A Brief Tour Around My Head (2nd Edition)

By Steve Hewitt

A collection of short stories in a variety of genres; many with a twist or surprise ending. They range in length from around 700 to over 6,000 words and cover a variety of genres, including fantasy, horror, sci-fi, thriller and comedy, as well as observational pieces on the 'human condition'. Ideal for coffee breaks, with a night-cap or the commute to work!. Revised from the original publication and now containing the first chapter of a new full-length dark fantasy novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Hewitt
• Release date: Apr 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301978441

Steve Hewitt

Steve Hewitt hails from Chesterfield, Derbyshire, England. Born in the 1950s, he grew up with a love of reading and an interest in science fiction inspired by his paternal grandfather. After studying economics at Nottingham University and health economics at York University, he embarked on a brief career as an academic, just as the UK Government ended the university tenure system. He next tried his hand at working for the NHS but soon realised that although it wanted to employ a health economist it didn’t want to use this particular skill-set. Tiring of the politician’s fondness for endless and largely pointless tinkering with the health service, he joined the national education department as an analyst, specialising in international comparisons. Out of the frying pan ... In 2005 he married Anne and, through her, met a friend who turned out to be a budding author. On announcing – as you do – that he’d always fancied having a go at writing a book, Steve was stunned when this new friend responded with ‘What’s stopping you?’ A little later he joined a writing group to begin learning the basic skills of producing a story. In 2013 Steve grasped an opportunity to take early retirement so that he could concentrate on writing, walking his dog and doing up his house – not necessarily in that order. He now spends his time writing, tracing claimants to unclaimed estates, walking his dog and entertaining his granddaughter – again, not necessarily in that order.

Book preview

A Brief Tour Around My Head…

A Collection of Short Stories (Volume 1)

By Steve Hewitt

Published by Steve Hewitt at Smashwords

Second Edition

Copyright 2018 Steve Hewitt

Smashwords 2nd Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

A Fresh Start

A Sense of Justice

A Teeny Bit of Wisdom

All Good Things…

Another day at the Office

Awakening

Better the Devil…

Blast from the Past

Broken

Circus

Dead End

Dead Fish

Dear Diary

Empty Ness

Empty Space

Escape from Life

14.2

Holiday Surprise

Into the Light

It Wasn't Me

It Wasn't Meant to be Like This

Man of Destiny

Mayhem Manor

Mr. Fusspot

P14578

Prodigal Sun

Safe as Houses

Sometimes It's Better to Forget

Sure Thing

The Bigger They Are

The Curious Tale of Rufus Norton

The Happiness Solution

The Plot (Now Grown)

The Price of Loyalty

The Tangled Web

The Target

The Truth Will Come Out

To Catch a Spy…

TRI

Waste Not

Where There's a Will

About the author

A request from the author

Bonus Material

Preface

After 5 years I thought it might be useful to revisit and re-edit some of the stories contained in this book. So here goes with the second edition ...

It's traditional to begin with some brief thanks and acknowledgements to those who have helped, in some way, to create this book. And who am I to break with tradition? So, here goes ….

Let me begin with a big thank-you to Paul Kane and to my other friends and fellow scribes in the much missed Wingerworth Wordsmiths. Your continuing support, encouragement, advice and constructive criticism were much appreciated.

A special mention to Phil Foster – for getting me started!

Richard Duszczak at Cartoon Studio Ltd produced the excellent cover.

Rachel Barker, Nicki Farmery, Jon Price and Nicola Tickner took the time to read some early drafts. Thanks folks for the useful comments and suggestions.

And last – but never least – a giant thank-you to Anne, my long-suffering wife; for being there and encouraging me to keep trying. The next book will be for you, sweetheart.

For Stacey

A Fresh Start

See how the ritual draws to a predetermined end. Observe, but don't get too close, as the cheap wooden box is lowered – carefully, if a little unsteady – into the freshly dug hole. It will slowly rot there, its once precious contents turning inexorably into a heap of bones, nestling in a small pile of dust.

Watch, as the frail old widow throws a handful of dirt, and a solitary white rose, onto the box. Sense her fragility, and take note of her appropriate display of distress. Will anyone else notice how she struggles to force tears into cataract-addled eyes?

He wasn't a popular man in life, judging from the pitifully small band of mourners dressed alike in regulation black. Except for Stella, of course. Only she could turn up looking like an overblown poppy, her cheap jewellery flashing in the weak, autumnal sunlight. The priest frowns upon first seeing her ample cleavage, but refrains from voicing his disapproval of her disrespectful attire. Only the youngest nephew notes how frequently the priest's eyes dart back for a further look at the sun-tanned flesh. It seems that even men of the cloth are not entirely immune from temptation. This thought amuses the nephew enough to provide an antidote to his antipathy for his present circumstances. He despised the old man and is here purely for the sake of his long-suffering aunt.

Hark as the priest mutters a few phrases in an ancient and almost dead language before the unctuous cleric turns to offer unsolicited comfort to the old woman. Listen, as other witnesses take turns to ape his clumsy efforts. Try, if you will, to catch the predictable fragments of their speech.

'… so sorry for your loss …'

'…if there's anything I can do …'

'…try to be brave …'

The old woman bears these tired platitudes with a patience honed by years of practice. After five decades of marriage, she is well versed in feigning interest in the inane offerings of others, no matter how well intentioned they might be. Stella reaches the front of the line and offers her own unwanted sympathy, adding, 'He was such a lovely man. What will you do without him?'

The widow ponders this, inwardly marvelling that anyone could describe Ernest as 'lovely'. She gathers her wits and replies, 'Oh, I expect I'll manage. He was ill for a long time, so it's not as if losing him came as an unexpected shock.' More like a long overdue release, she thinks to herself. Stella is about to say something else when, mercifully, the old woman is rescued from further irritation by her nephew.

He pulls the annoying woman away, with a cheery, 'Aunt Stella, it's so good of you to come all this way for Uncle Ernest.' The perceptive young man steers her away, looking back only to give his aunt the briefest of winks. He's such a nice young man, she thinks – she's always had a soft spot for Jake.

Now, consider the driver, impatient to complete his allotted task, as he edges towards the group in a large, black car. At his tender age, he lacks the experience required to feel any empathy with funereal emotion. Perhaps fate will change this, before he is summoned to make a guest appearance at his own farewell?

Come with me and change your location, dear observer, to the home of the late, but largely unlamented Ernest. Do you hear the distant murmur of quiet conversations? Does it remind you of bees harvesting pollen? Or is it more akin to harsher sound of wasps trapped in an attic? The widow fusses round her guests, offering plates piled high with cucumber and salmon sandwiches, bite-size sausage rolls and the ever popular, if unnatural alliance, of pineapple and cheese on a stick. Her guests wash it all down with tea, orange juice, sherry and stout (two large bottles for the 'classy' Stella). When will they all just go away and leave me in peace? Well, maybe Jake would be welcome to stay a little while. The old woman is tiring of her guests.

A bald-headed and decrepit man, apparently an ex-work colleague of Ernest, asks what she plans to do now. (He doesn't really care but Ernest once promised him all of his tools and the mourner hopes to make good on that promise. His granddaughter has already set up an on-line account in the expectation of selling them off.) Without hesitation, she replies, 'I'm going to make a fresh start. I'll sell this place and buy a cottage on the south coast.'

Background chatter stops, as the circling vultures digest this unexpected news. Jake pats her arm and says, in a loud voice, 'Nice one Aunt Mary. Uncle Ernest hated the coast. He'll be spinning already!'

Pull back now, for we are out of time. We must leave loyal Mary to explore her longed for freedom. We must leave dishonest Stella to mourn her not-so-secret lover.

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A Sense of Justice

'All stand,' rang out a clear voice. Conversation died away, to be briefly replaced by the rustle of clothing and the scraping of chairs across the old, polished, wooden floor.

A small portly figure, clad in rich robes, entered through a door at the back of the room. Two flunkies, accompanying him, peeled off towards a pair of small tables, leaving the judge alone to climb the two steps onto the dais that dominated the surroundings. There he lowered himself into an over-sized leather chair, behind a massive oak desk.

'Be seated,' instructed the voice.

The judge bowed his head to read several papers, ignoring the palpable sense of anticipation. A few stifled coughs broke the silence, drawing a glare from one of the clerks. An elderly woman rose hurriedly, heading for the exit. She muttered apologies whilst, simultaneously, trying to hold back the dry rasping tickle that had attracted the unspoken rebuke.

At last, the judge looked up and around the room. He nodded towards a clerk, cleared his throat, and then demanded, 'Silence in court!' His unexpectedly squeaky voice prompted the usual few titters of amusement. He ignored them. 'An unusual case,' he announced, to no-one in particular. 'Well, let us begin. Would the prosecution now favour us with their opening arguments?' The intonation implied that this last comment was more of an instruction than a request.

A middle-aged man, with a ruddy complexion and a shock of untidy grey hair escaping from his wig, rose from his seat behind a small table. This battered piece of furniture was half-buried under a selection of well-thumbed legal text-books. He consulted the paper in his left hand and then, still looking at the paper, began to speak. 'If it pleases your honour, my client is here to ask the court to punish the cosmetics industry, and time itself, for blatant gender discrimination. We would also ask the court, in addition, to order the cessation of this practice.' He paused to look up at the judge, as if eager to discern how this request had been received. A ripple of snorts and giggles ran around the room, as the audience digested the implications of his words.

'Order, order,' demanded the judge; his face turning red with the effort of shouting to make his voice heard. He waited for absolute silence, before fixing the prosecution barrister with a frown. 'Am I to understand Mr McAllister that you’re proposing to name time itself in your complaint?'

'That is correct, your honour,' came the reply.

At another desk, adjacent to that of McAllister, the head of the defence team waved a paper of her own. The judge fixed her with a stony glare, coughed, and then said, 'Intriguing. I would hear a little more of this argument before defence makes her opening statement.'

'Objection,' trilled the increasingly agitated defence barrister, leaping to her feet.

'Denied Ms Savage,' said the judge, laying so much emphasis on her title that it emerged from his lips as 'Mizzz.'

McAllister gulped, pushed his horn-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, then said, 'Certainly, your honour.' He paused, gathering his thoughts, before continuing, 'The cosmetics industry expends a small fortune advertising its wares. Many of their products are promoted on the implied, or even explicit, basis that they can make women look younger. Their marketing places considerable emphasis on the suggestion that they can help women to slow, prevent or even reverse the impact of time upon their looks. There is much talk of revitalising hair, of diminishing or removing wrinkles, of making skin softer and so forth. If these companies can truly achieve such miracles, why are there so few advertisements for similar male products? I will show, over the course of this hearing, that the industry is guilty of blatant sexism, in contravention of the law of the land. This ...'

The judge interrupted, asking, 'And where does time itself appear to be at fault in this case?' This provoked more sniggers and a few open laughs. 'Silence!' yelled the judge. 'If there are any more outbursts like that, I will find the guilty parties' to be in contempt of court.' He sat back, piggy eyes fixed on the now sweating McAllister.

'Ahem. Since it is generally accepted, by scientists and philosophers alike, that time is a man-made and not a natural phenomenon, it must follow, according to legal principle that time cannot claim to be an act of God. Ergo, its owners must be accountable for its actions, including those which allow the cosmetics industry to make claims on its behalf.'

The judge smiled, as if recalling some private joke. 'I see. I think. Your argument, if accepted, would set an interesting precedent. Ms. Savage, I will hear your opening statement now.' As McAllister resumed his seat, dabbing at his face with an enormous pale blue handkerchief, Savage erupted from her own, like a greyhound setting off after a rabbit.

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A Teeny Bit of Wisdom

Let's get one thing straight. Being a teenager is an incredibly difficult job - one that adults know almost nothing about.

You don't believe me? Well consider this. Adults spend most of their time telling teenagers how important it is to work hard, to get the best qualifications and grades possible at school. They claim it's the only way to get a decent job and salary. Well hello! Shock news alert!

It's easy to get good grades. If your family and friends won't do your assignments, use an internet search engine, find an article that contains some of the words in your assignment title and then it's a simple 'cut and paste' job. You don't even have to read it – it's not as if the teachers bother to check it out anyway. All smart teenagers know you can get a good grade by simply turning up on a regular basis at school, and letting somebody else do your coursework. Only the dumb think they have to do it themselves.

Anyway, teenagers have more important things to worry about than boring education. For starters, there's clothes, hairstyle and make-up – and that's just as true for the boys as it is for the girls. And it's absolutely essential to keep up with the latest celebrity gossip, watch the TV soaps, see the newest films, and listen to the latest music and watch repeats of Friends and The Simpsons. Then consider the time required for flirting, dating and generally being hot, as well as impressing your friends with how cool you are. It's not as if we need something as trivial as homework to fill our time.

And if you need great qualifications to get a job and be rich, then how come so many celebrities are both mega-famous and mega-rich? Adults have no real answer to this because the truth is that any teenager can easily become a celebrity.

So don't tell me that adults are smarter than us teenagers. Not only are they clueless about how the world works, but they wander around in clothes with yesterday's choice of designer labels or, worse, with no labels at all! What's that all about? Then they ask stupid questions, like 'Why do you want brand name trainers at £120 when the local supermarket has their own brand for just £15?' Isn't it obvious? Supermarket trainers have a different logo on them. Duh!

Adults also have such unrealistic expectations. They just can't get their head around the effort required to turn a light off when you leave a room. Add in all their other ridiculous concerns, like turning off the bathroom tap after cleaning your teeth or turning off the TV when you go to bed. It's almost as if they think you're never going to use it again. And why do they get so upset if a teenager goes out and doesn't lock the house door? It's not our problem if something gets nicked. Haven't they heard about insurance? We don't pay the bills, so what does it matter to us?

Then there's adults and their obsession with keeping things tidy? What's the point of a bedroom floor if you can't drop things on it? Who cares if it's covered in dirty clothing, sweet, crisp and biscuit wrappers and a random selection of magazines, papers, dvds and discs? They have to go somewhere!

You'd think they have to make some sort of effort to get clothing clean again. Don't they understand that dirty clothing takes itself downstairs, jumps into the washing machine – wherever that is – washes and dries itself, irons itself and then climbs back upstairs, where it either folds itself neatly into a drawer or hangs itself in the wardrobe. It's not difficult! It only happens in every house.

And don't get me started on cleaning. What's the point? How can you hoover the carpet when it’s covered with dirty clothing, sweet, crisp and biscuit wrappers and a random selection of magazines, papers, dvds and discs? Hoover it? You can't even see most of it! As for dust, well it has to sit somewhere. Why not leave it alone instead of disturbing it? It only comes back again so why bother? Really. What is the point?

Talking of sweets and crisps brings me to food. Now, every teenager instinctively knows that real food comes in bright, interesting packaging. This simple truism is obviously wasted on adults; they keep banging on about fresh fruit and vegetables. Why? It's not like we're harming ourselves by ignoring these frankly gross so-called foods. It's the same with drinks. Who wants to drink water, milk, tea or coffee? They're boring. Sensible people need heavily carbonated drinks, preferably loaded with sugar and e-numbers. Adults try to fool us into believing our favourite drinks are unhealthy and bad for our teeth. Well, if that's true, then how come adults generally have more fillings and fewer teeth than teenagers? It's the same with food. If burgers, chicken nuggets and chips are so bad, how come most fat people are adults?

Adults are so stupid, they even believe it's clever to go to bed before midnight and moan at us teenagers for staying up late. Yeah, well how else are we going to finish all of our games, as well as watch a pirated film? If we didn't have to waste so much time at school and on homework, we'd be able to go to bed earlier, but it never occurs to an adult that our late nights are their fault! In any case, the best TV stuff doesn't start till later and it's not like we can watch what we want before midnight is it? Adults are so arrogant when it comes to deciding what channel to watch. Just because they pay for the TV, the licence and the electricity, they take it for granted that they control the remote. Selfish or what?

In fact, we teenagers are generally treated like second-class citizens. Think about the fuss adults make if you spill a bit of drink or drop crumbs on the seat of their new car. And watch what happens if you put your gum on the floor mat. All hell breaks loose. So what, if the next person ruins their clothes by sitting in your pile of chocolate biscuit crumbs or gets gum on the bottom of their shoe? Get a life – just buy some new clothes or shoes for crying out loud and stop moaning. Look on it as an opportunity to buy some decent designer stuff!

It's the same if you damage or break something in the house. Instead of just buying a replacement, adults act as though great-grandma's china cup was actually worth something. It's just an old cup that should've been chucked out years ago!

And I'll tell you another thing about grown-ups. They'll happily prattle on about how much everything costs then they go out and buy a newspaper! What a waste of money. There's nothing in a newspaper except old news and who cares what's happening in the rest of the world. It's bad enough having a film ruined by the 90-second update on the tv, without having to read about it the next day as well.

Why do adults have no sense of humour? The average teenager understands and appreciates the brilliance of people who can use the f-word more than once in the same sentence. Indeed, the best comics can fill a whole 30 minutes without using a single sentence that doesn't include either the f-word or a reference to basic bodily functions. So what do adults do? They sit there, stony-faced, moaning about the 'good old days' when comics were funny and told proper jokes. They even pretend these old has-beens could make people laugh without swearing! Now just think about that for a few seconds. How can you be funny without swearing?

Let's face it, the only good thing about adults is that they provide an excellent model of what not to become. Nobody wants to grow up to find they've turned into an adult!

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All Good Things...

The hand-picked audience – all former winners on the show – had done their best to provide an enthusiastic send-off, but the prevailing atmosphere was one of sadness, tinged with resignation. The new co-presenter, Nikki, offered a spark of defiance, but this was probably more to do with the realisation that her brief media career was, to all intents and purposes, effectively over. Her agent was keeping a low profile and that could only mean there still hadn't been any offers.

Meanwhile, Sally, the producer, allowed her mind to wander...

In its golden era, the programme had been a permanent fixture in the audience ratings top ten for the channel. But the last few years had been witness to a relentless decline in popularity. Overseas sales had dried up. Advertising revenues had fallen with the ratings. The economic downturn had hammered the final nail in the coffin and, once the programme ceased to be a net earner, its days were numbered. The stuffed shirts running the business had ruthlessly wielded the axe.

Of course, her team had tried a variety of tweaks, becoming increasingly desperate to freshen up the jaded format. Yet, somehow, they'd only made things worse. The most damaging of these ill-fated attempts had been the decision to bring in a new pair of much younger presenters. Subsequent market research revealed this change had alienated a sizeable chunk of the existing audience, whilst attracting almost no new viewers. The typical fan was retired and not interested in bright young things the same age as their grandchildren.

And, in part, therein lay the problem. Over time, their fans had simply aged with the programme and were now dying off in ever-increasing numbers. Two years ago, the company research boffins had reported that the average viewing age stood at 64. The unavoidable conclusion had been that the programme was dying with its audience.

Rival programmes offered much more valuable prizes; but, when she'd pointed this out, the accountants had shaken their collective head. 'One simply doesn't increase costs, when one is already losing money', they'd explained, in a condescending tone that made her want to slap them.

Another issue was the questions - they