to see if what is thought to happen COULD happen.
It is, to me, the only stance that can lead to proper understanding.

© Anthony North, January 2007

Okay, folks, it's the last instalment today. Enjoy. And if not, be gentle :-)

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

‘Stupid man, shouting like that. Who the hell does he think he is?’
It was the next morning, and Veronica Dean was still on a high. She hadn’t managed to sleep all night. Hence, when she had finished berating Vernie James, she made a bee-line for Peter Picasso’s flat. And we can guess what she was doing all night. After all, Vernie James had frustrated her, and made the ghost retire to its own corner of the supernatural. And a frustrated psychical researcher can be an animal.
‘It’s too much,’ said Peter Picasso.
‘What?’ Veronica was shocked as she lay in bed.
‘No, not that. The ghost and all those knockings. I don’t know whether we should go on.’
‘Oh, I see. You start something you can’t finish.’
‘It’s not that. I didn’t realize all the repercussions. I never thought ghosts were real.’
‘Well get over it, boy. There isn’t a chance of me leaving this.’
Peter Picasso lay silent in bed after that, unsure of the predicament he had got himself into. Part of him wished he had left well alone.

DI Summers had carried on where Veronica Dean had left off. He should, of course, have been in bed. After all, it had been a bad fall. But casualty had assured him that the broken arm would be better in a month or so.
‘Okay, you ghost, come out where I can see you,’ he said, amid the devastation of the fire. His attempts to move freely were somewhat restricted with only one arm to help him climb.
For some reason, it occurred to him that you could call up the spirits from upon high. Hence, he painfully negotiated the biggest pile of rubble, and soon he stood on top, as if some Egyptian emperor-god atop his pyramid.
‘I know you’ve got the Hollis boys. You’re pissed off because they burned you. It’s okay, you can come out and come quietly. You’ll only get life.’
The irony was lost on him, but maybe not on the ghost of Jack Thomas. The knockings began once more, building up to a crescendo, and soon the angry voices echoed through the night. But it was all lost on Summers. With the first knock, he had fallen – and it was several hours before he was discovered.
The casualty nurse shook her head and tutted as she set the cast on his leg.

Old Man Hollis’s mood was no better that morning, except he was now up to blaming his sons for being so stupid. Hence, anger was entering his mind frame. How could they get caught like that, he thought, the fools.
His thoughts were disturbed by the banging of the door. Looking up from his desk, he saw Rachel come in, worse for wear. Her revealing clothes looked disheveled and there appeared a kind of mania in her eyes. He guessed what she had been up to, but wondered if she would ever remember it with the amount of drugs she would have taken.
‘You look nice this morning,’ he said.
Rachel stopped in her tracks, looked at his face, noticed the excitement in his demeanour. Flashbacks came to her mind. Indeed, it had been ages before she worked out that he became the animal when life was not going his way.
She immediately noticed her confidence oozing away. This bastard had done this to her. But this particular morning she managed to raise the will to face him. ‘Forget it,’ she said, meeting eyeball with eyeball. ‘I’m not a little kid now. I fight back.’
‘I know.’
She imagined his horrible bulk upon her and she could face him no more. She ran up the stairs and locked her door.

For many on the street it was becoming a bad morning indeed. But at least there was a respite for Bobby Crawford. ‘I like you,’ he said as he sat in the kitchen, waiting for Julia to prepare his breakfast.
‘Well thank you kind sir,’ she replied and curtsied.
Bobby laughed, and for the first time in so long, it seemed a genuine laugh.
Julia continued. ‘Your father was right, you know. You don’t have to put up with bullying.’
‘Well how do I fight it if I can’t hit them back?’
‘You fight it with body language.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a show of confidence. You put up a front. You meet their eyes and show them you’re not afraid. You stand tall so you look a more powerful person. And bullies never, ever, ever, try it on with a confident, powerful person.’
Bobby Crawford didn’t realize that she was speaking to herself as well as him. But it made him feel better all the same.

Rachel Hollis was also beginning to psyche herself up. Perhaps it is the reality of the bullied to become the bullies. She had heard it said often – by the occasional therapist she had had through her life; by the even more occasional man she had let in. And in her mind, she had used this advice to excuse the bitch she had become. But if only she had looked at the others on the street.
Julia James had been bullied for years. Bobby Crawford had been bullied for what seemed years. But it was not in their nature to give in to bullying and become the bully themselves. Rachel would, of course, have argued they had become mice instead. And she could never be one of those. Yet she DID scurry upstairs so recently as soon as her uncle gave the slightest indication of his old ways.
Well no more, she decided. I’m going to get my own back. And I’m going to begin with Dale Crawford.

Dale saw Rachel Hollis slam her front door shut as he came out of his own, yet he didn’t give her a second thought. The universe had gone round and round and delivered him a good new life. Indeed, he was sure that the memories of his first family breakfast would stay with him all day. And to kiss both his son and new love goodbye heartened him.
He took out his car keys as he stood on the street, taking in the air. And he was determined nothing would ruin this day. Not even Rachel as he saw her storming up to him.
‘Good morning,’ he said as she stopped close to him. He noticed her agitated state, her breathing approaching hyperventilation.
‘What’s good about it?’ she said.
‘Who’s in a mood, then.’
‘Don’t I have reason?’
Dale sighed. ‘Look. Rachel, it would never have worked out between us. We’re two different people. It was just fun.’
‘So that’s all I am, is it? A body to be used, for “fun”?’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, you’re going to feel just as bad.’
‘And how is that?’
‘When I tell you the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘That Bobby isn’t yours.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘He’s Vernie’s.’
The world seemed to stop at that moment. Somehow, it all made sense. It made sense for Dale, and it made sense to Bobby, who, at that moment, had come out the door.
The universe went round and round and closed in on Dale Crawford as he watched Bobby run off.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Veronica Dean sat cross-legged with her lap top on her lap. ‘It’s coming on well,’ she said, looking up, briefly, at Peter.
They had taken a respite from the ghost hunt. Peter was becoming increasingly agitated as he sat in the bedsit. ‘I just don’t like the idea of ghosts,’ he said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. How can you not like them when you started this in the first place.’
‘I never realized the pictures would lead to this.’
‘Pictures are like life, Peter,’ said Veronica, ‘they have unforeseen circumstances.’
She directed her attention back to the article she was writing on the case. Momentarily, a prickling feeling came to her body. She shivered. ‘That’s strange,’ she said.
She stood up – approached the window. Outside, the clouds seemed to be going round and round, hinting at a coming storm.
‘What is it?’ asked Peter.
Veronica Dean turned to face him and smiled. ‘The haunting is coming to a head,’ she said. ‘Look at the sky. The planet itself is about to join in.’

The clouds circled above Dale Crawford’s head as he stormed out of the house, but he wouldn’t have noticed them. There was too much on his mind at that moment, but were the forces acting upon him, too?
He had stormed back inside; told Julia what Rachel had said. ‘Did you know?’ he demanded, almost shaking her.
‘No! No! Of course I didn’t.’ A pause. Then: ‘My God, the bastard.’
The bastard indeed. Suddenly, so much made sense to Dale. He remembered the sticky patch in his previous marriage. ‘A baby is the answer,’ she had eventually said, ‘it will bring us back together.’
And it seemed to. But always those worries as Bobby grew up. Dale had been so guilty about his feelings. God, he loved the boy, but he always seemed so different to him. And now he knew the truth. She was having an affair – with Vernie – and he had got her pregnant. Had she already been pregnant when she suggested a baby?
He banged on Vernie’s door. ‘Come on, open it!’ he demanded. When it didn’t open, he kicked it in …

Rachel Hollis had returned home, a look of satisfaction on her face. That’ll teach him to be so smug, she thought, that’ll teach him to dump me for an old hag like Julia James.
She looked in her mirror, held in her tummy. How could he possibly resist me? She thought, I’m gorgeous.
The Old Man thought so, too, as he watched her from the open bedroom door. Maybe the paranormal was working overtime as the clouds gathered above, but Rachel sensed his presence. She turned round and looked into his salivating face.
‘Get out of here,’ she demanded, but he simply walked in and shut the door …

Veronica Dean knew it was time. ‘Come on,’ she said as she left the bedsit.
‘Do we have to,’ said Peter.
‘Come on, it will be marvelous.’
The two of them left and walked up the street. Veronica was determined, purposeful, and the wind seemed to howl about her. She felt as if she was walking into destiny, the site of the haunting coming into focus.
She heard a voice as she approached. The boy, she thought, the boy is here, talking. Excellent. We have a focus. And above her head, the first crack of thunder boomed.

‘What the hell do you want?’ demanded Vernie James.
Dale Crawford had never felt so angry in his life. ‘Bobby,’ he said, ‘is he yours?’
A smirk seemed to cross Vernie’s face. ‘What if he is,’ he snarled. ‘He’s only a brat. An accident.’
Dale grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him up out of his seat. ‘I ought to kill you,’ he said.
‘So why don’t you?’ asked Vernie. His eyes diverted, then, to the table. Dale followed his gaze and saw, for the first time, the whisky and bottle of tablets.
‘So you’re taking the easy way out, are you?’
‘What’s it to you?’
Dale ignored him; let him drop back to the chair. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘Let you die like this.’
‘Oh my god. Mr Perfect. Told his kid isn’t his and he still has a conscience.’
‘How long did it go on?’
‘What?’
‘The affair.’
‘The first time or the second?’
‘The second?’
Vernie James smirked once more. ‘She was very clingy, your wife. Came back for more. But I got rid of her in the end.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I killed her …’

The darkness had now come. Throughout the street, the houses seemed to disappear in a dark that shrouded the Earth itself. Up in the sky, deep, black clouds hung, threatening to fall, cutting out the sun. Momentarily, a stark light would flicker the world into focus as lightning cracked, yet the houses looked so surreal. It was as if a great evil had taken over the land.
In the centre of the darkness were the remains of Jack Thomas’s house, and as Veronica arrived, she observed Bobby Crawford in its centre, his face seemingly illuminated. He seemed to be transfixed, and Veronica was sure he was mumbling. She walked up to him and listened.
‘… but my dad isn’t my dad. I don’t know what to do.’
If he received an answer, Veronica didn’t hear it. She was not yet attuned. She began to take deep breaths, focusing her mind. It was time for a trance.
Behind her, Peter Picasso surveyed the scene through fevered eyes. He had never been more frightened in his life. And the thunder rumbled, and the lightning struck …

Rachel’s world had gone dark also. And through the darkness, all she could see was the slowly approaching face of her tormentor. ‘Get away from me,’ she wailed, as if a little girl once more.
‘But Rachel, you must be a good little girl.’
‘Good little girls don’t do those things.’
‘But I told you you must.’
‘I can’t. GET AWAY!’
‘But I can have anything I want. I demand it.’
‘No.’
He grabbed her; pulled her to him. ‘No one defies me,’ he screamed. ‘Not you. No one. What I can’t have, I take.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘I take, like burning down Jack Thomas’s house.’ A silence. ‘Yes, Rachel, that was me. And if I can do that, I can do anything.’
The house vibrated with the thunder; lit up with the simultaneous lightning. It seemed to fill Rachel Hollis with energy. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No! No! No!’ And with each scream she thrust out with her arms, pushing him ever backwards. Finally, they teetered on the edge of the stairs. ‘NO!’ she screamed once more, and with a mighty push she saw Old Man Hollis fly.
The lightning cracked once more as he flew, and again as he landed, in a pool of blood, at the bottom of the stairs.
His dead eyes stared as the lightning struck once more.

Bobby Crawford seemed comatose as the storm centred on the debris of the house. He had been transported to another realm, and Jack Thomas appeared before him. He was no longer angry, but Bobby felt he was tranquil amid the carnage of the fire and the anger of the storm.
Veronica Dean was also approaching trance, and her expectation seemed to join with Bobby’s mind, and from the corner of her eye she was convinced she saw Jack Thomas too.
She smiled triumphantly. But at that moment, Jack noticed her, turned to face her, and his face changed from light to dark, from tranquility to anger, and red eyes seemed to bore into her.
Around her, the thunder boomed and the lightning cracked, and from the very pits of the earth, the knockings began, and the angry voices were once more raised …

An anger more intense than anything he could imagine came to Dale Crawford as the words sank in. ‘You killed her,’ he said. ‘It was you.’
Vernie James was laughing now – a hysterical laughter that competed with the thunder and the lightning.
Dale grabbed him once more; pulled back a fist as if ready to strike. But at that moment a vision came into his mind, and he saw Bobby before him, a tranquility on his face. He was a beacon of light amid the darkness and as he stared at the image, Dale Crawford said: ‘My son.’
The anger flooded from him. He put Vernie James down. He looked at the pathetic wreck before him. Then he picked up the bottle of pills and held them. Finally, he turned to go, and as he did so he took one last look at Vernie and tossed him the pills.

The storm was reaching a crescendo. It was impossible to tell whether the world was more darkness or flashes of penetrating light. A huge cacophony of sound filled the site of Jack’s house. Yet through all the uproar, Veronica noticed the pile of rubble begin to fall away.
Excitement filled her once more as the falling rubble revealed a trapdoor, and that door vibrated. The poltergeist was centring itself, she was sure, and she approached the trapdoor.
Peter Picasso saw her actions. ‘Don’t do it, Veronica,’ he screamed, ‘you don’t know what forces you’re playing with.’
The thunder boomed once more; the lightning cracked. Veronica bent down, her hand grabbing the handle as it vibrated; as the angry voices raised themselves to fever pitch.
The last lightning crack lit up the darkness as Veronica opened the hatch. Slowly, a silence descended. Then, suddenly, a movement.
‘I’ll kill him,’ said a dirty, disheveled Wayne Hollis as he emerged from his imprisonment in the cellar. He was followed by an increasingly irate Duane. From the other side of the site, DI Summers popped up his head, stared intently at each face present.
Peter Picasso froze, and DI Summers noted the guilt. And as Picasso ran off, never to be seen again, Summers attempted to give chase. But with a broken leg, a broken arm and a crutch, it was inevitable he would fall and crack his skull.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The clouds had dispersed and the sun shone. And for Rachel Hollis the sky represented the freeing of her mind. Thoughts no longer went round and round. She was released and felt good.
Rachel had left the street in jeans and T-shirt with a bag on her back and a pocket stuffed with the Old Man’s money. And now she stood on the station platform at peace.
Questions would, of course, be asked, but they had to find her first. And even if they did, she was sure there would be no problem. After all, how could they prove that the frail old man hadn’t just slipped and fallen to his death?
She didn’t think about it for long. She had decided not to think about much at all. And as the train pulled into the platform and she got on, she thought only about her future.
Rachel Hollis was going back-packing.

The sun shone, and Dale Crawford had a lot to think about. He looked down at the grave of his wife and a tear fell. But it was not, so much, a tear of sadness but of renewal. ‘I know what happened now, my love,’ he said. ‘I know what happened and I forgive you.’
Life was beginning anew, and it was to begin with a cleansed mind and all questions answered.
Momentarily he felt a presence beside him. Turning round, he saw Julia standing close by. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you,’ she said as she smiled.
Dale held out a beckoning arm and took her to himself. ‘It’s alright,’ he said as they cuddled. ‘I’ll always love her,’ he continued, ‘you know that. But there’s room for you too.’
They kissed lovingly and hand in hand they walked off.
As they approached the street they heard the sound of children playing. Dale soon spotted Bobby and he couldn’t help but think he looked happy for the first time in so long. Indeed, he couldn’t remember when he last saw him play with other children. And as he did so, he saw a new boy who reminded him so much of his own youth.
Bobby saw his father and Julia and ran over. ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘will tea be long.’
This last question was directed at Julia and she felt so good and knew she belonged.
Dale said: ‘It won’t be long son,’ and he knew it was the right word to say. And he walked off with his family anew.

Thadias Grimes was working hard making a new batch of pies. He had a grim expression on his face as he cut the meat. It had been hard work cutting off all the burnt bits. After all, he was already half cooked when he found him by the back door.
He never sensed the presence of Jack’s vengeful ghost as he worked, but he soon would.
In the back, Vernie James was freezing nicely.

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

THE END

A cloud is a mass of water droplets. But it is also something else – it is an indication of the future. Depending on its colour, we can look at a cloud and come to the conclusion that it will rain.
A cloud becomes a ‘sign’ which produces a response in the human mind. This process is known through the discipline of Semiotics. Signs are all around us. One of the latest is the ‘hoodie,’ and the automatic response that that teenager might be trouble.
Signs exist in the physical environment and are the bedrock of culture. They can vary from the ‘sign’ of the Cross to the automatic loathing of words such as Nazi. Signs have controlled who we are from the moment we became human.
Signs have been realized today in the power of the ‘symbol.’ Political spin and the publicity hungry celebrity culture are classic examples. It is signs like these that fuel the trivia-based lifestyle many people lead today. Yet these are shallow signs with little meaning behind them. Hence, they are fleeting.
Signs are in all areas of life, constantly adjusting our attitude and behaviour. And with their existence it is difficult to accept the idea of the individual. For if the individual is constantly re-modelled by the signs he perceives, how can he be totally his own person?
We believe we are individuals because we have the ‘sign’ that the individual exists. But consider the label on a soup can. It is so fundamental that it makes you salivate. You trust it is telling the true. But it could be a can of worms. Signs, you see, can lie.

© Anthony North, April 2007

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

There are afternoons when the universe has gone round and round, building up destiny to the point where it could burst. Both individuals and a community seem on the point of implosion, when factors come to the fore and all hell breaks lose. But then it turns into a whimper. Perhaps it is the lull before the storm, but that afternoon on the street was the quietest most boring afternoon anyone could remember.
Maybe we can blame human nature. The universe may go round and round, but human nature causes people to go against the flow. They have minds, you see, and minds can demand immediate action or they can be overawed by events, requiring a respite; a time to take stock, to make decisions, to think. But it is another peculiarity of human nature that, when life turns to crisis, we inevitably make the wrong decisions. Maybe we should take longer to think, to take stock. Longer and longer, like, to eternity.
Dale Crawford was thinking of Bobby as the afternoon wore on. The school had rung:
‘Mr Crawford, Bobby didn’t turn up for school today.’
‘Are you surprised,’ said Dale.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was being bullied. He hit back because you failed him. You told him the bad guys always win.’
‘We do not have bullying in this school.’
Dale guessed where Bobby would be. He’d be at the burned out house. He was deeply worried about him, but he was satisfied he was in no danger, and he had to work things out. He’d give him space – at least for a while.

DI Summers was thinking more than most. He had positioned himself in the perfect place to observe the street. He was up a tree, the burned out house to one side, the butcher’s shop next to it, the Old Man’s house at the top of the street and Picasso’s bedsit, Dale Crawford and Vernie James’s houses close by. He had binoculars in his hands and a determination in his heart.
‘We’re going to get to the bottom of this,’ he said.
‘We are.’
‘They think they can mess with me.’
‘They do.’
‘But they’re going to learn their wrong.’
‘They are.’
It was a very clear sign of the coming madness.

Two people on the street were reaching total despair. Both sat, almost comatose, in their respective houses. One was Vernie James. For a while he had held onto the idea of revenge on Dale Crawford. It tasted sweet – for a while. But it is a peculiarity of the supposed confidant man that, when life smacks him in the face, he is more likely to crumple than strive to be a warrior. And so it was with Vernie James.
He hummed a tune as he sat there, unmoved. It was a dirge and it added to his mood.
In another house, Old Man Hollis was humming the same tune. Why, we will never know. Indeed, the two men would never know that they hummed in concert. It is just one of those pointless elements of life with no importance and no reality to each of the men, for they would never know that they hummed the tune in unison. And they were both out of tune.
Whereas Vernie James was withdrawing into his shell, Old Man Hollis, however, was made of different stuff. He had built an empire out of nastiness, and he had no intention of ridding himself of his nastiness now. But frustrations had to be vanquished. His sons, what had happened to his sons? His life, what had happened to his life? People, he knew, would suffer.
‘Do you ever stop being miserable?’ said Rachel as she wandered past the study; saw the Old Man just sat there.
‘Misery is a constant in life,’ he said. ‘That’s why I dish out so much of it.’
‘I can’t take this,’ said Rachel, and stormed out of the house.

DI Summers had stopped talking to himself. He was listening to the conversation close by. The light was beginning to go and Bobby Crawford said: ‘Do you think we’ll see the ghost soon?’
Veronica Dean was sat, cross-legged on the ground, her equipment around her. ‘I don’t know, Bobby, let’s hope so.’
‘Well I hope he isn’t angry again.’
Summers looked forward to seeing the ghost himself. But surveying the street with his binoculars, he knew other things were afoot as well. From one door, Peter Picasso emerged, whilst from another, so did Thadias Grimes. And from the same emerged Dale Crawford and Julia James, going off in separate directions. And as if to compound the tension of the street, another door slammed as Rachel Hollis emerged from her house and stormed up the road.
The suspects were out, mischief was no doubt to be done, and just as Summers was about to take notes, his foot slipped and he fell right out of the tree.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

It was the second time Julia James had gone to the house that day. ‘Don’t go,’ Dale had said, ‘if you’re starting a new life, start it now.’
‘But I’ve got things there; things that I need.’
‘Buy new things. You don’t have to go.’
Frustrations built up. Finally, she screamed: ‘But I do.’
Dale was taken aback. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because … because … I was married a long time. I need to know he’s alright.’
‘So you still care?’
‘No! Not in that way. I don’t want anything bad on my conscience.’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘I know; which proves I was stupid before.’
So now she walked into her old house – her old life – once more.

Dale had left at the same time. It was getting dark and it was time for Bobby to come home. He’d had enough time, he decided. Now it was time to get back to life.
As he approached Jack Thomas’s house, Peter Picasso also walked up. Dale and Peter had never really had a lot to do with each other. Predictably, Dale thought him a bit of a crank. ‘You’re not mixed up in this ghost rubbish as well?’ said Dale.
‘Of course I am. Exciting isn’t it?’
‘It may be alright for grown-ups, but Bobby shouldn’t be involved.’
‘But Dale, it was Bobby who first saw it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you ever talk to your son?’
‘Now wait a minute …’
‘The ghost first manifested in Bobby’s bedroom.’
It was all too much for Dale. ‘Bobby,’ he shouted, ‘time to go home.’
‘But dad …’
‘Now!’

Julia James looked down at the pathetic figure on the settee. Vernie James seemed to have adopted the foetal position as he slept. If you could call it sleep. It was more a troubled respite from wakefulness.
He talked as he laid there, his eyes closed. ‘Oh Julia, I love you, you can’t leave me, you’re my life. I can’t go on without you, don’t you understand that.’
He was oblivious to her presence. She was as ghostly as Jack Thomas, and as she looked around the room, she realized she always had been. Nothing was really hers. The house lacked the feminine touch, as if she was just an accessory to Vernie’s house.
Was THAT supposed to be love? If it was, it was a perverted love. Yet only now did she realize the reality of her past life. Indeed, she realized she couldn’t even call it a life.
Quickly, she gathered together her possessions, then she stood, once more, beside him. Putting her hand to her lips, she kissed it and then placed it on Vernie’s forehead. ‘I think I hate you,’ she said. Then she added: ‘But don’t do anything stupid, Vernie James. I couldn’t have that.’
She left.

Rachel Hollis had already left the street in her mind, but now she left the street physically as well. Indeed, there was always only one thing to do when she had got herself into this mess. She went clubbing.
She would club all night long, would Rachel. She would wear next to nothing and gyrate it seductively and energetically. She was, in effect, an advert to what she could do when she left the club.
Predictably, while she was doing this, a long line of men would come and go, and between gyrations she would interview them. If she found one she wanted, then she would play him as if she was an angler and he the fish. She would pull him close and then let him swim free. And this would go on until she had danced herself to a frenzy. Only when she was right would she catch him. And when that happened, he would have a night to remember.
But she never remembered his name.

While Rachel was getting into her stride, Dale sat exasperated. Julia had just arrived back and realised his mood. Maybe it was time for them to play couples.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
Dale told her about Bobby – the bullying, the stupid school, the even more stupid ghost. She listened patiently, holding his hand, and both she and Dale felt it was right.
‘Anyway,’ said Dale, ‘never mind my problems. What about yours? Did you get your stuff?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Vernie?’
‘I’m worried,’ she said. ‘I think he’s going to do something stupid.’ She sat there a moment, deep in thought. Then she said: ‘Still, enough about me. Do you want me to have a word with Bobby? See if I can ease him a little?’
Dale was overcome by this. ‘Would you?’ he asked, and it felt so good.

Veronica Dean was getting into her stride. ‘You see, Peter,’ she had said, ‘sometimes a ghost needs a helping hand.’ And now the two of them stood in the middle of the devastation, holding hands.
Veronica was nearing trance. ‘Can you hear me, Jack Thomas, I know you’re there. I want to talk to you.’
Peter wasn’t so sure this was a good idea, but he played along nonetheless. After all, it was him who had started it.
Suddenly, the night seemed to get darker. The sceptic among us would mutter something about a cloud passing over the moon, but to Veronica it had begun. ‘Can you see it?’ she said excitedly, pointing into the devastation.
Peter followed her gaze. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Really look,’ she said, ‘he’s beginning to materialize.’
Peter really looked, but he was unsure. But as Veronica’s voice rose in her urgings, there was no mistaking the knockings that suddenly broke out, and soon the angry voices.
Peter stared in disbelief. ‘This is crazy, Veronica,’ he said.
‘Be quiet.’
‘No … no … I can’t. This isn’t right. You’re playing with things you don’t understand.
‘Chicken.’
‘No, Veronica, I’m serious. You’ve got to stop.’
And with those words, Peter Picasso turned tail and ran.

Bobby Crawford’s bedroom was dark but inviting. Julia loved the thought of a child’s room. Maybe it was because she never had one. It was just another accessory Vernie James could do without.
‘Are you awake?’ she whispered, lightly.
‘Yes,’ said Bobby. ‘Who is it?’
Julia came closer. ‘It’s me.’
‘Oh, hello Mrs James.’
‘Call me Julia.’
‘Okay … Julia.’
‘How do you feel, Bobby. Do you feel sad?’
‘A bit.’
‘And do you feel confused?’
‘A bit.’
‘Life can be so silly, can’t it? All those stupid things that happen, and you think what have I done to deserve this.’
‘That’s right.’
Julia knelt by the bed; placed a hand by his. ‘Well you’ve done nothing wrong, Bobby Crawford. It’s the world going stupid, not you.’
They both smiled at each other then, and again Julia felt it was just right.
‘Julia,’ said Bobby, eventually.
‘What my love?’
‘Are you my new mom?’

Veronica Dean was busy communicating with the entity she saw before her. The knockings had eased, and she was sure she had achieved that. She closed her eyes and concentrated and images flashed before her. Whether they were images from Jack Thomas’s ghost or simply her own expectations could be debated for ever. But Veronica was sure she was having success.
Eventually, a new voice entered her mind – an angry voice. ‘What was that?’ she said, urging the voice on.
‘Oh, Julia,’ it said, ‘don’t do this. Come back to me. Please.’
Veronica snapped out of her trance and saw the man banging on a door down the street.
‘Julia, I love you. I can’t live without you.’
Veronica Dean stormed down the street. Tapped him on the shoulder. Said: ‘WILL you shut up. You’re frightening the ghost!’

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

It's the last bumper instalment next week, folks!

I have a fascination for cults. It has nothing to do with a cult itself, but what it can teach us about society. You see, I am convinced that by looking at the extremes of a subject, we can better identify what is normal.
Society seems such a complex subject. Foibles and fads come and go and there seems no rhyme or reason to the process. This is because it is mostly innocuous and quite mild. But look at a society in the extreme and patterns quickly emerge.
Take, for instance, the guru who begins a cult. He can come from various cultural forms, but a study of the guru usually reveals a standard life pattern. He will have been a loner who approached a crisis, and from this crisis he gains determination to follow a path. This turns him into a charismatic, and people become putty in his hands.
This process apes the ‘hero’ of mythology, and even the life pattern of Jesus Christ. It is entrenched in the human psyche. But if you dilute the process, what you actually have is a typical life pattern of the average person. It narrates the confusion of adolescence, the difficulty of choice in early adulthood and the actual career path to success.
It is the same with the disciple who joins a cult. Usually of above average intelligence, he is searching for something. The guru hooks him and shows him a cause, and the person falls in line with the new culture.
This is Mr Average within society. He will fix himself to many ‘cultures’ throughout his life, from following fashion to being an obedient worker. But only by looking at him in the extreme can we see order in the social processes involved.
In effect the cult highlights the leaders and the workers of society, and shows how they interact. When things go wrong, a cult can approach self-annihilation, and in its watered down form, this is the process of social change in society, throwing away an old system and adopting the new.
I watch cults because the abnormal is the extreme of the normal. A cult is a mirror on society itself.

© Anthony North, Mar 2007

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was almost like a happy family. Dale Crawford sat at the end of the table, enjoying his breakfast. For a moment, he felt there wasn’t a problem in the world. To his left sat Bobby. He had recovered from his adventure the previous night. Dale had thought of bringing up the subject, but decided against it. The boy needed less trauma at the moment, not more. Hence, he felt that if he ignored it, his son would be fine.
To his right sat Julia. Intermittently, they held hands, prompting Bobby to declare ‘yuck!’ but they were undeterred. She had stayed the night. It had felt comfortable. It had felt right. But the implications were legion, though Dale had decided to ignore this problem too. He sat contentedly eating a contented breakfast with his contented family and he felt good. He felt perfect. Until Julia destroyed the illusion.
‘I’ve got to see Vernie,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘To tell him it’s over.’
‘Let him works it out for himself.’
‘No, I’ve got to do the right thing.’
‘I’ll tell him for you.’
‘I’m not a coward, Dale.’
‘I know that.’
‘So you understand. I’ve got to do it myself.’

DI Summers felt uncomfortable as he walked down the street, though not as uncomfortable as he should have been. He sported a perfect black eye and dull head. His nose was still sore after waking up in a pool of blood by his pillow.
This did, of course, add new life to his investigation. He had been attacked, and he intended to get to the bottom of it. Indeed, not only had he been attacked, he was sure he had had his drink spiked. And spiking an officer of the law was, to him, a hanging matter.
The butcher’s shop had just opened.
‘You leave my pies alone,’ said Thadias as the detective walked in.
‘I wouldn’t touch your pies.’
‘You’ve got a right shiner there.’
‘And what do you know about it?’
‘Why should I know anything?’
‘You were in the pub last night.’
‘So were you. It’s not a crime.’
‘I’ve got my eye on you.’
Was it him, thought Summers as he walked out. Get him worried. He’ll soon make a mistake if it was him. But deep down he felt it wasn’t Thadias Grimes. He was sure that, if he had attacked him, he would have used his cleaver. Perhaps, he thought, he should get himself armed.

Bobby Crawford left the happy environment of his contented family to go to school. At least, that is what his happy, contented family thought. But Bobby Crawford had other ideas. No way was he going there again. They don’t teach you right, he thought. Okay, they may be alright at history or geography, or English or maths, but when it came to right or wrong, they had no idea. Get bullied and do nothing, that’s right. Get bullied and do something about it, how can THAT be wrong. Surely that is right. But life is a topsy turvy, upside down place for a confused boy of his age.
He had lots to be confused about. First of all, there was his dad’s habit of bringing women back to the house. Well, okay, maybe not women in the sense of lots of them, but there was Rachel Hollis and now Julia James.
He thought about them as he walked down the street. He didn’t like Rachel. She never played with him, never spoke; even ignored him in the street. There wasn’t much in the way of family there, and he was glad they had argued and she might not come again.
Julia James was different. She seemed nice, but she was new in dad’s life. He had known her all his life, but never in this context. Maybe she could be his new mother? He decided he wasn’t averse to the idea, but maybe it was too soon to tell. And anyway, he was back to the right or wrong thing. After all, wasn’t Julia James married? And wasn’t it true that married people only slept with their partner?
Bobby Crawford obviously had a lot to learn about the world.

Dale Crawford left the house soon after Bobby. He kissed Julia goodbye before getting into his taxi. Driving off, he suddenly found himself forced to stop. He was just going up a gear when DI Summers jumped in front of the car. Dale slammed on the brakes, coming to a stop less than an inch from the detective. ‘Are you mad?’ he shouted through his open window.
DI Summers walked casually around the car. ‘Madness, he said, ‘is a matter of opinion.’
‘Well what you just did is mad.’
‘And where were you last night?’
‘You know damned …’ Dale Crawford stopped suddenly. He noticed the black eye, remembered how he got it. He thought fast. ‘Maybe you should tell me where you were?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
Dale smirked. ‘It seems to me you can’t remember.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Were you drinking, inspector?’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘Drinking on duty?’
‘I wasn’t on duty.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Just a minute,’ snapped Summers, ‘I’m the detective here.’
‘Are you?’
‘Now just a minute.’
‘Can’t stop, inspector. People to pick up.’
Dale Crawford drove off. DI Summers was left alone in the middle of the street. A memory flashed through his mind. He saw Dale Crawford, fists raised, an angry look on his face. He saw Dale Crawford wandering about in the night. He suddenly realized he had maybe found his man. But what had he done with Wayne and Duane Hollis?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Once upon a time she had looked at the house from the street and felt right. In those bricks and mortar, her future was encapsulated and it was good.
Julia James was a much younger woman then; newly married – naïve. She had her man – a little older than herself, but that didn’t matter. She was in love and nothing would get in the way of love. Especially not the truth, thought Julia, who, now, saw nothing but bad memories as she looked at the house from the street.
After leaving Dale she had walked round the town trying to decide what to do. When walking failed she had tried café after café. Tea was about to come out of her ears; and when she still didn’t know what to do she thought of a drink of another kind. After all, the pubs were about to open. Yet she banished the thought straight away; which told her very clearly where the straight and narrow was. It was with Dale.
Julia James looked at the house from the street and knew she had to confront Vernie now. She knew she had to end it. She knew she had no other choice.

‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
Veronica Dean had emerged from a pile of rubble by the side of Jack Thomas’s house. The boy was just sat there on a ruined wall.
Bobby looked up and said: ‘I’ve given it up.’
Veronica smacked dust from her shoulder; sat down beside him. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because they teach you all wrong.’
‘Schools can be like that.’
A silence followed. Bobby eventually broke it when he said: ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m waiting for something.’
‘Waiting for what?’
‘I think you’re too young to know.’
‘Oh, you mean Jack’s ghost.’
‘And what do you know about that?’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘You have?’
‘Oh yes, many times. He was my friend.’ A sadness came to him. ‘But he’s got angry with me. I don’t think he’s my friend any more.’
Veronica was all ears. ‘And why is that?’
Bobby told her of the previous night; of the change in the face, the knockings, the angry voices. And Veronica was both excited and annoyed – excited that the ghost seemed to be manifesting more, and annoyed because she hadn’t been there last night. It was an error she would not make again.

Julia James mated the key with the lock, opened the door and walked in. She planned only to retrieve some things because Vernie was bound to be out. Hence, she received a shock when she walked in the living room and found him there.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
Julia looked at him, noticed the changes. What had happened to the old Vernie? He looked such a wreck. Could she have caused this?
‘You look a mess,’ she said.
‘What do you expect?’
‘So what brought this on?’
‘You and Dale Crawford.’
‘So you’ve heard then.’
‘I have.’
A second’s guilt crossed Julia’s mind. ‘Well what did you expect? Did you honestly think you could treat me like this forever?’
Vernie James went down on his knees. Tears threatened to erupt. ‘Don’t do it Julia. He’s no good for you. Come back to me.’
Julia was taken aback by the outburst. ‘What do you care?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t love me. You can’t. Not when you treat me as you have.’
‘But I do love you,’ he said. ‘You are my life.’
Julia thought of the beatings, the arguments, the other women. ‘You really expect me to believe that?’
‘But it’s true. Oh, Julia, you can’t leave me. You’ve got to come home. I’ll change, I promise.’
Julia suddenly felt nauseous. She looked at him and had to get out. He couldn’t possibly love her; and even if he did, it was too late. Julia James left the house. Outside, she looked back from the street. She knew her new life had now begun.

Rachel Hollis looked out of the window and saw Julia James depart from the house. She didn’t know what Julia was thinking, but she could guess. A new life just begun, she thought, lucky cow.
Her own thoughts were very different. Her life was a mess, and showed no signs of changing. Why couldn’t she have a new life? Why did things always have to go wrong for her? What was wrong with her?
She had wealth, she had looks, she had the body and she had the stamina. She should have been able to get anything she wanted. But time after time it all came to nothing, and she was fed up of it all. But who could she blame?
Rachel Hollis had not been born like this. Her parents considered her a beautiful baby, and as a toddler she seemed to have not a care in the world. It was later that it changed; that HE changed her.
Rachel had few memories of the time; indeed, she had few memories of her childhood at all. And when her parents died she had become bitter of life. Maybe that was because of him. But she had become philosophical about it. Life throws shit at you so you throw shit back at life.
Rachel Hollis could have been such a beautiful girl. But she wasn’t. And now she stood on a crossroads like Julia James; except Julia had decided on her direction. Rachel, as yet, had not.

Vernie James had partially recovered from the outburst. He had wiped his eyes and straightened his tie, and a new mood seemed to be taking him over. Maybe it was inevitable that when a point of despair comes, you rally yourself to attempt to survive. And there was no better way to rally yourself than to focus on hate. And at that moment, Vernie James hated Dale Crawford more than life itself.
His thoughts on the matter were disturbed by the ringing of the doorbell. Slowly, he made his way to the door and opened it.
‘Can I come in?’ said Rachel as she stood there.
Once was the time when Vernie would have begun salivating and taken her up to his room. But now he simply said: ‘What do you want?’
‘That’s not a nice way to treat a beautiful lady.’
‘You’re beautiful,’ said Vernie, ‘I’ll grant you that.’
Not to be put off by insult, Rachel walked into the house. ‘I understand you’ve got problems,’ she said.
‘And what has that to do with you?’
‘I’m only trying to help.’ She took off her coat.
‘Planning on staying are you?’
She unbuttoned her blouse. ‘If you want me to.’
Vernie stood there and stared. ‘Don’t go any further you little tart. I’m not interested.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘You heard what I said.’
‘But Vernie James is always interested.’
‘Not any more,’ he said as he picked up her coat, threw it at her and saw her to the door.
Rachel turned to face him on the doorstep. She felt insulted. Was she losing her touch? ‘Why?’ she asked.
Vernie attempted a smile. ‘Don’t worry, babe. It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ve got someone to destroy.’
‘You mean Dale Crawford,’ she said, interested.
‘That’s right.’
‘And how are you going to do that?’
‘Tell him the truth.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘That I’m Bobby’s father, for a start.’
Rachel Hollis suddenly realized that life could still be interesting, even when you think you’ve come to the end of yours.

(c) Anthony North, December 2007

The penultimate instalment next week, folks.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Life seemed to be getting worse for Thadias Grimes by the minute. Not only did he fear for his life and livelihood, but now he could not rely on officialdom to save him. What was happening to the police that they send someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown to handle such a delicate case? And then there was the fact that, with a volatile policeman not concentrating on the evidence laid before him, he may stumble on other things that had nothing to do with him.
Thadias thought about this as he served the only person to come into the shop in the last hour. And yes, that was because of the rumours, he knew. That damned boy, thought Thadias. And that sent him back in time, to when he was nothing but a boy himself, his mind drifting over the years of his life to the time when his life turned. He remembered the salt air, the crashing waves, the birds circling above, the smell of fuel still upon him as he dived from the sinking ship. He, and three others who had made it to the boat …

Vernie James was also thinking deeply. His smart suit seemed somehow crumpled, his tie askew. His hair, usually so perfect, looked disheveled, and his whole demeanour seemed to sag. Even that superior look upon his face was vanishing.
He was sat in the pub, alone. Indeed, the whole place looked like a morgue at that time of day, and this felt right. It echoed his mood.
He ordered another whisky. Looked at it for several moments. Threw it back. And another …
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ offered the barman.
‘Don’t you think you should mind your own business?’
‘Out.’
The street moved as he left the pub, headed for home. As he passed Dale Crawford’s house, he stopped, felt like knocking on the door and then beating him to pulp. But he was sober enough – or cowardly enough – to realize it would be he who got beaten. Hence, he carried on his journey home. Home. Ha! He thought. No more; not no more.

Dale Crawford had been stood by the bedroom window as Vernie had passed. ‘Your husband is outside,’ he said. ‘And he looks worse for wear.’
‘Don’t spoil it,’ said Julia, lying naked in Dale’s bed. ‘I don’t want to think about him.’
‘But I’ve never seen him like that,’ said Dale. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was drunk.’
‘Oh good,’ said Julia, ‘he might get run over by a car.’
Dale immediately turned to her, annoyed. But Julia had realized at the same moment the tactlessness of what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry, Dale. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t think about what happened to your wife. Please forgive me.’
Dale was in a forgiving mood. He sat by the bed, placed a hand on her cheek, stroked her. Julia lay back once more. ‘Show me you forgive me,’ she said.
Dale was about to oblige when his mobile rang.
‘Ignore it,’ said Julia.
Dale picked it up, looked who was calling. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s Bobby’s school. It might be important.
Julia sighed and he answered it. She saw his face harden, his voice change.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll be right there.’
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Julia.
‘It’s Bobby. He’s got himself in trouble.’

Thadias Grimes was no longer in his shop. He was back on the high seas, experiencing those days after the ship went down. The sun beat on his face and the hunger and thirst bit into his body. He was certain he was going to die. There were four of them and they all thought they were going to die. They were way off normal shipping routes, and a problem with the radio on the tramp steamer meant no message had gotten out. A search wouldn’t even be made until they failed to turn up at port.
All four of them thought they would die. But as it turned out, only one did. They stared at the body for a long time. They discussed throwing it overboard before it began to smell, but one of them had another idea. They felt revolted by the thought, but they didn’t throw that body overboard. Not straight away. They just continued to stare, juices beginning to tempt them in their mouths.
They threw the body overboard – in the end. What was left of it. After they had gorged.
And they were rescued the following day.

Vernie James continued his drinking once he got home. He sat there, an open bottle of whisky to his front. Eventually, his mobile rang. ‘Yes,’ he said.
It was his date for that night, checking he would be there on time. Only recently, the call would have been important. But now he stared incredulously at the mobile. Finally, he said ‘get lost’ and threw the mobile to the floor.
He thought of Julia then. ‘Oh Julia!’ he wailed. ‘How could you? How could you do this to me?’
He cried.
He cried for a long time, and the Vernie who emerged was even more of a wreck. But he was a vindictive wreck. He thought of Dale Crawford then, and a sneer captured his face. He thought of Dale Crawford and it hurt. He thought of Dale Crawford and his own mind went back over the years. He remembered his secret. A secret that would destroy Dale bloody Crawford. And he intended to destroy him for sure.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The world can be a confusing place at the best of times. But when you’re a little boy, and things you were told to do got you into trouble, then the world gets more confusing by the minute.
Bobby Crawford still smarted from the telling off he had received from the Head. ‘I will not have bullying in this school …’
‘But …’
‘It is despicable and I take it very seriously …’
‘But …’
‘I’ve never had bullying before …’
‘But …’
‘And I’m going to tell your father …’
‘But …’
‘And it is no use crying …’
‘But …’

Father had tried his best. ‘He’s been bullied for ages and seeing you wouldn’t do anything about it, I told him to stick up for himself.’
‘Parents will obviously believe all sorts …’
‘But …’
‘It really is irresponsible of you …’
‘But …’
‘You’ve got your son into serious trouble …’
‘But …’
‘I’m thinking of suspending you…’
‘But …’
‘Now get out of my sight …’
‘But …’
‘Go home!’

‘I could have killed him,’ said Dale as he arrived home with Bobby.
Julia had remained at Dale’s house. She didn’t really want to go home. She felt she already was at home. ‘You can’t think that of your son,’ she said.
‘Not him,’ said Dale, ‘the Head.’
Bobby had gone to his room. ‘I only did as you said,’ he had said as they arrived home.
‘I know you did, Bobby.’ He stroked his head. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’
‘But it isn’t fair.’
‘I know. Life often isn’t fair.’ But Dale thought Bobby had taken too much unfairness for one so young.

DI Summers was sat in the pub, a large whisky in front of him. Close by, Thadias Grimes and Peter Picasso were enjoying a drink. Summers strained his ears wanting to hear what they were saying, but he failed. I bet they think I’m a fool, he thought. I bet they think I’m incompetent and a failure.
The reader may have surmised from this that DI Summers was not acting as a detective should. And this is quite true. He was not on the case, for paranoia follows the first hints of a breakdown. And the obvious thoughts came to him at this point.
Do they like me?
Thadias Grimes and Peter Picasso got the wrong end of the stick, however.
‘He keeps looking at us,’ said Thadias.
‘I know,’ replied Peter.
‘He thinks I dunnit.’
‘No, he thinks I dunnit.’
‘Well I’m not staying here to be stared at like that.’
As they left the pub, Summers looked sad. He half waved as they left. Then he ordered another whisky, destination oblivion.

‘I really must go home,’ said Julia James as she nestled her head on Dale’s lap.
‘You don’t have to,’ replied Dale.
‘Alright, I won’t,’ she confirmed.
The whole situation was becoming cosy. Julia had forgotten what such things felt like – to feel wanted, to feel loved, to have companionship. Dale, too, had missed it, but for different reasons. He had had other girls other than Rachel since his wife died, but they only seemed like distractions. It was as if he needed to satisfy his physical urges, but emotions were a no-go area. Until now. Until Julia. Suddenly the world made sense again, and it was all so comfortable.
But the universe goes round and round, and the Cosmic Joker is forever ready to destroy moments like this. And the present moment was destroyed when Dale Crawford decided to go upstairs to check on Bobby. Moments later, he came running down stairs. ‘He’s not there,’ he said, ‘I think he’s run off.’

Bobby Crawford had indeed run off, but not too far. ‘Are you there, Jack’s ghost,’ he said as he stood amid the devastation of Jack Thomas’s house. ‘You never came to me tonight, and I want to talk to you. I have “problems” and dad can’t help me. He’s part of the trouble. He told me to do it – he did. And I did what dad said, and I got into trouble for it, and it’s not fair …’
The shadows seemed to congregate around him as he stood there in the dark. Then, suddenly, a faint light appeared, and as Bobby Crawford stared at it, it brightened, and before he knew what was happening, Jack’s face began to form, and it smiled …

Dale Crawford was frantic. He and Julia ran up and down the street shouting for Bobby. A comatose Vernie James heard the commotion and looked out the window, saw Dale, saw Julia, and guessed what they had been doing. A festering wound was opening in his mind and it wouldn’t be sated.
‘Bobby,’ Dale screamed as he checked the street, turned the corner and widened his search. As he did so, he saw a figure wobbling up as if to pass him. Dale recognized the detective. He ran over: ‘My son, he’s gone missing.’
‘We all have our problems,’ said DI Summers.
‘You what?’
‘Have you tried looking for him?’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’
‘Well I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.’
‘Do your job.’
‘I’ll call a news conference. Get the media here, pronto. You can say what a good boy he is. They always say that. But good boys don’t disappear. Don’t you realize that? He MUST have done something. Everybody’s done something. What have you done? Should I arrest you? You’re causing a public nuisance, hollering like that in the middle of the night.’

Bobby stared at Jack’s face, and as he did so, noises filtered to his mind. He could hear knockings and disembodied voices – angry voices, and as he heard them, he saw Jack’s face begin to change and he no longer felt comfortable with the face, and suddenly he felt frightened and didn’t want to be there, and the knockings and the voices got louder and he felt the door of hell had been opened and Bobby Crawford began to run …

Dale’s hand hurt after hitting the detective, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do, but still he searched, shouting, ‘Bobby, Bobby,’ as he searched. Suddenly, through the haze of fear, he heard a sound. ‘Daddy,’ he heard as he turned back into the street, and from the ruins of Jack Thomas’s house he saw the slight figure run.
Dale raced over and hugged his son. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘With Jack,’ said Bobby.
‘But he’s dead.’
‘With his ghost. I talk to his ghost, but not no more. He got angry tonight and I was frightened.’
Things got too much for Bobby Crawford then and he passed out. Dale picked him up and carried him home.
Meanwhile, down the street, DI Summers had begun his investigation of the missing boy. ‘Are you in there, Grimes,’ he said as he banged the door. ‘I want to talk to you. You’ve got the boy. And you’ve put him in your bloody pies.’

(c) Anthony North, December 2007

History, in its widest form, is the study of the rise and fall of civilizations. A historian will pick a particular civilization and find all the requirements for its rise and destruction within itself. But when you take a cursory look at all civilizations, a simple fact emerges.
The reasons for a particular civilization’s rise and fall become identical to the reasons for all the others. Okay, the actual ‘culture’ of a particular civilization may differ from the others. It may ‘appear’ that the reasons are different. But when you look under the culture, they are not.
A new civilization – or a new way of engaging an existing society in a new idea – usually begins with a form of revolution. It can be a bloody affair, such as violent overthrow, or a more subtle ideal, such as the emerging youth culture from the 1950s onwards. But the simple overriding element of all such revolution is sensationalism.
In effect, for a revolution to succeed it must be extreme. This is how it hits the failing culture in the face and overthrows it. But in the extremeness of the new civilization that arises, we find the seed of its eventual downfall.
In being extreme, it is upheld by a tiny percentage of a population who can identify fully with it. For the rest of the population, its extremeness can only be negativity. And due to this, a frustration builds in the population that eventually forces the old system out and the new revolution in – and a new cycle of extremeness begins.
We can see here a repetitive cycle of extreme ideas leading to extreme societies and a guarantee of continual overthrow and frustration. We could say this is the sad lot of the human race. Yet without those frustrations would human society have evolved in the first place?
Perhaps frustration is the driving force of social evolution.

© Anthony North, Mar 2007