365 Ways With Words

Three Steps

It took three steps. The door was passed and out – out into the deep blackness of it all. It didn’t matter how regularly he donned his suit and did the maintenance check, this bit was always the best, the scariest, the most rewarding. It’s why he took the job.

Even on holiday he would dream of this moment, just before the work began when he released the attach-line and free-floated in zero. The deepness and eternity of the fierce stars all around: above, below, left, right, quiet. Absolute quiet. In the second or so before he allowed the control unit to start (and he would sometimes make this moment linger for a few seconds more than was necessary) he was just another element in the void, an insignificant speck of squidgy organic-ness in the vast, still and inorganic magnitude between the stars.

And there in front was the hull covered in dozens of little maintenance units, rushing speedily from one job to another. He was there to check they finished the job, didn’t leave anything attached, and didn’t get confused by bad or conflicting direction. Millions of light years in travel and achievement beyond all imaginings, there was still room for error.

The units were a fascinating spectacle as they sparked and rolled along the surface. Most of the regular work was done under the skin, but each day something had to be checked or replaced along the hull. And that was his job. It still had a certain ‘something’ to it and one or two of the younger Russian bar girls ooh’d and aah’d when he embellished some of his more tricky situations out in zero. There were a few who, perhaps with a little snobbish disdain, dismissed his stories as being of the tall kind, and worse still others saw him as a mere high-tech janitor, but he didn’t really care. The job carried a frissance of danger that nearly always carried sufficient impact on the alcohol- and opiate-opened ears that they listened again to the third or even fourth telling. At that point a smile would always break on his face.

But what he would never relate was the visions. Sometimes, just before he started up the control unit he felt sure he could see something staring back at him from the stars. He never saw eyes or a face as such, but a spooky feeling of an intense observation. The first time he noticed this he was truly scared –scared shitless! Then he tried to ignore it, assuming it was part of the whole fear of spacewalking thing, evidence of space kookiness that some got from working in zero too long. It wasn’t long before he pulled himself together, overcoming this fear well enough to get on with the job in as near a mundane manner as possible, but somewhere behind the bravado the feeling remained – sometimes a low-level recognition, sometimes a concentration-spoiling focus near-impossible to block out. But of course, block it out he did: he had to in order to remain professional. He was a lifer, not some rooky kid spooked by weird thoughts of being watched.

The feeling was one thing, but the ‘thoughts’ were another. These occurred in an undercurrent between his proper focus on the job and the very monotonous checking of code when work was slowing up. If he allowed these thoughts to take over then he began to see flashes and lights and even sounds out beyond the hull of the vessel. Only work snapped him out if it. But even when snapping out of the daydreams and anchored back in the nuts and bolts of the real world he would be momentarily shaken: was he going crazy?

He allowed this to continue for nearly two years. He did his job, week-in and week-out, and saved his salary. He made his payments and made his calls. He allowed himself an alcohol stipend, a ‘girls and rec’ stipend, and the rest he put away. This worked when not alone, when not thinking of his daughter, when not contemplating life at the end of another contract, when not occupied with entertainment. But just before sleep he would feel it again, as real as ever, and his heart would race and his breathing quicken. It was then that what he knew, what he saw and what he felt conflicted. The tension of his experience grew – daily, nightly, hourly. He felt he could keep the lid on it all for now, but deep down realised this could not last for long. Whatever he did, one day it would uncontrollably burst out and wreck everything.

Ah Jin

The telephone rang twice and she hit the receive button. At once the vision of her father sprang to life on the miniscreen.

“Hello Ah Jin, how lovely to see you…” the mid-west tone of the unsmiling familiar face spoke brightly on seeing her face before him.

“Daddy!” she cried excitedly back “Wh…”

“Don’t interrupt me, Ah Jin.” He paused looking decidedly irritated, then resumed his smile. “I was about to say, ‘How lovely to see you today. How is your mother?’”

“Sorry, Daddy,” came her slightly crestfallen apology. “It’s good to… I mean, Mummy is doing well. She is out shopping for dinner.”

“Oh dear, that’s a pity. I would very much have liked to talk with her right now. I have something important to discuss with both of you. When she gets back you must tell her to call me.”

“I will do that, Daddy” she continued in her most serious obedient tone. Then she immediately changed back into the excited eight-year old she was, “When will you be coming home? Are you on your way?”

“That’s what I want to talk with you about. Well, I’ll wait for your mother to call me. However,” he continued checking his Rolex, “I have a conference call at 6 your time… so make sure she phones before then.”

He paused again, which he considered as an appropriate prompt for her to finish their brief communication. Sensing this she continued, firing off her words as a panicked Gatling gun.

“Daddy I have worked so hard at school. I have done all my homework in all my subjects and for test preparation and my scores are the best in the class, in school. My poem, you know the one you really liked, is being printed in the school magazine. And my Wing Chun teacher has moved me up because I have learnt so much. I did really well in the piano exam too and the erhu teacher…

“Thank you, Ah Jin, that is enough for now. I will speak to you both later.”

At that the screen went dark. She stood staring at it, her mouth still open from the last unfinished sentence. Then she told herself that she had at least told him what she needed to tell him and he would remember it and congratulate her later when her mother phoned. The fact that neither occurred that night was a wound to her, another wound upon the wounds as far back as she could remember. Her mother arrived back just after 6 and tried to call every 15 minutes, but he did not respond until nearly midnight. Through the walls her mother could be heard talking softly and privately and even eavesdropping through the door Ah Jin heard no mention made of her. There were lots of pauses. Then the conversation stopped abruptly and she detected a strange muffled noise like laughter. She wanted to go in and see what had been so funny, but on touching the door handle realised it was not laughter but crying she had heard. Fearful of seeing her mother in a distressed state she returned to her room and tried to sleep. The noise of her mother’s broken sobs repeated in her mind and continued well into the night: would she be able to ask what had happened in the morning?

She was spared that agony, for her mother left the apartment long before Ah Jin’s 5:30 alarm had sounded.

The Dep Comm Goes to Lunch

Kenneth Hon Kong Bo, the Chief Superintendant and Kowloon East, took his job very seriously. He also believed in a good lunch, something that he could not always afford as far as time was concerned. He relished finding a new lunch venue, particularly if it involved a unique specialty. There were many such venues across town; some were happy to reserve lunches, others the very models of egalitarian cuisine and one had to queue no matter how important or hungry! Lunch was often best taken whilst out with a patrol –mixing with the boys and girls of the force, taking in their opinions over a table groaning with Hainan Chicken and sweet and sour pork, soup and tea, or buying a quick afternoon snack of sesame cakes in Mong Kok. In his mind his presence was a morale-boost. He had to be careful not to be too familiar, and not to accept familiarity, but his reputation preceded him and he was generally welcomed.

This simple habit had continued from the before his latest promotion. Even as a sergeant he occasionally brought lunch for some of his constables on patrol, particularly during the winter. In his last position as Chief Superintendant he was disappointed to be so tied to the desk and unable to accompany the boys and girls doing their work, particularly the younger constables fresh out of college. He liked their enthusiasm. He believed in it.

Today he had to write off lunch –actually, he had to make sure it wasn’t accountable. Ordinarily he would keep the receipts. Ordinarily he would ask his secretary Mavis to tot up his expenses sheet each month and after a cursory check would put his quick approval signature at the bottom of each page. His lowest drawer in his desk had a large leather wallet for all personal receipts and costs: when he drew it back, the pleasant, sharp smell of cured leather wafted upwards. He loved that smell. Each time.

As lunchtime approached he speeded up his work, selecting out the bigger files that could be covered in depth tomorrow morning and hurrying through the letters and staff revues, the inter-departmental documentation and last week’s crime reports to be read and approved –anything that had to be completed before the day was out.

The clock minute hand ticked noisily to 11.45. He closed the file he was reading, checked his wallet for dollars and his mobile for messages and calls, pushed back his chair and checked himself in the mirror: mid-fifties resulted in putting on a little more weight on than he’d anticipated. With a sigh, he puckered his cheeks, adjusted his peaked hat and straightened his jacket.

“Mavis!” he called through the partition and closed door to the invisible secretary. “Mavis, I’m going for lunch. No calls forwarded unless urgent.”

“Understood, sir.” she called back. He hadn’t made an appointment in the diary. “Anywhere nice? Where shall I say you are?”

“I’m taking a walk.”

The Archeans

Strong winds crossed the plains down from the mountains whipping up little wavelets on the surface of the pond. The inhabitants failed to notice this. The inhabitants failed to notice much at all, other than the regular violent drop in temperature which coincided with the complete absence of any sunlight for six hours in every twenty-three. And this meant only that their activities would temporarily slow or even stop. As their functions were basic and required very little in terms of input other than H₂O and sunlight, this pond life was a brief and slow one, reflecting the microbial capacity for life in terms of elementary respiration, absorption, metabolism, excretion, transportation, reproduction and growth. Their presence obviated the adaptation that had occurred in the relatively distant past, but it had not been seen for countless generations, not since those first, mysterious pioneers were forced onto the surface of a hot and intensely hostile planet.

It must be said that the inhabitants of each pond or lake reacted differently to their particular environment. In pools higher in the poisonous atmosphere the extremes would become almost unliveable and only the hardiest could hang on to life. For some, it was simply too much and the cumulative effect of constantly high daytime UV and intense heat and evaporating water would eliminate these poor brave creatures and so eternally end their unique combinations of DNA.

For others it was easier. Warmer seas allowed for rapid multiplication, particularly at the coastal fringes where waves embraced the gathered Archeans in their strange column-like communities, refreshing them with waters that softened their crimson, greenish and blue forms. A big glowing moon in a cloudless cold night sky bore harsh white streams of light onto shimmering black wavelets. Such was life – the only voice the wind and sea, the only art the creatures’ myriad hues.

Respiration through their thin membranes meant the transfusion of the abundance of atmospheric carbon dioxide necessary for the process. Minerals were suspended in the waters as were the necessary simple proteins and carbohydrate-forming elements. Wastes simply accumulated until the light rains or tidal rushes washed them away, luckily before accumulating to toxic levels.

Transportation took a very long time coming: being generally assisted by micro-currents generated from the wind and sunlight. But there was no need for movement. Only during the heavy rains, when pools overflowed, would some came in and others leave, the remnant mixture becoming at the same time both enriched and depleted. The newly-introduced genes would make their delicate alterations to form, life-cycle, and capacity, mostly for the better. Occasionally a retroactive gene would instil retroactive forms, but DNA being what it is, their genetic strength existed in competition, and would eventually be subsumed.

All during their lifetime an oxygen vapour would emanate from them through tiny bubbles underwater or by freely passing out in drier conditions. Generation after generation would pour more and more, incrementally turning the day sky bluer by imperceptible degrees.

These organisms, whose lives at most spanned days alone, could not perceive their cumulative impact upon their planet. Neither could they have been aware of the multi-trillion genetic permutations which occurred in each reproductive wave; permutations which permitted mutations and others which fixed them. In turn, a world of only one type of creature would inevitably one day allow for two, three and even more, each in their separate zones wherein they thrived and divided and changed again. Droughts, floods, meteoric and even cometary impacts and other cataclysms inevitably killed many, but also prompted and accelerated these changes to newer forms.

The Achaeans may have been the simplest and the first of all forms of life, but they also happened to be the longest surviving. They are mankind’s planet-changing ancestors. What had taken millions of years to achieve, unaided and alone, would be later done in less than two by the largely unseen mechanical processes of their monkey-like descendants, a eon-length natural marvel reduced by mundane economic necessity to measured moments before colonisation and profits.

Adventure Before Dementia

In the sunlight of the morning Jay and Harvey had already cleaned up and got breakfast on the go before the others had surfaced. Baz said he’d seen the fish come up to eat Will’s shit from the toilet. When Harvey went, they peered over the side and, sure enough, the fish rose up and, to much jeering, swallowed it all. That made them all feel a little disgusted. By ten they had made their first chatty radio call in to the boat hire company, giving location and possible destination for the day, and were on the go, crossing the open water towards anchorage on the south of Hook Island – their target for a good late afternoon anchoring before it filled with other boats bobbing about here and there. Halfway across one of their navigation instruments beeped furiously: Barry looked up and saw the depth indicator at 1.5 metres drop to 1 and then instantly to .5 after which the boat noisily sloughed to a hissing stop against the top of a sand bar. He put the engine into reverse, gave it throttle and on the crest of a wave the boat was freed and gently drifted backwards. Will, who had been forward catching the sun, came down to see what could be done.

“Jeezus, Will, can’t you see where we’re fuckin’ goin’?

“You’re the skipper – s’up to you, fuck muppet! And you’re not even pissed yet.”

“You’ve got eyes, ain’t ya? You’ve all got fuckin’ eyes. You see something coming, you fuckin’ shout.”

By this time Harvey and Jay had got to the fly bridge to see them argue. “Yeah but you’re the skipper. Christ! B’sides, you got a whole lot of expensive fuckin’ instruments here designed all nice and precise to stop us running aground and hitting things – look!” He pointed at the full colour screen of the GPS plotter that beamed innocently before them. “Why don’t you use them? And we got a great big map here, why not use the damn, fucking thing?”

“Know what? You’re all a bunch of fuckin’ knockers – why don’tcha give it a go? Be my guest.” and with that Baz lifted his hands away from the wheel and stomped off.

Will agreed and effortlessly tootled the catamaran to the destination: Nara Inlet. Barry didn’t volunteer to drive again for the rest of the trip.

The island slopes were wooded and wild and totally devoid of human life and activity, save for a piece of grafitti –‘Piggy’ scoured halfway up a rock face. Their anchor dropped, they took to their dinghy and for about half an hour hopped over rocks and see what was there. Will wanted to climb the hill, but after about 10 minutes of scrambling through woods, scrub and spinifex after the path ran out even he decided to call it quits. Turning round they had a great view of the natural harbour that was their anchoring inlet and noticed another boat had anchored nearby in the time they’d been larking about.

On returning to the cat, they saw the newbies were a late middle-aged couple on their boat, Adventure Before Dementia who gave a friendly wave. They privately discussed whether to move because of the kids on the boat: doubtless their night would be a noisy one. She was against it, being tired – besides, she argued, what would be the harm in a few boys having a drink or two?

As it happened, they were all tired. The cloud came in and the wind picked up a little making the cat pitch a little on its anchor. They were glad they decided on a natural harbour as that obviously protected them from the breeze that was clearly racing across the tops of the trees on the hills. The struck up the barbie again, but the temperature dropped and as darkness descended a little light rain also began to fall. Overall, the evening was spent unsuccessfully trying to pick up a TV signal, lazily opening a few more tins and generally sitting around inside saying nothing too important.

An hour or so after they’d turned in, a claxon loudly sounded very close to the unlit catamaran. Instantly roused, they came outside to see that Adventure Before Dementia was very close; they were about to tell the man on deck in no uncertain terms to move his boat when he called over to them.

“You’re drifting. Dragging your anchor – didn’t put down enough chain. And you’ve got no nav lights on.”

They all apologised like schoolchildren for their forgetfulness, put on the lights, started the engine and moved back to their prior spot, this time putting down all the chain.

“What a fuckwit!” Barry whispered to Jay, seeking approval.

“Nah! He’s right.” he answered, “We were wrong – drifting with the tide. We’ve got to make sure we put down enough chain. Always.” It felt to Barry like a classroom put-down, but they were tired and humourless and just went straight back to their bedrooms without another word.

The next morning they were sat on deck halfway through their second bowlfuls of Honey Puffs, the sole packet Baz had thrown into the shopping trolley, when Will glanced over to the retirees boat and saw last night’s man’s wife pull back the curtains on the long chest-height cabin window. She obviously didn’t or couldn’t see out, but in the low morning sun they could see into the cabin and her sunlit naked torso in detail as she walked around to and from the en-suite. Jay nudged Will, who saw, stopped eating and nudged Baz. Last to see was Harvey who had his back to the scene of the naked fifty-something towelling off and applying lotion to her curvaceous body. All of them were transfixed as, using the window’s full sunlight, she tweezered-off one or two little hairs from around her nipples. Baz thought it was the biggest gross-out he’d seen in years. They all stopped eating.

Within a minute she opened the canopy and came out on deck in a baggy t-shirt to brush her hair in the morning breeze and sunshine. Turning around, she caught the four staring at her.

“Morning, boys!” They responded likewise, with reservation. “Did you all sleep well?” They murmured something in return, still staring. She finished her brushing and returned downstairs for the cardigan she’d left under the long window only to glance up and see the four faces staring directly at her through the window: even from their 40 metres distance they couldn’t have helped seeing her morning ablutions in detail. She stayed below deck.

The Meeting Across the Sands

They sat finishing their coffee in silence, listening to Barry talk about how sea eagles and ospreys often compete for food but that the eagles always won, and stared out as the last of the fog evaporated.

By now it was gloriously sunny and the sea in the bay around them was flat calm. Baz, fed up of talking about one of his old man’s favourite subjects, jumped down and headed for the shower. “Let’s take the boat over there.” He pointed at the headland. “There’s a path – up to the top.”

They looked at each other and shrugged. Within half-an hour they were over the water and pulling the inflatable high up the stony beach to tether it to a tree. Harvey hobbled over the rocks, his bad foot stinging with seawater. Finding a smooth cleft branch, he made up a crutch that allowed him to slowly hobble up the track. This, of course, made him into a Long John Harvey and they filled the air as they ascended with appropriate piratey noises.

None of them were prepared for the view that met them at the crest of the ridge. Harvey was the last up to the little observation deck that overlooked Hill Inlet and Whitehaven Beach. Beneath them a picture-postcard ribbon of glaring white sand cut into the meandering swimming pool blue waters of the river that snaked into the bay. Gently curving away from them, the long beach’s softly shelved into the clear aquamarine waters of the Pacific. Beyond still, the finger of a deep green headland dipped into the sea – the short passage that separated Whitsunday from the rolling hills of the neighbouring Haslewood Island. They stood in silence, trying to stuff the majesty and the breathtaking natural beauty into their visual memories .

“Wish I had me camera!” Baz exclaimed.

“It’s quite a view!” answered Jay.

“Nah! Not the view, fuckwit! The birds!”

“You’re a fucking nong, you are.”

On the sandy promontory were four young women lying in the early morning sun. From the shore another was slowly dragging a large piece of driftwood across the sand to make the form of a circle, but stopped within a metre or so of completion, giving it more the look of an enclosure. Each wore nothing but a bikini and oversized shades, although two of them with the longest hair included caps, partly for tidiness. It was clear they had beached their very stylish rigid hull inflatable a little further away up the beach, had walked down to the end and were now resting before thoughts of their inevitable return.

“Oh, Jesus! Will you look at that!” Baz continued. “I bet they’re here alone.”

“What do you mean?” said Will.

“Stands to reason. Where’s their blokes? Looks like they got here all on their own – which means they’re on hols on their own. What d’ya reckon?”

“Reckon you’re right,” Harvey agreed, “but it’d take us an hour or more to get back, start up and get round here again. They’ll be gone.”

“Right, then!” said Will resolutely. “Don’t know ‘bout you poofs, but I’m up for it.” He cast a quick glance around to the others and, without waiting for a reply, started flip-flapping down the track towards the big open beach on their side of the river.

The others rapidly followed, Harvey hobbling as best he could at the rear, telling them to wait, calling them bastards. Picking up their thongs, Jay, Will and Baz ran nimbly across the warm sand calling out to the girls nearly half a kilometre away. At this the girls sat up, or propped themselves on elbows. Over the occasional breaking of medium surf, the boys were still too far away to hear anything the girls were saying –above their heavy breaths the only sound was the hissing of their soles on sand and Jay’s open Hawaiian shirt rapping as he ran. Baz cleared the distance to the river water first and after two splashy strides dived straight in, clearly heading straight for them. At this point one of the girls in a bikini of large red gerbera daisies stood up, a little shocked. Something was clearly said, and she regained her composure and sat back down again.

It didn’t take them long to swim the deeper sections and stagger over the sandbars. Baz, enjoying his leadership position, told them to watch for rays under the sand. He emerged onto the beach first, the seawater dripping from his t-shirt and shorts. None of them had thought to look behind for Harvey, standing on the other shore.

With as much cool as could be mustered, the four girls, glasses firmly over their eyes and each with one delicate foot glamorously pointing at the sea, stayed exactly where they were: only the other girl, her hair in dreds, was still standing – leaning on her driftwood Tolkien-esque staff, eyeing Baz impassively.

“Hello, ladies!” Baz blurted, his breath quickly coming back to him. They acknowledged him with a reserved, “Hi!” – it was clear they weren’t going to make this too easy.

The other two caught up, all smiles, and approached hands outstretched to the nearest girls either side of Baz. Jay’s sagging shirt showed a bit of a bump on his young 20-something stomach: he definitely would have thought twice about his appearance, if he could have seen it. Will, on the other hand, had peeled his shirt off before exiting the water and in the beach light showed his fairly ripped torso to perfection with additional seawater diamond sparkle. He was also clearly a bit of a regular chest shaver. It was only then that Baz saw the girls had clearly taken more notice of Will’s approach, and quickly stretched out his hand to the nearest girl.

“Hi! I’m Barry. Everyone calls me Baz”

“Hello. Sarah. Everyone calls me Sally.”

“Name’s Jay! Beautiful beach, eh?”

“Emily. Yes! It is. Very nice and peaceful.”

“Great spot you picked here. What’s your name? I’m Will.”

“Charlotte. Hello. I’m Charlotte. Yes it is. Beautiful.”

They made their way around as the girls stayed where they were. Even Skye, the tall girl with dreds, let the guys approach, announcing her name first on each occasion. Once the initial introductions were over they stood looking about for a few awkward seconds. Then Rebecca, the eldest girl in the group, who had reserved her answers and seen the boys’ entrance as little more than a potential nuisance, took off her glasses to peer beyond the newcomers in the direction in which they had emerged.

“Weren’t there four of you?”

Will and Baz looked at each other, then at Jay.

“Why’d your mate stay over there then?”

“Ah,” replied Baz, “he’s injured. He’ll be over in a bit.”

“Injured? Why have you left him?”

“No – no really, he’ll be over.” Baz cast a distracted smile down at Sally, very happy to have a beautiful girl to look at today. She looked up and, glad of the attention, broke a smile.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.” Irritated, she got up and walked towards the water to call out to him and see if he needed assistance, but in the final steps thought it beneath her dignity and waded into the cool river water and began her swim across. The rest of the group watched in semi-silence as her capped head bobbed across in a good firm breaststroke. Feeling outclassed by this act of female bravado, Skye threw down her stick and walked the long way back towards the boat intent on bringing it over to the river, at that moment unaware that it would be almost impossible to move it over the sand back into the water without another hand or two.

Harvey was sloped against a rock, his legs crossed with the bad foot resting on the good. He didn’t want to risk getting sand in his wound – and the salt sting really was painful. For the first time since he’d received the cut he felt a complete tit: why hadn’t he been more careful on the beach? Here he was waiting it out because he didn’t want to get his feet wet, and the boys were running over to check out more girls than they’d seen the whole trip.

In what seemed to Harvey a much longer time it had taken the boys to reach the girls, Rebecca crossed the waters, pleasurably feeling the conflux of cold and warm streams: he felt he should make even a limping effort to approach the oncoming beauty. She dripped across the sandbanks, hard sun-baked and wet soft, ever closer towards him, her glistening jewel-encrusted skin sparkling brightly in the sun. She arose from the last knee-deep shoal, emphasising her curves and the expensive Boobah bikini she had only last week purchased (in the sale at their clearance store). In his somewhat dejected state she appeared smilingly confident, glamorous, enticing and expensive.

“Hi! G’day – I’m Rebecca.”

“G’day! I’m Harvey.” surprised at the archaism, and his return use of it.

They politely shook hands. He was glad she hadn’t used her surname or he’d have had to tell her his, and then go through the Harvey Norman rigmarole once more.

“What’s this I hear about you being injured?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just scraped my ankle on a rock – on an oyster on a rock.”

“Mind if I take a look? I’m a qualified nurse.”

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time there lived a princess who lived in a tall, white tower which overlooked a rich and pleasant palace. Indeed, so pleasant was the palace that many came from miles around to stare at the magnificent walls and gateways or to walk, at allotted times, through the fine ornate gardens. On occasion, the people would glimpse their overlords in all their finery and see the most excellent way in which they went about their regal business. And each said satisfactory to the other how proud they were to have a royal family that justified the term.

The rest of the royal family lived in the sprawling west wing of the palace (a very recent addition to the complex, much sturdier and containing all the conveniences of up-to-date living). Despite being a little cramped and out of the way, the princess had not only chosen to live in the tower chiefly because of the fine views, but also because of a romantic sense of tradition. For two hundred years, princes and princesses much like her had occupied one of the four white stone towers, ritually climbing their spiral stairs to the antiquated yet cosy bed chambers. For some each stop constituted a toilsome needless exercise, for others, like the princess, a chance for separation and distance from the more bothersome nature of their duties.

The little princess took it upon herself to be interested in the many people that visited her palace. Always minded by her retainers, she would shake hands with some, enjoying the smiles and kind words. So pleased would they be at meeting one of her kind that they would often present little gifts, simple like flowers or at other times things more personal or precious. On each occasion she would be gracious and express delight in the charming generosity of ordinary folk.

On one such time a short little man she at first took for a dwarf gave to her the cutest of puppies whose eyes had only recently opened, was asleep—the very picture of innocence, vulnerability and cutesiness. She took the animal in her hands, profusely thanking the giver who stood back and bowed in satisfaction. Kissing the little black nose of the doggy she made sure her lady retainer took note of the name of the kind giver.

Returning back to her rooms in the palace, she began to care for her new canine charge, ensuring it ate only the puppy food recommended by the palace vet. She would sleep with it in her bed and be often awoken by any nocturnal mictural needs of a young dog. On each occasion she took graciously to her duty as a queen benevolently acquiescing to a plaintive subject, and allowed the puppy to soil on the paper that nearly covered the entire floor. She would clean up and dispose of it herself and never once asked for help or complained. For her, the whole experience, from morning to night, was one of joy.

She at first gave thought to name it after her chief retainer: Joorealla, a name she had always admired. On further thought this seemed a little long-winded and, on seeing her name associated in such a way not a little disrespectful. On further enquiry she gave it the name of its giver, Mr Tammany.

Her public duties often required her to leave the puppy at home. This she did, her thoughts all the time on her little furry doggy pacing in her quarters, miserably scratching at the ancient heavy door for her return. Once free of duties or school she would race back up the stairs and lovingly embrace her companion, cheerfully chatting doggerel as she checked for any naughty puppy poos or chewed furniture damage. Their relationship clearly blossomed and she took him out into the gardens for exercise and fun. He would run and find things to paw and bite, she would run after him laughing and playing.

One night she and the hound had been given by a kind smiling man the unusual gift of a cake. Upon examination it transpired to be filled with nuts, something she could not abide. The puppy had pestered her, so she fed nearly all of it to the dog. That night the bloated puppy had restless dreams. She was awoken more than once to hear the desperate pawing at the door at which she quickly took him out, but each time he had not managed to get to the bottom of the stairs before emptying its loose bowels.

In the early morning, during a spot of rain, the two of them went out early for a short walk, the dog weeing on the dewy grass. Her attendance was later required at an important royal meeting with religious leaders. Upon her return upstairs her waiting retainers appropriately dressed her with all the Imperial finery befitting the occasion: her hair put up in the court style—which always took such a long time, and a long and flowing white dress and white gloves (because of the presence of the religious people). She looked much older than her eight years suggested. Aware of the urgency of time, her attendants hurried her out of the big door when her puppy hurriedly ran towards her, intent on accompanying her for what seemed another exciting chance to play. Both she and the retainers stopped him, hurriedly pushing him back inside. She put her arms round his tummy and picked him up cuddling and squeezing him. “Dear Mr Tammany. You will have to stay here until I come back.” At that she kissed him and, as he struggled to be free, he squirmed ungainly until she let him down.

The family stood in line ready to enter the Great Throne Chamber. All waited patiently for the allotted time when the specially invited guests had arrived and been appropriately seated. Her father, the Emperor, took one quick glance at each of his children. The three princes stood firm, chins waving in the air. Her two older sisters tried hard not to look bored. He came to her, at the end of the line—the youngest of the six. His eye was drawn to her sleeve.

“What’s that?” he enquired, pointing with his gloved finger to a large brown smudge on her silken arm.

She looked down to see a smear left by Mr Tammany not five minutes before. Deeply embarrassed, and not a little fearful, she confessed it was a stain left by her new dog. Barely concealing his anger, he castigating her loudly for her choice of occasion to get covered in dog shit, and sent her immediately  back to her rooms to change. Her cool sisters glowered, and stared over their shoulders as they began to walk through the big gilt doors into a fanfare of another tedious stately exercise: more than one of them quietly thought their sibling’s exercise in poor puppy control an excellent ruse to opt out of the pomp and tedium.

The doors closed and left her alone in the antechamber. She turned and walked slowly back up the stairs. Although she was no fan of ceremony, she nevertheless missed the family occasion and the feeling of majesty their family enjoyed.

It was only when she had removed the dress and flumped in her underwear on the bed holding a licking Mr Tammany that the distant sound of gunfire erupted from the Great Throne Chamber as the assassination of the family took place. Unfamiliar with the sound, and confusing it with fireworks, she rushed to the window. From the bed Mr Tammany lazily looked up at his young mistress, unaware that by his fateful smudge he had not only saved her life, but the lineage of the entire dynasty.

Elephant Attack

The mood was up —a good deal of training and the resultant fitness had emboldened them all. The 5,000 men had sung songs and played drums through much of the night and the party-like atmosphere continued until the first long rays of the sun broke through the smoky gloom of the mountain camp. Beneath them a host of angelic birdsong echoed down each dark green valley and a clear tumbling brook cascaded between the primal tumbling rock pools.

It was then, in the dawn’s light, that the beautiful Prince Vyankoji rode haughtily upon his chestnut Arab gelding; small-headed and elegant, it was the epitome of grace. Silent and regal, he momentarily glanced to his left and right, settling on each of his awe-struck jawan’s young faces. He permitted no response to each loudly hailed greeting: his control was to be respected. Pace-by-pace and tent-by-tent he finally began to feel the weight of command assuredly upon his young shoulders. His time was coming. It was here and now. Other men stood to attention where they were, irresistibly resting their widening eyes on his bejewelled coronet with its’ over-sized majestic plume, his finely polished armour and beneath that his sky blue silken bodice. Even the bronzed leather saddle gleamed brilliantly in the morning sun. He felt each gaze, even on the back of his head, and finally turned. With slow measured words he commanded them to break camp and leave, for today was the day they would in all probability bravely meet with glory.

As the morning brightened they moved onwards through the forested hills, the sticky heat rising hour by hour. After midday they were snaking upwards over the last pass through the ghat that would eventually give them access to the main road from Bengalaru. Downwards they weaved until the land was sufficiently level and they could look out upon the long plain. At last when the path ran through a sufficiently darkened glade at the dry flattened bottom of a valley Vyankoji called a halt and ordered that his three good scouts be sent out. He regarded the over-noisy scene with what he felt to be soldierly pleasure—his men had made good sturdy progress and were weary. Nevertheless, he believed they were now in a much stronger position from which they could begin inflicting their stings, make a difference, and increase his martial reputation—a reputation which must always be compared with that of his glorious father Shahaji Bhosale, or even that of his illustrious brothers. Vyankoji could not know that sooner than he expected he would meet the men of one of these brothers, Shivaji, and that they would have with them a dozen elephants.

As each of the little cooking fires rose swirling into the mid-afternoon hillsides his men took on the appearance of the rested. They had all expected –even desired– rain from the cloudy skies but instead the winds had picked up from the south and brought with them gentle cooling relief: the lowering sunbeams began to pierce through the smoky canopy and all around them the trees began to gently bend. Beyond the camp’s perimeter the fallen leaves swirled their circular dances upon the sun-hardened earth. Perhaps this spooked the horses, for they were leaving their fodder. Sensing unease, Vyankoji arose and without assistance adjusted his harnesses and saddle. At the same time he called out over his shoulder for orders to be sent out for his men to break camp and continue their advance. One of his already mounted daffadars walked his horse over to him and leant over to hold the Prince’s horses’ reins begging a word: surely this place was a relatively good defensive position? The scouts had yet to return, the day was late and the men were now weary. The Prince smiled, as if to a child. His orders had been issued, and now they should be carried out.

A small pop of thunder rang across the forested scene, followed by an indistinct shout, then a louder panicked scream, the resonance of which filled each unquiet ear. All stood and turned in its’ direction, the playful leafy edge of the camp. A short and shoeless dark Kerelan jawan jauntily ran shouting and wildly gesticulating through the gloom. He had a purple stain of splattered blood on his white tunic from just above his right hip. No-one understood his ranting. It was then that the first distant elephant trumpeting rang through the trees: they had been expected!

Vyankoji looked angrily at the daffadar—where of his scouts? How had they been discovered? He jumped up into the saddle and for the first time shouted orders directly to his men—pikemen to the front, musketeers to the trees, daffadars and risaldars with him!

The official subedars and sergeant-like havildars barked commands, and the hurried soldiery made a chaotic assembly under the crack and whisper of incoming bullets. Dust swirled excitedly with the woodsmoke as feet rushed to make ready in the direction of the oncoming commotion. Vyankoji tried to keep control of what was already looking like a helpless situation and a catastrophic scene: his was always to have been a prolonged hit and run guerrilla campaign. A pitched battle was the last thing he anticipated.

The horsemen looked to him—would he take them right or left? For the moment he couldn’t move, finding himself still worrying that his scouts had still not returned. Shaking his head, he knew a rousing speech was what they needed, but at the moment he opened his mouth to utter the first words a piercing elephants’ trumpeting soared across the treetops: they were upon him now, right there in the trees. His skittery horse buckled fearfully under him. He drew his curved sword and waved it above his head, but no one was looking at him. He barked the nearest havildar: If they could hold a line long enough for the gunners to pick off the mahoots then they might stand a chance…

A pair of polished tusks glimmered in the evening light of the forest—each gold-tipped and aggressively waving left and right. They were attached to the large lead elephant that thirstily ran towards the quivering assembly of jawans hurriedly drawn-up to meet and challenge this force of nature. Nothing but deep almost uncontrollable fear filled each wide eye, their subadars’ brave and harsh words doing little to keep them from running. Nevertheless, the lances and barchis all faced forward. In the trees beside their flanks a tirade of sporadic musket fire broke in echoing black clouds, but the rounded bullets all-but bounced wildly on the beast’s flanked side plate armour. And then they had to re-load.

These were the most fierce war elephants—savage beasts that had learned to enjoy many a fight with men and horse. They all-but ignored the booms and the punchy impact from bullets on their sides and kept their war step. The relentless charge continued towards the mass of men, rapidly closing the 100 yards gap between them within seconds. In the front line the weaving pikes pointed tremulously towards the nearest elephant, the apposite of a reversed porcupine. Their training made their actions effortless, but at this very moment an unspoken realisation spread amongst them that it was all untested. At the last step when finally breaking on the pikes, the massive beasts instinctively raised their heads to grasp the wooden staves with their serpentine trunks, several at a time, yanking the sharpened points to the side beyond the withering grip of the terrified men. Thus, the dreadful stabbing bronze tusks forcefully plunged downwards onto the terrified men. Swiftly shaking their heads, they began scything down the men, the noisy mahoots angrily urging them on and on. Beneath the glistening silvery armour, the sheer mass of their gray muscled bulk could not be halted.

Now all those standing turned and fled over the underbrush in every direction. Those trapped at the front were mercilessly trampled down; crushed mercilessly, stabbed through, torn to pieces. Some of the gunners caught hold of those on the run, but blind panic meant most could not think of standing ground or surrender.

Irregular cracks and booms from shots rang out through the hillsides. From the intense roaring of men and beast Vyankoji knew they were now at close quarters. He could see little at the front, but assumed from the smoke where his own musket men were standing. But the more he looked on, the less clear it seemed.

Sensing the attention of the sharpshooters, he turned his horse and headed towards the thicker forest, his devoted horsemen following behind. The Arab had just broken gallop when it stumbled mid-stride from the impact of a musket ball. It crumpled, catapulting him towards the leafy dust. The cracks from the guns caught up with their discharges and he turned quickly to see his beautiful horse mid-somersault in the air over him, its’ beautiful brown eye blown through. And then the broad back, saddle pommel sticking out like a bizarre vertebrae, landed heavily upon him, forever squeezing the entire breath from his lungs and the hope that all had invested in him

Career Change

His career took an unexpected turn: the carrier was visited by a film crew, making a human interest piece about the last of the great ships of war still roaming the high seas. Ordinarily, this would not have disturbed his focus but for a drunken discussion in a late-night bar in Hong Kong.

They had followed his tour for two weeks; flying, briefings, recreation, even at sleep.  At first he welcomed the attention as a form of flattery, despite the comments of the rest of his flight. They rapidly settled into mutual satisfaction—he supplied the good looks, the human interest and some excellent opportunities for stylish shots which the camera operator knew would long be remembered, they supplied the initiative to keep him sparkling. He liked it.

It had been an intense two weeks and so at the end of that time they moored in the Lamma Channel in Hong Kong in need of a little relaxation time ashore.

The bars in Wanchai had gone through several developmental phases over the years.  At first these bars were little more than covers for discrete acts of immorality. In the 1960s girly bars sprang up to cater to the needs of British squaddies and visiting American airmen and their naval counterparts. Of the two nationalities the girls always preferred the latter, especially for the thankful depths of their wallets. But of the two, and somewhat unhappily for the girls, the former stayed longer, for when they were not drinking and whoring they were positioned at the Mainland Chinese frontier. In the end, wars would always be impermanent, but the bars remained. Some went bust, others changed name and re-opened the following day. Some were muscled out following triad turf wars or payment difficulties with ‘fire insurance’ or the police. Some moved along the Lockhart Road away from the more established areas of pleasure, only to be forced back by unhappy neighbourhood complaints.

The Pink Pussycat Bar they sat in had been there for nearly eighty years. Of course, to look at the tatty sparkly fixtures and fittings you might be forgiven for thinking it had only recently opened, but the management kept the place shining and the constantly-cycled girls beaming. At any one time after six p.m. the bar contained three or four grinning idiots consuming frosty San Miguels and who sat amidst a wealth of exposed flesh. Patiently the Mama-San would wait until a sixth of the bottle remained, and then wink at the girl whose soft arms and hands would then become a little freer and… bingo!—another beer. This skilful transaction would continue until all the customer’s money had been taken. Sometimes a little more skin would be exposed (sometimes even the promise of it) and an expensive girly drink would be bought. This consisted of coloured water, although the customer could insist on a ‘real’ drink that cost a twice as much. Sometimes a little too much beer would be bought for the money; then everyone’s face changed, the girls left to find another nice man and embarrassing credit details would be taken.

It was Saturday night and they had been sat for three hours on the same black pvc stools, sticky and sweaty. At first they discussed the filming, then the ship, then his career, then hers. At times they looked up at the girls gyrating nimbly on tottering high heels, their soft curvaceous skin gently absorbing the spinning multi-hued lights. He had been to Hong Kong before and fallen in love with one of these mirages only to be dashed the following visit by her spectacular fall from grace. She deliberately sat with other guys; he didn’t much care for the show now...

He paused—was this part of the interview?

“I’m always working” Soo replied, “but I thought we were just talking… about your work, the girls, you.”

“Yeah sure. But I don’t want it to get back to my folks, ya know, that I always head straight for these places.” He finished his San Mig and another was plopped before him.

“But you do, don’t you?” she reminded him. “You and the other guys. Straight to the Wanchai bars for your fix of flesh and… what was it Frank Zappa sang about? Titties and Beer?”

“Who’s Frank Zap –Frank who? Does he work below?”

Soo laughed again. He’d been keeping her well entertained all evening and his charm was effortless. She was putty in his hands. By now she not only expected him to make a move, she was also very much looking forward to it. She had worked many times in a military setting (that was how she got her crew the current commission) and had met many metal men full of themselves, but here she met someone she actually admired. There was something about way he conducted himself at his briefings, on his flights –hell, even his work-outs at the gym. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was playing to the crowd, doing it to please her. But maybe he wasn’t doing it to please her. She couldn’t work out whether he really had integrity, or was just full of shit.

She continued, “You know, we’ve been watching you these past two weeks and its’ been fun. For the other guys its’ been their first time aboard a carrier. And with all the activity—the exercises each day and the night flights, well, we got you 24/7.”

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and tilted his head back, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah, I won’t say it’s been a ball having you tag on me all day. But the Navy agreed. Heck, I agreed. Ah, it’s been good to get to know you, and see what you guys do.” He gulped half the bottle.

She played with her bottle, rolling it between her palms. “Yeah, you seemed interested in it all. You got us some great footage: Like yesterday, on the first climb to 20,000 the light was just right. Like you knew. How’d you know to do that? From deck to the top—one great shot: only after I was thinking, “Jeeze this guy knows how to work a shot, how to get the angles and the frame.” ”

“You think? It was me thinking on how this’d look from outside. I wanted to put you in my seat and show it off and all. Show my best side…”

He put the bottle down, a little too hard. The noise awoke him to his senses. He’d already had one too many. What was he going to do—take her to her hotel and give her a good hard fucking. She’d be ready for it. God knows he was ready f or it. He got a raging hard-on just thinking of the whole deal, of going back to a room, all that kissing and taking off clothes…

Then she put her beer down and turned in her seat directly to him. “You thought of making T.V.? You thought of directing?”

This wasn’t the subject he wanted to discuss right now. He balked and took another swig conjuring images of himself with a crew, with clipboards and camera equipment. He instantly compared the fulfilment of his job now, his limited job of flying old planes from a heaving flight deck mid-Pacific, with one behind a lens in a studio, of unlimited hunting for the greatest shots, and the greatest piece. But then his eyes fastened on her. She sat there, sweaty from the night with dark patches under her arms and on her chest. She had worn a white blouse and it dangled precariously open around her cleavage. Her jeans were tight around her slightly flabby thighs, thighs he thought he would enjoy touching, stroking, kissing. There was no doubt from her open lips and her upward glance that she was ready for his move, his touch. His eyes, for once, lingered on hers. She wasn’t that bad at all.

He decided to humour her. “Why not? I… thought about it while you’re here—ya know, with the Navy hangin’ up these boats and all. Sure I thought about it. But I’m just a Navy pilot. I never had to film anything. Where’d I start?”

She smiled raising her eyebrows and lifted her near-empty bottle. “You just leave that to me!”

He interrupted her. “Cheers!” he held out his bottle pointing it at her. She reciprocated, gently clinking their bottle necks. Then he stopped her. He grabbed her arms and wove it round his so that their arms were locked at their elbows. “In one!” he instructed, and in a gulp sank what beer they had. They sat looking at each other’s eyes for what seemed a long time, but was perhaps two seconds. They both knew what was expected next. As soon as the bottles were put down they were immediately replaced by two freezing identical twins.

“Hey wow!” he started. “If I drink this next one I’m gone.”

Without skipping a beat she lifted hers and, looking at him again, said quietly, “And so am I!” She sank the whole bottle, slamming it down. What followed was a concentrated look on her face followed by a long low belch.

Laughing loud he lifted the bottle and did the same, except his belch was twice the volume. She slapped him on his back in her best ‘good ole boy’ way, just as she’d seen her dad at parties and Christmas, except it came over as a very feminine bitch-slap.

He lampooned her, pretending to bitch-slap her back “Ow! Just a minute there, sister!” He paused as they looked each other in the eye again. “Let’s get the bill.” So saying he pulled out a sheaf of orange-coloured notes and slapped them down with aplomb only to have them quickly snatched up.

The Mama-San behind the bar pointed a fat muscley finger towards the ceiling and in her rough cancerous voice croaked, “One more!”

He checked his pockets; nothing. He checked his crocodile leather wallet; also nothing, no credit cards—he made a point of taking only what he could afford to lose. He thought of explaining to the Mama-San about credit billing to the U.S. Navy in his name when Soo interrupted.

“One more? See, I got it.” she proudly announced pulling a fold of multi-coloured notes from her hip. “And here’s the tip.”

“Hey, you’re stacked!” The counter-top money disappeared as quickly as it could be perceived. He rose and staggered a little. “You always carry so much?”

“In Hong Kong it’s a good idea. Money talks here. You got it, you can do lots with it: More than at home. You ok?”

“Yeah—been sittin’ here too long... I mean I gotta move...  I mean...  why don’t we get outta here?” In a gallant display he gestured his hand towards the curtains and the slither of streetlight from beyond. But she mistook it for a romantic gesture towards her and she held it, at first a little too tight. Looking her in the eye he held it as tightly, as much to reassure her, he whispered, “Shall we go?”

Leaving the commotion of the girls’ “bye-byes” they stepped together through the heavy dark blue curtains out into the hot July street scene a-blur with movement and noise. Taxis were honking at a slow driver at a green light and the rain was beginning to fall in a large deluge.

Standing still under the canopy of the overhanging buildings they felt the rain splashing from the sidewalk back on their skin. She turned her head to him to find him already looking at her, inches away. She inched closer, looking at his mouth, his jaw line, his eyes, his mouth, his…

He kissed her. Quickly at first; then again slowly, deeper and with feeling. Had they been sober she would have felt him rough and unromantic. With their senses dulled through alcohol it felt strong and manly. He just thought she was giving it away.

“Where to now?” he gently asked.

“My room.” she whispered.

Dreams and Misdemeanours

At first it was exciting; immensely enjoyable, forbidden, alluring. The dream recurred only occasionally and always left him pondering ‘why?’ At first he thought it wrong that he should dream of people in a sexual way; at that age sex is something oddly mysterious whilst being strangely funny and frighteningly repulsive at the same time, an activity that only older sexy people do. On Sunday morning, when just awake, he would lie still feeling a bit naughty and relishing all the juicy details of the dream state intimacy that he could remember, each moment a departure from familiar motherly closeness. He’d then push down his pyjama bottoms and drowsily quasi-masturbate. In church that morning he would spend anxious moments examining his guilt about these wanton liberal thoughts.

The childish dreams did not evolved until at about 15 or 16, an incandescent adolescent period, he climaxed in vivid, long-memorable dreams about sex with significant characters in his life—powerful women like the teachers at school, some of the more animated girls he went to school with and beautiful sparkly female presenters he relished on T.V. The intensity of these somnambulant visions began to expand to include anyone and almost anything. All sorts of women appeared; sometimes nice well-behaved ones like his pretty Sunday school teacher, as well as the hideously ugly or fascinatingly overweight ones like the really big check-out lady, sometimes disturbingly incestuous sex-crazed aunts and, which severely startled him, even his mother and grandmother, and the girls in the neighbourhood (including the two little children who lived across the street and would sometimes came to play in their garden—which, of course, made him suspect he was going to be a paedophile). Sometimes men appeared which, of course, caused him even greater distress because it meant that he was undoubtedly going to be homosexual! And then he would dream of sex with animals like the cat next door or people’s dogs he’d seen on a walk, something he had not the slightest intention of pursuing in waking life, but which brought him closest to what would have been an eternally-embarrassing parental confession because he knew it really would prove he was perverted. And just sometimes there would be a strange whirl of all of the above; an orgy of sexual abandonment happening all around him, sometimes with him at the centre and sometimes with him merely watching, a salivating bystander in a cavalcade of internal debauchery.

In his early adolescence most dreams were short-lived on account of his simultaneous spontaneous ejaculation and the horrible awakening to a sweaty gooey mess in his pyjama bottoms. At first, at about the age of 10 or 11, this occurred at even the first hint of sex—a dreamy smile or friendly caress. This caused him untold worries, because he knew that if next time he saw the people in his dream, like Mrs Geller the newly married Sunday school teacher, and they smiled softly or lightly hugged him, then he would just uncontrollably ejaculate right there and then.

But as he passed through puberty his dreams became a little more controlled—the characters became more complex, the sexual scenarios more involved, even lurid. If it had been particularly nice, he would organise his waking thoughts so that he could remember all the intimate focuses, as if it had been real sex. Then next time he saw the same girl or woman he would try to recall all those erotic details and half-hope that his instant hard-on would get noticed. After all, he reasoned, hadn’t they popped into my dream because they wanted to be there?

He only once told someone about his sexy dreams. Roberta was a wonderfully attractive girl in the same year at school. Sunny and well liked, she had returned his coy glances, so he considered it not inconceivable that once they got talking she might actually enjoy hearing him tell of his nightly preocupations. Besides, he was dying to find out her response. And at first, she did indeed listen attentively to his tale of undressing and going to bed with her, of feeling her hardened nipples brushing up and down his chest and then of him pushing her onto her back, popping on top of her accepting bodily embrace and… After a while he quite forgot himself, being concerned with the proper revelation of the special details. She listened with a transfixed expression on her face—no one had ever spoken to her like that before. And while her suspicions were aroused, she also pondered for a second or two about whether he was exotically interesting or just a mad pervert. Her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably, her visage changed from quizzical smile to dark frown. Then she decided, and with a sneer spat that he was disgustingly depraved, swept her hair back and stormed off back into school to instantly tell all her friends. They, of course, giggled and laughed every time he entered class, but were themselves in two minds—was he truly a sad deviant or some dark misunderstood figure full of forbidden sexual knowledge? He caught their sideways peeks, and they also became fuel for the fire of his further dreams, where severa or all of them either excitedly sneered or merely talked in excited tones about his bold revelations.

Then, as graduation approached his hormones began to relax a little. He ran through a succession of real girlfriends and experiences, some of which made all his fantasies reality: at 17 on holiday in Mexico at the end of school he found himself in bed with three girls—admittedly one had already passed out and was later sick all over his pillow. Later in life he would try to recall this experience, but it would forever remain strangely elusive: he and three girls, this time all of them tall blonde Australian stewardesses, who swept into his large Melbourne hotel suite. He tried to recreate the fabulous energy and enthusiasm had accompanied this fondly remembered experience, but something didn’t quite work out. They had words and one of the girls instantly left. He ended up moodily sleeping on the couch and left before breakfast: it remained a memory-bound legend.

During his late teen period most dreams were directed to be about people he knew. But later other characters began to appear—people unlike anyone he knew; neither did they remind him of anyone in particular. He was in his mid-twenties, a junior flight lieutenant in the Navy. His mind was now clear and firmly set on a career in the skies and perhaps beyond. But at night in his bunk his mind became more and more distracted by the secret nocturnal somnambulant visitations from strangers, all very keen to have sex with him. And they cropped up during quieter daytime moments, the unreal almost-hallucinatory occurrences transpiring in any arena and whilst doing anything; drinking by the pool on shore, systems checking in the cockpit, reading in the mess hall, in chapel, driving, or in an aisle of the ship’s stores. A little taken aback by the lack of control these situations presented, he tried to make these occurrences a little more personal, and actually chatted back to these visitations with what he thought was wit, charm and interest. The characters of his encounters, however, seemed completely disinterested in talk; some of them didn’t even seem to understand English. All they wanted was his sex, and they wanted it immediately! Sometimes, they would appear to secretly discuss him in hushed almost unheard tones, their sideway-knowing glances just like the girls in class, only this time they were kindly, and also strongly suggestive. Ans just as he felt obliged to accept their advances—all of them—some of the experiences began to feel decidedly impersonal, even abusive. Perhaps strangest and most worrying of all, he became aware that he was not alone; that others were also watching.