Thunderlands E-Book

Stewart Bint

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A bolt of lightning. A crack of thunder. The lingering smell of ozone in the highly-charged air.

And the world has changed forever.

Welcome to Thunderlands. It looks the same on the surface, but there's just a hint that all might not be what it seems beneath. Even the most ordinary things may be just a touch off kilter.

Stewart Bint's collection of 21 short stories ranges from the sublime, through powerful, puzzling, funny, horrific and different, to the unforgivably ridiculous.

Leseprobe

Thunderlands

Stewart Bint

Copyright (C) 2018 Stewart Bint

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Also by Stewart Bint

In Shadows Waiting

Timeshaft

The Jigsaw and the Fan

To Rise Again

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Miika Hannila and the team at Next Chapter.

Special thanks to my wife Sue, son Chris, and daughter Charlotte.

And thanks to my good friend, fellow novelist DM Cain, for her unstinting enthusiasm and encouragement.

For

Marc Freebrey

Foreword

A bolt of lightning. A crack of thunder. The lingering smell of ozone in the highly-charged air.

And the world has changed forever.

Or has it? Maybe the world we knew is still exactly the same…somewhere else. In the precise moment that the thunderbolt boomed, what if a portal had opened up and sucked us through? And we're now in a different world in a parallel universe.

In the wink of an eye we've been transported to a world we don't know. Even though it looks the same on the surface, there's just a hint that all may not quite be what it seems beneath. Even the most ordinary things may be just a touch out of kilter.

We've left our old lands behind, where things usually happen for a logical reason and with an express purpose. We now reside in strange new lands, where the unpredictable becomes the norm…where the plain ridiculous is lurking just under the skin of reality.

Welcome to the Thunderlands.

A collection of 21 short stories ranging from the sublime to the unforgivably ridiculous, including The Trial Of Santa Claus, where the jovial guy in red faces charges of cruelty to children; The Twitter Bully sees an online cyber bully get his come-uppance in a particularly grotesque way; and “Hello Dear” in which the ghost of an elderly lady keeps appearing to a career woman.

Others include A Timely Murder, where a man goes to unusually severe lengths to ensure he is convicted of a crime; The Wind Of Fire, featuring a space traveller with three eyes and a two-foot-long trunk who finds a mysterious book on a dead world; and Harvey Looks For A Friend, telling of a young ghost desperately seeking someone to play with.

And then we have Ree – The Troll Of Dingleay, a nonsense poem written with a lot of help from the pupils of Huncote Community Primary School, in Leicestershire, UK.

The book puts humanity on trial for our offences, in some cases literally.  Many of the stories are a study of human nature, even if all the characters aren't, strictly speaking, human, examining themes such as greed, lust, gluttony and plenty of other deadly sins, with a widely differing series of characters and settings.

Stewart Bint, Desford, Leicestershire, Saturday, 21st April, 2018

“Hello, Dear”

“Hello, dear.”

The words usually instilled a warm calm in her, ever since she'd first heard them and seen the old lady in the tartan skirt and grey cardigan. The kind, slightly wrinkled face was almost as familiar as her own. It had been nearly 20 years since the woman started appearing to her, always smiling.

A knowing smile.

“That's the beauty of being a ghost,” Jenny had often thought to herself during the old lady's visits. “Never to get any older, always staying the same.”

“Hello, dear,” she said back to the ever-smiling woman. But this time she wasn't so confident. Her life was now happy and complete, so why was the old lady here? Was it a terrible disaster she had come to forewarn about?

However, Jenny's life had been very different when she saw her the first time. It was only six months after her marriage to Malcolm, and already things were starting to go wrong.

“You can forgive him for his affair,” the old lady had told her. “He will never stray again, I promise you.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Jenny had asked.

“I'm sure. Trust me.” The old woman gave her a gentle nod and slowly vanished into thin air. Jenny stood rooted to the spot. Ten minutes earlier she had been viciously hoovering the floor, pulling the cleaner backwards and forwards with quick, angry jerks. How could Malcolm do this to her? How could he wreck her life like this? Didn't he know how much she loved him? Why had he done this? And with her, of all people? His secretary, for goodness sake.

“Hello, dear.” The words spoken right by her ear, so quietly, yet clearly audible above the roar of the vacuum cleaner, took her totally by surprise. She was alone in the house, so who was talking to her?

Jenny whirled round and saw her standing there: early 70s, grey hair pulled back tightly into a bun, smiling sweetly. But she wasn't quite whole, the green floral wallpaper of Jenny's living room was visible straight through her. Jenny gasped in amazement and horror.

“Hello, dear,” the old woman said again. “Please don't be frightened. I've come to help you.”

But Jenny was frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to utter a sound.

“W-who are y-you?” she managed to stammer eventually, her mind whirling, completely incapable of rational thought. After all, what could be rational about a 70-year-old woman who wasn't quite whole, wasn't quite real, standing – no, floating – in her living room?

“Please don't be scared of me. I'm not going to hurt you.”

She never stayed more than a few seconds. Just enough time to tell Jenny what she had to know. Always that gentle nod, the smile widening ever so slightly as she faded into nothing. Jenny was never frightened after that first time.

It had been during the second visit, a year later, when the old woman said to look upon her as her guardian angel. “The path of your life will not always be easy or smooth, my dear, and although I will be here to help you, I can't always tell you which route to choose.”

“But why are you helping me like this? Who are you?”

The old woman ignored the questions. “You're wondering whether to take the new job with Harrison Bonham Associates,” she said. “Or to stay with Sprackleys and take the promotion they're offering.”

Jenny nodded, dumbly. The old lady was spot on. Jenny had been agonising over her decision after telling Helen Sprackley she was leaving the small, but growing, Public Relations consultancy to join a much larger, rival, operation.

The increased package had been swift in coming: a ten per-cent rise in salary, plus an upgrading of her car, an extra week's holiday and an increase in her pension entitlements. Clearly an offer not to be sniffed at. But Harrison Bonham Associates was a well-established consultancy with a wonderful reputation; one of the best in the business, in fact. With that name on her CV the PR world would be her oyster in a couple of years. She could go to any consultancy in the land, more than likely as a board director, probably as Managing Director. But how would that sit with plans to start a family?

And that was when the old woman came a third time, to find her firmly ensconced as Sprackleys Managing Director; Helen Sprackley having taken on the role of chairman after Jenny had opted to stay with the company.

“You're wondering whether your career can fit hand-in-glove with raising a family. Well, it will. Go ahead, my dear, start your family as you want to. It's the right thing to do. If you don't, you'll always regret it.”

With Jenny's excellent salary at Sprackleys and Malcolm also earning good money as a well-connected fashion photographer, she knew they could easily afford the best child-care. But how would she feel when the baby actually came along? Would she want to stay at home all the time to look after it? Would her career matter so much to her then? It certainly mattered now, but would it in the future? Would her priorities change?

And so the elderly woman came a fourth time. “I just don't know what to do,” Jenny told her.

“I know, my dear, I know. It's hard for you,” the woman said. “You're worried that if you leave the agency you'll be bored at home, and that Gemma will only occupy your time for so many years. But you can always return to your industry later, when Gemma's older, when she's at school. Someone with your experience will always find work.”

The fifth visit was, indeed, when Gemma was starting school. Helen Sprackley offered Jenny her old job back as Managing Director; Jenny's replacement having moved on to Harrison Bonham Associates. Funny how things work out, Jenny told herself.

This time the agonising was over whether to run her own part-time business from home, so she would be there when Gemma came in from school; so she would be there when Gemma was ill; so she could be sure of not missing school sports days and plays. The offer of MD was very tempting, but would be full-time. Working from home would keep her mind occupied; keep her hand in and provide her with a degree of financial independence while ensuring she was always there for Gemma. When Gemma needed her.

And so Jenny gave birth again. Not to a baby this time, but to Jennifer Radcliffe Communications.

“Hello, dear.” The old woman appeared to her on the first day of business, smiled sweetly and said: “You've done the right thing,” before vanishing. Never before had a visit been so brief.

And so the old woman's appearances stopped. The years flew past. Jenny and Malcolm doted on Gemma. Every six months Malcolm would take professional pictures of her, and the growing portfolio catalogued her young life, from the moments after her birth, through her captivating smile and first steps, to her first day at school in grey pinafore dress, white shirt and red cardigan, first sports day – when she broke the tape by winning the 50 metres sprint, and of course, all her birthday parties.

Gemma was six when her brother Dominic came along. Jenny had wondered whether the old woman would appear again when she and Malcolm had been discussing whether to try for another child. Both of them knew that if they were to have another baby it had to be now, before they, and Gemma for that matter, grew any older. After all, Jenny's body clock was ticking away relentlessly. She was now 35 and Malcolm was 41.

But there were no appearances. Jenny began to worry about making her mind up. All her major life decisions had been influenced by the old woman's comforting, reassuring presence and words. Malcolm just thought she was a good decision-maker. But this time he sensed she was having trouble.

However, he knew better than to push her. If pushed, she fell into a stubborn rut and sulked with him for days. Eventually she did make up her mind, as Dominic was testament to.

Over the years she had longed to tell Malcolm about their very welcome supernatural visitor – her guardian angel – but he didn't believe in ghosts. And after all, she told herself, it was her secret, shared alone with the old woman, whoever she was. And so she never told him.

She often wondered if she would ever hear those once-familiar words again. Yet here they were, almost 20 years after she first heard them and 10 years since the last time.

A chill of pleasure ran down her spine as she turned from her computer screen to see that familiar face smiling back at her.

“Hello, dear,” she replied, using the old woman's regular greeting back to her, unable to control the feelings of intense pleasure which tingled through her body before changing to those of doubt.

“Don't worry, my dear,” said the old woman. Uncanny. It was almost as if she were reading Jenny's thoughts about disaster. “We won't be seeing each other for a very long time to come, and I didn't want you to forget me, that's all.”

Jenny was almost crying. “Of course I won't forget you,” she sobbed. “You've helped me so much.” The smile widened, just as before, and the old lady faded into nothing.

And so the years passed by. Gemma and Dominic grew up and had families of their own, providing Malcolm and Jenny with a clutch of much-loved grandchildren. Jenny's PR firm also grew to a very respectable size, employing over 50 people. She had all but retired in her early fifties, only taking on a part-time role as Chairman. And, exactly as the old woman forecast, Malcolm never strayed again.

Yes, her life was happy and complete.

One day the sound of hoovering suddenly came from the living room. Malcolm was out, so who was in the house with her? And who would be hoovering, for goodness sake?

Her heart pounded as she trod silently down the hall and opened the door, peering cautiously inside. There was a young girl viciously hoovering, pulling the cleaner backwards and forwards with quick, angry jerks.

But the girl and her hoover weren't quite whole, weren't quite real. Jenny could see the recently hung light red flock wallpaper and newly fitted dado rail right through her.

And the girl was floating.

Suddenly Jenny understood. Now she realised why the old woman's face had always seemed so familiar, right from the very first time she saw her.

She strode up behind the girl, the vacuuming masking the sound of her footsteps.

“Hello, dear,” she said.

The Trial Of Santa Claus

Now, I'd always thought of Santa Claus as a kindly old man who loved children. So it came as a shock to find he was appearing in court. And the charges fair made me gasp: cruelty to children, they were. Who'd have believed it?

Looking back almost 12 months to that amazing day when I sat in on Santa Claus's trial, I can see it all again as clearly as if it were yesterday. I suppose I shall never really know just how it happened. All I know is that it did happen.

I'm a newspaper reporter in a small English town struggling to make my way in the world and one of my regular jobs is to cover the local magistrates court. The magistrates sit on a Thursday in the Town Hall dispensing justice to assorted thieves, villains and other rogues.

On this particular day the magistrates and I were all finding it hard to keep awake. The cases were boring, the defendants were putting up boring alibis, and even the court officials looked bored.

The presiding magistrate, Mrs Eleanor McHarris, was just peering over the top of her fancy horn-rimmed spectacles at the latest chap in the dock, when her whole body started sort of weaving about. I stared at her, totally fascinated.

Her pale, blue-rinsed hair was streaming out all around her head as if she were caught in a wind coming at her from all sides. The top and bottom parts of her face were blowing to the left, while the middle, the bit that held her nose and cheeks, swayed to the right.

I felt as if I wanted to cry out, but stopped myself in time. Mrs McHarris was a right tartar if people made a noise in her courtroom. I looked at the others, but it appeared they couldn't see anything amiss. The clerk to the court was droning on in that monotonous voice of his, reading a list of charges to the defendant; the prosecuting solicitor was eager to get to his feet to put the case against the man in the dock…no-one noticed that Mrs McHarris was coming apart at the seams.

And it wasn't just Mrs McHarris going haywire. A weird type of greyish-white mist began swirling before my eyes. Goodness knows where it came from, it just suddenly appeared. For a few seconds it blocked out Mrs McHarris and the rest of the courtroom. But I could still hear the boring old clerk reading the charges. I couldn't actually hear what he was saying, but his voice penetrated through the haze like a muffled fog horn.

Sanity was restored the next moment. Or at least I thought it was.

I found myself still staring at the swirling mist, but at least I was able to put it into perspective now. I was staring through the window at the thick blanket of snow falling outside.

I looked back at Mrs McHarris. Sanity disappeared again. She'd stopped her strange weaving about, but somehow she looked different. I blinked. Okaaay. I must be seeing things, I told myself, as her appearance began to register in my mind. No wonder she looked different. Most of that blue-rinse was now tucked up inside a long black pointed cap, with only a few wisps hanging loosely past her ears and trickling on to her shoulders.

Her grim tweed jacket wasn't there any longer, either. Instead, a heavy black shawl sporting a long fringe was draped around her. And those fancy horn-rimmed glasses stretched out sideways and curled up to a point, giving the impression of a flying bat.

The only thing that remained the same about her was that she was still peering over the top of the spectacles which perched precariously on the end of her nose. The nose: why, even that was longer than it had been before. Wasn't it?

And when she spoke…well; gone was the supercilious educated, plummy accent. The words which cascaded out came in a thin, whining cackle. I realised at once that something was dreadfully wrong. I'm quick like that, you see. Yes, it was very wrong. The clerk to the court should be saying those things, not the presiding magistrate.

“You've heard the charges against you, Santa Claus, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

The immediate answer from the dock was booming, almost boisterous: “Why, not guilty, of course, Madam.” Now, that didn't sound for one second like the sort of voice the frail young man who'd been standing there just a few seconds ago should have had. It had rich, deep tones, as if it belonged to a jolly, middle-aged, or even old, man.

And wait a minute. She'd said Santa Claus. What the deuce was going on?

I tore my gaze from the ugly old hag (uglier and older, anyway) that Mrs McHarris had become and stared across to the dock. The wimpish-looking wally charged with some insignificant breach of the law was no longer there.

Instead, there stood a man with a myriad laugh-lines creasing the skin around his eyes and the lower part of his face was concealed by a bushy white beard. He was about six feet tall, and a bright red tunic encased his more than ample girth. White hair flowed out on to his shoulders from under a red drooping cap.

Santa Claus! How in tarnation had he got there?