Ashes Of Time

By Fagan StCyr

An eclectic collection of short stories by two of Britain's best writers, Vivienne Fagan and Jonathon St.Cyr. As Fagan says 'this is a 'dippy' book'. You can dip in and out of it as you commute or just need a quick read, or there are longer stories that engross as well as entertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StreetWise Publications
• Release date: Oct 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465992321

Book preview

Foreword

I love short stories. In fact, since I started to feature the short stories of new and emerging writers on my ‘Dangerous Ideas’ website I have found that a lot of the reading public enjoy the genre also.

Before television, videos and the internet, entertainment came in the form of reading or listening to the radio. People would read magazines that featured short stories, or even books that gave a collection from one author or a wider selection of writers. Modern media killed off the short story to a great extent but it is making a comeback as people once again discover the delights of disappearing into another world, if only for a few thousand words.

‘Ashes Of Time’ is a collection of some superb stories from two very talented writers. Both served their country for decades in the military and later Civil Service and somehow emerged more or less unscathed and with a plethora of stories to share. As well as the short and sweet ‘Drabble’ or ‘Flash Fiction’, there are a couple of longer pieces that really showcase each writer’s talent.

Sit back and enjoy ‘Ashes Of Time’, either story by story or all at once… that’s the beauty of the beast.

Perry Gamsby MA(Writing)

Editor & Publisher

StreetWise Publications

FAGAN

Vivienne Fagan

Preface

This is a ‘dippy’ collection of short stories. It’s a book which can be dipped into, picked up and put down as the whim, or the time of the reader, dictates. A handy little book for commuting. Not enough time for a whole story between stations? Well then, read one of the drabbles, they are only half a page long. Time for a cup of coffee? In that case Beetle Drive or The Spirit of Vengeance would be an apt companion.

I’ve always enjoyed reading and being able to lose myself in a different place, or a different time, and now I’ve taken that a step further by creating my own characters and setting them in relatively interesting situations. I’ve tried to breathe life into them, making them human and believable with bad characteristics as well as good points.

I sent my first tentative scribblings to Perry Gamsby for some constructive, and at times, well deserved brutal criticism. I’ve built on the basics, on life experiences and by using my ever fertile imagination to cross boundaries and time constrictions to produce stories to share with other prolific readers. And through Streetwise Publications, my modest offerings will, I hope, chill you, make you laugh, and perhaps make you think, to wonder what if?

Vivienne Fagan

London, September2011

Beetle Drive

Prologue

Bobby Reynolds turned from the sink and rubbed his fingers over the towel leaving grubby marks on its surface. He looked at his grandmother who was busy ladling out spoonfuls of rich beef casserole.

There’s an alien spaceship in the orchard, Gran he said.

That’s nice dear, replied his Grandmother abstractedly, Go and fetch your sister, Bobby.

Twelve year old Bobby sighed and went in search of his younger sister. He found her in the front parlour, engrossed in a book.

Gran’s done dinner, Sue, he told her, come on, she’ll be cross if you mess about.

Susan closed her book with a bang and followed her brother to the table.

I tried to see if there was a spaceman in the spaceship but it went into the ground too fast, Bobby continued his conversation with his Grandmother as if he had never left the room.

Did not, retorted Susan, Mum said you weren’t to make up stories.

Mum’s not here, and I’m not.

Children do stop bickering at the table, ordered Gran, you’re supposed to be having a nice holiday while your parents are in Egypt.

I wanted to go to Egypt, I wanted to see those pyramid thingies and ride on a camel said Bobby wistfully.

Well Mum and Dad thought it was too hot for you two, and anyway it will do them good to have some time on their own. Grown ups like that you know.

Silence ensued as the trio tucked into beef casserole and ate the crusty bread Gran had made earlier that day.

Bobby thought about the space ship. He had been crouching amongst the apple trees playing soldiers with his action man when he’d heard a whooshing sound, there had been a flash of bright light and something had buried itself in the clearing just behind the orchard. Bobby had caught a glimpse of a dark round shape before it sank under the ground. Maybe he would go out later and look.

Gran had other ideas though, and by the time his Grandfather arrived home from his late shift at Kwik-Décor, the local DIY store, Bobby was bathed and in his pyjamas playing a space invaders game on the computer.

You’ll have to have a word with Bobby, said Mrs Reynolds as she dished out casserole to her husband, he’s got such a vivid imagination. It’s a spaceship in the orchard now if you please. I don’t want him frightening Susan.

Susan never has her head out of a book long enough to get frightened, laughed George Reynolds, don’t worry Margaret, remember his Dad was much the same at his age.

Next morning however, George invited Bobby to stroll down to the orchard with him.

Now young man, where’s this space craft of yours, he asked.

Bobby pointed to a small scrap of ground with a couple of scorch marks. There was a slight indentation and a bare patch where some soil had been thrown up.

Just there, it was quite small Grandpa, about so big, Bobby held his hands about three feet apart.

George Reynolds stirred the ground with the toe of his boot.

Looks to me like someone has tried to light a small fire here, he remarked, but if the spaceship was that small Bob, I doubt the aliens will be much trouble to us.

Maybe they come from a small planet, suggested Bobby, I mean Jupiter’s a lot bigger than us isn’t it, so if there were people there, happen they would be bigger than us? If you could have people there I mean.

Sort of Lilliputians you mean? asked George, laughing. "With mini death rays? It’s a neat idea Bobby, just do me a favour and don’t worry your grandmother with your tales will you?

Bobby grinned and promised. He adored both his grandparents.

Can I just dig a hole though, Grandpa, he asked just a little one, just to see if there is anything there?

Well don’t make too much of a mess, and clean the spade once you’ve finished, replied his grandfather. He reckoned that a morning spent digging would soon cure Bobby of his ideas of an alien invasion.

Mr Reynolds settled down in a deck chair in the back garden and picked up his newspaper. He didn’t have a shift today and intended to spend a lazy day with his grandchildren. Susan came out and sat on the ground next to him, nose in a story book as usual. Mrs Reynolds was busy in the kitchen, and presently the smell of baking drifted through the window.

Bobby was diligently digging away in the centre of the clearing next to the scorch marks. It was tiring work although the ground wasn’t particularly hard, and he was soon hot and thirsty. Suddenly his spade struck something. His tummy flipped. Maybe it was just a root, but the apple trees weren‘t that close. He knelt on the ground and used his hands to scoop up the dirt. He could see something black. He touched it with his finger. It was hard but gave ever so slightly. Bobby didn’t feel tired any more. He desperately wanted to uncover this thing, to see what it was.

It was round. It was black. There was a metal rim around the middle. Could it be a mini flying saucer? Bobby dug more frantically, and soon his efforts were rewarded. He sat back on his haunches and his shoulders slumped in frustration. It was a wheel. An ordinary round wheel with a rubber tyre, and some sort of fixing in the centre. Disappointed, Bobby hauled it up and laid it on the ground. It had symbols on the side. He rubbed the dirt away, Condor part number 272 was printed in raised but worn characters on the rubber. English, not an alien script. Bobby had seen enough to know that this artefact came from Earth. He had no idea how a wheel came to be buried so close to the orchard, but it definitely wasn’t extraterrestrial.

Disgruntled, Bobby wiped soil off the spade and carried it back to the tool shed.

Mr Reynolds glanced across at him,

Found anything interesting? he asked.

Just a wheel, replied Bobby.

Susan snorted.

Was it a Martian one? she asked.

Probably Cessna, suggested Mr Reynolds, holding up the local paper, it says here a plane lost its front wheel and belly flopped along the runway on landing yesterday. The pilot is safe, thankfully, although the plane is apparently a bit of a mess, and they‘ve closed the airfield for a couple of days.

You can always take the wheel over to the airfield when it opens again, Bob, laughed Susan, happen you’ll get a reward for returning it!

Bobby gave her a baleful look and went indoors in search of freshly baked scones.

Down in the clearing behind the orchard, several small large eyed mottled grey creatures crawled out of Bobby’s hole and gazed around at the giant alien planet onto which they had so ominously crash landed…….

Aftermath

I need to get this written down while I still can. I don’t know who, or what will come here next. Hopefully the human race will survive, and these jottings will make sense to someone.

Where to start? My name I suppose. I’m Gillian Baxter, I’m thirty two years old and I’m a Police Officer. I used to be based in Manchester, but I had a terrific blow up with my Superintendent over the rough treatment of a special needs man who had been brought into the Station. Looking back, I reckon I went way beyond insubordination, but that‘s me, I can‘t stand unfairness.

Well, you don’t get any lower than police constable, so they couldn’t demote me, instead they transferred me out to Milton Parva, a remote village in the northwest, close to where the moors meet the sea. There are several smaller hamlets around Milton Parva, but the Police House is situated in this main village, not too far from the pub and the church. There was already an incumbent in situ, Sergeant Alfred Cummings, a man with a couple of years to go before the statutory retirement age, widowed, curmudgeonly but content enough to police an area where the greatest crime seemed to be the occasional spot of poaching.

I moved into a spare room in the Police House, and after the initial nine days’ wonder of having a female police officer patrolling the place, the days rapidly merged into a dull routine.

My bedroom was dreary and uninspiring. It looked as if it had last been decorated sometime in the late eighties. I’d discovered that there was a DIY warehouse about fifteen miles away, on the outskirts of town. The public transport service in Milton Parva was such that the bus went to town on two days a week, Wednesday and Saturday. I hadn’t got round to buying myself my own car yet, I relied on my trusty bike to get me around locally and keep me fit, and I had no illusions about Alf’s reaction if I were to borrow the police car to do my shopping. Even indoors I had to call him Sarge. A thirty mile round trip wasn’t beyond my capabilities, but not with rolls of wallpaper or cans of paint dangling from my handlebars.

So one Wednesday I queued up with the trusty matrons of Milton Parva and after a long meandering journey through the neighbouring hamlets, I was dropped off outside the front entrance of the Kwik-Décor warehouse. It wasn’t a particularly big warehouse as they go, but I found patterned teal coloured wallpaper which would be ideal for a feature wall. I was havering between two colours for painting the other three walls when one of the elderly assistants came up to stack some paint tins.

We started chatting as you do, and I showed him the wallpaper I’d chosen.

Well, what about this parchment shade, he said, opening the paint guide at the neutrals page, it’ll pick up the pattern in those swirls, he pointed at the wallpaper, and being light, it’ll make your room look much larger.

I could do with it being larger, I agreed, looking at his name plate. It had George Reynolds written across it, I hadn’t considered that sort of colour, Mr Reynolds…

George, please.

I smiled, George. But I can see what you mean. If I use turquoise it’s going to be oppressive. You’ve got a good eye.

I used to work in a furniture shop before I retired, they had an upmarket interior design section there too. I think some of it must have rubbed off.

He looked round at the shelves in the warehouse,

This gives me an interest, a reason for getting up in the morning, and a few extra quid so me and the wife can live a little more comfortably.

I thanked him for his help, and hauled my purchases back to the bus stop and thence onto Milton Parva.

It must have been about six months later when I next heard of George Reynolds. I was relaxing in my room, now a calm tranquil oasis in the house, when Alf yelled up the stairs,

Baxter!

He never called me Gill, not even Gillian, occasionally Constable, but usually Baxter. At first it had irritated the hell out of me, now I scarcely noticed.

Coming Sarge.

Take the car and drive over to Milton-by-the-Stone, he said, we’ve had a call saying that some chap hasn’t turned up for his shift at Kwik-Décor for a couple of days. Elderly, but reliable, and his boss is a bit concerned. He’s tried ringing, but no-one’s answering. His wife should be there, and they’ve got a couple of grandchildren staying there as well, for the school holidays.

I reached for the car keys.

Name of Reynolds, George Reynolds, added Sergeant Cummings, looking at his notes.

It gave me a start. Surely that name was familiar. A moment’s thought then I remembered, that cheerful, helpful man at the warehouse.

All the villages near to Milton Parva radiated out in a half circle with Parva as the centre point. To the west they were bounded by the sea, to the east by tracts of moor land. Milton-by-the-Stone was on the north western point, about a mile or so inland from the coast, not too far from a small airfield which had been temporarily closed down following a recent accident there.

It was a pleasant drive. It was a glorious, hot summer day. The gorse was in full bloom and glowed bright yellow along the lanes, while heather added a lilac tinge to the view. I had the side window open, and birdsong filled the air. I’d removed my uniform hat, and the breeze rippled through my hair.

The birdsong disappeared when I arrived at Milton-by-the Stone, not so much a village as a tiny hamlet. I drove past its pretty name sign and into the centre, parking on the green by a small duck pond. The place was deserted. And I was struck by the sudden silence. Where were the birds? It was eerie. I checked the sat nav. The Reynolds cottage was on the far side of the hamlet, no more than two minutes away.

I drew up outside the gate, retrieved my hat and put on my official face. It was a chocolate box cottage, built of mellow stone, with a dark tiled roof, and the obligatory roses clustered round the front door. A pretty cottage garden, filled with colourful flowers, spilled towards the front gate. My breath caught at the loveliness, and the tranquility of it all.

There was a brass knocker on the front door, in the shape of a fox’s head. I hammered away enthusiastically at the wooden boards. Zilch. I bent down and looked through the letterbox. Emptiness. I put my mouth to the box and shouted Mr Reynolds, Mrs Reynolds? Nothing.

I left the front door and walked around to the back garden, and into the nightmare.

I spotted the young girl first, lying next to a deckchair. I knew she had to be dead as soon as I saw her, that greenish pallor, and the stillness. I touched her wrist, she was icy cold. My eyes travelled across her face. Her mouth was stuffed with newspaper, she must have choked and died from asphyxiation. Faint bruises on her cheeks showed where someone had held a hand over her mouth. What had they done, shoved wads of paper down her throat and held her mouth and nose closed until she died? A wave of revulsion went over me. A story book lay near her, pages rippling in the slight breeze. I stood up and went inside the cottage through the open back door. An elderly woman was sprawled over the sink, her face immersed in a bowl of water which still contained the debris of the washing up.

I drew my baton, and my torch, it was dark inside the house, and searched through all the rooms. Nothing. From the window of a back bedroom I could see something sprawled across a flower bed at the end of the garden. I made my way down there, glancing all around me as I walked tentatively across the lawn. I found the body of a small boy, about twelve years old,