The New Laptop

Charles loved his new laptop. He had wanted one like this since he first saw them being used in American TV series. They were so sleek, so stylish and always being used by the heroes, the creatives, the problem solvers and he just loved its silver stylishness.

That said, he had opened it for the first time about an hour ago and was having a devil of a job getting to grips with the touchpad. He had been working solidly but the little cursor arrow representing where the ‘mouse’, if there had been a mouse, should have been kept disappearing off the sides of the screen.

He was not allowing himself to get disappointed or angry, he had wanted this laptop for too long to be upset. He was just frustrated. He had spent almost exactly one hour staring at the screen trying to edit the work in front of him but his control of the touchpad was making it almost impossible.

“I will pick it up’, he reassured himself as the arrow left the screen again. He took his first break, sat back and lifted his eyes from the screen. ‘Perhaps a cup of tea’, he thought, ‘No, coffee, people who use this laptop always drink coffee.’

He allowed his eyes to focus on the room and as they did he began to notice changes. His chair had moved, the magazines were spread over the floor, his picture of Marilyn Monroe was on a different wall. The more he stared the more changes he noticed, some more subtle than others.

His eyes settled in the corner of the room where his cd collection used to be and he saw it. It was unmistakable but still made him rub his eyes. It was the ‘arrow’ from the screen.

Without taking his eyes from the arrow he moved his fingers over the touchpad. Gently he rolled his fingertip across the surface. The arrow followed across the room.

He sat back in astonishment. Looking at the pad he held down the bottom of the pad and moved his finger. He looked up in time to see the arrow on his sleeping cat which was being lifted from the sofa. He carefully positioned her on the windowsill and took his hands away from the laptop.

In one movement he moved the arrow from the room to the centre of his screen and opened up an internet page. He typed in the model name of his laptop and the problem. A chat room instantly opened. The very first answer was about his very issue.

‘Some of these models leave with the factory setting LIFE and not SCREEN. Go to settings and change to SCREEN and remember lock or it will open in LIFE again when you restart.’

Charles opened settings and sure enough, it was set for LIFE. Having adjusted the controls he returned to editing his work. ‘What a relief,’ he thought as he stroked the silver casing, ‘what a relief.’

The Shuttlecock in the Downpipe

It was when his downpipe started overflowing in the rain that he really began to get annoyed. Well, in truth, it was the next day when he discovered a shuttlecock wedged in the top where the downpipe joined the gutter that he truly flipped.

He knew they were trouble as soon as they moved in next door. Two teenage boys with a passion for playing sport in the garden and two ‘modern’ parents with little to no control.

He had grown weary of the constant ringing of his doorbell, the never-ending requests to give back their various balls, shuttlecocks, frisbees and other paraphernalia. But this, a bloody shuttlecock blocking his rainwater downpipe, this was the final straw.

As he stood looking at his soaked flank wall he snapped inside. This had been such a nice quiet road. Everyone minded their own business, everyone respected each others ‘space’, everyone left him alone. But these two boys had changed it and now this, now he had a damp wall.

Staring in anger at the wall and through to the garden beyond his eyes rested on a partially deflated rubber ball. A ball that somehow, despite their regular trips to his front door, had not been retrieved. Looking at the ball and his ladder propped against the wall gave him an idea. Of course he would have to wait until it was dark but it would be worth doing, worth doing indeed.

It was almost two weeks later as the cold weather took its grip that he was woken from his afternoon sleep by the sound of the sirens. The cold had given some blessed relief to the constant noise from the garden but now he was disturbed by a different ringing. He got to the curtains in time to see the police, fire and ambulance pull up outside next door.

Respecting his neighbours privacy, as he had hoped they would respect his, he settled down into his armchair and switched on the television.

It was two days later when he overheard a conversation in the queue at the Post Office that even he began to be interested in gossip.

“Oh yes,” said the woman who seemed to know, “All four were found dead.” She nodded gravely, “Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Apparently the Police found one the boys balls stuck tight in the top of the chimney. Such a shame, they were such a friendly family.”

The Eiderdowners

The bedroom was cold. Cold like bedrooms used to be when he was a child. The sort of cold that meant once you had warmed up your sheets you didn’t want to get out of bed ever again.

He could see his breath in the air. God only knows what had gone wrong with the central heating. “Thank goodness I pay for the emergency call out service,” he muttered bitterly recalling the phone call that had promised an engineer within three days.

So here he was, a thirty nine year old man lying in bed at 9.30pm on a Friday night. “Ah well,” he thought, “If I’m here I might as well get some sleep.” He turned to his side and shot his arm out into the cold air to turn off the bedside light. Even in that brief moment his arm was now like a frozen block attached to him. He turned to his other side to trap it between the slightly warm sheet and his body.

“Bugger,” he shouted creating a breathy fog in front of his eyes. Illuminating it like a fog lamp was a light from underneath the bedroom door. He stared at the light and cursed again. He knew he would have to get out and turn it off the hall light but the distance from the bed to door meant all the warmth his body had finally managed to create would dissipate.

He couldn’t leave it on. It hit hard at both his beliefs. First, that everyone should do something to fight global warming and secondly that a unwatched light bulb will start a fire.

He cursed again and decided that he would count to ten and then make a dash for it. “Count to ten or down from ten?” he mused knowing he was merely delaying the inevitable. “To ten” he decided, he was not a child and it was not the start of a race.

“.. Eight, nine, ten,” and he was out of the bed faster than an Olympic 100m finalist from the blocks. He opened the door just a he realised his feet were already ice. He reached his hand to the light switch only to realise that it was already off.

He stared at the light beneath the door. It was not coming from the hall or from his bedroom. It was emanating from inside the door itself. A bright insistent light that bathed his frozen toes and chilled his core in a way that  climate change would never do.

“Oh god,” he spoke in hushed tone, “They’re back.”

The Latest Kurt Felpeth Detective Novel

The door was kicked open. Kurt dropped to the floor behind his desk but too late. As he fell the liquid hit his face and began to burn immediately. His eyes remained tight shut in protection and the sound of his panic short breaths filled his ears.

Then came the voice, that dreadful haunting sound. “Oh god I’m so sorry Mr Felspeth, I tripped on the rug. Do you want me to get you another cup of coffee?”

“No it’s all right Eileen,” Kurt said, using tissues from his desk drawer to mop his reddened face. “Just a glass of water will do.”

Eileen picked up the tray and mug and pulled the door shut behind her as she left the room.

Kurt sighed and stared out of the window. She really was bloody useless and maladroit to boot but what could he do about her. She worked for him because she was a family friend. If he sacked her it would cause ructions, if he sacked her it could cost him his relationship, if he sacked her it could cost him an arm or a leg, and he meant physically.

He turned towards his screen as a new email message popped up. This one was different, it wasn’t something that should have gone straight to spam, this was addressed to his work email.

The title caught his attention, ‘job opportunity’. There was no text in the body just an attachment. He moved the mouse over the file and clicked. Within a moment his screen was filled with an image that would haunt him forever. He was snapped out of the shock by the sound of a glass of water hitting the wooden floor followed closely by the sound of a woman fainting.

To be continued….

Kurt Feslpeth Author

Day 223 to 240

Day 223. So shocked was I by the faces and what I was hearing that I failed to notice the beauty of 222. As those around me blur and the man stops beating my chest I remember how happy 10.22pm on the 22^nd of any month when seen on a 24 hour clock used to make me feel. I hear a voice shouting, “He’s opening his eyes.” Who is?

Day 224. I look at the man who has just removed his mighty fists from my chest. I can feel a dull aching pain where he has been thumping me. His face looks nervous, worried and reminds me of someone. That’s it, I suddenly realise he looks just like Bernard Bresslaw in the scene from Carry on Abroad when he is caught ogling Sally Geeson in a bikini. Oh please god, don’t tell me I have come round in a Carry on Film. Their wooden stances, serious faces and no laughter suggests it could be true.

Day 225. Someone is pushing through the crowd. “Stand back I’m a Doctor.” It’s a great relief to see that it is not Kenneth Williams, Jim Dale or Leslie Phillips. Why is the tune to ‘Bless this House’ going through my head? Of course, Sally Geeson. Oh, and Sid James and Diana Coupland were in it, and that bloke who played the son who no one can remember. The Doctor kneels besides me and adopts the face people do when telling someone they are going to have to put down their pet.

Day 226. He talks to me in the soft voice people use when they are talking to someone they believe is simple or unstable. He is pulls back my eyelids and stares at me. I suddenly shake and he rolls me onto my side where I immediately throw up. I can hear a collective ‘euugh’ from those standing around. As I gasp for air and gather my thoughts I see two shiny boots appear in my eyesight. A voice says, “Now then, what’s going on here?” It has a familiarity, a sort of Jack Warner warmness. Suddenly it comes to me. Robin Stewart played the son in Bless this House.

Day 227. The Doctor is lifting me to my feet with the help of the Policeman. Slowly they walk me across the beach to a car. A blanket is thrown across my shoulders and it is then that I realise I have been shivering with the cold. One of the bystanders has gathered the clothes from the beach and hand them to the Policeman. “These are his,” she says. I want to explain that they are not but it seems too complicated and also I have the theme tune to Bless this House running through my head. Da da da da da da dah, Da da da da da da dah da da da. Wait a minute, that’s ‘Please Sir’.

Day 228. I am placed carefully into the back of an ambulance. The man who said he was a Doctor gets in with me carrying the bundle of clothes that were found on the beach. I try to speak, to tell him they are not mine, but just a rasping noise comes out. “Calm down old boy, calm down,” he says “There will be plenty of time to talk soon.’ The phrase ‘old boy’ jars in my mind. One of the ambulance staff places and injection in my arm and I slowly drift off thinking of Norman Potter and Doris ‘Rotten’ Ewell.

Day 229. A very kind gentleman is talking to me. As I slowly attune to his voice I realise he is asking me why I tried to drown myself. This is going to be hard to explain. I start by telling him that the clothes were not mine and that I have never seen the people in the photo. Another man comes into the room and leans into the gentleman by the bed. I hear him say “classic denial I’m afraid. This could take some time.”

Day 230. I am going through it very slowly as the gentleman by the bed takes notes. I have explained about being on the island, about trying to escape, about being kept in a room, about time travelling through the Time Transition Vortex Junction with Charlie. I left out the bit about being Marilyn Monroe because I don’t want to sound mad. Then I explained about being back on the island. Seeing the man in the sea and swimming out to rescue me. He looks at me with the kind of expression Peter Purves had when humouring John Noakes.

Day 231. I have been left to sleep. Clearly they do not believe my story. Every time I wake up I am asked the same questions and shown the same photo that I found in his wallet. I have now seen it so often that I am beginning to recognise them. I have to remind myself that I know them through the picture and nothing else. In my downtown I re-run old editions of ‘All Gas and Gaiters and pretend I am Robertson Hare. Oh calamity

Day 232. I have been taken to a new room. A rather kind woman sits opposite me. In front of her she has a spiral bound book which is propped us so it faces me. She is talking to me in a very slow way and I want to shout out at her that I am not stupid but I don't think it will help matters. She has asked me to say the first thing I see when she flicks over the first page. I prepare myself as she lifts the cover. I speak immediately. "I see the first page of the classic Rorschach test to help determine my mental state." She looks both disappointed and angry so I add, "oh and a rabbit with a knife."

Day 233. She is clearly tense with my answers. The only way for me to win this is to play the game. A game I believe to be akin to 'mental chess'. She stares at me and the silence tells me it's my move. I get up from my chair and lift the standard lamp in the corner to the middle of the room. In my head two thoughts - Knight to King's Bishop 3 and, who decided that this lamp would be the 'standard' ? Does it make table lamps feel short?

Day 234. Love the progression of the day but it would appear that my moving of the lamp has backfired and she is back to asking questions. "What upsets you?" She asks in the sort of caring voice that equates to nails being scratched down a chalkboard in my head. "Really tough meat," I reply, thinking - chew on that. This is not going well for one of us

Day 235. I hear her sigh. Finally she looks up. “What is the earliest time you remember,” she asks. “00.01,” I respond. “Pardon?” she says. “The earliest time I remember is one minute past midnight. 12.01am if you like,” I explain. Finally she smiles and starts to write frantically. Suddenly she shoots a question at me. “When did you first think you were the chosen one?”

Day 236. “What?” I stammer at her. She repeats tonelessly, “When did you first think you were the chosen one?” “What on earth do you mean?” I ask genuinely perplexed. “The time you chose,” she states, “It’s obvious. Just think about. 12.01am.” I sit in silence. Is she incredibly clever or am I being stupid

Day 237. After a silence that seems like an eternity my brain finally gives up on the puzzle. I don’t like losing but I have to ask. Her smug face signals that she knows she has won this round. Slowly she speaks. “12.01am. The significance of twelve clear, it is the number of the disciples, the one in relation is obvious. The one, when written, also represents the letter ‘I’ and so the end is ‘I AM’. I will ask you again. When did you first think you were the chosen one?”

Day 238. "My god," I shouted. "That's absurd. You asked me something like, 'what's the earliest time I could remember?' and I said it's one minute after midnight which is true. How you could come up with all that psycho babble about me believing I was the 'chosen one' is beyond me. She looks straight at me, smiles and then quietly says "thank you." The door to the room opens and a man in a blue suit and a police woman in uniform walk in.

Day 239. The man in the blue suit turns to the woman sitting in front of me and asks "So is he ok to be interviewed?" The woman smiles at me, "Oh yes. I gave him the perfect chance to claim diminished responsibility but he didn't take hit. He knows what he's doing and," she stares at me hard, "what he's done." She rises and the man and police woman sit down opposite me. What have I done? "If this is about me interfering with the space time continuum then I can only apologise," I offer.

Day 240. “I am Detective Chief Inspector Books and this is DI Ternep.” Before I could stop myself I had said it. “Wow, that’s a turn up for the books.” “Heard it before,” said the rather bored looking woman.” “Now Ternep,” said DCI Books, “Read him his rights.” As the words I had heard so often in TV crime dramas were spoken I began to realise that this was serious, they were not play acting. They obviously believe I have done something and, as he was a DCI, something serious. “Wait a minute,” I shouted, ‘What are you accusing me of?”