All stories

Uncle Bulgaria, he could remember the days when he wasn’t behind the times. But now that Stockholm, the 16 year old Womble from Sweden had arrived, it was all very different. Already she had railed at the oppression of Madame Cholet and replaced her cooking duties with a Rota (strictly vegan) which all cooks were expected to adhere to. Bulgaria didn’t know one end of a recently discarded spiraliser from another. Her attitude to humans was much more aggressive and she called a meeting to discuss a new approach. Tomsk and Tobermory were too busy to attend, In future she declared it would be “a Wombles role to shame humans by showing them the error of their ways!”

“Sisters!” She shouted “We will cower in the darkness no longer! Be proud to be seen, it is time to go both Underground and Overground! It’s time for Furpower!!!”

In the end with the aid of infatuated younger wombles Wellington, Orinoco and Alderney plus the newly liberated Cholet, Stockholm’s decree had won the day and Bulgaria was outvoted 5-2.

A subsequent vote decided they should all go to central London on the tube and take part in an extinction rebellion demonstration and perhaps visit some cool shops at the same time. When Bulgaria objected, he’d was called a gammon and handed a rake to do the leaves, he was told he should be prepared to work as hard as those he oppressed, and encouraged to be more planet aware in future while he was Wombling up the rubbish. “Do you really think it is good for the environment to dress in tweed clothes imported from Scottish islands? She asked, “And why do you wear two pairs of glasses?” she continued. “Do you think there is a bottomless pit of lenses? Also, their plastic arms will kill the little sea creatures!” “Yeah climate change denier!”! Added Orinoco, pleased to be allowed to show subordination after 100 years of being treated as a baby. “Recite this phrase to yourself old womble” said Stockholm “I am a womble and I must be woke!” With this they Wombled off leaving him slightly flummoxed.

Bulgaria was a good environmentalist, he wanted the world to be greener, he respected the younger generation. Perhaps he did need to change with the times. He admired Stockholm’s passion and knew that in his 350 year life change was not always bad. “I am a womble and I am woke” He chanted to himself mindfully. “I am a womble and I am woke…….zzzz”.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there fast asleep when he was woken by Tomsk. “Umm ‘scuse me Uncle Bulgaria,” he said, “We’ve had a message from the young wombles! They seem to have got lost on the underground and never made it to the demo! They ended up in Cockfosters by mistake. The good news is, they are being looked after by some kindly Cockwombles but they need you to go and get them back.” Great Uncle Bulgaria smiled, he was pleased to address his issues as a member of the Wombriarchy, but at the same time, relieved to discover he was still useful for something.

Reginald Stacey Wilkingfried III strolled suavely into the Hilton’s lounge, leaned his long frame against the bar and adjusted his cravat. He calmly surveyed the dining room, his sharp eyes picking, like magpies over a rotting corpse, through the crowd for likely candidates.

Couple at table twelve? They’d never do.

Three lads, four pints in at table five. Reginald shuddered. They wore tracksuits and black shoes hastily purchased in order to gain entry and were literally counting down to eleven, when the Bottomless Brunch began.

Table three. Seven girls - Reggie’s lucky number - all heels and eyelashes and foundation enough to sink a battleship. Perfect.

Really, it was too tragic that it had come to this, thought Reggie, but his throat was parched, his pockets were empty and his credit with the charmingly provincial barman was most definitely at an end. It was this or go without his midday drink, perish the thought.

“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…” the lads bellowed, the girls fluttered, the waiters waited, tensing their immaculate shoulders. It was about to begin.

“Three, two one - PROSECCO!” corks popped, glasses clinked, the room filled with shrieks and sticky laughter. Reginald made himself wait a few moments then headed to the table of ladies, wombling an unattended half-glass of prosecco en route.

“Good morning ladies” he said running a trembling finger along his thin moustache and they blushed. “Might I have the pleasure of your company? I don’t often see such beauty in this old place."

“Keep moving grandad” belched the wiliest of them, but the seventh, a young redheaded girl smiled shyly. His saviour.

“Of course. Waiter? another glass for -?”

“Reggie, sweet girl. I’m most obliged”

Reggie tipped the incredulous waiter a wink and returned to his new friends.

“Darlings, I find myself temporarily embarrassed, but perhaps I can make it up to you later upstairs in my suite, if you’ll join me there for further refreshments?”

The wily one was about to speak but the seventh girl interrupted. “We’d be delighted.”

Reggie sat with them long after the Bottomless Brunch ended, sharing his charming anecdotes and getting himself nicely lubricated at their expense.

Number seven was generous. She made countless trips to the bar, returning with brandies and bottles of fizz, always with that shy smile. Reggie almost felt bad about the nasty trick he was playing. Almost.

In a flutter of cheap perfume and elasticated dresses the girls rose in a flock to use the bathroom. Reggie sensed his opportunity. When the last girl had vanished from sight he stood, unsteadily, and slipped from the lounge.

But his way was blocked by a strong, immaculate arm.

“Sir, you’ve forgotten to settle your bill.”

The voice was polite, but with an undertone of gleeful menace.

“Oh, the ladies have been so kind. I’m sure they’ll see to everything when they get back.”

“They’ve gone”. The carpet swam under Reggie’s feet.

“Yes to the bathroom, my good chap.”

“No, sir. They’ve left the hotel. That redhead girl was thrilled you’d treated them. Said they could never have afforded it without you. Most pleased, she was.”

Reggie dragged his eyes upwards and into the face of that charmingly provincial barman.

“Now sir, will that be cash, or cheque? I’m afraid we don’t accept credit - anymore.”

Just one little pill.

Tiny blue thing with some kind of printed symbol on it.

“Go on. It won’t hurt. It’s the best feeling”

So many times I said no.

Just say no.

BBC Children’s TV from the 1970’s.

My happy place.

I wasn’t in a happy place so much these days.

Just one little pill.

At first nothing happened. I sat on the grass and looked around me and all was as usual. I shut my eyes and listened to the chatter and laughing.

I felt warm in the garden, stuff smelt good.

Something soft brushed against my nose.

When I opened my eyes Orinocho was sat in front of me, his great fluffy face just inches away from mine.

“Nice hat” I said.

Nice red hat and red scarf.

Red hat and no knickers.

That’s what my mum always said about Aunty Barbara.

“ She’s no better than she ought to be, she’s all red hat and no knickers”.

I asked Orinicho if he had any knickers. He stood up and turned slowly around.

Not only did he have no knickers, he had no bum.

That is to say no bum hole.

I knew that not having an asshole was dangerous. What would happen to all the digested materials, where would it go? He would surely explode.

I was crying,

There were big floppy tears, like huge jelly beans.

I have never felt as sad in my whole life, so worried was I about Orinicho. I knew I had let him down. I had stopped being his friend sometime around 1976.

So bloody hot!

I was frightened that he was bound to die from peritonitis, infected internal fluff or a huge gaseous explosion.

Farts are funny.

I thought that if only I could tear the stitching where his bum hole should be I could save him from a terrible fate.

All the bad stuff would be able to come out.

No one needs to be without a bottom.

Bad stuff has to be evacuated.

I threw myself at Orinicho and knocked him to the ground, clawing at his behind in desperation.

Next came the darkness, just a deep deep black and the sense of oozing and catastophe where my head should be.

For a very long time, probably about 25 years, I floated just a little way above the lawn.

Not 25 years.

25 seconds.

It all felt the same.

I opened my eyes.

Standing over me was Jaime.

My friend Jaime, the one who had given me the little blue pill.

In her hands was a garden rake, with just a little bit of blood on the handle.

Nice red blood.

She was smiling at me as she turned to leave.

The seam on the back of skirt was torn.

Phew, I saved her.

Everyone needs a bum hole.

Water cold, skin clammy, fingers shriveled. Carving knife limp in my hand. A droplet of water suspended from the lip of the faucet.

I want the drip. When the drop splashes into the tub, I’ll cut myself. Mix blood in my bathwater. Kill this bottomless well of grief I carry.

Evelina’s death a plague to me for too long. I have no strength left to counter it. No antidote. No cure.

But the water won’t fall.

I put the knife down and drain the tub. Dry off and lay naked on my bed. Stoned.

4 a.m. and I fall asleep. I don’t dream and I don’t wake up until late afternoon. I can’t spend another minute in my flat. Need to walk the neon streets of Tokyo again. Walk off my sorrow.

But my grief for Evelina, I realize now, was my savior. As I walk East Shinjuku, I know how I will survive. I have purpose today.

To avenge Evelina’s death.

I stop at Suntory’s Inn. Owned by that fat toad, Hansuke. Named after his grandfather. Uses the place as a front for his heroin trade. He is yakuza.

Evelina worked as a bartender at Suntory’s. It wasn’t difficult getting Hansuke to hire a pretty red-headed girl from St. Petersburg. He had a thing for Russians. They attracted the right kind of attention.

Evelina did what was necessary. She knew the game. So did I. That didn’t make it easy.

She’d pass out after coming home late from work. I’d be up before the noon sun, running drugs for Hansuke. We were low-level addicts and traders. Washed ashore a year earlier, looking for excitement. Easy for Hansuke to see us as nothing but junkies to exploit.

Maybe we were.

We shot up enough heroin to keep up appearances. But we weren’t there for the drug trade. We were working something much bigger.

The underground sale of Antidote A was coming from Suntory’s. Making its way into greater Tokyo. We were afraid it’d spread off the island and to the world. Hansuke didn’t know how potent a weapon he had.

He acquired Antidote A by accident. A disgruntled scientist named Toranaga snuck a vile out of our labs in Tokyo. He wanted to save people. Told Hansuke he’d show him how to reproduce it if he’d set Toranaga up with a lab of his own. And protection.

Idiot.

We got wind of it too late. Toranaga was working for Hansuke for six months before we discovered his treason. By then, Antidote A was on the streets, although in short supply. You only had three weeks, tops, for the antidote to work. After that, there was no coming back from Agent Z.

Evelina and I spent almost a decade developing Agent Z. It turned people into rage-filled animals. Killers.

Our goal, to rid the world of the corrupt human species. Antidote A was the cure we wanted hidden from the world.

Evelina payed the ultimate price getting to Toranaga.

I will avenge her.

Call me Jackie is talking, her mouth opening and closing, but all I have in my brain is the noise of the tram, rolling its wheels over the joins in the track in the most bone shaking way it can. Call me Jackie is talking about chances, no, about a chance – the last chance.

Nice one, Jackie. How many of them I had now, seven?

Just to be clear: I did not steal the Womble. I most definitely did not return to the exhibit after the rest of my class had left and use a black-market skimmer to scramble the code and pop open the lock. What is a skimmer, anyway? Come to that, what the fuck is a Womble?

About three inches tall, this thing, some old toy from two hundred years ago. Whole rooms of old crap in the museum, all of it irreplaceable, all of it priceless. What would a kid want with stealing that shit?

Would you believe me if I said I was going to use the credits to buy Jackie a birthday present?

We arrive at Traitor’s Plunge station. Waiting for us on the platform is the youth liaison office for my district, a guy I’ve known since I was five years old. Skinny as a rake, this guy. How long we known each other, Slim, ten years?

We follow him down the platform and through a bleak metal door at the far end. Now it’s a twenty-minute tunnel walk, climbing higher and higher inside the natural wall of stone that rings the city. When someone does the walk for real, everyone watches on the monitors. Dead man walking.

Nah, course not. Progressionist society. Banishment, is what it is. They lower you into the pit and then the cage comes back up empty. Might as well be dead, because is the first thing they teach you in school?

There is nothing outside of this city.

Call me Jackie hangs back as Slim leads me up the three steps cut into the stone that lead to the plunge pit. I am GOD when I tell the guys I’ve stood and looked down into the actual fucking pit.

What a let-down. Nothing but a few feet of stone dropping away beneath us and then blackness.

‘Is that it? A tiny black hole? What happened to the bottomless pit of despair?’

Slim shrugs.

At least the cage is pretty cool. The actual cage from which the banished take their last look at the world before they are lowered into nothing.

I give Jackie a wave. ‘Hey, check it!’

I raise my right leg in front of my body, holding it out straight.

‘You want me to step forward? Save you some paperwork?’

‘Kid,’ Slim says. ‘You hear that noise?’

‘No.’

‘Hydraulics turning off, pressure door opening. All those bullet cars rushing through tunnels, air has to go somewhere.’

Slim jerks his head to the right, and I look to the narrow cave opening just in time to feel this great wash of warm air pummelling my body.

Jackie is screaming, but for me there is nothing but the pit, and Slim’s fingers hooked through the collar of my shirt.