“How long does it take?” she queried, looking puzzled.

“Just a minute, I mean, it should be . . .” Frank’s voice tailed off. He looked hard into his controls.  This hadn’t happened since the early days.  Frank’s mind went back to some of the early tests where things would hang, half returned to reality, half lost.  They got some of them back – in time. Others remained half gone, like a sort of image of the real thing. They’d sorted it out long before trying living creatures.

Angela shrieked. The half transported mouse was twitching. It was moving, but at the same time was rooted to the spot. Frank turned his controls and the image got stronger. Angela could still see the wall of the crucible on the far side, the mouse was twitching more strongly when there was a “pop”. A small curl of smoke came up from the machine.  They both stared at the mouse. It did look OK. The device might have struggled but it did seem to have move the mouse from one place to the other.

Frank collected the mouse in his hands and placed it in a small cage.  Angela was full of questions. “How far can it go?  Have you tried it with people? What happened when the mouse was half here?  . .

“Hold on, slow down” said Frank.  “There’s a lot we don’t know. No-one knows how something can be half here, or where the other half is.  We did a lot of early work on cheese. It’s organic material and helped us sort out the details, but there are several pieces we lost, don’t know where. We had a few half lost, but generally stuff either eventually arrived or didn’t make it at all.   Mind you, in the early days there was some funny stuff arriving.”

Angela shook herself as Frank stopped speaking and decided the time had come to go home. It was clear there was a lot more work to do if people were to be moved. It was also apparent that Frank’s prototype had machinery at both ends. I distant planet would not have that apparently vital bit of kit.

As she opened the door to leave, there was a man standing outside. Angela stared at him, but he didn’t speak.

No End Thatcham Writers

Something was afoot.

Tuning in, as he called it, was all very well but it wasn’t getting him anywhere. What he needed, he decided, was one of those twee little wormlike surveillance cameras, the sort you inserted into a tiny hole in the wall. The alternative was to simply break in and take a proper look. After all, he had plenty of time on his hands now that those bastards at Computer Gaming Inc had dispensed with his services. Although a handsome separation package wasn’t to be sniffed at, it continued to irk him that his magnum opus would never see the light of day. An asteroid the size of the Isle of Wight hurtling towards Earth, colonisation of a distant planet – surely a nailed on winner for the gaming community worldwide. But, no. Not according to the arseholes who ran CG Inc. He digressed.

It had all started as a spot of recreational voyeurism – sound only, no pictures. But that suited Stote. He much preferred to allow his vivid imagination to run riot against a soundtrack of ‘oohs’, ‘aahs’ and ‘yes, yes, YES’. Viewing the actual deed, he suspected, might well prove a disappointment.

Lately, though, things had got a lot more intriguing, and he wasn’t talking about conjoining – more separating and rejoining, if the business end of the stethoscope was to be believed. Take tonight – working model, experiments, perfecting the technique with a living creature. What on earth was Frank up to?

To add to the mystery, hadn’t he spotted Frank schlepping home, lugging a bale of wood shavings under each arm, courtesy of the local pet shop? Perhaps he’d perfected a way of generating cheap power, a couple of dozen hamsters pedalling away night and day to produce electricity. Or maybe he was moonlighting for a pharmaceutical company, testing out aftershave on a batch of mice.

Speculation was one thing, Stote concluded, but it didn’t provide him with the hard facts his curiosity craved. No, he would wait until Frank left for work the next day and take a gander for himself.

Nosy Neighbours Thatcham Writers

Prototype Thatcham Writers

‘It’s no more than a working model, really,’ he muttered, peering into an eyepiece and focusing a lens on a small white dish. ‘Just to demonstrate the principles. I built this a couple of years ago, back when the experiments began.’

He turned to look at her. ‘I didn’t believe it either, you see. I had to prove to myself that it really could be done.’

‘If this is some kind of wind-up, then it’s not very funny, Frank. You did much better when you stuck with the schoolboy pranks. Fake parking tickets. Pretending to be trapped under a road grating. That time you took a mouse into Harrods and let it loose… poor mouse.’

‘It would have only ended up in a laboratory experiment. At least it had a bit of fun. And it was a complete accident really – I wasn’t to know that woman was going to sit on it.’

‘The look on her face was priceless, though.’ Angela giggled, despite herself. ‘ Here, do you want some wine?’

‘I can’t – I’ve got to concentrate.’ Frank tightened a screw and stood up. ‘I need something of yours. Something small – a lock of hair, maybe? Or a nail clipping?’

Angela spread her fingers. ‘You must be joking – I paid a small fortune for this manicure.’

‘Sorry. Hair, then?’

She sniffed. ‘I only went to the hairdresser last week.’ Then she flashed him a smile – the one that made him become less of a rational being – and held out a strand provocatively. ‘Oh, all right then. Just a tiny bit from the side.’

As Frank snipped off a short section from her blonde mane, he found himself wishing that time would stand still. At some point – maybe in a few minutes, maybe later in the evening – Angela was going to understand the truth of what he was trying to tell her. He didn’t want it to happen – didn’t want to see her face when she realised that manicures and hair appointments soon weren’t going to matter anymore.

Frank had known about the supernova for six months now, and had already been through the tough process of psychological adaptation required for facing up to the end of the world. He knew how painful it was – that moment when it first sank in. That it was really going to happen in your own lifetime. That all your hopes and plans for the future had just been a huge waste of time. He didn’t want to witness Angela going through that moment, but then, how could he face leaving her to learn it from the public service announcements like everyone else? Angela deserved better than that.

And also, Frank reminded himself, he could offer her hope. The chance for a place on one of the earlier teleportations. Of course, she wouldn’t believe him at first – and maybe not even when she saw it with her own eyes. That was why he had resurrected this old protoype on the coffee table. It was, if nothing else, a welcome distraction from thinking about how they might all be going to die.

When the lock of hair materialised in the second crucible, Angela gasped.

‘Jesus, Frank!’ Before he could stop her, she picked it up – sniffing it and rubbing it between her fingers. ‘How in God’s name did you do that?’

‘It’s just a demonstration… the real test is whether we can perfect the technique with a living creature.’

Angela stared at him for a few moments. Frank waited, trying not to anticipate her reaction. In truth, he had no idea what it was going to be.

‘Perfect the technique,’ she echoed slowly. ‘That means you’ve already been trying out?’

He nodded. ‘In small, controlled experiments at the laboratory.’

‘And it hasn’t worked yet?’

‘Not quite, but it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Jesus, Frank.’ Angela poured more wine and handed him a glass without asking. ‘So that’s what you do with all those poor mice.’

Poor mice Thatcham Writers

Kirsty awoke suddenly. She struggled to see the clock beside her bed – 3:30 AM, it said, in large green characters. The noise. What was that noise.  It got louder and louder as she came out of her sleep.  Then she realised it was the alarm.  She couldn’t ignore it, so quickly pulled on some jeans and a sweater and slowly opened the hotel room door. No sign of problems, but people were making their way to the stairs. Kirsty went back, grabbed some shoes and a bag and joined them.  By the time she reached the stairs the corridor was empty. She pushed open the door and followed the noise of clattering feet coming from below.  Three flights lower down Kirsty tripped and fell. Not seriously, just a stumble. It was a fortunate stumble, for as she fell a large gentleman tumbled over her.  He crashed to the floor a yard or two in front, and emitted a groan and wimper.  Kirsty recovered herself quickly and realised she had had a narrow escape. On the floor in front of her, almost motionless, was the unmistakeable shape of Mr Choi.

The fire alarm was not false. Three fire appliances arrived outside the hotel, by which time flames were seen rising from a laundry at the back of the building, not far from where bin bags containing dresses had been found, three years before, in a dumpster.  Lee and Nigel had left, to be replaced by Bruce and Quentin, slightly more useful than their predecessors. They had spotted a shadowy figure leaving the hotel with bin bags, followed by another running fast, not long before the fire alarm went off.  Giving chase, they had, somehow, got the second man but the bag man had been too far ahead.

Gerald Snodgrass had finally been caught starting a fire. Was this his second, third, fourth or had there been countless others?  When his trial came, he was sent down.  “Six Years is the right custodial sentence” said the judge in his sentencing sentence.

The bin bags were fakes, set up by Bruce containing sheets – and a GPS tracking device.  The police, somewhat more awake than the previous lot, caught up with them quickly.  Two of Choi’s men.

Snodgrass, of course, with also Choi’s.  Police were considering opening up the previous murder case of Soo Mei, but decided, though Snodgrass was guilty, proving it would not be easy.

What about Choi himself?  He was in a coma, in hospital in Hammersmith.   He wouldn’t be attending any fashion shows , at least for a while. He had no choice but to stay where he was, motionless but well connected.

ALTERNATIVE ENDING #5: ALL CHOI’S and NO CHOICE Thatcham Writers

Halfway through the story, a new rule was also introduced requiring the inclusion of a random phrase chosen by the previous writer in the sequence. When someone came up with the phrase ‘the tree crashed down on top of the car, pinning her against the steering wheel’, it was really just asking for trouble.

If anyone can spot all the other random phrases, then you’re doing better than us.

You can read the story here in all its rambling glory. Our next project will be a science fiction story about teleportation and the end of the world. Martha has made the usual stipulations of ‘no killing off characters’ and ‘no sex scenes you wouldn’t want your mother to read’, but she realises it is probably futile. Nevertheless, she does have one particular request – that Mr Tiddles is NOT to be used for testing out the teleportation machine.

Check out the latest developments in the new story here.

Death by Design now complete Thatcham Writers

To understand the back-story to this extraordinary revelation, and the beginnings of our civilization, you must imagine a time when teleportation was – if not the stuff of fable – at least applicable only to photons and the occasional atom. And even then, the result of the act – the item coughed from the wormhole, so to speak – would have been viewed as a copy, not the real thing. One commentator, name of Jack Holden, even observed that being dissolved into one’s component atoms might be acutely painful, all for the construction of a doppelganger at the other end. This, of course, is nonsense. There’s no such thing as a copy when the act of copying is perfect. You merely create a second original, which is mighty handy when you’ve destroyed the first. But such thoughts were not in Angela’s head at the time. No one had ever been teleported – let alone half the human race – so, in fact, she was more concerned with the end of the world than flipping out of there. Her exact words were:

“Jesus Christ, Frank. You never do things by half, do you?”

He toyed with the wooden stirrer in the broad saucer beneath his cup. “I’d like you to come with me,” he said.

“Pah!” she replied. Angela, though good company  for occasional nights over the previous ten years, was neither the sentimental nor the credulous kind of girl Frank would like her to be. He’d had problems convincing her of things before, such as that he loved her. Ten years of trying had left him exhausted. For Angela didn’t believe in love, neither did she believe in teleportation nor that the world was going to end. To ask her to suddenly believe in all three simultaneously had been a mistake, Frank would admit, had he ever admitted things about Angela to anyone. So he felt the need for action over words.

“Come back to my place?” he asked. Then, when she looked stern, added: “Not for the usual reason. I’ve got something to show you.”

Telling Angela Thatcham Writers

It is expected that 50% of humanity will take the risk. But will it work? Who will be chosen? Where will they be going, and what will happen to those who are left behind?

This is what we came up with in the pub, and Dave has bravely volunteered to take it from here…

The end of the world as we know it Thatcham Writers

 “Priceless, my dear.” One of the other two men present simpered in delight, raised his crystal champagne flute. “A toast, I think.”

 The man alongside him nodded in agreement. “Why not? I reckon we’ve earned it.”

 “To a successful outcome, then.” Choi gave his serpent’s smile, clinked glasses with the other three in turn. There was a moment’s silence, all four lost in their own thoughts.

 “Ironic about Morgan though, wasn’t it?” The man who’d proposed the toast scanned each face in turn.

 His neighbour snorted out a suppressed chuckle. “Poor sod never knew what hit him.”

 “Did you have plans for him, Choi?” The girl chimed in, a hint of regret in her voice.

 Choi beamed. “Of course, but they were not required. His unfortunate accident saved me the trouble of planning … an unfortunate accident.” He went on to add that, due to Morgan’s demise, the Soo Meie Collection had never got off the ground, leaving them in pole position to clean up worldwide.

 More hilarity, followed by further reminiscences, until …

 Choi’s brows knitted as he stared at the caller ID on his shrilling mobile. Unlisted number. Tentatively, he pressed the button to accept the call, listened for a few moments, frowned some more before severing the connection. Sensing Choi’s discomfort, three faces framed the question.

 Choi sighed deeply. “It was that lot at Thatcham Writers. Cut to the chase or they’re buggering off.”

 Fair enough, I suppose. Well, they were all in it together, had been ever since Choi had subtly introduced them to the concepts of free trade, not to mention eye-watering amounts of cash, on day one of the launch. Stumbling across Soo Meie in the storeroom had threatened to de-rail the plan but, by taking his own copies of the dresses and ensuring that Soo Meie was permanently removed from the equation, Choi had got it back on track. Naturally, it had needed an inside man who, in turn, had recruited a fourth member of the team – he who had wiped out Soo Meie. Unprepared to see Aristide, to whom he’d rather taken a shine, get hung out to dry, Choi had enlisted Gerald Snodgrass’ help to get Aristide off the hook. By the time the police got round to charging Gerald, he flatly denied any involvement, challenging them to produce evidence. They couldn’t, of course. All they had was a dubious confession, made under emotional duress.

 The team had all met up in Hong Kong the previous day. Gerald’s passport had been grudgingly returned by the disgruntled police, Lee had resigned from his job citing undue stress, and Nesta had abandoned Lionel at a Little Chef on the Andover by-pass.

 “Happy Christmas!” Mr Choi raised his glass. “And a highly prosperous New Year!”

Alternative Ending #4: End Game Thatcham Writers

“Thank you, Jeremy.”

“Tell us about Fashionably Dead. How did you came up with the idea of telling the story from the perspective of the all main characters sequentially?”

“Well, it came to me one evening in the pub. I’d just finished a lovely pie and chips when the idea just popped into my head. I loved the thought of telling the story from each character in turn but only writing what they would actually know about or what they could do at the time.”

“What made you set it in the world of London fashion?”

“Oh, that’s always fascinated me. The bitchiness of the whole industry and the neurotic models; it seemed too good a device not to use.”

“You took the unusual step of killing off a main character fairly early on, adding an unexpected twist to the plot. Did you agonise over that decision like J. K. Rowling is reported to have done when she killed Cedric?”

“Oh no, too tell you the truth, Soo Mei’s death was an accident; she was supposed to have a lesbian affair with Kirsty and end up running the design company in New York. I just forgot the rules I had set myself at the start and by the time I realised, the poor girl was dead. I was so engrossed in the rest of the plot, I left it in.”

“Let’s move on to some of the characters. Tell us about Nigel Waltham…”

—————————————————————————

The TV goes black as a slender finger presses the button on the remote control. The TV watcher starts to protest but the finger stops him with a light touch to his lips. A hand gently turns his head to face the waiting lips which kiss his slowly and then with more passion. His hands move to the nicely filled jeans of the lips’ owner. Who needs fiction when real life was this good?

Alternative Ending #3: Stranger Than Fiction Thatcham Writers