Gigantic waves lunged at the rocks. The cove was wedged between two rugged points. Wind raged, blasting sand through me. Only yards away I observed a motionless body of a girl. Three men hovered over her. Fritz crouched down over the girl. Dr. Mario stormed around with hands on his hips. The muscular bulk of Kirk roamed close by like a caged lion, the bandages gone from his eyes, his doe eyes squinting in the bright Pilgrim sunshine. I recognized the life-saving actions of CPR. Pumping the chest. The electric jolt of the defib machine. One…two…three…zap!
My spirit was standing next to the girl’s body. I studied the prone body, blue lips, white face. There wasn’t much time, for her—for me.
The words were picked for me as if a higher, holier sprit had ordered them.
‘What are you doing here? Boris—Maggie—Tails—Latitude 50, Longitude 130,’ I murmured. ‘Why am I on the beach?’
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
Crushed. Fighting for every breath. My lungs squeezed of air. Panic, I fought to pull myself out of the black hole of nothingness. With every stage of advancement towards wakefulness, came the false steps, an awareness of not fully awake. I pushed through the sleep barrier. Then floated in the half-world of illusion.
Cold, I scanned the room. I was lying naked on an icy shelf, an Antarctic ice shelf. Exposed. In a blizzard.
An avalanche of snow piled on my prone body. I was suffocating. My hands clawed through the snow. Tunneling, I broke through the mound of snowflakes. With a snap and a crunch, I pierced through the white world and saw blue.
I woke. This was real. I had dug my way out of the dream. In the grey of pre-dawn, I was alone. The frigid stillness frightened me. I opened my eyes wide. My muscles tensed, rigid with fear. I sensed danger; the threats imminent, as if evil lurked around the very next second. The child inside thumped. I could not escape.
Yet I tried. I moved my legs and swung them over the bedside. Danger was hiding in the calm atmosphere of dawn, and I was not about to submit to its attack. Anyway, I had to go to the toilet, as you do when you are nine months pregnant. I kicked the bed pan under the bed. I never did like bed pans. The concept of trying to sleep with the smell of urine under me never did inspire.
I trod my way down the passage to the lavatory. I knew exactly where the Antarctic dream came from; the hospital hall was freezing. The slate floor frosty, slippery. I imagined that I could skate across it to my destination.
The toilets sat perched in their cubicles. They appeared harmless. I did my business with much relief, and glancing around every few seconds, I washed my hands in the water provided by the jug beside the basin. The water dribbled out of the jug. Probably ice. I broke the sheet of ice which had formed over the top, filled the basin and then washed my hands.
I trundled out the door of the toilet block. All seemed still, quiet, too quiet. I considered seeking solace to quell my anxieties. I would pass Kirk’s room on the way back to mine. He’s strong, he’d crack some joke and distract me from fear. Minna, what are you thinking?
Sister Salome, do I drop in on her? No, worse. Then I’d have to tell her about Boris’ little visit. Nup, can’t handle that. And the thought of being lectured by her was worse than the danger imagined, or Boris for that matter.
Some shuffling in the entrance hall, made the hairs on the nape of my neck stiffen. The light was on. I went to investigate. Maybe a mutant had gone astray and lost his way to the dormitory. It wouldn’t be the first time. Mutants were always getting lost in the Convent. To them it was a maze. I clomped down the stairs with a misguided sense of helpfulness and in an effort to distract from my fears.
At the foot of the stairs,Tails stood by the hat stand. ‘Oh, Miss Muffet! I see you wasted no time.’ He rocked on the balls of his three feet.
‘Oh, Tails, you’re looking well!’ I said, my mind numb with terror. Miss Muffet, that’s the name he used for Minna. Did he know? Or did he call every young lass, Miss Muffet?
‘Well, well, haven’t you changed!’
‘What?’ I was curious and trod a few footsteps closer. ‘What do you mean?’
Maggie stepped out of a dark room. ‘Death doesn’t become you, Minna.’
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
For a week after Tails’ news, my life stagnated. I’d given up. Didn’t eat—much. As for Sister Salome’s porridge, she could have it.
Sister Salome shoved a bowl of porridge under my nose. ‘It is good porridge! Eat it M-Anni, eat it!’
‘Eat it yourself!’ I muttered curled up on the bed.
‘Your baby needs you to eat.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What?’
‘About Andreas,’ I said. ‘Is it true?’
Sister Salome cleared her throat. She does that when she’s not quite telling the truth. ‘Officially.’
‘Officially? And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Andreas won’t be coming back, my dear.’
‘Why?’
‘Work it out for yourself.’
‘I can’t, that’s why I’m asking.’ I thumped the mattress. ‘Unless it was you who orchestrated the whole thing.’
‘Min—Anni! How could you!’
‘Easy, considering our discussions on the road trip here. I bet this whole Boris thing is a ruse.’ I paused. ‘Although, I wouldn’t put it past my mother.’
‘Oh, but it is real, my dear. We have our people closing in on the creature, at this very time,’ Salome said. ‘And a more serious situation has arisen. The son of Boris is on the loose. We have to find him. Very grave times. Very grave.’
‘So, your brother could be out there still…’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Then there’s hope.’ At light speed, then on Boris World, Günter’s life would be standing still, while mine moved on rapidly. I had to wait. If I followed, I would end up in a continuous game of time tag. I arrive, and he would have left, maybe only Boris-minutes before. He could arrive back on the Pilgrim Planet, and I could be out searching for him. Anyway, I was only days, maybe a week away from giving birth; the pursuit of Günter was not an option at this stage. Theoretically, the longer he was gone, the more chance that he would not return in my lifetime. However, there was a chance that he would be back. Time, space, black holes and Boris World become rubbery in space and the laws of physics become a law unto themselves. So, I had to wait, and hope and not move on.
‘Please do eat, Anni. This is g-Andreas’ baby, a-and your’s we are talking about. Go on it is very tasty. It is good for you—to eat it,’ Sister urged. I couldn’t fathom why she stuttered as if she had a speech problem.
‘I told you! What part of eat it yourself don’t you understand!’ I buried my head in the pillow to avoid Sister’s force-feeding tactics. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the porridge -laden spoon zoom towards me.
‘Look, what would Günter say if he saw the way you were behaving?’ Sister whispered, the spoon lingering above my cheek.
‘What? Are you doing a candid home movie to show him in twenty years’ time when he finally returns, are you?’
‘Who says it would be twenty years? He could come home tomorrow.’
‘He’s been gone weeks now. I’ve done my calculations—that’s twenty years or more!’
‘Oh, you don’t know that. Space can do funny things. And him too. Don’t underestimate him, dear. Now eat!’
‘As if you care—about us!’ I roared into the feathery down. ‘No! I will not eat! Go away! Leave me alone!’ With that I shut myself off. I pulled the blanket over my head and blocked out all light and Sister Salome.
‘Dear, can’t you see as Anni and Andreas it would’ve never worked. It wasn’t real.’
‘Too late to do the Dr. Phil routine on me!’ I screamed. ‘Get out!’
‘Very well,’ Sister said. ‘Have it your way.’ I heard the bowl touch down on the side table and the spoon go clink as she placed it inside the bowl. I counted the retreating steps as Sister stomped towards the door. The steps stopped and Sister Salome added one last biting comment, ‘But, if you don’t eat by tomorrow, I will be forced to call the doctor who will take your baby by caesarean. Understand?’
‘Fine, then I can go to Boris World and look for Günter myself,’ I mumbled into my bed linen.
‘You won’t find him there.’ Sister Salome chuckled. Then she said softly, ‘Just wait till I get my hands on that blabber-mouth Liesel.’
When I no longer heard her footsteps, I grabbed my voice recorder from under the sheets, saved the last comments and stored them. She had spoken in her ancient German tongue, but I had a translator. I played the results again and again.
The door burst open. I shoved the device under the blankets.
‘You haven’t seen my communicator around, have you?’ Sister Salome eyes wide paced the room picking up pillows, breakfast trays, and the bowl of porridge. Fancy that! Mobile phone detachment anxiety disorder.
I ignored her. Sister Salome’s communicator was stowed under the mattress by me. I had plans for that mobile phone…Who has she been talking to? Günter, I bet… I was glad that Sister Salome’s absent-mindedness had landed me the opportunity to hear what everyone was not telling me, and to try and make sense of it all. Salome never need know I was the “gremlin” that stole her phone and then put it back in an obvious place.
Unsuccessful in her quest to find the lost phone, or communicate with me,Sister Salome left me to my own and her state-of-the-art I-Phone. I stared at the cold porridge. It looked up at me in cold hard lumps saying: “Eat me!” Before I could consider what I was doing I dug into the bowl and scooped a spoonful of grey mass into my mouth. The lumps stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tipped the mattress and retrieved some sugar packets from the base. I sprinkled a few grams of sugar and ate a further few small spoonsful.
Holding Salome’s phone, I tottered to the window. Raindrops splattered on me as I pushed the pane open. I examined the communicator and my options. It rang. I pressed the answer button and put the phone to my ear.
‘Hello?’ A young man’s voice spoke. But not through the phone.
He stood at the door, bandages over his eyes.
‘What?’ I flung the phone out the window. Salome’s mobile smashed into a million pieces onto the path below. ‘Oops!’
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
His hand on my waist; his hand warm and steadying, comforted me. Again, I lay in my sleeping bag, awake. Lightning flashed illuminating the tent. Thunder rumbled in the distance. My lower arm reached around my enlarged belly and my fingers touched his fingers. I turned on the air mattress. Günter’s eyes gazed at me. ‘Our baby!’ he said.
‘Yes!’ I snuggled up to him.
On my other side Sister Salome snored, her back like a monolith faced us.
With an almighty crash, thunder rattled our tent. Günter held me close. I trembled, afraid. ‘Hush, the storm, it sounds worse than it is.’ He held me tighter in the sleeping bag. ‘Cosmic storms are worse.’
A violent gust of wind tore at our tent attempting to pluck it from the ground and fly us off. Waves lashed the rocks on the shore below.
‘We are high enough? We won’t be swamped by the tide, will we?’ I asked. Another blast of wind hit the tent. ‘We won’t fly off, will we?’
‘What a silly question. No! Anyway, this tent is built for extreme conditions—like Everest or Antarctica, no?’ Günter touched my face in the dark and kissed my forehead. ‘Now, sleep!’
‘I can’t! She’s snoring!’
Günter chuckled. ‘You want to go in the Merc with Dr. Zwar, then?’
‘No way!’
Massive drops of rain plummeted upon the canopy of the tent. Soon the gale joined in, and rain lashed the tent sideways. Waves hurled and smashed against the cliffs and rocks only a few meters away. I molded my back into Günter’s form, and he caressed my head and neck. I was blessed to have Günter. I pretended to sleep, but a tempest brewed,…
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter & Minna and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
[How the war on Boris began…on a planet hundreds of light-years away, and hundreds of years ago. Warning, this over-sized alien cockroach is not for the faint-hearted. The story is best to be digested away from meals. This story contains violence, gore and cockroaches.]
Boris crept towards her. She hunched over, back draped with a tattered shawl, picking rotting peel from the over-flowing garbage tin. Boris eyed the bundle of hessian rags and wrinkled flesh. She’s useless. Who would want her? She’s way past child-bearing age. Surprised someone hasn’t eaten her already. Old females were a specialty on his world, his favourite—boiled. Although he must admit, he’d never pass up the offer of a baby, cooked fresh out of the womb. Boris wiped the acid dripping from his crusty lips and scuttled closer to his victim. With his probe he stung this brown heap in the round of her back and she melted into a pool of oil. Boris extended his hollow proboscis and sucked the puddle, all of her black fluid on the pavement.
Boris thrust forward his abdomen swelled with this snack and waddled past his fellow Bytrodes. They smiled at him and nodded. ‘Well, done!’ ‘Ridding the world of waste.’ ‘I wish I had your guts.’
Boris grinned and with his surround optical vision guarded his armoured back as they moved behind him. No fellow Bytrode can be trusted.
Then Boris burped, lifted the flaps in his spine and unfurled his wings. A potent gust of gas enabled him to lift into the air and ferry through the ruined structures, once ziggurats with lofty peaks that vanished into the clouds, now a pile of broken stones. On a mountain over-looking a river of septic waste, his palace gleamed gold and white; his reward built on the shells of his competitors and any other Bytrode that got in the way.
Flying spent the fuel that was the old woman, and hunger gnawed at his ribs. He spied a neighbour, Gavin basking on the roof of a satellite wreck close to the foamy shore. He plopped onto the carcass of yesterday’s breakfast and sidled up to Gavin’s shiny black back. The heat of the metal roof stung his many feet, so he stood on the tips of his pointy toes.
‘Do you want a little something to help you on your trip?’ Boris purred.
His fellow rotated his bald head. ‘Sure. What have you got?’
Boris reached into the pocket of his armour and pulled out a plastic bag of white powder. ‘Here, try some. It’s fresh and clean.’
‘Thanks.’ With whiskers twitching, Gavin positioned his snout over the bag and absorbed the contents.
‘There, that will make you happy.’ Boris chuckled. ‘And me.’
Boris drooled and waited as the goo that was Gavin fried on the metal in the searing afternoon sun. At the crisp and bubbly point, Boris reached underneath the wreck, and pulled out a plastic spatula. ‘Ah! Neighbour biscuit!’ His tentacles wriggled as he snapped off a piece and munched. ‘A fitting entrée to dessert and the object of my lust—Maggie. A perfect end to a delicious day.’
Boris climbed the mountain of victim waste his shell splayed as a force field to protect against the attack of scavengers. His belly bloated, and home too close to wing it, he lumbered up the hillside of rotting corpses to his castle, his numerous eyes like surveillance cameras scanning for any movement of the enemy pretending to be dead. A hiss. Boris froze, antennae vibrating. In the crimson rays of the setting sun, a shell rose defiant. Boris charged his weapon arm and fired a stream of fusion energy. Puff! Ash of foe added to the mountain.
Boris folded his weapon prong into his scales, and exhaling, curled into a ball of hard silicon, rolled the final leg of his journey home. At the titanium steel door, he unfurled his body and then tapped the musical security code, using four of his six legs. The door Bytrode-body thick with reinforced steel and telephone directories, creaked open.
‘Were you successful, my lust?’ Maggie projected her thoughts to Boris. Her shell glowed auburn, as she flicked her long scales and caressed Boris’ aura.
‘Yep,’ he said waddling past her, and then brushing against her waiting claws. He sailed to his throne, the recliner rocker, inherited from yesterday’s breakfast, and planted his thorax on the leather seat. While his peripheral vision traced his female’s scuttling steps to his side, he aimed his proboscis at the shag-pile rug and regurgitated the mashed contents of his stomach, decorating the cream shag with a lumpy pool of umber.
Boris burped. ‘Gavin.’
‘That’s nice, dear. Never did like him,’ Maggie said. She extended her trunk, groping and fusing with his. She dug her hooks into his scales.
Boris quivered as the fermented juice of last cycle’s enemy pumped into his gullet. ‘Ah! Tyrone! That was a good victim.’ Swelling with victory, power and the ether of Tyrone’s spent life-force, he thrust his favourite female onto the shagpile and Gavin goo, his thoughts and intent on more pleasurable pursuits than feasting.
‘Boris, dear…’ Maggie retracted her spikes and slid from under him.
Splat! Boris’ raw flesh grated on the shag fibres, while is face kissed the blow-fly flecked stew that was Gavin. He lifted his head and sucked in a fly-flavoured morsel. ‘What?’
Maggie’s antennae twitched. ‘We have a visitor.’
Boris straightened up and smoothed his scales. ‘Why didn’t you say something before?’ His abdomen purred with the delicious thought of food killed and prepared by his be-lusted.
‘I was overcome by the moment, I suppose.’ Maggie picked at the bugs in the shag-pile stew. ‘He’s an alien, from a far-away planet.’
‘Mmm! Even better!’ Boris rubbed his stomach. ‘I haven’t had an alien in ages. Where is he? In the kitchen boiling?’ He used his eyes to zoom his focus into the kitchen.
‘But, dear, the lust of my life,’ Maggie said, her voice warbling, ‘this alien is different. You can’t eat this one. I won’t let you.’
Boris’ scales bristled. ‘What? You can’t stop me! I eat everyone.’
A slug-like creature twice the size of Boris, who was big by Bytrodian standards, emerged from the hallway and filled the living room. Boris studied the biped from the antennae-free head that scaped the ceiling, to his massive extensions of legs that disgraced the rug.
‘Okay, I guess it would be a challenge,’ Boris said, ‘although I’d like to know how he got this far without being harmed. He’s got no shell.’
‘Insect spray,’ the biped conveyed while making sounds through one of the holes in his face. Then with one of two hands, he covered this pink face hole and made low pitched grunting noises.
Boris and Maggie stared at the alien, their eye whiskers twitching.
‘Oh, pardon me,’ the alien said through his thoughts and vibration of the airwaves. He extended a thick rope-like limb to Boris. ‘I’m Joshua, by the way. I’m from the planet Earth.’
Maggie clasped her middle legs together and shimmered with an orange hue. ‘Oh! How wonderful! We’ve never had someone from Earth for dinner before.’
‘So you mean you’ve changed your mind, my dear Maggie?’ Boris beamed red as he stroked Joshua’s jelly-like hand and sniffed his salty skin.
‘No!’ Maggie snapped. ‘Why do you have to kill and eat everyone, Boris?’
Joshua tore his hand from Boris’ claw. He rubbed the scratches and wiped scarlet ooze on his white robe.
‘I’m a Bytrode, that’s what I do,’ Boris said, splaying his wings and then prancing around the room. ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t trod on a few shells.’
‘But I’ve been talking with Joshua and he’s shown me another way, a better way to live.’ Maggie scuttled over the rug and Gavin puddle to her mate. ‘If we could be friends, and stop destroying each other.’
Filing his external fangs Boris fixed his beady eyes on this over-sized amoeba. ‘Friends? And end up like Gavin here? What planet are you from?’
‘A better one than yours. Seems like this one’s messed up,’ the alien said as he pointed a stubby tentacle through the window at the wasteland of crumbling shells, and the screams of Bytrode souls in conflict.
Boris planted his six hands on his scaled sides, his limbs akimbo. ‘Well, if you don’t like it, you can go back to where you come from.’ He wished this creature would stay, just long enough for him to execute a plan to over-power him, chop him up, bag him and store him in the freezer.
‘But dear, we can learn from this Earth-being.’ Maggie licked Boris’ feet. ‘He’s from the other side of the galaxy. Surely that must count for something in getting ahead.’
Boris rolled his thousand mini eyes. ‘Very well, then. He can stay in the garage.’ He rubbed his abdomen, and in a part of his mind blocked from scrutiny, rearranged the shelf space to fit bags full of Joshua flesh; so much of it, keep them going for weeks. He purred in anticipation.
The seven sat around the dining table in silence. The roast steamed in the centre. Candles either side guarded the meal. Thunder rumbled over the hills and mountains. Lightning flashed.
Boris nursed his ray-gun hand and then he placed it beside his knife; a reminder in case any member of the group chose not to cooperate, Joseph assumed.
‘Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,’ Boris purred. ‘Thank you, Herr and Frau Biar, for inviting me. I do apologise for not being at the service this morning. I had a little business to take care of.’ With an evil twinkle in his eye, he glanced at Amie. ‘How was the service?’
Amie gulped.
‘Boring,’ Friedrich said in a sing-song voice.
Frau Biar and Herr Biar tightened their mouths. They frowned at Friedrich and shook their heads.
Wilma piped up. ‘Joseph and Amie are in love.’
‘I know,’ Boris looked at Herr Biar. ‘Well, aren’t you going to do the honours? Cut up the chicken. I’m sure you’re all dying for the roast.’
A black bug crawled out of the chook’s orifice. Everyone watched as it meandered across the tablecloth.
Boris drummed the table. ‘Come on! I’m hungry!’
Herr Biar sighed. He sharpened his knife and sliced off some chicken breast.
‘No! No! A proper cut! Cut the chicken open!’ Boris rose and stood over Herr Biar.
Herr Biar jabbed the knife in the centre and flayed the roast.
Cockroaches teamed from the cavity and over the plates, cutlery and vegetables.
Joseph flicked them as they sauntered over his plate. Amie shook them off her dress.
‘Come on! Cut the meat up Biar!’ Boris raised his voice. ‘We want to eat.’
Herr Biar served portions onto the plates. Boris helped. He scooped up the black stuffing and slopped a spoonful on every plate. The stuffing reeked of a rancid stench that filled the room.
‘Now, the vegetables,’ Boris said. ‘Frau serve the vegetables. We must have our vegetables.’
Frau Biar lifted with fork and knife, the roast potatoes garnished with cockroach entrails and plopped them on the plates. Then she added the steamed peas and carrots mixed with bugs.
Six stunned people studied their portions of festering food, not daring to touch it. Boris presided over the group. He grinned from ear to ear, imitating the Cheshire cat from “Alice in Wonderland”, as he poured lumpy gravy over the chicken on each plate.
‘Go on, eat up,’ he urged. ‘Oh, and by the way, Amie and Joseph, I have your families—just where I want them.’
Joseph tracked a couple of roaches tumbling in the gravy.
[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…Now, being a project of sorts, over the summer holidays, I have pieced together the story from beginning to end, and then revised it. A main thread has evolved. Something to do with murder and Letitia’s unfortunate involvement in it.
This week, it became obvious to me that something had to be done with my time-travel mechanism in this story. Let’s face it, a black box is just a bit lame and over-used. Then the idea came to me, what about a box of chocolates? What assortment of adventures one could have with chocolates laced with the time travel microbiol mud from a cave on the *Pilgrim Planet? In this episode (14.3), I begin to explore how these chocolates might work. Unlike Forrest Gump’s famous phrase, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates…”, in Out of Time it is: “Time Travel is like a box of chocolates, you may not know when you’ll end up.”]
Meeting with Mutti
‘I thought you would never make it.’ A woman’s voice floated over his head.
He recognised that voice. ‘Mutti?’
‘Ah, Gans, immer spaet! (Ah, Goose, always late).’
‘What are you doing here?’
A slight woman, aged somewhere in her thirties, flaxen hair tied in a bun, locked eyes with him. ‘To rescue my future grandsons, naturally. Why else would I ask you to come here?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Gunter stood, dusted himself and sneezed. ‘But, I was expecting someone else…’
‘Have you got the chocolate box? You know, the time travel bon-bon thing. I left it here last time.’
‘Oh, Mutti! Always leaving your stuff wherever you go! We could trace you through time and space the trail of chocolate boxes and their wrappers you leave.’
‘Just as well I did, or I’d be lost forever.’
‘Ja, natuerlich.’ Gunter paced down the hall. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘Hey, not so fast.’ His mother caught his sleeve. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Saving the boys.’
‘Ja, aber, I have the matches and the bomb is all set up.’
‘Bomb? What bomb?’
‘The one to blow Boris into a million itty bits. You know, kaboom.’
‘But, but you can’t just go around killing people. Besides, a million itty bits would make a million itty Borises that would grow up into a million big Borises.’ Gunter shrugged. ‘Besides, look what happened to Letitia because of you.’
‘Hmph! What is she? Your papa’s second child? With that woman? Hmmm? How could he do that to me? Tossing me aside because I’m…I’m…’
‘I’m sorry, Mama, but we thought you were…’
‘Tot? (Dead?)’
‘So, then how is the bomb going to work?’
‘Oh, the bomb will work very well, indeed.’ She grabbed her son’s hand and dragged him out to a courtyard and onto a patch of lawn.
‘But, but, how are we going to save the boys, then? I cannot believe I will be the father of boys.’
‘Simple.’ She struck a match and tossed it onto the porch. The flame flared and then fizzled.
‘Yeah, right! And your point is?’
‘The point is, Gans, that the flame is a signal.’
Gunter stood scratching his head. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you were after your chocolates.’
‘Come on.’ His mother sighed and tugged at her son’s shirt. ‘You must get back to the house before they notice you are missing. I think Mrs. C is cooking you Bratwurst, your favourite sausages, you know, and fried onions on her outdoor barbeque.’
Gunter gazed back at the house. The weatherboard with its untamed cottage garden. The driveway concreted but cracked. He realized that since the flame throwing, the night had morphed into midday. A fine summer’s day. An afternoon southerly breeze cooled the air slightly. The smell of BBQ sausages wafted, making Gunter’s stomach growl.
‘How did that happen?’ Gunter asked.
‘Come,’ Wilhelm Thumm nudged him. ‘You can introduce me to the famous Mrs. C.’
As they approached the house, a slender blonde leapt from the Aston Martin parked in front of the boarding house. She slammed the door and marched down the street, away from the house.
‘Who is that?’ Gunter asked.
‘My wife,’ Wilhelm replied. ‘Frieda, remember her?’
‘She has not changed.’ Gunter stared at the gravel on the footpath. ‘She saw me, and she does not like me.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘She blames me for what happened to Letitia.’
‘She’ll get over it.’ Wilhelm patted his back. ‘You’ll be friends, one day.’
‘Yeah, sure. Pigs fly, as they say here in Australia.’ Gunter locked eyes with Wilhelm. ‘And another thing, if I may ask, how did you…? Where’s my…?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Wilhelm burped and tossed a chocolate wrapper in the gutter. He flashed a shiny black box at Gunter. ‘I’d offer you one, but, um, we need you here and now, not some random time in the future or past. By the way, do you have the money?’
Gunter nodded and handed Wilhelm the wad of notes. ‘I don’t see why you need so much.’ He watched Wilhelm toss the box into the front seat of his Aston Martin. ‘You look like you are…’
‘All for a good cause. Besides, that greedy brother of yours can do with a bit less. So, I hear.’
As they walked up the rose-lined path to the front door of the house, Gunter said, ‘Won’t they melt? The chocolates?’
[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…Now, being a project of sorts, over the summer holidays, I have pieced together the story from beginning to end, and then revised it. A main thread has evolved. Something to do with murder and Letitia’s unfortunate involvement in it. I have worked on developing some of the other characters. In this episode (14.2), we obtain some character insights with the interaction between Gunter and his mother.]
Change of Plan
Gunter
Gunter sat bolt upright in his bed. He was determined and focused on what he must do. He tiptoed into his absent brother’s room to “borrow” some of his money, hidden in a jar behind his H.G. Wells collection in the bookshelf. Mrs. C down the hallway, was asleep; he could hear her snoring like a band saw as he passed by her room. He gritted his teeth and hoped that the door would not creak. It did.
With a fist full of dollars, Gunter slipped out of the boarding house and then pelted across the road, the solitary streetlight witness to his race. He paused as he reached the solid wooden doors of the local church. The suburb had paused to sleep at three in the morning, but Gunter’s heart was thumping. He decided that this front entrance was too risky, so edged around the side of the church until he found a side door. Actually, a metal gate.
He fumbled with lock. It was not budging. He groped around in his trouser pocket for old faithful, his mama’s hair pin. Mama’s pin had not let him down yet. With the pin, he poked around the keyhole until the click and the gate sprang open. In the moonlight, another door, challenged him.
Nervously he maneuvered the pin around the wooden door lock and hoped that it wasn’t a deadbolt. As if a mantra for luck, he chanted under his breath, ‘Dumkopf! Open!’ The words made him feel less anxious if nothing else.
The door fell away from him, and he lurched, then tripped, sprawling on the rug covering the jarrah floor. ‘Sheisse!’ he cried. He was sure that he had been found out and that his life was over.
‘I thought you would never make it.’ A woman’s voice floated over his head.
He recognised that voice. ‘Mutti?’
‘Ah, Gans, immer spaet! (Ah, Goose, always late).’
‘What are you doing here?’
A slight woman, aged somewhere in her thirties, flaxen hair tied in a bun, locked eyes with him. ‘To rescue my future grandsons, naturally. Why else would I ask you to come here?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Gunter pulled himself from the floor, dusted himself and sneezed. ‘But, I was expecting someone else…’
‘Have you got the chocolate box? You know, the time travel bon bons? I left it here last time.’
‘Oh, Mutti! Always leaving your stuff wherever you go! We could trace you through time and space the trail of chocolate you leave.’
‘Just as well I did, or I’d be lost forever.’
‘Ja, natuerlich.’ Gunter paced down the hall. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘Hoi, not so fast.’ His mother caught his sleeve. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Saving the boys.’
‘Aber, I have the matches and the bomb is all set up.’
‘Bomb? What bomb?’
‘The one to blow Boris to little pieces. You know, kaboom.’
‘But, but you can’t just go around killing people. I mean, look what happened to Letitia because of you.’
‘Hmph! What’s she? Your papa’s second child? With that woman? Hmmm? How could he do that to me? Tossing me aside because I’m…I’m…’
‘I’m sorry, Mama, but we thought you were…’
‘Tot? (Dead?)’
Gunter shrugged. ‘So, then how’s the bomb going to work?’
‘Oh, the bomb will work very well, indeed.’ She grabbed her son’s hand and dragged him out to a courtyard and onto a patch of lawn.
‘But, but, how are we going to save the boys, then? I cannot believe I will be the father of boys.’
‘Simple.’ She struck a match and tossed it onto the porch. The flame flared and then fizzled.
‘Ja! And your point is?’
‘The point is, Gans, that the flame is a signal.’
Gunter stood scratching his head. ‘For what?’
‘Come on.’ His mother sighed and tugged at her son’s shirt. ‘You must get back to the house before they notice you are missing. I think Mrs. C is cooking you Bratwurst and fried onions on her outdoor barbeque.’
Gunter gazed back at the house. The weatherboard with its untamed cottage garden. The driveway, concreted but cracked. He realized that since the flame throwing, the night had morphed into midday. A fine summer’s day. An afternoon southerly breeze cooled the air slightly. The smell of BBQ sausages wafted, making Gunter’s stomach growl.
‘How did that happen?’ Gunter asked.
‘Come,’ Wilhelm Thumm nudged him. ‘You can introduce me to the famous Mrs. C.’
‘How did? Where’s my…?’
‘Don’t ask. By the way, do you have the money?’
Gunter nodded and handed Wilhelm the wad of notes. ‘I don’t see why you need so much.’ He clocked the Aston Martin parked in front of the boarding house. ‘You look like you are…’
‘All for a good cause. Besides, that greedy brother of yours can do with a bit less. So, I hear.’
As they approached the house, a slender blonde leapt from the car, slammed the door and marched down the street, away from the house.
‘Who is that?’ Gunter asked.
‘My wife,’ Wilhelm replied. ‘Remember Frieda?’
‘She has not changed.’ Gunter stared at the gravel on the footpath. ‘She saw me, and she does not like me.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘She blames me for what happened to Letitia.’
‘She’ll get over it.’ Wilhelm patted his back. ‘You’ll be friends, one day.’
Gunter locked eyes with Wilhelm. ‘Yeah, sure. Pigs fly, as they say here in Australia.’
[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…Now, being a project of sorts, over the summer holidays, I have pieced together the story from beginning to end, and then revised it. A main thread has evolved. Something to do with murder and Letitia’s unfortunate involvement in it. I have worked on developing some of the other characters. In this episode (14.1), we get to see inside the younger stolen boy’s (Liam’s) head.]
Fast Forward
10 Days before Murder
Saturday 28th of January 1967
Barbeque Battles
Liam
Liam remembered sourly the call that changed everything. One minute the fourteen-year-old was blissfully ignorant; aware only that his father was almost no-so-unhappily widowed, that his mum had returned but with that smelly character Boris, and two ratty kids, that there is no God and when he died, that was it, no accountability. The next minute, the phone rang and his whole world view was cracked. That minute there was a Jemima on the other end of the line demanding to speak to his father. It was then as this intruder insisted, demanded and hollered on the line, that Liam began to change his mind about God. Liam remembered considering, “How dare this lady invade my space! There has to be a God and my parents have to be accountable to him! This is too much! I can’t handle any more! What right had she to interrupt my life?!”
Liam clutched the telephone receiver in one hand and fended off Jemima’s advances with firm “Nos” and lies that Dad was not home at present. He could hear the rising beat of his heart, punctuating Jemima’s whiney protests. Clueless he was, how to combat this woman.
‘What do you mean he is not home?’ Jemima persisted.
‘He’s just not,’ Liam fibbed. He watched his Dad slink behind him, his old clothes high on manure.
‘But he said he would be home,’ she said.
‘Well, he’s not.’ He fanned the pungent passageway air. ‘Poor, Dad, you stink!’
‘Ha! Did I just hear you mention your dad in conversation?’
‘No.’
‘I did,’ Jemima, now a smug Jemima, ‘you said to him that he stinks.’
‘I never.’
‘You did.’
‘No!’
‘Look, Liam, dear, it is very important that I speak to him. He said, he promised that he would be home. Your father, he keeps his promises. He’s a man of his word,’ she spoke in a softly and evenly.
‘Yeah, right!’ Liam remarked cynically. ‘Like he promised us a holiday in Tasmania but all we got was mum going off to Antarctica and getting herself…’ He paused unsure whether he should be passing on classified information. After all, his mum had returned, wearing kaftan and beads in her hair, in possession of a new Kombi Van, and unscathed. Liam had been delighted to acquire a new cool van, but not so pleased to have his mother back. Of course, the novelty of kaftaned mother and new Kombi wore off when the van broke down and had to be towed away for repairs. S
Still, Liam couldn’t complain. Just before the recent, yet brief escape up north to Alice Springs, his dad had bought a new Holden Premier. Liam was pleased with his art of persuasion as he had convinced his father to purchase this icon of motoring history. Well, so a recent Wheels magazine had recommended.
‘I know! I know!’ Jemima cut in. ‘He told me all about it. Isn’t it obvious why she did that?’
‘Nup?’ Liam bit his nail. Jemima’s argument was advancing into areas that were uncertain. ‘She won a prize, a competition.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ Dad’s voice boomed in the background.
Liam had to think quickly, but Max who was passing by was nimbler. ‘A girlfriend. Ha! Ha! Liam has a girlfriend. What a loser!’
Liam covered the mouthpiece. ‘Yeah! So?’.
Meanwhile the Jemima intruder had come to her own conclusions. ‘He is there! You liar! Put him on! Now!’
Liam had had enough. ‘No!’ he retorted. ‘Go away, you freak!’ with that he slammed the receiver down. He then picked up the phone and hurled it towards the bookcase at the end of the room. A few unfortunate ornaments, namely Max’s prized “Lord of the Rings” dragon figurines crashed to the floor.
‘Oi! What do you fink you’re doing? You could’a smashed the tele,’ Tails yelled.
Max emerged from preening himself in the bathroom. His face turned red, and he pulled at his hair. ‘My dragon! You killed my dragon! How could you do that?’ He cradled the broken bits of ceramic dragon in his hands. ‘They are so hard to get in 1967.’ Then, with teeth bared, he cried, ‘Why, I’ll get you!’ With one swift move, he lunged onto his younger brother and began to throttle him.
‘Oi! Oi! Stop that you boys!’ Dad tore the fighting youths apart. ‘Right, that’s it! no tele or suppa tonight for you lads! Go to your rooms! Bof ov you! Right! I’m pulling out the plug to the tele, now!’ Tails marched both protesting Liam and Max to their rooms with as much strength as his fatherly muscles could muster.
Meanwhile the phone chirped, unheeded and ignored.
[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…In this episode (12.4) Once her most annoying visitor has gone, Letitia gets down to work…]
A Time to Work
With Monica absent, Letitia trawled over the mess, room by room, section by section in the vain hope of finding the elusive keys; the ones that worked. As she hunted, she systematically dusted, wiped, sorted and cleaned. She was sure that the owner would not recognise the place when he returned. ‘I hope they don’t curse me,’ she mumbled.
Three o’clock and Letitia had progressed to scrubbing the shower alcove, followed by hospital grade disinfection regime on the toilet. The tiles in the shower were so coated with mould that their original white was no longer visible to the naked eye. She used a full bottle of Ajax toilet powder on the toilet bowl before she was satisfied that the brown streak down the back of the bowl was scrubbed away.
At four in the morning, with the home unit sorted and sparkling, and the bathroom overloaded with the smell of bleach, Letitia flopped onto the main bed of renewed clean and ironed sheets, to sleep. She still had not found the keys. With a cool breeze flowing from a slightly open window, she sank into a satisfying dreamless slumber. After all, she figured, If worse comes to worse, I will be able to climb out the window.
Rest only lasted a few micro-seconds, however. As soon as Letitia was still, she became cold, very cold. Groaning from stiff joints and aching back, she hoisted herself from the bed and edged past the bed end to close the window. The wind howled. Moments later, a flash of lightening and a loud bone jarring bang of thunder. She peered outside through the curtains. A bolt of lightning hit the unit at the end of the driveway and accompanying that was the clap of thunder.
Letitia jumped. Heart thumping. Goosebumps rose on her skin. ‘Goodness, it’s like an Antarctic blast,’ she said. ‘Need to find more blankets.’
She tried the lights. They wouldn’t work. In semi-darkness, with the first shades of morning light beginning to seep through the cracks of deep-purple brooding clouds, she could see just enough to stand on the bed and reach for the top shelf of the built-in robe. ‘I hope there’s a blanket there, maybe a torch.’
Success! Letitia touched something soft but scratchy; something very blanekety. With a sense of achievement, she pulled the blanket from the shelf and onto the bed. A thin piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and tried to scrutinize it in the non-existent light. A brief lightening flash lit up the images. They appeared strangely familiar. But all too soon, the light was gone, and the picture became indistinguishable. She placed the photo on the bedside table and nestled under the itchy woollen rug. The sky was putting on a show, but she was too weary to enjoy it. Comfortable at last, Letitia fell sound asleep to flashes of lightening and rumbles of thunder as the storm travelled over Melbourne.
Meanwhile in Tasmania, the grass was dry and the weather about to heat up for the start of school.
Tru-Kling Creations 