The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Alpha From The Ashes Day Two ~ Evening-time
16:39 Dec 31 2011
Times Read: 824

Day Two ~ Evening-time



For hour upon hour Alpha had walked, until he came to the end of the desert plain, which gave way to dry soil and shale, then some light vegetation. The scrubland gave way to the base of a sheer cliff face, it’s top lost in the low-lying clouds.



Noticing an old dried-up winding river bed Alpha fell to his knees and, he’d begun to dig, putting a great deal of effort into it and finally this was rewarded, as a small trickle of water welled up into the hole he had dug.



A smile spread across the face of the normally stoic warrior, moments before he lay on his belly, to cup into the pooled water with his right hand and, then he’d drunk.



Eventually his thirst was slaked and Alpha rolled over, to look up at the blue-sky, shielding his with his right hand. And, for a brief moment Alpha allowed himself the luxury of relaxation, as he closed his eyes.



As he had the previous day, when he’d begun his journeying, Alpha let his mind go freeflow, “After all it isn’t often I get the chance to…” He said aloud.



And Alpha had suddenly found himself puzzled by his lack of recall; he was here after all, ‘Wherever here is…’ Yet, there was no memory of how and him and his unit had become separated, or indeed where he was.



Yet, he had drunk his fill and as minutes passed, his breathing slowed down and became heavier, as did his eyelids.



But, Alpha was unaware of eyes watching him as he slept…

Alpha From The Ashes ~ Day Two
01:10 Dec 27 2011
Times Read: 828

Day Two ~ Morning-time



Alpha had no stubble, nor ever would have; he possessed the perfect buzz-cut and, it would stay that way. And, of medium height, his musculature was ideal for normal and heavy density atmospheres. It was how he’d been designed.



But, one thing could that could not be written into or out of his data-profile – his physical Needs, one of them being his Need for drink. And, once awake that second day Alpha realized that he was thirsty, very thirsty in fact.



Blinking ‘gainst the bright morning sun, already in his eyes, Alpha rose and peed into his cupped hands.

‘That’d been twice now,’ he mused: ‘sterile, wet and, waay too warm.’



But, it was a drink.



He tucked himself away, then stretched, touched his toes with his fingertips and, kept himself limber. Besides all else, Alpha had to find water.



‘Existence is all very well,’ he thought idly, ‘but a body does have certain Needs.’



And with that in mind, Alpha donned his belt, with the requisite knife tucked in. Then, clutching his pulse weapon, Alpha began to journey toward his destination: ‘Whatever that is,’ he considered, with a wry grin.

Alpha From The Ashes
16:11 Dec 15 2011
Times Read: 844

Day One



Alpha rose from the ashes, literally. His series of genetic warrior had been superseded eon’s years ago. And, he should have died on his last mission. Yet, Alpha rose…



And slowly, the dust and debris of many decades of war was eased off his back.



His battle-suit now quite useless, the soldier stripped down to his sleeveless vest and boxers, both white.



It was hot and, Alpha was glad to be out of the piece of cumbersome kit.



Then, having donned his boots and belt, Alpha looked about. He noticed the stock of a pulse weapon protruding from the sand, so went to extricate the powerful hand-pistol.



Having slung the weapon over his right shoulder and, sliding his Bowie into his belt, Alpha looked up at the sun. Estimating that at the midpoint of its arc indicating midday, Alpha grinned mirthlessly: “It seems I’ll miss lunch…” He opined blithely.



It seemed that Alpha had forgotten the sound of a human voice, as he was so shocked, to hear his own.



For a moment Alpha looked back at the battle-zone he’d emerged from and, then he turned round to face a journey into the unknown.



“This should be interesting!?!” He exclaimed.



Walking slowly, dust rising with each footstep, Alpha looked to the far horizon.

And, he smiled.



He was alive; he had a fully charged pulse-weapon, on a strap slung over his shoulder; and, the Bowie knife in his belt.



“So maybe the stims are gone,” Alpha mused, “It doesn’t matter, not really. After all, I was bred to survive…”



And, so he had.



The last of his squad, Alpha was an individual now; ripped from the collective group intelligence that had been his squad.



He was an onlie now, as squad members would call those who didn’t know the joy of unity that group communication could bring. It’d been perfect, cloned super-soldiers, designed to fight as a complete unit.



They had been the perfect battle-unit; cloned super-soldiers, designed to have collective thought, their natural strengths augmented by stims, their human frailties kept in check with suppressants.



And now, Alpha was Alpha Prime. He was andividual unused to singular thought: and, his mind felt empty. He missed who he had been and, who he had become.

And, this was the first cause for fear he had ever known: The onlies were small and, limited. And, now he was an onlie himself, his mind eager to be filled with new experience.



There was no green around and thus no water. Yet, Alpha was thirsty. He looked up, shielding his eyes with the flat of his right. Alpha looked up to the sky; the sky was cloudless and blue, with the sun high and very hot.



He walked with a slow and measured pace, content to let his thoughts go freeflow, as his feet trudged onward.



Thinking solo was still a novelty and, to do so, was interesting for the soldier. And so, Alpha carried on walking, as the sun beat down on him.

One Night at The Club
16:35 Dec 04 2011
Times Read: 852

Introduction:



One’s memory is fragmented at the best of times and when you think back to certain events, it is rarely in a linear fashion.

So it was, when he thought back to the past and a time when they had little, but one another and that’d been enough, for him.

It wasn't as though he didn't think of the good times: he just found the bad much easier to recall, because of the emotional impact that they’d had upon him.

Yet societies conventions dictated that as a man he shouldn't feel as he did, but that was impossible. There had been a time when his had been the way of the macho-male, when he'd been cold and quite unfeeling...

But, that was before, whilst this was now... his heart had been torn from him and he felt bereft at its loss.





* * *





Early in the evening Aaron decided to go for a walk.

As he prepared to go out he pressed play on his tape deck: and Thin Lizzy blared, loud, 'as they should be heard,' he thought.

Then when the album got to the track 'Don't believe a word' he thought of her.

When he heard the lines, "'Coz words can tell lies," he turned off the sounds, even though he wasn't ready to go out, yet.

What he'd heard was too near the mark - he didn't want to hear anymore.

Standing in the centre of the flats main room, wondering where his keys where, he turned slowly, thinking. She was everywhere. He had to get out.

Then, stepping onto the street, he mused, "this is probably as good as it gets."

There was a clear sky and the only star visible so far, the North Star.

He listened to the quiet, walking toward town.

Looking up he saw dark clouds in the sky moving rapidly toward him.

Then feeling droplets fall on his forehead he looked upward, as it began to rain a fine drizzle that quickly soaked his clothes.

'Perfect,' he considered, 'just perfect. S'pose that sets the seal on the night?'

He had heard and disliked many of the various helpful platitudes that'd been heaped upon him. Things like, 'time heals and 'you can move on.' But they irritated, because he’d wanted to know how could he move on and let time heal, when he didn't want to do that? He couldn't, it was as simple as that.

And, although Aaron felt the urge to cry, he could not, as he had cried the last of his tears away, such a long time ago.

People, he scorned them all, especially those who smiled, as they walked hand in hand together.

Although he’d left the flat, Aaron hadn't left the memories behind, which annoyed him, aware as he was of how he’d decided to live and the path he'd chosen: a social-pariah, the self-absorbed baggage carrier and, Aaron allowed himself to smile at this self-analysis.

He was after all, his own worst critic, of everything that he did.

Beneath the lean young man’s feet the rain-slick cobblestones provided little purchase for his shoes, so he walked with slow measured steps.

He had taken a short cut, through an alley leading away from the cities bustling nightlife.

Then, from the corner of his right eye a couple approached.

They passed hand in hand and very much in love, so Aaron thought; feeling jealous, as he watched them walk, their fingers entwined, aware how sad that made him seem. But, he was here now. And, the rain continued to fall as he walked streets that were now almost empty, which suited him. It began to make his coat sodden as time grew by and this also suited him and his current mood. Then, when night fell and dim yellow street lamps cast the only light, Aaron sighed, realizing the exercise might be good for him, but the damp was starting to chill his bones.

Although he’d sought solace in his own company, the four walls were sometimes just too much, hence the walk. Yet, her presence still filled his mind.

Vengeance wasn't an issue, he told himself, walking back to his home.

How he had felt, during that time, way back when, was that the world had been his.

And now, he turned the key, to open the door to his world, where he felt safe and secure, away from all that he could not trust.

He brewed a pot of fresh coffee and picking up a book, considered his past, once again, wondering whether it had been worth it: unable to vilify the actions of the other; who had left him feeling betrayed.

But it’d hurt so; after all the time and energy invested, he considered, as he sat in his worn, favourite armchair.

Setting his alarm clock, so as to be ready early for the next day... he turned on the boob-tube, to ignore all that was outside his front door... and soon, the charms of the flickering light lost their appeal and his tired eye-lids won their battle to close. He was asleep.





* * *





The Day Before the Night



A lot of people had passed Aaron Mason since he left the house.

‘It's a busy day,’ he reminded himself, ‘my Giro Day and it’s half-day closing.’

And today, he was to claim the money, which the state said he needed to live, which wasn't very much he considered, walking to the post office.

His mind distracted with thoughts of how his benefit would be budgeted he did not notice the passing young woman's blue green eyes flash, with a moment's recognition as they passed in the street.

In the post office he’d waited patiently in the queue to cash his Giro-cheque. Then with money in his pocket he left, to begin the day properly.

First he’d visited the nearest newsagents, to buy a newspaper, tobacco and papers.

Yet, focused solely on the habit of ‘dole-day,’ his unemployment benefit payment day,

Aaron did not notice the penetrating gaze that tracked his movement down the high street.

Then he did his shopping, purchasing food from Sainsbury's, for the quality, as he appreciated good food; although didn’t cook as much as he used to...

And, as he mused on his dislike of cooking for one, he did not notice that standing in a shop doorway was the young woman who had recognized Aaron earlier.

His routine never changed.

She smiled.

Next he bought his toiletries and cleaning products from the nearby SuperSaver store, as the prices weren't too bad.

She smiled, as he left the shop, still unaware of her presence, as she recalled that he still seemed ‘safe’ and reliable, his life structured.

‘Aaron’ ~ even his name sounded strong and noble, to her.

Then, as he passed where she stood once again, Beverly wondered fleetingly whether he would ever notice her.

Then after taking his shopping home Aaron had a quick coffee, putting every purchase away in it's respective home; something he had learnt to do since he has been on his own and, it did make life a lot more convenient, he'd found. Then checking the change in his pocket, he said aloud, "Good, I've got enough. There's a drink to be had."

So, he boarded a bus, taking him out of town, to the coast, where he sometimes walked the promenade, to enjoy the fresh air.

On the front was a pub and still having some money left Aaron walked in for a whiskey, surveying the quiet bar for anything that could be interesting. There was little to see, or hear though, as it was lunch-time, mid-week and the few patrons in the bar sat quietly nursed their half-glasses of mild, or bitter, for as long as possible.

He drank his scotch, served ‘straight-up’ slowly, his memory on the past, as it often was, when he looked up toward the clock to check the time, thinking, "I don't know why I bother... it's not as if I've got anywhere to go."

Looking around the bar at its customers, he wondered if they have lives to lead more interesting than his.

Then smiling, he considered they must, "after all, I exist, that's all," he mused sadly.

"You got anything special to do tonight?" He heard a voice ask.

Looking up from his drink Aaron stared balefully at the barman, asking him,

"You mean me?"

"Yeah course," the jovial sounding fellow responded, adding, "gloomy you may look... but, you're alive and this is Saturday night. C’mon. This is your life, not a book."

The barman’s smile widened as he finished speaking, "Whoa, I'm rhyming... well, at least... half of the time..."

Aaron grinned a little in response and said, "Yeah maybe, But, you had to work on that one."

"It doesn't matter, the points made, isn't it? You should go out, get out there: see what’s there, otherwise you’ll be wondering, ‘what if,’ won’t you?"

"Yeah, I guess... well maybe..." the young man muttered, staring into his drink once again.

"Maybe Chris had been right?" he mused.

"Maybe I should get out more. What was he had said?"

"It's good! You'll enjoy it. There's loads of totty there."

"But it was a club," he’d thought and, answered simply, "It's a club and I don't do clubs."

"Don't be silly," his friend had responded smiling, "you don’t know, you might just like it. You just don’t know"

Perhaps he might, but that’d entail being sociable and not only did he not "do" clubs, he also didn't "do" sociable.

It had been an evasive answer, he realised. But, what else could he say?

The conversation had become irritating and what was worse was that he did want to go out, find company, perhaps even enjoy the odd drink, or two. But, he thought, it was hard to out with one’s guard down and possibly run the risk of being hurt once again.

So, he'd told his friend, "Okay, I'll think about it..."

And that should have been the end of it.

Aaron looked up at the smiling bartender, polishing a glass with a tee-towel, finished his drink and left the pub, to continue walking down the promenade, his mind on what he would do, if he had the money to spare. A bright sun and an almost cloudless blue sky served to lift Aaron Mason from his usual grey mood.

He still looked around himself, as had become his custom, so distrustful had he become. But, this fine day, his actions owed more to established habit, rather than paranoia.

There was a sigh of a wind, which caught at his hair, blowing a long fringe into his eyes. Aaron brushed his hair to the side, breathing deeply, walking slowly, casually, and looking around, filled with an air of expectation.

Then, as if to break the spell of the moment, a gull, circling overhead, cried as if in triumph, as it left a deposit...

Aaron scowled for a moment, before saying aloud, "See, distract yourself, for a sec, with thoughts of how nice a day it is and..."

Looking upward, he grinned, pronouncing, "And it drops on you..."

Aaron turned back to the rail and looked down to the river below, musing, "Where does it come from... ? Where does it go to?"

And removing a white linen handkerchief from the left rear pocket, in his coal-back straight leg jeans, he wiped the white discharge trailing down the right side of his brown leather jacket, muttering, "Ah well, they say it's lucky."

Then, having cleaned the mess as best as possible, Aaron resumed his walk; with the sun so bright overhead he lowered his gaze.

It was as he walked, head lowered and eyes downcast, that he’d caught a fleeting image his brain registered as interesting. So, Aaron retraced his path several paces, to see what he had missed. Incredibly, there just before his right boot tip was what looked like a note, purple and brown, partly embedded between a crack in the roads surface...

Reaching down, he picked up the paper and unfurled it carefully; both surprised and delighted, to find that it was what he'd hoped that it would be, a twenty-pound note.

“Hmm,” he mused aloud, “more lilac I think.”





* * *





After his find Aaron continued walking, deliberating on his good fortune, suddenly feeling aware of how fine a day it actually was.

His mood was far lighter than usual; so much so that he smiled at the couple walking toward him, their heads inclined inwards, his right hand holding her left.

He considered the note sitting in his front right pocket and smiled.

"It isn't a lot to some people," he said wryly, saying it aloud so as to hear how the words sounded, with what could be approximated as a grin on anyone else, "but, it could mean at least a good night out for me. It's not as though I can't afford to spend it,” he told himself, adding, "And… all my bills are paid."

But, it had been so long since Aaron Mason had been out for the night that he'd forgotten why he had decided to stop doing so anymore.

For a moment he thought of the place that Chris had been trying to entice him to try out, sure that he'd said the club was open tonight.

"But I don't do clubs anymore," he muttered.

Aaron Mason was indecisive at the best of times, but this was a dilemma.

He couldn’t think of any justifiable reason for staying in tonight.

"I can't believe it," he mused, "things like this don't happen to me."

The smile slipped from his face, as thought, 'this is bad. I've got so used to my lack of a social life, that just the idea of going out for the night has got me really worked up.'

Even so, that evening found him at the biggest of three clubs on the front, nervous and sweating at the mere idea of being around a lot of people.

"I'm not sure about this, just not sure at all," he told himself, on joining the throng of people slowly forming a line outside the main doors.

The doorman, who’d been standing at the entrance to the club was a big fellow, dressed in a black zip-up puffa-jacket, coal black jeans and heavy boots. It was the uniform of his trade - an occupation that in less politically correct times would have labelled the man, 'bouncer.'

As Aaron neared the front of the queue his gut tightened and his pulse quickened.

The doorman wore gold-framed John Lennon glasses, which he pulled to the tip of his squat nose. Then squinting, the big man peered at Aaron over his glasses.

He smiled and said, "Are you going in dressed like that?"

Aaron realized that he wasn't dressed in the height of fashion, whatever that was. He’d brushed his light fair hair, had a shave and used his Denim aftershave. He’d felt smart and when he'd looked in the mirror, prior to leaving, that's how he thought he looked.

"What do you mean?" He asked, a little embarrassed at being singled out like this.

"Well, put it this way granddad, you'll have... an interesting night!"

"But I can go in?" Aaron asked, hesitantly.

"Sure whatever," the doorman replied, "go in. Have fun."

He smirked, as Aaron blushed.

"Er, thank you, I think." He responded, quickly walking past the big man and through the heavy fire doors, into the club.

He walked through the foyer where he paid his entrance fee and the back of his left hand was stamped with a smudged, barely legible Chinese dragon, within a circle.

The sound of the dance music assailed his ears as he opened two swing doors and walked quickly to the bar, mind bent solely on the acquisition of the necessary Dutch courage needed, to stay in such an alien environment: albeit only for a short while.

And, it had been with concerted effort that he pushed through the surging mass of people, many much younger than himself.

Finally, much as an arrow finds his target, Aaron found the bar and the barman, who had smiled brightly at his approach.

He’d worn a tee-shirt with the club’s name and logo emblazoned across the chest. And, as he poured the requested whiskey, Aaron glanced to either side of himself, feeling conscious of the youth of the people around him; all reflected in the mirror, as he bellied up against the bar, grasping at the edging, his knuckles white.

He’d been nervous of being amongst so many people and wary of the eyes of others watching him. And that anxiety had stayed and yet, here he was.

Then, with drink in hand Aaron found a 'spec by the wall where he could watch, having assumed what he considered a cool stance: leaning with his upper back against the wall, feet crossed at the ankles.

As Aaron watched he saw through the mask that each of them wore.

He observed the meat-market, as young women paraded themselves for the young bucks, vying with each other for their attention.

Aaron watched the young males strut and preen themselves, ‘like male Peacocks,’ he thought, musing on each of then wondering whether it might be their look would be the one that caught the eyes of a possible mate for the night, or perhaps longer; whilst the women in turn seemed to lap up their behaviour and encourage it.

He began to watch one young man, slim built with fair hair; whose posturing had paid dividends, it seemed.

The object of his attentions was a young lady of Latin extraction, with long dark hair, worn with a red elasticised band, drawing it loosely together at the nape of the neck.

Her eyes seemed to dance with energy as she had sensed his interest.

She accepted a drink, turning away from her friends with a toss of her hair and Aaron smiled, as she touched her admirers arm as she sought to make a point, during their conversation. Her flirtatious manner amused him, as he noted how readily the young man revelled in her attention.

She pointed to her empty glass and he took the hint, leaving her to buy another.

"He might learn," Aaron muttered, sipping at his whiskey.

Borne of his own experiences, his cynicism was not a trait he relished.

Aaron wanted to be proven wrong, yet was not surprised when the young woman returned to her friends, drink in hand, completely ignoring the attentive young man, who stood alone, feeling humiliated in front of his peers.

"He might learn," Aaron muttered again, looking away from the scene and toward the dance-floor. Most were female he noticed, aware they were being watched and enjoying it.

There was a lot of flesh on display from those dancing and Aaron turned to briefly glance in a mirror at how he was dressed, before seeking the sanctuary of the bar once more.

The scantily-clad young people had made him suddenly very aware of everyone of his thirty-five years and he smiled at his reflection, considering, 'Perhaps I am just a tad over-dressed for this place.'

It was the discovery of the twenty pound note and his friends suggestion that he 'get out' that had brought him to this club and since his entrance he'd avoided eye contact with anyone.

He had found himself stood at the bar; drink in hand, occasionally looking around himself, still apprehensive at being there; whilst wanting to be there, for the distraction from the everyday, if nothing else.

Moments after he returned to the bar a young woman took her place at his left.

She heard him ordering his drink, a scotch and said to the young man serving their end of the bar, "I'll have the same... as him."

Then from the corner of his eye he become aware of the slim young woman to his left, whose gaze seemed to be fixed intently on him, which made him feel even more nervous. He found her interesting though; as she surveyed her surroundings in the same way he did, scanning for any possible threat.

Continuing to glance surreptitiously to his left, between sips, he drank his whiskey, noticing her eyes, the most striking blue green he'd ever seen, staring at him with an intensity he found difficult to comprehend and that disturbed him.

‘She stares likes she knows me,’ he thought.

"Don't look over again," Aaron muttered, half-hoping that she would.

"I'm your worst nightmare young lady, the bitter ex of a girl who'd told me that I could trust her and that she 'wasn't like all the others.'"

His was not a happy world.

Then, she caught him staring at her and he knew it.

"I haven't seen you here before," she said aloud.

‘She's talking to me, I know she's talking to me,’ he thought in a flurry, panicking at the thought he had to respond to her statement, so didn't, choosing instead to remain stoic.

She’d found his disinterest quite alarming at first, but this was displaced by arousal.

Beverly had expected more of a response to her approach than she found and considered his lack of a reaction to the attention shown him quite enticing and somewhat of a challenge.

She wanted him ‘and soon,’ the young woman considered, ‘he'll realise that he wants me as well.’

She’d noticed the earring he wore in his left earlobe, a yin-yang design and touched it surface gently with a curious finger, asking of him, "You know what it means?"

Aaron turned at her touch, surprised to find this young woman still by his side, taken aback to hear her tell him of a symbol that was important to him.

"Man in woman, Woman in Man. Bad in good, good in bad."

Aaron wasn’t been able to resist flinching at her touch: at her words.

Smiling gently, Beverly asked, “Are you scared of me?"

"No," he replied defensively, "me? Why should I be?" He asked hurriedly, words slurring one into the other.

"No reason."

"Good," he answered tersely, downing the rest of his drink and turning toward the bar to order another.

She took his left elbow and turned him toward herself and in a mock Scouse accent asked of him, "So, are you dancing?"

"No," he told her sullenly.

"Why come here if you're not going to dance..." she expanded, still holding his elbow and guiding him to the dance-floor, where she took his other hand and led him in movement, to match the beat of the record.

He was stiff in his movement at first, until she took both of his hands in hers and looked into his eyes, saying, "Just feel the music... move with it..."

Smiling nervously, he looked at her as they moved: and as one record flowed into another they stayed on the dance-floor, intent on being with one another, allowing the rhythm of the music to govern their motion.

"Okay, first time out in a while," he mouthed, close to her ear.

"Pardon?" She replied.

"Tell me, is it always so...?" He began, frowning.

"Noisy? Bright? Energetic?" She prompted, laughing.

Finally he said to her, "Crowded! Is it always so crowded?"

Beverly looked at him and saw that he felt out of place: it wasn’t hard to tell – as his blushing and the sidelong glances around, to see if he were being watched, had been a dead giveaway.

Scanning the crowd she looked around, before gaining his attention by glance.

"I see a free table," she told him, indicating a small circular table with a couple of chairs on the outskirts of the dance floor.

They both sat, facing one another.

He told her, "You dance well."

"Why thank you kind sir," she responded.

"I haven't asked your name." He’s said, with his face close to hers, so he could be heard over the music.

"No you haven't, have you?" She’d countered, grinning.

"Okay then, what's your name please?"

"Beverly."

"Well Beverly, I'm Aaron, would you like another drink?"

"Yes, I would, thank you. But, no more shorts. Please?"

"Okay then, what would you like?"

"What are you having?"

"Bitter. The lager here's like a knat's been overhead."

She ran a hand through her hair and smiled at his remark.

Then as Aaron stood, she said to him, "Okay, bitter it is."

"Pint, or half?" Aaron enquired.

"Pint of course..."

"Okay," he replied, turning and walking across to the bar, which was heaving with people.

Finally Aaron was served and he returned to their table, with a small tray with six pints of bitter on it.

"That's it," he announced, "I'm not getting up to that bar again."

"You don't come out that often, do you?" Beverly asked, as she watched him look anxiously around himself.

"Er, no I don't," he replied.

"Why?"

"Long story..." He explained, trying to dismiss the story that he felt sure that he'd be telling, very shortly.

"Well, I've got till two a.m. or so..." she assured him, smiling broadly.

And, slowly he began to tell the young woman, over the first pint, how he had been quite unceremoniously dumped for a younger model; then, over his second pint, he found himself explaining that what had happened had left him wary of placing trust in another person again, so he didn't go out.

As he spoke, Beverly placed her hands on his, to illustrate that she was listening, which pleased him. Then, once he finished talking she told him of a relationship turned sour, hers, to reciprocate this intimate discourse.

Oblivious to the people around them, Aaron smiled, touching the back of her right hand gently, as they shared their mutual past angst.

She matched him drink for drink as she talked. Then as she finished telling her tale, Beverly placed her hands on the table, pushed herself erect and announced in a slightly slurred voice, "I'm going to the toilet."

“Okay,” he told her, watching her wobble a little as she walked to the Ladies toilets.

And, while his companion was absent Aaron looked around himself, at the dancers and their admirers; at the young bucks standing by the door, eyeing up 'the talent' that they're too drunk to approach, without looking completely idiotic. So, instead these bucks insult everyone who wasn't them and, wasn't slowly drinking themselves to oblivion.

Aaron was interested to note these young men also had their female counterparts, who sat at tables making comparably catty remarks of their fellow club revellers.

"Well, at least I'm with someone who seems to listen," he mused, watching Beverly walk across the dance-floor toward him, looking much brighter than she had earlier and he asked, "You feeling better now?"

"Yes," she told him, sitting down again.

Once comfortable, she steepled her fingers together, with her elbows on the table and told him, "I had my break up 'bout a year ago. I stayed in, like you, for a couple of weeks. But, I'm glad I started getting out again. I feel as though I wasted so much time."

As she spoke, Aaron stared deep into her eyes, thinking how beautiful they were and finally said what she had so wanted to hear from him, "Okay then, your place, or mine?"

Beverly had wanted him since she had seen him earlier in town at the shops and now they were promised lovers and that thought pleased the young woman.

"Mine," she told him, "I've a cat who'll kill me, when I get home, if he isn't fed soon."

"Well," he teased, a finger’s light caress to her right cheek, "we can't have you eaten, now can we? So, I suppose it's your place then."

He held her hands, as they stood apart, then, "So, where is your place?"

"Edge of town," she replied, lifting his right hand to her lips with her left:

"I live in digs."

"You a student?' He enquired.

"Sort of,” she answered, a smile on her face, "a student of life." Then, she kissed his fingers, with moist lips.

"Now," he started, "What, I might ask, is a 'sort of student?'"

She had blinked several times beneath the intensity of his gaze, as the man waited for her answer.

"Later..." is all she replied as a young woman collecting glasses tapped her on the shoulder and said to them, "Time to go."

The two stood reluctantly, smiling at one another.

Other than the bar staff, Aaron and Beverly were the last patrons to leave the club; neither wanting the evening to end, apprehensive about what the rest of the night may bring.





* * *





The doorway to the club was recessed several feet away from the pavement.

When the last employee had left the building he keyed the alarm and locked the door, before drawing down the heavy roller door and bolting it home either side.

Then quickly he’d run across the road to where his car was parked.

He’d opened the door, sat in quickly and as the car pulled away from the kerbside Aaron looked closely into Beverly's eyes.

It had been dark and raining and although there was a chill in the air, neither minded, this moment was theirs. They had each other.

"We're alone now," he stated simply.

A fingertip lifting her chin gently upward was all it took Aaron to bring her eyes to meet his, as her skin flushed and her pupils widened.

Mouths came closer and then their lips met, with arms wrapped round one another and eyes closed, as their tongues searched. Then they parted, somewhat breathless.

Blushing a little, Beverly looked down, saying into his chest: "That sounds nice."

She’d lain with her head against his breast, smiling as he held her, as the minutes passed and the rain continued to fall.

"I can hear your heart..." She told Aaron in a quiet voice, her fingertips just inside his shirt, brushing his flesh.

"Er, I'm getting cold..." He suddenly announced.

"I can tell..." She told him in response, giggling a little.

Beverly had found his nipple, erect with the cold.

"Er... yes," he mumbled, then added, "So, where to then, yours, or mine?"

"I told you, mine. I live not far from here," Beverly informed him, sliding her arms around his neck.

As their lips met, each of them closed their eyes.

Then Aaron reached to his neck and unclasped her hands, before taking Beverly's right hand in his left and squeezing it gently, he said to her, "Well, it looks like the rain's showing no signs of stopping. Shall we go now then?"

They left the clubs entrance and its relative sanctuary from the elements; and the rain soaked the couple, as they ran laughing up the road, toward her home.

They had met, this was their now and the rest of the night was yet to come.





* * *





The Day After the Night



"Coffee?" Beverly asked

She had noticed that he was awake and smiled; as he watched her sit with books on her lap and small half-frame reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

It was now mid-morning.

"Wow," he exclaimed, "and I actually do get a coffee."

"Sarky!" Beverly responded, swinging her slim legs around to the side of the bed and shuffling her feet into a pair of pink low heel fluffy mules.

Noticing Aaron stare at her footwear Beverly asked, "What's so interesting then?"

She bent at the waist, to pick up his shirt from where Aaron had dropped it the previous night. He smiled, admiring her taut, well-shaped buttocks and drawled, "Nice slippers, excellent view..."

In the doorway she turned her head to look at him from over her left shoulder.

There was a smile on her face.

"Tell me," she purred, "do you want to drink your coffee, or wear it?"

They both laughed, before she left the room.

Folding his hands behind his head Aaron closed his eyes, just a moment and within seconds he was asleep again.

He finally woke again bleary-eyed, as she called, "Coffee? Toast? Or?"

Sitting, the duvet fell to his waist and momentarily he felt a little embarrassed at her seeing his body. Aaron smiled.

Rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands he looked to the bottom of the bed, where she stood tray in hand.

"Coffee, tea, or... me?" She asked, this times a little impatience in her voice.

He found her manner and the question quite disarming and didn’t answer; instead he puzzled as how his shirt could look so good, acting to emphasise her shapely legs.

She set the tray down, saying, "How do you like it?"

He tried not to smirk and failed.

"Coffee," she emphasised, chastising his deliberate misunderstanding of a simple question with a frown.

"I didn't know whether you took milk, or sugar,” she said, adding, "So I brought both."

Beverly spoke hurriedly; surprised she should feel quite so self-conscious.

"Thank you," he responded "but I prefer it black and strong, with no sweeteners at all."

Then Aaron asked, "What time is it?"

"Er, it's..." she paused, thinking she was being silly; then answered, "It was about ten past eleven, ten to fifteen minutes ago, when I was making this."

He finished his coffee and set the mug down on the floor by the side of the bed.

"Thanks for the coffee, it was really nice."

"Humph," Beverly snorted in reply.

Aaron retorted quickly, "Hey, I was telling the truth, I liked the coffee."

Momentarily very quiet, she said after a moment or two, "I brewed it fresh. I woke up before you."

She began to walk toward the door, then to the window and back again, until finally Beverly stood before the small gap in the curtain.

"You don't remember do you?" she asked him, abruptly.

There was silence after she finished speaking.

Then Aaron sighed, with resignation.

"Bev?"

"Beverly!" She snapped back.

"I do remember last night you know. We talked about a lot then."

"Yes that's true," she conceded. "But, maybe that was because you were trying to get into me?" She added.

"I did though, didn't I?" Aaron stated, immediately regretting having said it.

"Men!" Beverly exploded, "That just proves what I'd thought, you're all the same!"

"Hey, that's not fair!" He protested, adding quickly, "Besides which, its inaccurate..."

"Why?" She asked, calmer and quite curious.

"I hadn't gone there last night to tap off..."

"Then why did you go?" Beverly queried.

"Because I had the money and the four walls were killing me..."

"Oh," She said quietly, struck by his honesty.

She looked at the world, through the gap in the curtains.

"But, that's not really important," she added a trace of annoyance in her voice, "I'd meant that you don't remember me, do you?"

"You mean before last night, don't you?" He enquired quizzically.

"Yes, that's right..." she replied with enthusiasm; adding, "Well, do you?"

With furrowed brow, he brushed his long fringe back in place and stared at her face, intently. Aaron paused, looking for what to say next, that wouldn't cause further offence, as he’d decided that he really liked her.

Finally, after several moments of silence he answered, "If I say 'no' does that mean I don't get breakfast?"

"That's not a straight answer."

"Er, do I have to be honest?"

"Yes."

"Then, no I don't."

"And I thought you might have, after getting to know me, again."

She sat on the end of the bed, her weight on her right hand as she leaned forward, "I'd seen you during the day and when I saw you in the club I had to talk to you...

"Why?" He asked, intrigued.

"At school, I used to..." Beverly began, her head lowered, cheeks suffusing with blood.

"School?"

"Yes..." she replied, lifting her head a little, to look at him.

Looking down, he murmured thoughtfully to himself, "School?"

He looked up again, saying to her, "That was awhile ago you know, a long while ago."

"You left in '76... I remember that," she declared, quietly.

"You remember that?" He responded, surprised.

"Yes," she admitted, "I was a second year and..."

Beverly stood and walked to the table with the tray on. She poured coffee into a mug, which was handed to him, then one for herself, which she put milk and one sugar in.

"Er, you were a second year...?" He asked, sipping at the hot drink.

"Yes," she answered, sitting once more on the end of the bed with her own drink in hand; "and I remember you, so well."

"Why?" He asked, incredulously.

"I'm not too sure." She said quietly.

Then standing once more, Beverly walked toward the curtains and drew the drapes apart a little more.

As bright light shafted into the room, causing him to wince, she said slowly, in a faraway voice, "But, I do recall seeing you in the school-yard and thinking how much I wanted you to show interest in me. Huh, I even remember that I'd joined the school choir and the debating society, just because I'd wanted to be near you..."

She turned toward him and said quietly, "You were always so apart from the crowd. An individual. And, well I..."

Then she added, "I thought you'd understand me."

"But I never noticed you, I'm sorry. And now this'll make things even worse, I know. But, I don't even know your surname. What is it?"

"It's Cox."

"Hang-on, I knew a Billy Cox. Not too well, but I knew him."

"He was my older brother..." She muttered.

"But, when we hung round his little sister was small and well... gawky with heavy glasses and..." he continued, his drink momentarily forgotten.

"Yes, okay, I don't need reminding," she snapped: "That was me. I've lost the weight. I grew and now I wear contacts..."

"Pardon?" He asked again, truly surprised now.

Still with her back toward him, she answered him in a very soft voice, "Back then. That gawky little girl who followed you around was me and I loved you, with all my heart."

Aaron swallowed hard, and then said again, "Pardon?"

He didn't see the sad smile on her face.

"I loved you, with all my heart."

Crestfallen at this discovery and her admonishment, Aaron frowned in silence for nearly a full minute, before saying quietly, "I never knew."

"Yes, I know that, now," Beverly acknowledged, turning slowly toward him,

She took his empty mug from him and walked over to the tray.

He watched Beverly pour two more mugs of steaming coffee, silently contemplating all that he had learnt.

"Look," he told her finally, "You didn't want to be reminded how you used to look, did you?"

"No," she replied, handing him his drink.

"And I needed to be told that you'd been interested in me then..." he continued, "Well, now I'm the one who's interested in you. So please, bear with me, as I've got a question to ask…"

"Go on?" she prompted, sipping her own coffee.

"Well, I want to know. Does the fact that I couldn't remember you from back then, preclude me from remembering you now?"

"Huh, what did you say? I'd like to think I'm pretty intelligent..." she began, smiling a little. "But, I didn't understand a word you just said."

"Okay - fair comment, sorry. But, what I'm asking is whether yesterday could possibly be a pleasant memory, in years to come...?"

He paused, allowing her to digest what he’s asked and then added, "If you want, that is?"

"I don't know," Beverly told him in a flat, matter-of-fact tone of voice, "I told you why you're here. But, that doesn't explain why I should want there to be a tomorrow, for us. I just wanted to know if you were what I thought you were, back then."

"And?" He asked, hesitant to hear the answer.

"I'd thought you were special," she told him, her words drifting away, into the furthest recesses of her past, when she'd looked for something, or someone and found a young boy, who couldn't cope with the simple adoration she had shown him.

"That's why I'd trailed after you, like a lost puppy. Like I said, I'd just wanted to be noticed... like I noticed you, in the street and at then at the club."

Mortified by her statement, Aaron noticed a wide smile on her face with puzzlement.

"Well that was then and this is now," she told him, having poured their drinks and walking back toward the bed.

Then she added, "But I'm not who I was then..."

Beverly reached forward with her right hand to caress the side of his face, saying to him, "It's almost a pity, but what interested me then doesn't now."

"Tell me, what you mean, please?"

"It's simple. I'd thought you were alone and understood how I felt."

"Yes, and?" He prompted.

"Well, since then I've learnt. We're all on our own, no matter who we are, where we are, or who we're with."

Her voice sounded cold. He heard that.

"You sound like my coffee," Aaron told her, very seriously.

She looked at him puzzled and asked, "What do you mean?"

He looked straight at her, quiet.

Then Aaron smiled, answering, "Bitter."

In response, Beverly took his right hand gently in hers and their eyes connected.

"I don't know what you mean," she told him, in a sing-song voice.

"Oh you do,' he suggested, "I'm sure you do."

Their eyes meeting, the flesh of hand upon hand and his answer, all served to make her smile, once again at a memory.

"Perhaps you are that boy and I'm that girl, but time has passed by and now we're grown up..." Beverly said wistfully, finishing her top-up.

"Yes, but..." he spluttered, surprised again.

"But nothing: The past is what it is. Maybe you did understand then, but what is there to understand now?"

"You need company, someone who will listen?" He suggested.

"Yes," she snapped, pulling her hand from his, "but that's what we all want isn't it?'

"Yes it is," Aaron responded, reaching toward Beverly for her hand, adding, "it's what we all want."

She pulls her hand away from his, suddenly annoyed.

"You lot annoy me," she fumed. "You say that you'll be there and then when you're needed..."

"That's it," he thundered, "I've had enough."

He stood, holding the duvet over his body with one hand, reaching for his jeans with the other, as Beverly looked at him, mystified.

"You brought me here and we had a good night, I think. Then ever since I woke up you've given me nothing but stick."

He pulled on his jeans, beneath the duvet.

"Well, I've had enough, simple."

"You seem wound up," she statesd, smiling.

"Sheesh girl," he countered, "it's you who wound me up."

"All I wanted to do was talk, that's all!" Beverly exclaimed defensively.

He stood, allowing the duvet to fall to the floor.

Then Aaron zipped his jeans and said, "You just haven't listened to me, at all..."

"But..."

"And, Ms: Cox, I'm not willing to argue the point anymore."

"It's Beverly... and I just wanted you to understand..."

"Lady," he interjected, "don't you think I've heard enough? Please, don't make me the scapegoat for something in your past."

"Aaron, don't be like that," she pleaded.

"Like I said, I think that you've got issues in your past you still need to work out..."

"Pardon?" Beverly exploded.

"I just said..."

"I heard you..."

"Well, when we talked last night I thought..."

"You'd thought," Beverly retorted, "you'd thought... That'd mean that you had a brain-cell more than most men use... and... "

"Hey,” Aaron started defensively, "I'd thought we were talking about you and I?"

"We were..." Beverly answered.

Then she paused a moment, before saying, "So, about my past, where did you dig up that pearl of wisdom?"

Aaron stared at his hands, on the knees of his black jeans.

"I could say you were mixing your metaphors," he mumbled, annoyed at having been made to feel guilty for something he had no control over, her past and present.

His gripped on his knees tightens and gritted his teeth.

"Hey, less of the sarcasm alright?" Aaron exclaimed, standing to face her.

"Sorry," she told him, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t.

"Whoop-de-do, words that's all they are," he was on a roll, his anger having risen and finally he said, "You've talked and talked... almost like you didn't want to hear what anyone else might want to say."

"Like you, now," she countered, very quietly, turning away from him.

Compared to his raised voice, hers is quiet, as she said aloud,

"I think you're over-reacting!"

"I'm what?" he shouted, "I heard that! Me, over-react?"

Then Aaron added quickly, "Lady, will you take my shirt off and I'll be gone."

"Why?"

Stumped, he looked at the young woman open mouthed, before saying, "Ms... er, Beverly, let me put it like this..."

Aaron paused, to add emphasis to what he said, "I was a loner at school. Now, I feel bullied and I want to go. I want to be alone."

"You don't mean that really... really?" Beverly asked.

"In one syllable... yes."

"Oh,” she responded, looking to her bare feet.

He reached for his shoes and socks.

"So okay, maybe yes, maybe not," he muttered, as he tied his shoelaces.

Then Aaron looked to her and said, "I liked you, I really did. But, this... ?"

She heard the sadness in his voice and reached toward his face.

Then Beverly found herself both surprised and hurt when he visibly flinched.

"I'd only been looking for that connection," she told him sadly.

"Yeah," Aaron muttered in response, "aren't we all..."

She heard his words and the tone in which he spoke.

"You did understand after all..." Beverly suddenly exclaimed, smiling and adding, "you did understand."

Suddenly her face darkened and Beverly began to pace the room once again, suddenly feeling extremely confined.

Aaron sat, aware that he wasn't going to get his shirt back, yet.

Then, in a soft, dreamlike voice, her quietly spoken words were easily heard, as she said,

"I remember that faraway look in your eyes. They said... "

She meant to say 'so much.'

Beverly wanted to tell him how good it had felt; knowing someone, 'out there' had seemed to understand. But instead, her worded drift into silence.

It had all been so many years ago... so many years of 'if onlies.'

Suddenly Beverly stepped toward the curtain, pulling further apart.

"It's not fair!" she exclaimed, as sunlight filled the room.

"Easy, " he said to her in a gentle voice.

He repeated the word several times, to try and assuage her temper.

Aaron wanted to ease her emotional crisis somehow, but didn’t know how.

He slowly walked behind her, as Beverly began to weep silently.

"Hey, it's okay... y'know?" He said, unaware how lame this sounded.

"Words, just words," she murmured, so quietly he could hardly hear.

Beverly stared ahead unblinking, recalling the pain of the loneliness she'd felt.

He stepped forward and very carefully Aaron held her, holding her gently by the shoulders. She does not flinch at his touch.

"Let go... just let it go..." he whispered gently in her ear.

Beverly stood looking out, her mind elsewhere, still conscious of his hands on her shoulders and how gentle they felt and she recalled that the previous night he had been a considerate lover.

He tightened his embrace just a little, to assure her that he is here, now.

Aaron felt her breathing ease a little, until he asked, "You could try, y'know? ..." He says softly, adding, "Have you tried?"

"Can't..." Beverly responded quietly; then suddenly she turned in his arms, eyes blazing: "'Have I tried?' Of course I have," she spat out, annoyed he should ask, espescially after all that she'd said.

Now she cried.

And what began as a tear soon becomes many, as a lot of frustration was suddenly released, all at once.

Her hands, held at her sides, clenched into fists and with head looking down, Beverly sobbed, from the heart.

"Hey, easy," he murmured, softly, "I was just..."

"Just what?" Beverly bit.

Aaron stepped closer, carefully enfolding her in his arms with a gentle hug.

It wasn't sexual, although the embrace is intimate.

She sensed his intent is honest, that he wished to comfort her and she does not baulk at this display of familiarity.

Aaron felt the beating of her heart and the rapidity of her breathing.

Slowly the flow of tears ceased and Beverly relaxed a little in his arms.

"I told you... I wanted to understand..." He murmured quietly, his chin on her head, which rested on his left shoulder.

"I know..." she sniffled, pulling away from his arms.

"I know..." she sniffled again, before adding softly, "I know... But... I was just so caught up in how I felt, I didn't hear you..."

"It happens," he told her, brushing at her hair with gentle fingers.

Together they looked out of the window.

He shivered a little, which Beverly felt.

"Do you want your shirt?" She asked.

"Well, I would say no," he began, "Because I figure it looks better on you..."

'There,' he thought, 'I've told her.'

"But," Aaron continued, "If I'd got my shirt back on and you were warm beneath the duvet, I could go downstairs and make us a coffee, or tea?"

He kissed her neck. Then, slowly Beverly turned, still in his arms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and their lips met in a lingering kiss.

Then as they parted from the embrace Beverly looked to Aaron and smiled.

With her head down, she looked up to him coyly, unbuttoning the shirt.

He watched her undo the top two buttons, before asking: "So, I've forgotten, how do you like it?"

She lifted her face to watch his, as she undid another button.

"Hot and sweet," she answered.

They both grinned.

Then Beverly finished undressing, before getting back into bed and pulling the duvet up to her neck.

"I'm ready," she announced, in a light almost girlish voice.

He picked up the breakfast tray smiling ruefully.

Then, Aaron left the bedroom muttering, "Yes, so am I. But, I'll get the coffee instead..."





Fin.

The Incredible Adventures Of Sylvester Merridew ~ The Homecoming {Epilogue}
00:35 Dec 03 2011
Times Read: 860

Sylvester ran his right-hand up and through the right side of his two-tone hair, the right side being black, the rest being white.



With his left hand he adjusted his monocle and then turned to Tabbi, a wide smile on his face of manic delight that hardly touched the rest of his face.



As ever, he was dressed in his maroon frock-coat, dress trousers and Italian-made ankle-boots. The white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his ochre cravat was loose.



Tabbi wore; faded to white skin tight jeans, with the knees worn out, which hung from her hips, a sleeveless white tee-shirt that actual hid little of her apple-sized perfection; and aside from eighteen-hole combat boots, a heavy black belt hung low, from three of her jeans belt-loops, the heavy belt-buckle hanging down almost to her crotch.



She looked at him with her tired, but contented eyes, one brown eyes and one blue.



His normally twinkling eyes of green blue were dark sullen.



They had entered their home five minutes earlier.



Now the door was closed, to the past and, the future. The door to the basement.



Tabbi flopped herself into her favourite sofa opposite the teevee and then looked at Sylvester sit down on the battered old sofa to the left. And she smiled as she watched him remove one boot then the other.



“These have seen finer days…” He announced, holding his boots up by the tag at the heel, so that the soles faced Tabbi. The left boot had an old-penny size hole in the sole and the right had its heel worn badly down.



Sylvester swung his long legs round and rested his calves on the armrest, then groaned: “I need a drink…” He muttered, running the back of his left hand across his forehead.



“And I need a bath…” Tabbi informed her older companion, as she undid the laces to her Doctor Martens.



He held his nostrils, with his right thumb and forefinger and smirked, “True.”



A boot sailed across the room and, Sylvester failed to duck in time.



“Ow!” He exclaimed, rubbing his right knee, on which the boot had fallen.



“Serves you right…” Tabbi told him, retrieving the offending from him; “that wasn’t nice…”



“Too true,” he opined, “you remind me you’ve got stink-foot and then you remove your boots… that isn’t nice, at all…”



“Do you want that drink, or do you want the other boot thrown at your head?” Tabbi enquired of him, looking over her right shoulder, as she undid her belt, then dropped her blue-jeans, leaving her wearing just a sleeveless white tee-shirt that actually hid little of her apple-sized perfection; and exposed much of her flat belly and bird-bone hips and miniscule grey cotton panties.



Sylvester turned his head away from watching Tabbi, tool look at his right big toe sticking out from his sock.



“I’d prefer the drink, thank you…” he muttered, making every effort to focus his attention on his toe.



And Tabbi laughed. She laughed at a moment shared and, with unbridled relief.



‘They were safely at home,’ she mused, opening the cupboard above the sink. And, reaching up, Tabbi found what she had been looking for, a bottle of scotch.



She found two comparatively clean glasses and then returned to the lounge, where Sylvester lay on his ‘bed’, a blanket over his thin body, clad only in long johns and full vest, his clothing carefully folded and piled up, on the floor near to the sofa.



His eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy, so the young woman opened the door to the hall carefully, so as not to wake her friend.



The door creaked and, Sylvester sat bolt upright, eyes fixed on the bottle, which Tabbi held by the neck.



“Where you going somewhere, with that?” He asked, fisting sleep from his eyes, with his left hand.



“Me?” Tabbi asked, feigning innocence.



“Yes you…” He grinned: “Now bring that here and pour. Please?”



“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Tabbi opined, with a grin.



She walked across the room and sat cross-legged, then poured them each a full measure of the amber liquid.



And, as she passed him a glass, Sylvester asked, “So what are we drinking to?”



“What else Old Man… we drink to homecoming’s…” Tabbi told him, with a very, very tired grin.



Much had happened during their time at the Hawkwind concert back in the late Seventies. The Time Machine, which Tabbi had painted silver, had gone missing.



Someone had seen it and, believing it was a prop that needed returning to the band, had done just that. Needless to say, with their most popular single being a track called ‘Silver Machine’ it had been decided to keep it.



Then an acne augmented youth had stumbled into their view, a plastic bag in one hand, a tin of glue in the other.



His profanities had been in the extreme, as Tabbi had quizzed him and, Sylvester restrained him. But, eventually common-sense and a hefty kick to the groin from some very well made heavy boots, made the terrified teen speak about what he’d seen, without the need for the requested financial remuneration.



He had sold the mass of tubing to the bands resident weirdo, amongst a group of them and then, having got it, they’d thrown him out of the theatre, after giving him just fifteen pounds; ‘enough for your next score’, someone had told him, laughing.



And, that was how Sylvester and Tabbi had become roadies for the band, for the next six months, as they tried to find the right time, to reacquire what they had lost, the machine and the timeline they shared.



“I’ll drink to Spotty…” Sylvester told his young friend with a grin, mindful of the fact that he too needed to bathe and, she had not told him so… yet.



‘But, she would,’ he knew she would.



Tabbi had a propensity for a display of mean, at times: like how she’d dealt with the one who’d sold their future. She had stripped him and bound him, then left him inside a cupboard, stuck on the top of a pile of rubbish in a medium size yellow skip: ‘so he will be inconvenienced, like we have been’… she had said.



And, Sylvester downed the contents of the glass.



‘Perhaps she’ll remind me tomorrow?’ He thought hopefully.

The Incredible Adventures Of Sylvester Merridew and, The Silver Machine {Finished and Completed}
01:16 Dec 02 2011
Times Read: 864




Tabbi entered the room, headphones on her ears, a red Walkman held tightly in her left hand.



She was smiling brightly, as she entered the cluttered front-room, most of it bits of memorabilia relating to the seventies, the nineteen seventies.



The curtains were drawn back and sunlight shafted through the trees outside the bay window and into the room, where her semi-permanent guest Sylvester had slept the night, as he had for many months now.



His wild mane of two-tone hair, one side black the other white, popped up with a hand, from the other side of the sofa and Tabbi asked, “You sleep alright old man?”



It sounded like she was being unkind, yet Sylvester knew that her intention was literal and humorous: after all, he was over a hundred years old.



He grinned sleepily, fisting his eyes.



“Did you stay up to watch the white dot again?” Tabbi asked, slipped off the headphones and turning the Walkman off.



She knew him, too well…



He would do just that, often: watching teevee until the end of transmission and the screen going to black, then to ‘the little white dot’ and a gentle voice saying, “Goodnight, sleep well and, don’t forget to turn off your television set.”



In the past he might have started the morning with callisthenics, but not on these occasions. When he stayed up late Now, he would awake, plod to the kitchen and make a mug of tea, using skills he had learnt since he had met Tabbi.



Electricity still fascinated him: you would flip a switch on and there you had it, power; that flowed through the flex, and allowed him to press another switch and, turn on the kettle, for boiling water.



‘Miraculous,’ he said, almost every time, as he did so often, when out for the day with the young woman, noticing the differences what he had known, way back when.



And, Sylvester would drink his brew, watching teevee, determined to rise; and failing, for an hour or so, as he watched the BBC morning programme.



“So what are you listening to?” Sylvester asked, trying not to notice how she was dressed, or undressed; wearing, an abbreviated grey spaghetti-strap tee-shirt, that exposed much of her flat belly and bird-bone hips and, a miniscule pair of grey cotton panties.



“Hawkwind Sylvester. They’re excellent…” She answered blithely.



“Hawkwind?” He mused, “They do the electric music don’t they?” He asked her.



Sylvester had seen the cardboard sleeves to several of her phonograph, that towered high in the corner of her living-room, his bedroom.



“Electronic is the word Sylvester,” Tabbi corrected smiling.



“Now, how about you make the tea and, I’ll do us bacon butties after my shower?”

She knew Sylvester liked bacon sandwiches, ‘after all, who didn’t?’



“Ideally baked real crispy?” Sylvester suggested.



“Yes Sylvester,” she answered, sitting cross-legged on the armchair near the sofa, where her older friend had blankets sprawled all over.



“Alright Miss…” Sylvester told her, making his way through to the kitchen, far less embarrassed being seen in his long-johns than he would have months ago, in his own time: much had changed for him, since then.



‘For instance,’ he thought idly, ‘I can now make a cup of tea, without nearly burning the house down.’ He was still banned from using the toaster though.



And in less than ten minutes he returned to the front room, where Tabbi was now pouring over her LP collection, ‘looking for something,’ she told him still looking, after he asked, “What are you doing?”



He set her mug of tea down near her armchair, then sat amidst his blankets, watching her fascinated, as she looked at title after title: “The waters on,” he told her.



He had mastered the immersion and, could heat the water, for a bath.



“Thanks,” Tabbi told him as she stood, an LP carefully held in her hands. She sat next to Sylvester, again cross-legged.



She leant down, to pick up her mug of tea and took a sip of the hot brew, then turned to Sylvester, to show him what she’d found.



“See this,” Tabbi began, showing him the front cover: “Well, it’s the last album Bob Calvert was one I think and, it’s illegal really...”



“Howso?” Sylvester queried.



Tabbi flipped the album over, showing an image of a diagram, of plugs insides: “It shows how to wire a plug wrong and, it’s illegal…” She paused and drew a breath, “and, Bob Calvert played on his last tour in seventy eight, as far as I recall. He played with Hawklords on their Twenty Five Years Tour, which was kind of Hawkwinds and, then he was on this…”



She held the album up again, to illustrate the incorrectly wired plug, “And, that was it then. Boy, I’d so liked to have seen that fellow play live…” And Tabbi smiled.



Half an hour later Tabbi busied herself over the stove, preparing their bacon butties.

“You coming down to the basement, after my bath?”



“Why?” He called out.



“I thought you might like to see your machine work properly?” She answered moments later, as she left the kitchenette, two plates in hand.



As they sat eating, he thought about what she had said, unaware that Tabbi was surreptitiously watching him, to gauge his reaction to her news: after all, she knew how wary he was of all technologies, since using it.



Finally he looked up from his empty plate and he asked, “You’ve got it together and ready to work?”



Tabbi looked at him, a wide grin on her face as she explained, “Once I got the machine back together, I had to figure out what went wrong….”



“You want to use it for yourself?” He asked, with incredulity sounding in his voice.



Briefly she laughed, “Of course silly… Why else do you think I’ve been with that manual every night for the last few months instead of out with a fella?”



‘Scandalized, Scandalized, I refuse to be scandalized…’



Her straightforward manner still surprised him, even after all this time.



But, he chose to ignore the remark, intent on learning what she had planned for his infernal machine.



“Look,” she told him, “you come on downstairs with me, after my bath and, we’ll see what we see, alright?



Sylvester just nodded, in shock: she had got the machine going?



The date had been chosen and set, prior to his companion inviting him down to the basement, he realized as he took his seat next to her.



Once he did, Tabbi turned to him with a grin on her face: “Are you going to fasten up?”



Sylvester looked at his young friend, bemusement showing on his face.



“The seat-belt silly! Buckle-up…” She instructed, illustrating what to do with her own seatbelt.



“These are new to the specs…”he noted.



“Yes Sylvester,” she responded with mirth in her voice, “after seeing your landing, I’d thought seat-belts might be good idea…”



Sylvester recalled the machine crash-landing onto the canal towpath well, having lain amongst the twisted metal for much of the night and the following morning, until Tabbi had found and rescued him. So, he felt honour-bound, to travel with Tabbi, on her first trip, using his machine.



He ‘buckled-up’, as suggested, idly appraising the outfit his companion wore; faded to white skin tight jeans, with the knees worn out, which hung from her hips, a sleeveless white tee-shirt that actually hid little of her apple-sized perfection; and aside from eighteen-hole combat boots, a heavy black belt hung low, from three of her jeans belt-loops, the heavy belt-buckle hanging down almost to her crotch.



As ever, he was dressed in his maroon frock-coat, dress trousers and Italian-made ankle-boots. With the outfit, he’d chosen to wear a white shirt and ochre cravat.



The two counters set on the left of what was euphemistically called the steering column; but in reality, was nothing more than something to hold onto, whilst the craft tore apart the very fabric of time itself.



To the right of the column, or the joystick, as Tabbi called it, there was a button, a start button. There had been a switch, with a key input; but the key had been lost in time, so an alternative had to be found. And, a simple switch had been the answer for Tabbi, who liked the sheer simplicity of it,



Briefly she eyed the two sets of numbers, in milled discs, set with a bakelite setting on the console, just to the left of the switch, they were original and, still working.



With her re-build, Tabbi had made only two more changes from the original specification, as shown in the manual, found amongst the wreckage.



A black Walkman, was attached to the base of the console, with two external speakers fastened to the left and right of the well at the base of the console.



And, she had changed the colour of the machine. Originally it had been red and black, with a lot of chrome, on display.



Now, the excess chrome was gone and the machine, sled and disc were a uniform colour, silver. Tabbi had her reasons for that, of course.



“So when are we travelling to Tabbi?” Sylvester asked, turning to looking at his young friend, running his right hand through his mane of wild hair.



“Nineteen seventy-eight, to see Hawkwind…”



“Hawkwind?” He queried, eyebrows raised. Sylvester frowned at the mention of the band: surprised that of all the places she might have thought of, this was it.



“Uh-huh,” she replied absently, checking the controls.



“Well, why then?”



“Why not?” She replied, looking up from the controls a moment, “Bob Calvert was playing his last gig before he severed his ties with the band. Yet, he was on the first album brought out as the newly reformed Hawkwind…”



“And?”



“And we’re going to watch Hawklords play…” She added.



“Hawkwind, Hawklords? You know these names mean…” He was going to say ‘little to me’, when Tabbi interjected.



“Remember that record I showed you this morning?” She asked him.



Sylvester nodded.



“Well nineteen seventy-eight is where we’re going. I want to see Bob Calvert play. After all, much of the bands most influential output came from then and…”



He could hear the enthusiasm in her voice and, he liked it.



“Well, that’s why we’re going to nineteen seventy-eight Sylvester…” she continued, pressing rewind on the cassette machine.



Finally satisfied that she had found the track she was looking for, Tabbi turned to look at Sylvester, a wide-eyed, wild looking broad grin spread across her young face.



“Well old man, are you ready?”



Sylvester wasn’t ready. He never would be ready to travel in time again; yet here he was. He nodded and replied, “Yes.”



Turning to Sylvester, Tabbi grinned, “Ready to rock ‘n roll?” Then she grinned wider still at the look of bemusement on his face.



“You’ll see old man,” Tabbi said with a smile, as she set the lower display for the endpoint destination, then engaged the disc, then she pressed play on the cassette-machine.



And, as Hawkwinds ‘Silver Machine’ came from the speakers, the disc began to whirr round, faster and faster.



Then she pulled a lever back, engaging the machines special awareness, so it would not materialise inside solid matter.



The lever, the special regulator, adjusted the shield, that began to form around the machine, as the as the disc began to gain speed.



And the shield shimmered around the machine and, as a wild wind emanated from the machine as time reversed outside the crafts protective sphere.



Meanwhile, a panicky Sylvester thought back to the beginning of the day and, clutching the edges of the bench seat till his knuckles showed white, he closed his eyes hard, just as Tabbi turned the sound up and, synthesised lyrical sound filled the ball of energy:



I, I just took a ride on a silver machine and still feeling mean

Oh, do you want to ride, see yourself going by

The other side of the sky? You gotta know where I've been



And it flies sideways through time, it's an electric line

To all the zodiac signs



I got a silver machine (Silver machine)

I got a silver machine (Silver machine)

I got a silver machine (Silver machine)

In my silver machine



It flies out of a dream, it's antiseptically clean

You gotta know what I mean

Oh, do you want to ride, see yourself going by

The other side of the sky in a silver machine?



I got a silver machine (Silver machine)

I got a silver machine

(Silver machine)

I got a silver machine

(Silver machine)

In my silver machine



I just took a ride on a silver machine and still feeling mean

Oh, do you want to ride, see yourself going by

The other side of the sky? You gotta know where I've been



I got a silver machine (Silver machine)

I got a silver machine (Silver machine)

I got a silver machine (Silver machine)



In my silver machine



Silver machine

Silver machine

Silver machine

Silver machine



I, I just took a ride on a silver machine and still feeling mean

Oh, do you want to ride, see yourself going by

The other side of the sky? You gotta know where I've been...



And, as the music peaked, they rematerialized, in nineteen-seventeen eight. Tabbi had timed the track well.



Tabbi looked round, as the energy sphere diminished; "An alleyway. That's useful..."



She scrambled to the floor and went round the Sylvesters side.

"Here," she said to Sylvester, reaching out a hand, "let me help you."



Sylvester blinked twice, then opened his right eyes first and grinned.



“Well I’ll be… It worked!” He exclaimed, clapping his hands together.



“What did you expect?” Tabbi asked, scowling.



“So what did you expect?” She added, helping him undo his seatbelt.



“No, don’t answer that…” she told him, before he could think of an answer.



“Just, c’mon…” Tabbi told him, grabbing hold of his left hand in her right.



“Where to?” He asked.



“The Empire theatre, of course…”



And time passed, finally a couple of hours later: As the milling crowd left The Empire theatre, Sylvester glanced toward his young friend a light smile playing on his face.



“I mean, the set was different than I expected and, Dave Brock was as good, or better than I’ve heard on an LP, but when they played Silver Machine’, I was a little disappointed. They played it shorter and well, it sounded … different.”



It was evident from the radiant expression on her face and her rapidfire speech that she’d enjoyed the concert: although, for him, concert was hardly the right word to use. ‘After all, where was the Schubert, or the Mozart?”



“But, you’re glad you came?” He asked her, grinning.



Tabbi stopped walking, turned and looked at her companion, “Oh-Boy, am I? I’m really dead pleased with what I saw and heard. I mean, it was a one-off opportunity and a chance to see Hawklord with Bob Calvert, who was well Bob Calvert; and all just before Hawkwind reformed proper… and…”



As they dodged people in the street, walking back to their very own silver machine, a piece of paper blew and straight onto Sylvester’s face. He removed it, looking at what was written on it.



“Tabbi?” He asked after a few moments.



“Yes?” She responded curiously.



“With all your vast knowledge of the music scene in Liverpool, do you know where Erics is?” He asked, recalling some terms of reference he had heard over the previous several months.



“I have an idea where it is, but why?” She queried.



“Well, can we go there on…?



“Why?”



“Tabbi, Debbie Harry are playing then…. And, I would like to go see her perform…” He answered quietly, almost as if he were in confession.



“What!” She exclaimed, “How’d you know of Debbie Harry?”



Wringing his hands behind his back and blushing somewhat, Sylvester looked to Tabbi and told her, “I saw her on Top Of The Pops….”



And, with a wide grin on her face, Tabbi admonished, “You watch Top Of The Pops!”



Sylvester started walking again, with Tabbi rushing after him, “Well, I like watching Pans People… Maybe Babs isn’t the best at dancing, boy does she have lovely legs!”



“So we know you like seventies…” She said with a smile. Then taking his left hand in her right she added, “Now it’s time to head home Sylvester…”



“Good,” he retorted, “I want to relax with a cup of tea, after all that…”



“So it’s back to the Eighties, alright?” Tabbi exclaimed with a clap of her hands.



“Uhuh…” Sylvester responded, then went quiet a moment, before asking: “Tabbi, where did we leave the machine?”





.

The Incredible Adventures Of Sylvester Merridew {Finished & Completed}
13:39 Dec 01 2011
Times Read: 869

The Incredible Adventures Of Sylvester Merridew





Chapter One



It was dusk and a thick cloying mist hung low to surface of the cobbled streets.



Sylvester ran his right-hand up and through the right side of his two-tone hair, the right side being black, the rest being white.



With his left hand he adjusted his monocle and then turned to Tabbi, a wide smile on his face of manic delight on his face; “Egads girl, the chase is on…”



Tabbi turned her head and, with irony she told him, “Yes boss.”



And, she was hardly surprised that he ran ahead; he was brave but very foolish: ‘Yet, that’s why I like him’, she thought with wry amusement, moments before she ran to catch up with him.



‘Yet, that’s why I like him…’ she thought, beginning to run after guardian, mentor and the butt of many of her jokes.



Sylvester Merridew ran helter skelter through the yellow fog, his left hand reaching for the warehouse wall now and then.



Behind him ran his ward Tabbi, so often his companion on these adventures.



His cufflinks His cufflinks, the right one, his initials embossed on it, glittered in the dim yellow light of the gaslight to his left, as his fingertips found the end of the wall and, the beginning of the alleyway.



He turned his head briefly and called over his right shoulder calling, Tabbi!”



And, having called her name, Sylvester gave a start, as the young woman appeared at his side.



As ever, she had dressed in entirely unsuitable clothing, for a woman, a tight, clinging woollen white dress with dark blue stripes on it, a heavy black leather jacket worn over it and, tough looking black boots on her feet.



Born of an Irish Mother and a Swedish Father, Tabbi was tall, yet slim; delicate and agile, with a sharp mind, which Sylvester had quickly learnt to appreciate.



Her reasoning skills had proven themselves many times since their paths had first crossed, all those years prior: since then, the out-of-place Edwardian Gentleman had grown to trust her judgement implicitly.



‘He’s out of time and place,’ she mused, watching Sylvester run farther ahead and into the whirling yellow smog: ‘or, maybe it’ me?’



Chapter Two





Suddenly awake Sylvester sat up, the duvet falling to his waist as he did so, then he lay back, wiping his forehead with the back of his right arm.



As per usual, he had gone from sound asleep to wide-awake within seconds, such was his desire to escape from the dream-world he’d found himself in the midst of, yet again.



Sylvester swung round, placing his bare-feet on the floor then stood, the coverlet falling away from his rangy frame, covered in white cotton one-piece long-johns and his hands on his hips he stretched backwards, giving a satisfied smile when he heard his back crack,



Once more, he looked round the small room, as he had since the first morning here, filled with ‘stuff’, little of it meaning anything to him; much of it he had little comprehension of.



He was grateful for his life and that he had somewhere to live, but hated the couch.



Padding through to the small kitchenette, he ran his right hand fingers back through his thick, two-tone hair and looked about. The kettle still puzzled him. Yet, he was not a stupid man and had watched his young rescuer many times. So he made his way to the wall-cket, cautiously flipped the inset switch and stood back. When nothing happened, he thought carefully, “What have I missed?”



Then he recalled the next step and, flipping the switch on the kettle he saw a small light show red. Within moments he heard bubbling, noticing steam emanating from its spout. He felt pleased with himself and grinned.



Minutes later, Sylvester returned to the small living-room, the gap of the top of the thick drapes suffusing the room with a warm glow.



Placing his coffee on a newspaper-strewn coffee table he reached beneath the couch, reaching for the small rectangular plastic device, still intrigued by the feel of the smooth material in his hand. He pressed the small buttons, in the sequence he had seen done, so many times.



In the corner of the room, the glass-fronted box on four legs spring to life and white snow on black formed into colour and the image of a man in a blue shirt with a maroon tie, with diagonal gold-stripes, sitting behind a panelled desk.



“And now for the mornings news…” the fellow intoned, shuffling papers.





Chapter Three



Sylvester Merridew had arrived in Nineteen eighty seven via a break in the temporal vortex his machine had been travelling.



Needless to say, he had not realized what had happened, or how to fix it: after all, he’s acquired the machine had disappeared with its prototype, years earlier.



And then, when there’d been a garage sale and, he’d seen and been fascinated by the contraption he’d seen.



The construction of brass, copper gears and levers captivated him and, his keen imagination. It had a whirling disc at the back of a comfortable red leather couch, atop a metal bed, on a sled affair, with a control panel and steering column in front of the seating. Bug-eyed, Sylvester had paid the moustachioed seller.

‘It was a delight!’ He’d thought, beaming with pride at his acquisition, as he watched the fellows men carrying it towards a flat bed cart led by two large grey shire horses.



Down cobbled streets the tarpaulin-covered machine had been taken, until it reached the back of the Mews where Merridew lived, where he had a small workshop of his own. And there the machine had sat, for several days.



A pouch behind the seating provided a manual, but Sylvester only glanced at it, preferring to polish the sleds ski’s, until they shone, like the machine’s inventor had not intended.



Finally he had sat on the bench seat with a mug of tea in one hand, a dirty rag in the other, sighing with satisfaction, ‘at a job well done.’



Having swallowed the last drop Sylvester had leant forward to place the empty mug on the dash, ahead of himself. As he sat back the chain on his fob watch had caught on the red ball, atop a long lever, drawing into the base of its slot.



Then, the disc at the back of the machine had begun to turn, slowly at first and, then as the disc behind him had begun to whir round, Sylvester had held his hair tidy, staring ahead goggle-eyed, as the air seemed to shimmer before and around him.



And, the disc had spun faster and faster, until his ears caught the whirring sound it produced and, still it it’s speed increased further still, until slowly, the room outside the shimmering sphere around the machine and occupant life continued at an incredible speed, with the world turning and ageing at a rate he did not.



Stupefied, Sylvester let go of his hair, which wisped around his head wildly, as he had clutched at the column and grip before him, his knuckles turning quite white with the exerted pressure.



And, that had been when his mind had cried out from sensory overload and Slvester blacked out…













Chapter Four





Dressed in her current uniform of short pleated tartan skirt, tee-shirt with a print of Queen Elizabeth the second, her eyes blanked out with a black rectangle and the legend below, ‘God Save The Queen;’ ripped fishnet tights and heavy boots, Tabbi had taken a walk down by the canals towpath, as she avoided the police. They were using; and ‘abusing’, in her opinion, “the suss law”, as many called it: and, she’d been stopped twice already that very morning.



And, all she’d been doing was go to the shops.



But, as she lived where she did, the seventeen year-old knew that she couldn’t afford hassle from the law, hence taking this shortcut, via the towpath



Kicking at a can, Tabbi smiled, picturing it to be a policeman’s helmet.



And, with that image very much in mind, she had kicked at a nearby length of copper tubing, yet there’d been no movement from the metal; no give at all.



‘The metal’s part of a bigger something,’ she mused as a thrum from the vibrating copper tub hummed in the air a moment.



Then she’d heard a groan, coming from behind some greenery to her right, where the other end of the copper tubing had disappeared.



And, following the metal into the bushes, Tabbi had found herself amidst twisted wreckage beneath which a pair of legs protruded, in dirty black trousers, with the feet in expensive black leather ankle boots.



Bending forward, Tabbi had cautiously lifted a large bed of metal up, noticing a red leather bench seat, which lay over the prone figure of a man, with shoulder length hair of black and white; and, wearing a red frock coat.



The man had groaned again and Tabbi knelt at his right asking, “You’re okay Mister, I’ll get you out of this then…”



“I’m alive?” The fellow queried, in a raspy voice.



“Yes,” Tabbi had reassured him, as she lifted some twisted tubing from his back; “not only that, but if you’re not injured, you’re free to stand.”



“not only that, but you’re free to stand. That is, if you’re not injured.”



“Am I injured? Good question Miss?” The fellow had muttered as he turned over, then sat, with his back with his back to a twisted disc of metal.



“I’m alive!” He exulted, looking up at Tabbi, with wide eyes.



He had swept his right hand through his windswept hair, which hardly tidied it at all, then sighed. And just moments later, the fellow went into a coughing fit.



It turned into a coughing fit which finally ceased and, looking through what appeared to be somewhat abashed, he had wiped a trickle of drool away from his mouth with the back of his right hand.



“’Scuse me Miss, it seems time-travel isn’t easy on the craft, or its occupant, it seems…”



“You what!” Tabbi exclaimed, “Time travel?”



Her mouth had opened and closed and, then finally she said, “You what! Time travel? You have to be kidding me…?



The man had sat up, brushed at the dust on his lapels, then proffered his right hand: “The names Sylvester, Sylvester Lee Merridew…”



Tabbi had offered her hand to the gentleman, who accepted it and, her help, with obvious discomfort.



“I’m Tabbi,” she had said to him, simply.



“Well Tabbi,” he began, “let me assure you, I didn’t think I was kidding when I paid a thousand pounds for one… ‘the first production model’, the booklet had said.”



“Booklet?” She quizzed.



“Yes, somewhere, midst all of this…” he indicated the wreckage, “there is a booklet, a manual as it were, on the construction and maintenance of the machine…”



Then, after a long pause, Sylvester asked the young woman, “So, what year is this?”





Chapter Five





“You weren’t kidding ,” Tabbi asked, “where you?”



“Kidding?”



“You know, telling a joke?” She clarified, “you do understand, don’t you?”



“I erm…” he muttered, looking confused.



Tabbi looked at Sylvester and said, “Somehow I think you need a cup of tea…”

Then she added, “Or perhaps something stronger?”



“A wash and a whiskey perhaps?” The dishevelled gentleman responded, running his left hand upward and through his hair, as he looked at Tabbi, looking as tired as if he had walked several marathon.



She reached for his right hand in both of hers, gently and then smiled.



“I think we can do something about that…” she assured him, idly glancing behind him, at the red leather covered seating that had covered him, when she noticed a grey booklet, tucked beneath a leather slip.



Releasing his hand and looking into his eyes, a trace of amusement playing on her face, Tabbi walked across to the twisted pile of metal and retrieved the manual.



“Somehow… I think I’ve found some interesting reading material,” She told her companion, with a grin.



She took his right hand again, with her left, “C’mon Sylvester, lets’ get back to my squat…”



“Huh?” He expressed, in confusion: “Back to your… way of sitting?”



“No Sylvester, here in the twentieth century, it means an empty house, that’s been occupied…” She had told him, as they walked along the towpath, toward the steps leading up to the roadway.



“Oh it does seem that I have much to learn about this time,” he sighed, allowing himself to be led upward, then down the road, toward where she lived, passers-by looking at the disparate pair, with curious eyes.



Cars bemused Sylvester, as did traffic lights and electricity, she learnt less than twenty minutes later, as she turned on the water heater and told him, “Your bath water will be ready for you soon…”



“This reminds me of a different time,” he told Tabbi, looking around himself.

“What do you mean?” She queried in response.

“I used to have someone to heat my water for me,” he informed her, frowning at the mere idea of electricity, a power-source constantly ‘on tap’, as it were.



As she had listened to him speak, Tabbi set out two mugs and slipped a switch on the wall, then another on the kettle itself. Soon the whistling kettle announced that it was boiling and, Sylvester watched, as she poured the water into two mugs, each with a small bag inside; then she added milk, asking him; “Do you take sugar?”



“Yes… yes I do, to spoonfuls,” he answered, still fascinated by how her actions in making a cup of tea were so dissimilar from those he had witnessed when Mrs Brubaker had made his cups of tea.



“Now, Sylvester let’s go through to the front room and we can chat awhile, alright?” Tabbi had told him, leading the way through to the front room.



.



He sat, as requested, on her battered yet comfortable sofa, as Tabbi had sat on the sofa to the right, the television before them.



Accepting the blue and white striped mug of tea, Sylvester watched Tabbi with fascination, as she had pressed small buttons on a hand-held device, of a strange black material he’d not seen before.



Briefly he had looked round the room filled with ‘stuff’, realising that much of it was made of the same substance, although in many varied colours.



“What is that?” He had asked.



“A teevee remote…” she answered.



“Hmmmm… what’s a teevee remote? And, what’s that material it’s made of?” He queried, as snow formed within black on the television screen.



At this had Tabbi slapped her forehead exclaiming, “Oh-boy, it’s going to be a long night!”





Chapter Six



Tabbi had been right, ‘It had been a long night’, that had lasted well into the early hours of the morning, as the moving images he had seen on the television had led to so many questions, she had turned it off, then begun to try and answer his questions, as best she could.



Tabbi had begun with an explanation of the television and, how they were lucky enough to live in an area that could receive all four channels.



She had also explained the workings of her new ‘toy’, which sat beneath the large television, a VHS video-recorder, that an ex with ‘waaaay too much money’ had bought her to impress her. It hadn’t worked: the fellow had been a cheat and, she’d been grateful to be rid of him. But, she had kept the television.



That had led to a conversation about its power source, electricity. That in turn led to the merits of making a mug of tea, over the traditional method that his housekeeper had practised.



Finally, as eyelids began to close, Sylvester asked, “So, what were those four-wheel horseless carriages we saw on the roadway, that moved fast and were pumping out such fumes?”



That had led to a dialogue on the combustion engine and how it superseded the horse over a period of years.



Hearing that, Sylvester had lain back and slapped his forehead, “No more horses?”



“Oh, we have horses still. It’s just that they’re used more for recreation,” Tabbi had told him in response.



Thinking back to the news he had seen on the television he had then observed, “You have all this fine technology, yet still you wage wars; and people starve…”



As she has listened to the stranger from another time, Tabbi had drawn her legs beneath her, her mug of cold tea in her hands; “Yes,” the teen agreed with a sigh, “there are those who don’t appreciate what they have, while others fight against repression. Me? I sometimes wish this were a different time…”



Curious, Sylvester had asked what seemed an obvious question to him, “So, when would you have lived if you could Tabbi?”



She had grinned a Cheshire Cat grin before answering, “Me? I’d have been a punk, in the Seventies?”



“A Punk? … The Seventies,” the man had repeated, slowly.



“The nineteen seventies,” she had told him, sighing with exasperation: “And punks, they wanted to do as they wanted, at a time when England had a repressive government…”



And, though Sylvester had listened to her words; because he heard the passion in her answer, few of her words actually made sense to him. And, he was very tired, which made comprehension all the harder.



“But for now Sylvester, I think it’s time you rested…” She told the older man, who had begun yawning minutes earlier.



Tabbi had stood, collecting their mugs and went through to the kitchen.



“I have a question to ask young lady?” Sylvester said, as she left the room.



“Go on, I can hear you…” she responded, as she began to wash the mugs.



“Is there a reason you have one brown eyes and one blue?!”



“Yes…” she answered, “story has it, I’m David Bowie’s love-child…”



“Dave Bowie? You say that as if I should know that name…” Sylvester reminded her.



Re-entering the living-room teacloth in hand and a smile on her face, Tabbi grinned.



“Yes,” I guess expecting the Man Who Fell From the Past, to know The Man Who Fell To Earth would be a bit too much….” And so saying, Tabbi had begun to laugh.



Her laughter had proven infectious and, was soon he laughing hard himself and, it seemed neither could stop, until finally, panting, Sylvester did, “Why am I laughing?”



Abruptly she had stopped laughing herself: “You are tired Sylvester… and, so am I. We need to rest…”



“But first, tell me… who is this David Bowie you speak of?” He asked.



“He’s a singer… a pop star… he’s…” She had sought hard to find words he might understand. But, his frowns showed he did not.



“What’s a pop-star?” He asked, “You’re using words I find hard to follow…”



Almost shame-faced, Tabbi sighed and then had retorted, “I’m sorry Sylvester. I’m using terms of reference lost on you.”



“But then, she had added with feeling, “but then, I’ve never travelled in time. You have…”



Smiling wanly, his eyes heavy Sylvester had agreed, as he accepted the sheets and blankets she’d offered him.



“The couch isn’t bad Sylvester,” had assured the man, as he smiled his thanks: “Sleep well and, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tabbi had said, as she closed the door with the grey manual furled up in her left hand, leaving the light on.



Minutes later, Sylvester rose from his makeshift bed on the couch and he crossed the room, to open the door and ask Tabbi to turn the light off, for him. There had been something about electricity he just didn’t trust.



Yet, the young lady, his saviour in a short pleated tartan skirt and heavy boots had gone to bed. And, much as he wished for the dark, Sylvester was if nothing else, a gentleman. That night, his first in the twentieth Century, Sylvester slept with the light still on and, blankets over his head, to create some semblance of dark, with which to aid rest. Yet, as a gentleman, he did leave the light on.



“After all,” he had thought, ‘She deserved her rest.’





Chapter Seven



Sylvester woke as accustomed, to a shaft of sunlight streaming through the gap at the top of the rooms drapes, where the curtains didn’t quite meet.



Wiping the sleep from his eyes with careful fingers, he idly wondered what day it was. Then, he reminded himself what year it was.



He eased the sheets off his lean, sinewy body, chest moderately hirsute, having slept in his white ankle-long, long-john bottoms… just in case Tabbi entered.



H swung his legs round then stood and walked across the room and turned on the television, having already realized that he’d slept on the remote, again.



And, although the couch was undoubtedly comfortable, as he’d been told all those months ago, Sylvester still awoke with aching knees, shoulders and lower back.



But, he had his exercises…



‘First though, the news:’ He watched ‘Good Morning’, having decided months ago that he preferred it to the informal manner of ITV’s morning show. Timmy Mallet, of the loud colours and large inflatable mallet derided hi brain cells, he thought.



And, as for Channel Four and, the levity of its presenters – well, he gave up the ghost on that one!



Having learnt that Secretary of State George P. Shultz had testified he was deceived repeatedly on Iran-Contra affair, Sylvester sighed, then turned the television off and made his way through the kitchen.



As the kettle boiled, he went to the bathroom to pass water. He then made his tea, before returning with it, to the living room and his can of beans.



In the past, in his own time, Sylvester had started his morning swinging clubs and now, since he’d begun to care for himself again, he had begun his old regime once more, after he’d watched the news ‘and, learnt of the world news that is!’



And having learnt to like doing them to music, Sylvester turned the radio on began.



As he began to swing his arms, the door opened and Tabbi entered the room, a wide smile on her face and a mug of tea in her cupped hands.



Her bleach-blonde hair was gelled and brushed hard back. She had ultra-tight blue-jeans on, big boots on her feet and she wore a tea-shirt, knotted high at the waist, so that the legend Frankie Says Relax’ just said, ‘Frankie Says R…’



Yet, it acted to highlight her flat belly and her belly buttons piercing that sported a safety pin, as did her right earlobe. Another affectation of hers that Sylvester did not understand – her dress sense, which only served to exemplify to him how little he fitted in this time.



But, Tabbi had saved him and furthermore, he’d grown to like her.



“What on earth are you listening to?” She snorted.



“It’s La Bamba by a band called Los Lobos,” he told her panting, gently swinging his arms, “they’re number one in the charts, this very week.”



“Shee-it, gimmee The Clash and White Riot… now, that’s to be listened to Sylvester,” she said slowly, as he continued his exercise.



He was breathing hard and would have to stop soon.



“And, you know that?” She asked, surprise evident in her voice; “That’s sad.”



Sitting down on the couch, Sylvester saddened a moment, then he looked up and smiled: “Perhaps…” he started, “Perhaps I’ve been to long in this time…”



“Now, about that…” Tabbi said to him solemnly as she sat on the armchair, “We need to talk…”



She looked at him a wide grin on her face, explaining; “Once I got the machine back together, I had to figure out what went wrong…”



Sylvester’s mouth opened and his breathing became slower, as he sat entranced, with his hands supporting his chin, elbows on his knees.



“You got it here? And, you got it back together?” He asked, rendered incredulous at the idea, suddenly sitting bolt upright, his mind wide-awake: now, here was news..



“I had a few friends help me bring the bits back and I assembled it down in the cellar, using the manual. And Sylvester…” she began, sounding very earnest; “I’m ready… Or, I should say… it’s ready, to use… All I’d had to do was figure out what went wrong and, I have…”



“You want to use it yourself?” He asked, unnecessarily.



She laughed briefly, “Of course silly… why else do you think I’ve been with that manual every night for the last few months, instead of a hot guy?”



‘Scandalized, scandalized, I refuse to be scandalized,’ Sylvester thought, chanting.



Still now, after all these months, her straightforward manner still surprised him.



But, he didn’t want to interrupt her flow, yet was a little irked, that she wouldn’t consider his sensibilities, sometimes…



So, he chose to ignore the remark, intent on learning what she had planned for his infernal machine.



Tabbi leant forward, her drink held in two hands, as she spoke with passion: “The only fault was the accident and, you hadn’t engaged the chrono-shield, or the spatial regulator. That’s all.”



“That’s all?” He responded, stunned that his young friend knew quite so much.



“Uh-huh and now, it’s ready, to use again… H.G. Wells first working machine made for sale…it’s ready for use!” she added, her voice sounding as enthusiastic as it had moment’s prior.



“Well Sylvester, I want to know; are you coming with me?” She asked with a broad smile on her face.



“When to?” He asked curiously, left eyebrow raised.



“Nineteen seventy seven, of course!” She told him, grinning maniacally.



Running his right hand up through his tousled two-tone hair Sylvester thought hard.

He’d learnt much while he’d been with Tabbi. ‘Now, maybe it was time to continue the adventures…’



He looked to his bare toes, then looked up to her eyes of brown and blue a long moment, before answering, “Well, if I’m coming with you, I’d best get dressed…”