A short story about a girl with tattoos who is not what she seems.

Jason was strictly nocturnal, his life an endless round of night clubs, dark streets and immorality. Until one year ago, he had been studying philosophy at a London university and if you asked Jason why he dropped out, he would find it hard to explain, but it was to do with taste and the pursuit of truth. Not any more.

After he had lived life on the other side, he could never go back. The other side was like diving into cool water on a scorching day. An initial shock, but afterwards, everything so clear and real. Living on the other side had initially sated his primeval urges, but drugs and women no longer kept the devouring hunger at bay. He needed more, and something about his look betrayed his insatiable need.

“Your name Jason?” Her voice was rough from too many cigarettes and hard living.

He could only see her outline against the garish lights but the little he could make out was enough. The nightclub music pounded through his body, exciting his senses to snapping point.

“Who wants to know?” he shouted back, moving up close.

Instead of replying, she walked towards the exit. The blasts of red light offered her silhouette to him until the excitement grew unbearable. He followed, a dog after a bitch in heat, curious, hungry. Outside, the air was a cool damp caress, soft on his fevered skin. He was about to call out to her, telling to stop when a man spoke.

“I’ll pay you five hundred.”

The man stood in front of car headlights, but Jason could see that he was big and well spoken, his voice authoritative.

“Legal?” Jason asked, his face screwed up against the light. He hoped it would not be.

“You don’t need to know.”

“What’s the job?”

A pause. “I want you to follow someone. She works nights, like you. I want to know what she’s up to. That’s all, to start with.”

“Half now,” Jason said, testing.

The man held out a brown envelope. “There’s two hundred and fifty and everything you need to know. Be here tomorrow, same time. If you do well, I’ve got a bigger job.”

“Wait – is it dangerous?”

The man smiled. He climbed in the car and reversed fast down the alleyway. Jason caught a glimpse of something lean, expensive and silver under the streetlights. Tyres shrieked.

He left the club a couple of hours later and walked back to his apartment through deserted alleyways, kicking at empty cans and takeaway boxes. Once inside, safe behind the deadbolts he lay back in the cream leather recliner and tore open the envelope. He tossed the bundle of notes on the glass table without bothering to count, and looked at the two sheets of paper. One of them was a list of locations and he knew most of them well. Nightclubs and bars the inexperienced would be wise to avoid.

The other was a photograph of a girl with tattoos.

She looked to be in her early twenties, with features that were almost Asian, her eyes almond-shaped and slanted, pale skin, many tattoos. Silvery hair, dark streaks. Those lips – they set his pulse racing. Poutingly full, with an enticing gap full of promise. The photograph looked like it had been taken in a nightclub. The girl with tattoos was wearing a skimpy mini-skirt and top, not much else that he could see. Her eyes had caught the flashlight and gleamed red. He stared at the photograph, memorised the face, tossed the paper on top of the money. The sun was beginning to rise and a grey light crept across the room. Jason was asleep before the first bird began to sing.

He awoke in the early evening, spending an hour on the phone setting up illicit deals for the night, put on his leather jacket, checked his stubble was the right length and set off. He did not find her until late. He leaned against the bar, watching the way she moved on the dance floor. A space had developed around her as the other dancers stopped to watch. She danced as if the music was not just inside her, but part of her being. She seemed to be wired up to the speakers, and every move made him want her more. Her sexuality was like a disease, spreading to every man around and eyes gleamed with a feral light as they stared.

She turned, shaking her body seductively, and he could feel energy lance between them. Her eyes momentarily caught his but Jason turned away, watching her in the mirror over the bar and she knew he was watching. She was dancing for him now but he said nothing, made no move. He followed her around three clubs watching her toy with men, teasing and rejecting them, shopping. At three a.m. she clicked her heels from the last nightclub and headed for a taxi, accompanied by a tall black man with a shaved head. Jason made his way to the meeting place and waited.

“Hello, Jason.”  The car headlights cut into Jason’s eyes as he turned to look. “What did she do?”

Jason told him.

He was angry at that. “That’s unfortunate. Do you want to do some more work for me?”

Jason’s instincts warned him against it, but he wanted the money and he wanted the girl more. “Sure.”

Jason walked to his apartment, fixed himself a coffee and tore open the envelope. This time there was a lot of money and he did not need to count it. He put his hand back into the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper, on which was written ‘Take her home. Do not let her go with anyone. Don’t touch her. Do not go into her apartment. She will ask you.”

The girl with tattoos was already at the club when Jason arrived, and so he settled down with a vodka coke, watching her in the mirrors on the wall. She drew a lot of attention, dancing suggestively in a black skin-tight body suit – latex or similar – the light reflecting off her curves, laughing as she moved between couples, drawing hostile stares from the other women.  Jason turned away to order another drink and when he turned back she was next to him. A breast brushed against him and it felt electric.

“He asked you to watch me.” Her voice was soft, not English. “What did he say?”

Jason pushed back his streaked hair. “Only to make sure you were okay, to get you home.”

She laughed. “Alone.”

“Yeah. Alone,” he agreed.

She ran her hand around his neck. He could feel her long nails crease his skin, then her lips brushed his ear. “OK, Jason. That’s your name, isn’t it? Come and dance with me, then you can take me home.”

Any contact with her made him burn up. He followed her onto the dance floor. At first it was intoxicating, but he soon became self conscious as the other dancers stopped to look. When he stepped back from her, she continued to dance alone until a man stepped forward and moved against her. Jason warned him. The man looked tough, but the girl pushed him away and turned to Jason.

“Come on. Do your job.” She took his hand and he led her from the club.

Outside, it had been raining and wet pavements flickered under the neon. He waved down a cab and they jumped inside. As soon as they were seated together, she was upon him in frenzy and he lost all sense of time. When the cab arrived at her address, Jason fought to calm himself and control the lust hazing his mind.

“Are you coming in?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

She drew back her top lip in an animal snarl. “Bastard. Useless bastard.”

Jason recoiled in surprise at her fury. “Look, I get paid for this. At least tell me your name.”

“Carla.” She almost spat the words at him and ran to the door.

Jason felt tired. It was three a.m. again and the rain was coming down hard. He took the cab back to the club, and was already waiting in the alley when the long silver sports car glided in. The lights were left on as usual, pinning Jason against the wall. He heard the door slam, steps approached then the man spoke.

“You passed the first test. Here’s the final assignment.”

He held out the brown envelope, and Jason took it reluctantly. It was heavy this time. Before the man turned to leave, Jason stopped him.

“Who is she?”

The seconds ticked by. “She’s death.”

Before Jason could ask him more, the man turned away, walked to the car.  Jason dragged himself back to his apartment. He looked at the brown envelope and contemplated throwing it away, but the bulk of it told him that there was a lot of money this time. He threw the envelope unopened on his coffee table. It landed with a dull clunk.

He woke up at midday, and watched the news over coffee, but then he saw a face that he recognised.  “…was found murdered last night,” droned the newsreader.

Curious, he picked up the brown envelope and emptied the contents on the floor. The gun seemed strangely light when he picked it up. He released the magazine. It was loaded with bullets tipped with black. He ejected one and tapped it with his nail. The weapon was slim, made of some lightweight grey alloy.  Next, he picked up the sheet of paper.

“Kill her. Or we kill you.”

Jason poured himself a whiskey, and looked out the window. It was dusk, streetlights a dingy orange. A storm was brewing, the skyline flickering with distant lightning, thumps of thunder.  He started to count the money.  £5000 this time, half now, half later.  He lay back and toyed with the possibilities, wondering how much a life was worth. He had been seen with the girl, but so had others. If he did the job quickly at her place, no one would know. He could be back at his own apartment in good time.  His conscience was overwhelmed by hunger. He realised that he wanted to kill and he wanted blood. He had no choice.

Breaking into her apartment proved to be easier than expected. A ground floor window was not closed properly. Jason climbed in quickly and shut the window behind him. Inside, the rooms were unusual. They looked almost unlived in, apart from the bed with its black satin sheets. The bathroom was empty, nothing in the medicine cabinet, no make-up, no towels. In the kitchen, same story. Empty fridge, empty larder. He sat down in the living room, wondering about what kind of person she could be, and waited. The sound of a key in the lock woke him.  He moved silently, taking position behind the door but the girl with tattoos did not enter the room. He cursed and peered around it. She was following someone into the bedroom – a man. He waited, his palms slippery with sweat, wondering what to do.  What difference would another killing make?

Then he heard it.

The sound was halfway between pain and pleasure, somehow animal. Jason smiled appreciatively but the smile froze when he heard the other sound – the hiss of a snake, but too loud. Not human. The moan was changing to something liquid. Without thinking, Jason ran into the room, gun raised.

Carla was sitting with her narrow back to him, long legs astride a naked man, head lowered, thrusting. The man’s limbs dangled lifelessly. This was not making love. It was feeding.

As he squeezed the trigger she was inexplicably in front of him, her hand a band of fire around his wrist. He could feel her nails drawing blood as he looked at her.

“Hello, Jason. Come to kill me?” She let go of him, laughing.

He looked into her eyes and they were mesmerising, drawing him close, her touch burning hot. She pushed him on top of the dead stranger and was on him, ripping open his trousers. Her breath panted against the skin of his neck and then the hissing began and when she sucked the warm liquid from him it was better than sex. He closed his eyes and gave himself to her.

When Jason awoke, everything was changed. He had no appetite for food or drink. The tiled floor was not cold against his bare feet, he could not feel himself breathing. At the same time, he could hear a barrage of noise coming from all directions. It was if the walls separating the apartment from the others had been dissolved away, and he even could smell the body warmth of the inhabitants. Only then did he start to feel the hunger and it ate at his insides like acid as saliva gushed into his mouth.  He walked into the living room to find her sitting in front of the fire and she was still naked.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel alive.”

The girl with tattoos laughed, mouth wide. Eyes slitted, cat-faced. “That’s amusing,” she replied, purring.

“I have a job to do. The man-”

She stroked his face. “I want you to kill him, for me. Use the gun.”

“Who is he?”

“He pays the weak and foolish – dispensable people, to kill my kind.”

“Your kind?” She rose, and kissed him on the mouth. “Our kind.”

Intro to Stripper Killer

This short story about a rather dangerous stripper is a modified version of the opening chapter to Creation. The first of the five book vampire series Drakul, Creation tells the story of estranged vampire king Tepesch Drakul and the struggle to restore his race. Tepesch and his family seek to combine human and vampire DNA to allow assimilation. The novel opens with estate agent Jake’s stag party. Jake has just sold some disused warehouses to a mysterious buyer.

Stripper Killer

The rope seared his wrists as Jake squirmed against the sweaty plastic chair. He scanned the stamping bawling mob for a friendly face but found no pity in their eyes, only cruel anticipation. A storm was coming, the whole weight of atmosphere pressing down and the feeling that something bad was about to happen was getting stronger. Jake’s scalp prickled as the first bellow of thunder came, a dull thud that vibrated upwards through the chair followed by a tearing explosion. Lightning painted faces into clown masks. The incessant drumming fought back, deafening. The crowd bayed, waving bottles and cans, but when the woman finally appeared, everything changed.

The mob fell silent and parted respectfully to let her through, no one dared speak as she sauntered up to Jake. He inhaled her scent, something musky and wonderful that set his senses aflame despite the danger. The alcoholic haze cleared with a popping sensation and the room stopped spinning. Sounds faded to nothing as he observed the woman with startling clarity and it came to him then, that the stag night was a bad mistake.

She was dancing directly in front of him and Jake had never seen anyone move the way she did, gazing hungrily with parted lips as if in a fashion shoot whilst she brushed against him. The police officer’s hat sat at a jaunty angle on flowing blond hair. Her face was almost elfin, the ears delicately pointed. Her eyes were enormous, the gaze questioning and promising. Black, spun with Tiger’s Eye, set wide above Slavonic cheekbones, they gleamed with the essence of lust. To poor Jake, dreams of forbidden pleasures swirled in their depths. Her full bottom lip was blood red and pouted dangerously. She was looking straight at him as if they were the only people in the room, even in the world.

An errant thought flitted through Jake’s over-heated brain – someone like her would never be interested in an overweight, beer-sodden lump like him – but he was lost and he was damned and truth had no meaning. Even her mocking laugh turned him on but below his lust was a deep void of fear. When she stuck out her pointed tongue, he noticed small silver balls nestling above and below the dark flesh, matching the metal pierced through her right breast. The chrome was dewed with condensation and the tongue was strangely dark as if she had been eating liquorice, but he doubted she would do such things. Her perfect teeth were very white, the canines pronounced – catlike, sexy.

She held onto her hat as she lowered her head to whisper secret words whilst she continued to sway to the music, but the words meant nothing to Jake. He was only aware of her cold tongue caressing his ear and that cinnamon smell seeping into his brain. Sweat, musk, pheromones. His own swelling urgency, the distant yells of his friends.  Jake felt reality slipping away until he seemed to be floating in space, tied to his plastic chair, alone with the woman.

The music changed as ‘Addicted to Love’ throbbed through the room, and Jake’s infallible memory clicked into place – Robert Palmer, 1985. An ancient classic if a bit sexist, as Jenny had once pointed out, as someone who had never been a love addict. It had never sounded so good. As the cop danced before him, she undid the tight, dark blue shirt and took it off. The little he knew of females told him she was as excited as he was, from the swell of her lip and each nipple standing proud in its dark aureole.  She moaned softly and a thin trickle of saliva escaped from the corner of her wanton lips, the remarkable eyes half-closed.

Jake felt he was going to explode or have a heart attack or both and as she brushed against him, he wished more than anything that she and his friends would go away. He wanted order restored and he needed Jenny. He longed to put on his striped cotton pyjamas and slide under cool sheets, safe and alone with a book and a mug of tea. Jake was to be married the next day, but the man who craved normality was staring down a precipice and about to fall.

Robert Palmer screamed out the message. You can’t be saved, oblivion is all you crave…

At that moment, it was true.

Her hips swayed enticingly as she slowly unzipped the dark blue miniskirt and let it fall, running her fingers down her gleaming thighs. Her lips moved, but she wasn’t singing to the music. Each sighing word was a shining jewel spinning a web of poison and he was the plump, tasty fly. 

“Caruu aamisa, caruu yazu,” she mouthed and wiggled her tongue in his ear. He could guess what it meant. The song thundered on. Your heart beats, in double time, another kiss and you’ll be mine…

Two a.m. Jake remained lashed to the chair as the drunken cries and singing receded. The old biddy in the flat below had ceased banging on the ceiling and laid down her stick. He was finally alone and grateful for it, but still thinking about the stripper no matter how hard he tried not to. He heard the strange mantra of lust whispered endlessly – caruu aamisa, caruu yazu.

Thunder rattled the windows. Jake peered at the sky as lightning punished the spire of a distant church, leaving him dazzled. He tried wriggling but the rope tightened obstinately and he realised he was soaked in sweat. It occurred to him that he could probably stand up and walk into the kitchen to get a sharp knife, and the sense of relief made him feel like weeping. He would free himself then take a shower and go to bed with his cup of tea, Earl Grey. All would be well in the morning, when the sun came up and drove away the darkness, and he would be with Jenny for the rest of his life. He tried to stand as the first hailstones clattered against the glass, but it was more difficult than he had expected.  His feet scuffled against the marble tiles as he tried another lift-off and nearly toppled backwards.

It could be worse, he could be in Poland, or tied to a lamppost . . .  or both . . . and he had not done anything to regret. Not done exactly but boy, he’d thought plenty and Jake could still detect that primordial smell. It seemed to hang in the air, unsatisfied and insatiable. Addicted to Love seemed to be stuck in his head and at that same moment, the lights dimmed to twilight.

“Hello, lover.”  The stripper seemed to appear from nowhere.

Jake let out a small yell of surprise.

She placed a finger against her lips. “Shh.” She pouted the sound, as if blowing him a kiss.

He gaped at her, wondering what to say whilst he experienced the plunging sensation of pure fear. The police hat was gone and her hair had been tied back in a ponytail to reveal a perfect neck, but his thoughts of lust were flown and all that remained was a strange anxiety. This was not a lad’s adventure any more, it was real, disturbing, wrong. She moved in front of him so that her endless, naked legs were either side of his, and her stilettos clicked against the expensive Italian tiles that his mother chose. She had abandoned the ridiculously short skirt and the police officer’s shirt hung open. He could not avoid seeing inside and a voice in his head was telling him to be very careful. His mouth dried up.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone.” It came out as a panic-laden squeak.

“I came back, Jake. You have something I need.”

“Look, my wallet’s in the bedroom, in the right hand drawer. There’s plenty of cash. Take it and I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Take it and go, please go.”

The stripper smiled perfectly and tossed her head, swinging the ponytail. “I have much money. That is not what I need, Jake.”

He was nonplussed. “So what do you want? Tell me.”

She smiled again, so perfect and yet cold. “I will show you.”

She moved in closer and trapped his knees between her cool thighs. It was surprisingly painful, her grip unexpectedly strong. She put her hands on her hips, lifting the police shirt in the process, and he found himself staring at her crotch and its narrow strip of golden fuzz. The ruby in her belly button gleamed like fresh blood.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to insult you. But I d-don’t want you here, you understand.”

“We have unfinished business, lover,” She chuckled.

Her voice was husky, the accent exotic. Central European, he surmised pointlessly as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. He squinted up at her. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” was the best he could manage. “What’s your name?”

The stripper laughed loudly, the sound harsh in the silence. “I am Angelica Drakul, but you will call me Angel. Yes, my name is Angel.”

Angelica widened her stance and sat astride him whilst unbuttoning his beer-sodden shirt, her elfin face filled with mischief and a betrayal of cruelty. Her tongue curled out to dab her top lip and flicked again as if tasting the air. The image of a snake came unbidden.  The snake’s eyes were soulless drops of gleaming jet, her skin pale and perfect but so cold in the choking heat of his flat.  Before Jake could protest, she had undone his trousers. She laughed throatily as he pushed the chair backwards across the room, panicking. She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forwards with astonishing strength. The sound she made was half way between pain and delight and he had the unpleasant feeling that she was about to feed.  The drop of saliva that fell from her tongue onto his lap was almost black and his mind cleared instantly at the sight.

“I want you to stop. Take the money and go,” he shouted.

Her expression hardened as she stood. She yanked his trousers off with brutal force, lifting his body half out of the chair so that it rocked forward alarmingly, and Jake weighed well over two hundred pounds. 

“Jenny and mother will miss you,” she whispered.

She straddled him again, taking his head between her hands.  Her bear-trap nails drove into his skull as he screamed. The fingers were icy. She was panting as quickly as he was praying and a strand of dark saliva swung from her lip, but he felt no breath on his face. The hands suddenly twisted his head with shocking force, the room blurred and Jake heard a cartilaginous crack. There was no pain and all sensation ceased instantly.

He found himself looking down on his vast, flaccid body as if it belonged to someone else and he knew he should be screaming or fighting back, but he could only experience an absurd sense of disbelief. Angelica did not simply lift herself off. She seemed to float upwards, drifting toward the ceiling and he was a puppet with severed strings. A weight had settled on his chest making it hard to breathe and he knew what she had done, but he also understood it was not over.  He licked his lips and his tongue tingled with pins and needles.

“You’re going to kill me.” Each word an effort.

Her eyelids lowered in silent acknowledgement. “Are you frightened of death, Jake? Do you know what death is?”

He was more frightened than he had ever been.  All he could think of was why him, when there were so many others more deserving. He needed to say goodbye to Jenny and the thought that he would never see her again was more than he could bear. Jesus would look after him and he imagined the son of God taking him by the hand, guiding him into the light but below the comforting image was a gaping void.  The finality of death was more terrifying than he had ever realised and he felt utterly alone.

She was watching him with a cruel smile. “Did you pray hard enough? I don’t see him.”

“Jesus loves me,” he gasped.

“How sweet you are, a fat little boy who believes in Jesus. Would you like to see me, Jake?”

Jake tried to understand the question. Part of him was too tired and cold to care, part of him needed to know the truth. “Yes.”

The stripper slipped off her shirt and darkness seemed to swirl around the perfect form until he could only see an outline. Within her cocoon of darkness, the woman was growing taller, the head flattening and needle teeth glinted where soft lips had been. Grey scales rasped as long limbs unfolded and the air was freezing. Bony wing struts scraped against the ceiling, setting the lampshade swinging and the dim light played over the monstrous shape. Angelica’s eyes alone remained unchanged and Jake stared into them, transfixed. The thing before him was ancient, brutal, hideous yet strangely beautiful. The giant head tilted and lowered to his neck, a strangely intimate gesture that was more invasive than any atrocity. Jake felt a rush of warmth when Angelica looked up at him, blood poured from the grinning shark’s mouth. Sleep washed through him as if he had been drugged, but Jake was not ready to go and life had never seemed more precious than at that moment.

“Mmm.” She licked a curved talon. “Very tasty, Jake.”

He managed to utter one word. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I get bored, you know?” The words were sighs.

The snake-woman was bored so he had to surrender his future and his very existence. Jake was dying and he had never seen God and he had never seen Jesus, but he had finally seen the devil. As he watched with detached interest, the dark angel knelt down before him and bent her scaled head towards his lap. He could not see what she was doing to him because of the mound of his stomach but he could hear, and the trickling sound was his own blood pooling between his feet. His mind was slipping into a confusion of memories and he allowed his eyes to close. Sleep would be his escape and when he awoke, he would get married. Sleep would make the devil go away.  She must have known what he was thinking because she sucked hungrily, a race against the last of his free will. The huge, curved wings trembled against her slender back.

When Jake’s eyes closed and his tongue lolled, Angelica stopped. The transformation came fast until the human form she loved so much was returned and she ran bloodied hands over the perfect body, gasping with pleasure. It could never be enough and frustration was already bubbling up inside. She knelt next to the dead man and stroked his hair back in place, disappointed but also angered by his passiveness.

“Was it good for you, Jake?” she whispered.

Short story centred on a strange perfume, inspired by the books of Daphne du Maurier.

The attractive young woman pushed back her wet hair as she came in from the darkness. Then smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry it’s so late, Mr Macon.”

Something about her expression made him feel protective, but she was also sensuous. Chris Macon felt like a dirty old man, but he could live with that. He savoured the slight huskiness of her voice. “Please, come in, sit down. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

She sat opposite him and Chris studied her with interest. ”what’s the problem?”

 “I – I think my fiancée is seeing someone else, Mr Macon,” she said hesitantly.

“Chris,” he corrected, as he poured coffee. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, first?”

“My name’s Laura Overton.  My fiancée is called David. David Lewis. We live on Goldsworth Park, in Surrey.”

“Have either of you been married before?”

She flushed. “David was married, but his wife went off with someone else. His Best Man, he said. He managed to get a divorce eventually. I’ve never been married.” 

“Do you know why she left him?”

“No, he never talks about it and I don’t like to ask. He won’t have anything to do with her or his past; it’s as if she and his friends never existed.”

“So, how long have you been with him?”

She answered without hesitation. “A year in April. We met on the Internet, and then found that we live in the same town. Imagine that.”

Chris sipped his coffee. “and has David ever shown interest in other women during this time?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. In fact he’s very possessive. If he thinks someone else is looking at me, he gets mad; he doesn’t like me wearing short skirts and – other stuff.”

“Describe your typical movements, Laura. For example, where do you work?” 

“I’m a nurse at St Peter’s, in Chertsey. I work shifts. David’s a teacher.”

He watched as she smoothed her skirt over her thigh. “So how much time do you spend together during the week? How often are you alone?”

“When I’m on nights I get back about six-thirty in the morning, and I go to bed when he leaves for work. I see him from when he gets home to when I leave in the evening. So I’m alone all day and asleep for most of it.”

“Are you both from this area?”

“I am, but David moved here from Redhill about five years ago, after his wife left him. He said he couldn’t bear to stay there.”

“and when are you getting married?”

She looked at the engagement ring. “We haven’t set a date yet. He keeps putting it off; sometimes I think he is frightened of being left again.”

Chris did not like the picture of David Lewis that was forming.  “It’s understandable, I suppose. What makes you think he is seeing someone else?”

She laughed nervously. “The perfume. I can smell it in the house when I get back from work. Also, David’s moody with me; he didn’t used to be like that, he was kind and he was fun.”

Chris sat back. “Perfume’s not proof, Laura.”

“Women wear perfume like that for a reason.” 

“Alright. Is there anything else I should know?”

“I’m certain that she’s been in our house. The perfume is in the bedroom and I can smell it on my pillow.”

Chris said carefully, “Laura, you must talk to him. Suppose there is no other woman and he finds you’re having him watched?”

She smiled. “I must sound crazy; I will speak to him. You’ve been very kind.”

Back home, Laura watched David prepare supper. He sharpened the Sabatier knife fastidiously before slicing a generous steak into neat cubes; she was repelled by the sound of knife on flesh. Afterwards, he scrubbed the bloodied utensils, then his hands and nails. He sharpened the knife once more, testing it with his thumb, dark hair falling over his forehead, thoughts seemingly far away.

“I – if there was ever someone else, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Her words were out of control.

“Someone else?” She could not tell whether he was amused or annoyed.

“Yes, having an affair. Having sex with someone else,” she said, irritated.

He paused, and she saw his hand tighten on the knife. His head whipped up, eyes angry. “What d’you mean?”

Laura felt defensive. “It’s just that I’ve noticed perfume in the house.”  It sounded ridiculous to her even as she spoke.

He frowned and the lines at the sides of his mouth deepened. “Where’s this going, Laura?”

She persisted, “We haven’t made love for a while, have we?”

There was a tangible silence, as if he knew the subject would come up. “Because you’re always too tired. Don’t try to blame me, Laura.”

He started chopping vegetables, banging the blade down. “I have no idea what perfume you’re talking about. I haven’t noticed anything unusual. If anyone’s screwing someone else, it’s you and one of your doctors.”

She was surprised at his anger. “David, I didn’t mean to – “

“That’s enough.” His face darkened. “I’m going to have to keep an eye on you, Laura. Your clothes when you go to work – look how short your skirt is, for Christ’s sake. You don’t dress like that when we go out. Now look at me. Do I look like I’m seeing someone else? You’ve got a bloody nerve.”  He clenched his jaw and stabbed the knife deep into the chopping board.

“I was worried, that’s all. Can’t we talk about this sensibly?”

David did not think so. However, when Laura came home from the hospital the following morning, she could smell the pungent scent. It hung in the air blatantly and followed her around the house; then she recognised it; Seduction, heavy and sweet. She undressed and showered, but was so exhausted that she crawled into bed without bothering to eat. Less than an hour after sleep finally came, Laura awoke clammy from a nightmare. The lingering memory made her feel nauseous. She lay in bed, aware of the sliver of winter sunlight that striped the floorboards, listening to her heart. Instinctively, she picked up her mobile and called Chris. “It’s Laura Overton. I need to see you.”

Chris sounded breathless. “Sure, where?”

“I can’t come to your office, someone might see. Can you pick me up from the car park by the canal? At four?” He agreed, and as she dressed, Laura smiled at her memory of him; more farmer than private investigator with his ruddy complexion, blond hair, big hands and guileless blue eyes. So different from David.

Chris saw her waiting by the footbridge, dressed in jeans and a short black jacket, long auburn hair blowing in the wind. He stopped the silver Golf next to her and opened the passenger door. As they drove away he was acutely aware of her proximity.

“Did you speak to David?”

Her voice sounded unsteady. “He got angry and denied everything and I believed him at the time, but I could smell the perfume again this morning. Chris, I can feel that she has been in the house. Looking at my things, leaving draws open. She wants me to know. I need you to watch the house, Chris, but he mustn’t find out about it.”

“Are you scared of him, Laura?”

“David would never hurt me. Never. I’m frightened of her.” She rubbed her eyes and turned her head away.

“You look tired.”

“I’m not sleeping well. I dream about her. I don’t want to go to sleep any more.”

“Tell me.”

“I can only remember bits – images. It’s so dark I see nothing, but I’m on a bed but I’m unable to move; my hands and ankles have been tied with something. Then – Damn, I can’t remember.” She banged her head with her fist.

“Take it slowly.”

After a while, she continued, “I can hear someone breathing, close by. Short breaths, in and out, like they’re excited.  I feel cold metal moving on my skin. I am so scared.”

He prompted her again. “Describe the sensation.”

She closed her eyes. “A point, drawing a line down my body, all the way down.” She looked at Chris, wide-eyed, and with her finger drew a line from the v-neck of her cashmere sweater to her navel. “And I think I’m naked.”

Chris focused on the road ahead. “What can you hear?”

“A rustling, and the breathing getting closer. A voice. I don’t know if it’s a woman or a man; it whispers Bitch. You stupid bitch, over and over. There is a green flash. It lights up the room. I glimpse a face. I don’t remember who it is, but they are wearing a long dress of some kind. The metal burns hot. I feel it inside me. I want to scream but I can’t make any noise – something is in my mouth. I’m suffocating.”

He could see her eyes were dull with fear. She gripped his hand, but then relaxed and impulsively he leaned across to kiss her.  “It’s just a dream, Laura. Don’t be frightened.”

Whilst he drove her back he kept replaying the dream in his mind, alternately excited and disgusted with himself. Before she got out they agreed to meet the following week, at the same place, then an hour later, he drove to Goldsworth Park and turned into Laura’s street. Her house was at the end, a mock Tudor semi. He parked behind a similar car and away from the streetlights and then settled back with the Times crossword. After half an hour, Laura walked down the close. She gave no indication that she noticed him and entered the house, then re-emerged a little while later and left for work.

As darkness fell, a Landrover turned into the close. The headlights swept through Chris’s car, and then it parked in the driveway. David Lewis got out and sauntered to the front door and Chris noted the man’s confident manner. It irritated him. He settled down expectantly, camera ready, hoping that Laura could be proved right. However, by 2 a.m. he gave up. Surely no-one would come now. Stiff with cold he headed back to his rented apartment.

He followed the same mind-numbing routine for the remainder of the week, peering at the house through the frosted windscreen. Every night he also watched Laura leave for work and each time, his hunger grew. By the end of the week all he could think of was their next meeting. He picked her up from the car park and they drove to a secluded spot out of town.

“Laura, no-one came to the house. Do you really want me to continue with this?”

She looked like she would cry. He reached out to touch her cheek but she turned her head away. “She spoke to me.”  She sounded defiant.

Chris looked at her incredulously. “What?”

“Last night. As I was opening the front door, a woman came up behind me. I couldn’t think of anything to say; she said I shouldn’t be with him. David belonged to her. I asked her who she was, and she said she was from David’s past. The she said something weird. That she was a bitch, like me. Then she turned around and walked off.”

“Describe her.”

“She was very attractive. Short blond hair, good body. I think she was in her twenties. Quite petite. She was wearing black. No makeup. Her eyes were kind of glassy. She frightened me.” She looked at him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I don’t know, Laura. I didn’t see her go to the house. Why was she frightening?”

“She was so sure of herself, and cold. Like the person in the dream. She was wearing Seduction. That’s the perfume,” she explained.

 “I’ll watch the house, Laura. You can trust me,” he said, but as he spoke his eyes were drawn to her lips, and then without thought, they were kissing. She pushed him away.

“Laura, I’m sorry, that shouldn’t have happened,” he said awkwardly.

She looked at her hands and answered, “No, it’s my fault. I wanted you to do it. I’m confused.” A pause, then, “take me back, please.”

They drove in awkward silence to the car park. Just before she got out of the car, she reached into her handbag. “I managed to find one photo of David’s wedding. I don’t know why you asked for it.”

She handed him a picture of David standing next to a tall, dark man with a mischievous smile. They were posing for the camera in morning suits. Chris turned it over. David and Michael was written on the back in pencil.

He shrugged. “I thought it might provide some more information, that’s all. Who’s David standing next to?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know. Might be his Best Man. I never met him, but I think he was called Michael.”

By the time Laura left the house for work, Chris was once more stationed at the end of her road, his mind in turmoil. He eventually fell asleep in the early hours and awoke with a start as grey dawn broke. Blurry-eyed and perplexed, he drove back to his apartment and managed to get a few hours rest. By ten o’clock he was at the Redhill library, searching obsessively through endless editions of local papers for more information about the wedding. He was close to giving up when he finally found what he was looking for. The few lines also mentioned David Lewis, his wife Devina and Best Man Michael Hansard, but there were no photographs. It only took a short while to find a member of the Hansard family in Redhill. James Hansard lived in a luxury apartment a short drive away from the town centre. When he answered the door Chris could see the strong likeness to Michael. Tall and darkly handsome, but he also looked considerably annoyed. Chris introduced himself.

“You say you’re trying to find my brother?”

“Yes, that’s right. Can you help me?”

“I suppose you’d better come in.” James offered him a chair and threw himself back onto the sofa, then rubbed a hand across his face. “You’ve no idea at all, have you?”

Chris looked at him blankly.

“Someone killed my brother. They smashed him over the head and tied him to his bed, on a plastic sheet. Then they cut him and left him to bleed to death. I had to identify his body. How could someone do that?”

Chris was shocked. “I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”  

He started to get up, but James exhaled noisily and held up his hand. “No, it’s OK. What did you want to know?”

“When did it happen?”

“It would be almost five years ago by now, but it always seems like it happened yesterday when I remember. They never found out who did it.”

Chris looked around the room during the silence and his attention was caught by a framed photograph on the window-ledge. It showed David and Michael with their arms around a petite girl with short blond hair; Devina’s face and body were turned towards Michael, not her husband. It looked like they were on holiday together, standing in the sea. It was altogether too cosy, easy to imagine the friendship with Michael turning into something more intimate.  Chris stood up and walked to the photo.

James picked it up and laughed. “Michael was irresistible to women. He couldn’t help it. Devina didn’t stay with him for very long after she left David. Once the thrill had worn off, she went to live abroad. In France, I think. She didn’t even bother to come back for Michael’s funeral. David was devastated. He’d been friends with Michael since they were children.”

“Did David remain friends with Michael?”

James looked at him. “He did eventually. They were round here one night, getting drunk. David blamed it all on her. He never called her by her name afterwards.”

“What did he call her?” Chris asked.

“Stupid bitch. And a lot worse.”

Chris thanked James and headed back down the motorway. He was now convinced that Laura had seen Devina outside her house and he became aware of a growing sense of dread. Why had she come back now, after so many years? Was it because David was going to marry? About three miles from the house, the traffic slowed to a standstill. It was November 5^th and cars were queuing for a show at the school where David taught. Cursing, he grabbed his mobile and called Laura, whilst explosions lit up the sky in gaudy colours.

To his dismay a man’s voice answered. “Hello, Chris.”

“Is that David? Listen, you are both in danger, you’ve got to get out of there,” Chris said urgently.

David sounded amused. “Nice to finally speak with you, Chris. Danger, you say?”

“Yes, Davina – “

David’s voice cut in. It was now icy cold. “Laura can’t come to the phone right now, but she’s quite safe with me. You shouldn’t mention Devina. Now you’ve made me angry.”

The call ended abruptly.

Chris ran back to his car and floored the pedal. The car swerved onto the other side of the road. He drove recklessly, oblivious of the vehicles and pedestrians in his way. He prayed for the first time in many years. If there is a God, please me get there in time.

David hurled the phone against the wall and it shattered.

“What’s the matter?” Laura asked.

Without warning, David turned and hit her in the face with his fist. She tumbled backwards over a chair, struck her head on the coffee table, and remembered no more.

When she regained consciousness, Laura was unable to move her arms or her legs. She looked down and discovered that she was spread-eagled on the bed, stripped to her underwear, tied to the metal rails with duck tape. Beneath her was a plastic sheet. It felt warm and sticky with her sweat. Her mouth was dry and her head pounded. She felt sick with fear and she could even smell it on her skin.  Downstairs she could hear David in the kitchen. It sounded like he was sharpening a knife and talking to himself.

“What are you doing, David?” she called out, angry and scared. “Let me go.”

He climbed the stairs, and her heart sank when he entered the room. David was wearing a long yellow plastic cape that rustled as he moved. It would have been funny apart from the knife. It was the one that he used for carving; the one that could slice half a pound of meat in half effortlessly.  He tested the edge with his thumb.

She shrank back from him. “What in God’s name are you doing? Untie me right now. You’re scaring me.”

His eyes glittered, and his voice was thick. “You think you’re clever, accusing me of cheating, but I’ve been following you, Laura. You’re the one who’s screwing around. You whore. You stupid fucking bitch.” He spat the word.

Laura was stupefied. “What? That’s insane. You’ve made a terrible mistake, David.”

He stood, unmoving. “No, it’s your mistake, Laura. You meet Chris in the car park. You get in his car. You go somewhere with him and you have sex. You bitch, I’ve seen you. I followed you.”

“Please listen to me, David, I can explain -“

The words shrivelled up because his eyes were dancing mad. Outside, fireworks fizzed and thundered, lighting the room with splashes of vibrant light.

“No more talking, Laura.”

He grabbed her face and stuffed her mouth with her flannel. The soapy taste burned her throat. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Now, where should we start?” 

He traced the tip of the knife down her body, teasing. He watched Laura strain against the bonds and try to scream for help, and then his mind filled with rage and savage pleasure.

“Davina played around too. You remember my wife, don’t you? I knew she was screwing Michael. Can you imagine that, Laura. My best friend and my wife?”

He pricked the knife point into her and a drop of blood trickled down her side. “Devina took a long time to die, but it would have been too obvious to do it the same way as Mike, so I took her into the woods. I buried the remains deep so they wouldn’t be found by foxes. She’s not coming back, Laura.”

The knife point started to burn against her stomach.

“Why?” she managed to say through the flannel.

“Because you’re all stupid bitches, thinking I don’t know what you want. I hoped you might be different but you’re just the same. Now, no more questions, Laura. I need to concentrate.”

David stood up and leaned over her, but then the rich perfume cut through his anger. The sound of fireworks dimmed to silence, and the room became chill. He sensed someone behind him, turned and gasped. The blond woman was standing in the room.

He lifted the knife, threatening to plunge it into Laura’s body and then stopped, eyes wide and unblinking.  Devina stepped towards him, her face calm and pale. “Tell me what I am, my love.” Her voice seemed far away.

David slowly lowered the knife and then stood, his arms hanging loose by his sides. He continued to stare at her, grey as a corpse. He tried to fight the sentence as it formed in his mouth.

“You – you stupid fucking bitch. Bitch.”

“That’s right, David,” she said. “I am a bitch, but I’m not stupid.”

Her eyes were locked to his as she raised her hands to her heart. At first, David resisted. Slowly, his hand white with effort, the knife came down until the tip was placed against the centre of his chest. Then Davina smiled, and pressed her hands into her body, and as Laura watched in silence, David did the same, pressing the knife through the plastic cape and then slid the entire blade into himself. He sank slowly to his knees, and looked at Laura for the last time but there was too much blood in his mouth to say goodbye. As he fell back against the door, his final expression was one of disbelief.

When Chris arrived, the front door was open. He ran inside and called out, and hearing a noise, pounded up the stairs yelling Laura’s name. He cried out in fear when he saw the pool of blood soaked into the carpet under the bedroom door. He had to throw all his weight against the door to push David’s body out of the way. Laura was still tied to the bed, motionless, her eyes closed, alone.

He bent over to check her pulse, and at his touch she looked at him with wild eyes. She appeared to be unharmed. He knelt down and gently removed the gag from her mouth, and untied her.

“Chris, oh Chris, thank God you came.” He held her against him whilst she cried with a mixture of relief and shock, and he asked no questions. He could still smell the perfume, strong at first, then fading away. He helped her dress then took her down to the kitchen and made them both a hot drink. They sat close together, waiting for the police.

A short story about volcanoes inspired by a past career in Earth Science and Ecology, and this Scientific American article.

Karen sipped her tea thoughtfully. “So, how long have you been living here now?”

I thought back. “Well, it must be five years.” 

My wife Gina disagreed. “No, John. It has to be six, because I remember that it first started when Annie was two. It was her birthday.”

“What was it like, being the first to see it? The discoverer?”

Gina glanced at me thoughtfully. We had tried to avoid the subject.

“I didn’t think too much of it to begin with. I remember that I was digging in the garden. It was a fine spring day; frosty and crisp. Surrey used to look really fantastic at that time of year. I shoved the spade into the ground with my foot and broke the soil, and then I noticed that the earth was steaming. I pulled off my glove – the ground felt quite warm to the touch. I dug deeper, out of curiosity more than anything else. It wasn’t only steam coming out. It was more like yellow smoke, and it smelt like rotten eggs. I could see the gas was coming out of a tiny crack in the earth.”

“Wow, what did you do?” she asked.

Gina ruffled my hair. “He came into the house cursing the local council. He was convinced that the house had been built on a landfill site. We’d only been in the house a few weeks and John had been waiting for something to complain about.”

“That’s unfair.” We laughed, because it was exactly what I had done.

“It wasn’t exactly like that, Karen. But I did phone the council the next day and someone eventually came around. They stood around it, dug deeper, and finally put a plank over the hole then left. We didn’t hear any more about it for a few weeks, until the water company came around. They poked about some more, and dug a much bigger hole. The bloke who was digging actually passed out and we had to call an ambulance.”

Gina took over the story. “So we were left with this big hole with red tape fencing it off, and yellow smoke was rising out of it high into the air. The local newspaper did an article on it too. Then we got an official notice to keep our windows closed and not to allow anyone in the garden. John had a brainwave and he called the university in Guildford and finally a Doctor James came round. She took soil and gas samples away. When she called us we couldn’t believe it.”

We were sitting around the patio table enjoying the warm summer night, and the story we were unfolding seemed impossible to believe even now.  I lit the candles to keep the mosquitoes away and opened a bottle of wine.  Karen drew her cardigan around her thin shoulders. “Well, don’t stop there. What happened next?”

Gina continued, “John and I did as we were told, and after a few weeks we almost forgot about the yellow smoke, apart from the smell. It made my throat sore.”

“Yes, Gina was busy with the baby and I went back to work.  I can’t remember how long it was until the ash started. First, the smoke turned a grey colour and then, little flakes of soot started to float away in the wind. I could see them rising up in the smoke and they came down all over the place. After a month, there was a pile of ash around the hole shaped like a cone, about a metre high to start with. Then the newspapers got interested and we were on television. Did you see us?”

Karen shook her head. “That must have been exciting.”

“It was bloody awful. It was raining and they trampled wet ash throughout the house. We were interviewed endlessly standing in front of the ash-cone, coughing with the fumes. Of course, once the story went out we were inundated with callers, cranks and geologists from all over the world.”

At the time Gina and I had been broken-hearted to leave our first real home together but glad to take the baby away from the danger. Needless to say, no one would buy the house. The ash-cone grew until it filled the garden, and it became hotter, too. Not just the ash-cone, but the whole neighbourhood. Even the floor in the house seemed to be warm and the windows were always steaming up. One day, our neighbour’s garden shed caught fire and we reckoned another ash-cone must be starting beneath it.

“Where did you go when you left the house?” Karen asked, as I refilled her glass.

“We stayed with Gina’s parents, in Reading. But I went back to salvage as much as possible. By that time, the rest of the neighbourhood had been evacuated as well, and people for maybe a mile around had their houses up for sale but no hope of selling. The whole of Woking was affected and right bang in the middle, the ash-cone was squatting. Did you see the aerial photo in the Times?”

Karen nodded. “Of course; a grey hill, bigger than houses and a circle of white around it.”

“Did you read about our house burning down?” I asked.

Karen shook her head.

“It wasn’t just our house, John. The whole area started to burn,” added Gina. “The ash started to get very hot, you see. At night, it looked like a firework and the whole area had to be fenced off. It could be seen from miles around and a television company even installed a webcam.”

In fact it got a lot worse than that. Woking became a ghost town and most of the people lost everything, because insurance companies would not pay out. A well-known and charismatic geologist from Southampton University seemed to appear on every programme, and he was the first to state openly that it was a volcano. It would carry on growing quietly until the magma followed the gases up the crevices to the surface. A significant number of scientists had denied the possibility of the phenomenon occurring so quickly and looked for other explanations, until the connection was made to global warming. The shell of the Earth was being distorted by the sudden melting of millions of tons of ice at the poles, fracturing the old fault lines, setting off something called a magma plume. For many environmentalists, the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions represented a cry of rage from Mother Earth.  Bus loads of new age travellers started to arrive, and the ash-cone became an icon of the Earth’s last warning to humankind.

“How about you, Karen? Where do you come from?” Gina asked.

“I carried on living in London for about five years after Tom was killed. I wanted to continue teaching, to give me something to focus on. After the first big earthquake, the flooding resulted in most of the Underground closing, and I couldn’t work, unless I moved out of the city. As you know, it wasn’t possible to sell our houses so like millions of other people, I had no choice but to take what I could, and leave. So I lived on benefits until I bought the motor caravan, and arrived here.”

The smell of cooked food interrupted the tale, and we started to eat at that point. Gina had been lucky enough to ‘find’ some sausages and baked beans. I did not ask her where she got them. As we sat under the stars eating the simple food, I found myself looking into the fire. I did not hear the friendly hiss and crackle of the wood, because all I could think of was the image of the lava flows spreading outwards from the volcano. Within two years of its appearance, the little ash-cone had grown to over one thousand feet high, and it was growing at an accelerating rate. Lava had initially done little more than stabilise its sides. As time passed, the eruptions grew in strength and at night, lines of fire travelled outwards following landmarks.

The Basingstoke Canal became filled with lava rock that turned rust-red under the endless rains. More lava blocked the Thames not far from Weybridge and caused massive flooding as the river found itself a new route. Thousands of refugees streamed out of the South-East looking for work and a place to stay, but many others murdered and looted and the army shot lawbreakers on sight. Not martians this time, just our planet.

“How do you feel, living like this?” Karen asked.

We looked at each other. “We just take one day at a time. We spend a lot of time planning where to find food and fuel. We’ve got guns and ammunition, and we keep away from others, unless they are part of this little community, that is.”  Fifty or so camper vans surrounded us, and beyond them, heavily armed neighbours kept watch.  We did not like having to raid the army barracks in Pirbright, but when the army pulled out, there was no point in letting the equipment fall into the wrong hands.

The three of us sat late into the night, watching the light from the volcano light up the sky. Occasionally, vivid flares of orange and red lit up the heavy curtains of cloud. When the ash started to fall again we went to bed. I was awoken by a dull thud at first light. I shook Gina awake. Another thud sounded. We could tell that the origin of the sound was very far away, but the ground trembled beneath us. By the time that we had left the camper, everyone in the settlement was up, and the dogs were in a state of nervous excitement. We knew what that meant and waited anxiously.

Finally, the Geologist got up and appeared in our midst, surrounded by a group of wondering children. He held up his hand, kneeling, placing his head on the earth to listen. Silence fell. A distant grumbling noise could be heard to rise and fall, like a living thing.  Finally, the Geologist rose, and stroked his long grey beard.

“My people, I have heard that a great rift will come. It will tear London in half along the Thames and when the waters pour in, there will be a large explosion. The distant sound you can hear is the beginning. Gases are finding their way to the surface. We must move to higher ground. The North Downs are not safe any longer.”

Someone called out, “Why stay in this country, Geologist?  We could find a way to cross the channel. We could go anywhere in Europe.”

He nodded. “Yes, you can and many thousands have done already. However, I know for a fact that Belgium and the Netherlands are under water. A big chain of volcanoes has reactivated in France. They are in a worse state than we are.”

Annie came over to us from her friends and held Gina’s hand. “What’s he saying, Mum?”

Gina wiped her eyes. “He says we’re all going to move a little further away, dear.”

We all knew what that meant. Travel was a slow and painful business because of the roadblocks. We were enough in number and arms to be left alone, but many settlements had barricaded the roads, forcing long and tedious diversions, or protracted negotiations before we would be let through. It was not surprising, because gangs from London were preying on the isolated villages of the Home Counties, the army and police unable to cope with the sheer numbers. We would also have to travel through curfew country, but we were a registered mobile settlement, had the necessary permissions and would pay our taxes, if anyone was interested in collecting them.

Within twenty-four hours we were on the move and it was an amazing sight to see an endless procession of mobile homes heading South-West. We passed other mobile settlements presumably without Geologists, camped around deserted stores and garages.

That night, the leaders met around the fire.  The Geologist started the meeting. “We’re safe here from floods, but we must lay in enough food and supplies for the winter. We can worry about next year later.”

We laughed but it was not funny. We had all heard of settlements where people had actually starved to death, and others where families had been turned out to fend for themselves rather than share their food. Rumours of cannibalism were rife.

“We raided a superstore when we passed Bristol,” I reminded them, “but it’s not enough. We need to grow food – winter crops, and we will need to plant enough to allow for some failures too.”

An experienced traveller spoke up. “Look, we’re not subsistence farmers. We’ve got enough skills within the settlement to be able to trade. Some settlements may be able to sell us food in return for other things that we can make.”

There was general agreement at the plan. As we were compiling a list of settlers and their skills, a red flash lit up the entire skyline. Moments later, as the families came running from their vehicles the sound wave hit us, leaving people clasping their heads, dazed by the enormity of it.

As we stared at each other in shock, the geologist raised his arms.  “London is no more. The flood will be here by morning. We must prepare.”

The earthquake arrived minutes later and it was the worst yet. Landslides were carved from the hillsides and we were tossed about helplessly. We stayed awake all night, waiting for daybreak, but when it came we could see that the waters had filled the valleys and as the water gradually surrounded Dartmoor, we stood together and prayed on our island.

A short story inspired by the thought of a surprise balloon trip. With apologies to Jules Verne.

It is difficult to daub the thick paint onto the sandy rocks, but once dry, the colours will brighten and the paint is tough. Only Adrian knows how long it will last for.

He finds painting difficult since he lost two fingers to frostbite, but his skill is admired widely, and artists from other clans sometimes visit to exchange ideas and techniques. Without his skill, Adrian would have been banished to die of cold and hunger, because he cannot contribute to the welfare of the clan in any other way. Here, artists are the most valued of people, more so even than hunters.

The painting shows an unusual scene. Men are hunting mammoth, but they are travelling above them in hot-air balloons, hurling spears at their unfortunate victims.  Mammoths and the balloon seem to move in the flickering light. Adrian has chosen the site carefully and the natural contours of the rock emphasise the shapes and movements. Even now, several children are watching him, amongst them Ciera and Eve, Adrian and Tula’s daughters.

Other folk are also at work in the cave, chipping flint into arrow-heads, sewing, or chewing sealskin boots to soften them. Every one of these skilful tasks is essential to the survival of the clan. Tula sleeps by the fire. She is dreaming again. Her eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids and her breathing is fast.

He knows the dream about the balloon trip is always the same.

“And so the weather in the south-east will be warm and sunny. Bye-bye for now.”

Tula turned off the television, leapt to her feet and punched the air. Her normally excited hair stuck up in great orange tufts as she danced around the room. Adrian peered cautiously out of the window in case neighbours were looking and then smiling, loosened his tie.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he said modestly.

Tula was still dancing around the room but eventually stopped and threw herself on him, crushing his thin frame into the sofa.

“After ten years – Oh Adrian, I won’t sleep tonight.”

The next day Adrian awoke at six am and packed the car for the balloon trip, and finally woke up his wife. She thundered around the house pulling on her violently coloured clothes and crammed some breakfast into her generous mouth. Adrian drove maddeningly slowly to the field. They could see the orange dome of the balloon as they reached the turn-off and Tula’s pulse was surely racing when they entered the field. Adrian took an age to park but finally she was running to the balloon. She could hear the roar of the jets as the pilot kept it inflated. The basket hovered off the ground and strained against its mooring ropes.

“Hello there, you must be Tula and Adrian. I’m Roger, your skipper.” The speaker appeared from behind the basket and grinned. Tula had expected a younger person; Roger appeared to have been dried out like a raisin and his teeth were nicotine-stained. They clenched an ancient and offensive pipe.

“You’ve got warm clothes? Good. It gets chilly up there. Now, let’s go over the safety rules.”

The safety rules seemed to take forever but eventually they were ascending gently over the Surrey countryside and below, the landscape was laid out like a tapestry. A flock of geese skimmed across the fields and treetops and Tula called out to them in excitement, whilst Adrian studied the distant horizon thoughtfully through  a pair of large binoculars, his pale, sensitive face impassive. Roger leaned casually against the side of the basket and a trail of blue smoke from his pipe marked out their route.

“This is just heaven, Adrian. Heaven; I never want to come down,” said Tula.

There was too much to see from their vantage point. The slow curl of the Thames, settlements nestling along its banks. Far below, the shadow of the balloon skimming across the fields, still faint through their misty breath. Their skipper interrupted the reverie.

“Sorry to spoil things, but it looks like a storm’s brewing up ahead; we’ll have to go down just in case we get caught in an up-draught. When we get down we’ll see if it blows over. Nothing to worry about.”

Up-draught. That sounded dangerous. Adrian turned his binoculars towards the storm clouds and then wished that he had not because the dirty brown billows looked more like a sandstorm than ordinary clouds. Lightning seemed to be flickering everywhere and sprays of purple light were shooting out of the top.

Roger turned the burners down low. “We’ll start to drop now,” he said confidently.

“Roger, this one shows height, doesn’t it? It’s still going up,” said Tula.

Their captain tapped the dial with his pipe. “Hmm. That’s odd; the air must be getting drawn up into the storm. However, we will go down soon enough.”

Roger resumed his pipe and hummed a tuneless tune, but he sounded nervous to Tula. The three balloonists stood silently in the basket, as the fields far below gradually vanished beneath a thickening layer of mist. The temperature was falling rapidly. Even with all their spare clothes on, they were all shivering. The balloon was surrounded by whirling specks of snow and ice was forming on the rails of the basket.

“It’s growing darker,” Adrian said almost calmly.

A blinding flash of blue arced across right in front of the balloon. The thunder that accompanied it left Tula and Adrian stunned. After a few moments, Tula screamed in pure terror.

“Oh my god, Adrian – Roger’s gone. He’s gone and we’re all alone. This isn’t a balloon trip, it’s a fucking balloon nightmare.”

She pointed at the smouldering stump of his pipe and then she curled up in the bottom of the basket.

Adrian leaned pointlessly over the edge of the violently swaying basket, and then wished he had not. Below them the clouds were a raging black maelstrom. Large lumps of ice were being blown upwards around them, some the size of golf balls. Overhead, the flimsy balloon fabric flapped and billowed frantically as it fought against the storm.

They hung on to each other, shivering with cold whilst the lightning blazed continuously, and the thunder crackled and tore the air. The showers of ice hammered against the balloon and basket so that Adrian had to bale it out.

“Adrian, leave the ice in the basket. It’ll make us heavier,” Tula yelled above the wind. He sank back against her and closed his eyes. Soon they were praying together.

They were not aware of travelling any distance, but eventually the storm bored of the balloon and spat it out. Tula saw a small patch of blue appear between the sickly green billows of cloud, then another.

“We’re coming out of it,” she whispered to herself.

The wind dropped, and the thunder separated itself from the lightning, its voice falling to a familiar rumbling. There was no doubt that the balloon was now on its way down.

“How fast are we falling, Adrian? Are we going to die?” Tula screamed.

He looked at the altimeter, and at his watch. “Much too fast – we need to be going really slowly or the basket will smash to bits. I’ll use the burners a little. The ground must be a few hundred feet now.”

As the burners flared, Tula peered over the edge, gripping the wickerwork tightly. At her feet lay the ominous black stub of Roger’s pipe. The landscape below was not Surrey or Berkshire. They were crossing what appeared to be a river made of ice.  “Adrian – for God’s sake, look,” she hissed.

Adrian looked, then stared at her, his eyes huge through his glasses. He looked again. He could not say anything useful and so he closed his eyes. When he opened them it was still there. “It’s not possible,” he eventually gasped.

They watched the land come up to meet the basket. It was clearly some kind of tundra landscape. In the distance they could see the dirty grey mounds of ice and rock left by the melting glacier. Something like a vast hairy elephant stood watching with solemn eyes. The basket swept towards sickly yellow grass and patches of snow, and then thumped down hard, spilling over. As they crawled clear the burners set fire to the balloon. Dense black clouds of smoke billowed into the air. Tula and Adrian watched it burn.

“Don’t ask me how, but we have somehow been blown hundreds of miles – to somewhere like Iceland, Switzerland, Russia…”

“Or the Arctic?” Tula cut in. “That’s impossible. We were in the air for a few hours. How can a balloon travel five hundred miles an hour? We wouldn’t have gone that far.”

“We can’t just stand here. We need to find somewhere to wait until rescue comes,” he replied as calmly as he could manage.

“The balloon trip was your idea,” she said, putting down a permanent marker.

They looked for shelter, and found the cave by virtue of the flickering firelight that was a welcome sight as the weak sun set. When they walked in, groups of people dressed in furs were standing, waiting for them.

It took a long time to learn the language.