Old Rusty

When she was young, a day lasted a year, a year lasted forever. But now, the years seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. It felt like yesterday when she accepted John's invitation to the prom.

That night had sparked a relationship to last a lifetime, not that her mother approved. When John was leaving for college, he persuaded her to come with him. Her parents lost their minds! That last night was branded in her memory, forever. Her Dad stomped around the kitchen while her mother stood at her bedroom door, screaming. She closed her ears as best she could, as she threw clothes into a bag.

"He's going to ruin your life. You're giving up the chance of going to college yourself, for what? A teenage crush? You're a fool, Becky, and that boy knows it!" her mother screamed, spit flying from her lips. The words stung because she'd worried about the same things herself. But her Mothers’ scorn only steeled her resolve. She stuffed the last of her belongings in her case and ripped the zipper closed. She ran downstairs with tears in her eyes, slamming the front door behind her. John was waiting in an antiquated Dodge Charger, which had bald tyres and a rattling muffler.

"Are you alright, babe?" he asked, as she hurled herself inside.

"Let’s get out of here," she sniffled, feeling very sorry for herself. What had she done to deserve a mother like that? The powerful car leapt forward into a new life.

The first months in Boston were a whirlwind of parties, romantic nights in, and trendy student clubs. When John's first round of exams arrived, all that changed. He barely managed a passing grade and realised that doing well in college was going to take a lot more work. That and the fact their money was running out put a halt to their gallop. They nearly packed it all in but pride kept them going. She got a job in a dinner and John hit the books. Despite her Mother’s misgivings, he was not taking her for a fool. He kept his end of the bargain and studied hard. At the end of four years, he qualified as an actuary.

His first year out of college was a year dominated by turmoil, surprises, and life-changing decisions. The biggest was all three rolled into one. Becky was pregnant. John was stunned at first, reassuring in the hours after that, quiet for a week, and finally delighted. In her darkest moments, she imagined him running from her as quick as he could, but it never happened. He stayed true, and the day he slipped a wedding ring on her finger, her mother had to swallow her words.

That was years ago, twenty to be exactly, and today was their anniversary. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, twirling slowly, admiring the way the black dress lay on her. Not bad, for forty-five years on the planet and better considering she’d provided two of its inhabitants.

"MOM!"

Speak of the devil she thought. "Yes, Josh," she yelled.

"Mom, where's my blue shirt?" he yelled, up the stairs.

"It's in the laundry hamper," she said, twirling once more. She heard Josh walk away from the bottom of the stairs only to start shouting again a few seconds later.

"Jes, Mom, it's not washed!"

"Wear a different one," she said.

"I want that one, not another one!"

"That's just tough, Josh. You'll have to make do. I'm going out with your father," she said, spraying a mist of perfume in the air, and walking through it.

"It's not fair, Goddamn it!"

"Mind your language, young man!" The only answer she got was a slamming door. She loved her kids, but some days she'd gladly strangle them. At least Josh talked, she was lucky if she got a grunt out of Samantha. Sam, was content to stare into nothingness, with unblinking eyes, caked in pounds of jet-black mascara. It was frankly, unnerving.

She picked up a pair of six-inch stilettos by the straps, and padded her way down the stairs, before mixing a vodka and tonic and settling on the couch. She'd nearly finished her second drink when the front door opened.

"Sorry I'm late Becks, give me five minutes," he said, dashing up the stairs. She heard the shower start and considered topping up her drink. In the corner of the room, a door creaked open, and a black-ringed eye regarded her through the crack.

"Hi, Sam. What’s the dealieo, kido?" she asked. In the crack, the eye blinked, and a second later, the door squeaked closed. "Nice catting," she said, throwing back the last of her drink and laying aside the heavy bottomed tumbler. She was looking at the bottle of Nordic Ice Vodka, with weakening will, when John came down the stairs.

"Ready to go, babe?" he said, grabbing his sports coat from the rack behind the door. Becky picked her wrap from the couch when he said, "You’re looking fantastic, Babe. We'd better get going or we'll lose our table."

She didn't have to turn around to know he’d said the words without looking in her direction. She felt a twinge of something, a feeling she couldn't quiet put her finger on. It passed in an instant and she followed him out, pulling the front door closed behind her.

***

Dinner was fine, the whole evening was fine, it went exactly as she’d expected it to go. They ate at Gino's, their special restaurant, even stretching to a bottle of bubbly to mark the day. When they got home, all the lights were out and the kids were asleep. She showered and took off her makeup, while John put out the trash. She felt him slip into bed and cuddle into her. She wanted to ask him if he would do it all again, now that they'd been together for twenty years, but before she could, he began to snore.

She couldn't sleep, just lay there, worrying about nothing in particular, just worrying. What had she to worry about? Her kids were healthy, she had money; life was fine. The thing that bothered her was the last word…fine. Is fine enough? Eventually, tiredness got the better of her brain and sleep came.

When she woke, she'd forgotten completely about the word…fine. She threw back the covers and got on with her day. She prepared breakfast, woke the kids, having to call Josh three times before he got out of bed. She loaded the washing machine, picked up the newspaper then finally got herself a coffee. John was the first to the table. He flipped open the paper and munched French toast. She poured him a coffee, strong, just the way he like it. Sam slinked into the kitchen, followed by a bedraggled Josh. The kids devoured all in front of them and vanished as quickly as they arrived. John finished his coffee, folded the paper under his arm, and kissed Becky on the head as he stood to go. He stopped by the breakfast counter and fished a dry-cleaning ticket from his pocket.

"Could you pick this up for me Becks?"

"Sure," she said, taking the ticket from his fingers.

"Thanks sweetheart, see you tonight," he said, and with that, she was alone.

The house was quiet. She looked at the dirty dishes and sipped her coffee. If she wanted, she could go back to bed and stay in it all day. Who would know?  She guessed she would know, and feel guilty, so she didn't. Instead, she scrapped the dishes, put them in the dish washer, wiped down the table, swept the floor, all before taking a shower. In the afternoon, she endured day-time TV while doing the ironing but it was total rubbish. She needed to get out of the house, to meet some real people. She jotted down a quick grocery list, and grabbed John's dry-cleaning stub, then left.

She was about ten minutes from the mall when she realised something was wrong with the car. It felt heavy and was making a terrible racket. As if by design, a ragged looking used car lot appeared, so she pulled in. She got out and walked around the car. The back wheel was as flat as a pancake.

"Great! That's all I need," she said. The lot was deserted but she could hear a radio playing in the depths of a corrugated iron shed. She followed the music and found a set of legs sticking out from under an old silver BMW.

"Hello," she said, and the legs gave a little jerk of surprise. A tall man, in his fifties, wiggled out from under the car. He looked annoyed at being disturbed.

"Are you okay, lady?" he asked, wiping his filthy hands on equally filthy overalls.

"No, I'm not okay. My car broke down and I need someone to look at it, please," she said, pointing towards her nearly new Ford. It was by far the youngest car standing on the forecourt.

"Alright, let’s take a look," he mumbled and walked towards the car. He went to release the hood but Becky stopped him.

"It's the tyre," she said, pointing toward the back of the car. His eyebrows marched high across his forehead until they nearly vanished into his mop of unruly hair.

"Lady, are you saying you got a flat?"

"Yes exactly," she said, beginning to wonder if this guy was a mechanic at all. His expression was stalled someplace between disbelief and amusement.

"Then change it, Lady," he said.

"I can't change a tyre," she said, placing her hand on her hips in frustration at the stupidity of the man.

"Why not? You disabled or something?" he asked. Now he was being down-right insulting. She was sure you’re not allowed to use the word, disabled, any more. Shouldn't it be physically challenged or some-such. This guy was getting on her wick but she needed him to fix the car.

"I don't know how. Can't you do it. I'll pay you," she said, trying to hide her annoyance, and failing.

"That shit really grinds my gears. If you can't look after your car, you shouldn't be driving," he said, turning to walk away.

"Please," Becky said to his back, and the man stopped. He seemed to think for a moment and then turned back to the car.

"I'll tell you what, lady. I'll show you what to do, but you're going to change the tyre yourself."

"I won't be able to," she said, aghast.

"Sure you will. Pop the trunk and let’s get started." He showed her where the spare was kept, the nut iron and the jack. Then he showed her how to pop off the hubcap, how to loosen the nuts, where to put up the jack, how to make sure the car was in gear and safe. Before she knew it, she was winding the jack and watching the tyre lift off the ground. She was actually having the time of her life. She was really doing it; she was changing a tyre. Stan, that was his name, offered to lift the spare but she waved him away. She was going to change the Goddamn tyre if it killed her. She hauled the spare, got it on the hub, tightened the nuts, lowered the jack and the job was done. She stood back and looked at her car, sitting on four perfect tyres, and she’d done it all by herself.

"Told you, you could do it," said Stan, smiling and walking back towards the shed. Inside, Becky was glowing, it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself. How could changing a flat have made her feel so good? She rummaged in her purse and found a twenty, then followed Stan inside. She tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around, she pressed the bill into his hand.

"Thanks Stan, you're great."

He looked at the bill and quickly tried to pass it back. "There is no need, Lady."

"The name’s, Becky, and a good teacher deserves his wage. Would you have somewhere I can wash up," she asked holding up her black hands. The twenty vanished into his overalls and Stan smiled his first genuine smile since she’d met him. He pointed to a door and winked.

"Staff facilities are that-a way."

Becky skipped toward the door and noticed something lurking in the gloom. It was like a huge dull eye, peeking out from under a tarpaulin.  She moved closer and soon realised it was a large headlight. She pushed back the tarp and revealed a very unloved motorbike, but there was something about it that was beautiful. Perhaps it was the lines, or the way time had taken its toll, or the way the huge single light seemed to look at her. Whatever it was, desire washed over her. It was like being baptised in a font of yearning. She tore herself away long enough to wash her hands but couldn’t help looking enchantedly at the rusting motorbike. She said her good-bye's to Stan and went about her business.

She was still on a high from her personal triumph when she called John, and the kids, down for dinner that evening. She was bursting to tell them her news, but every time she thought the moment was right, the conversation took a different turn. By the time ice cream was on the table, she couldn't wait any longer. "I got a flat tyre today and I changed it myself."

Once the words were out, they seemed a little childish in her ears. John looked at her and said, "Why didn't you call the service, they'd have done it?"

"That would have taken ages, and as it happened, I broke down right outside a garage."

"So, you mean the garage fixed it?" he said, shovelling ice cream into his face. The kids had lost all interest and left the table.

"No. I fixed it; the garage guy just showed me what to do."

"You mean he helped you," he said, sounding like he was getting the truth out of a five-year-old.

"NO! I said, I did it!" she said angrily.

"Okay, okay. Keep your hair on," he said, getting up from the table. He dropped his dish on the worktop, above the dish washer, then went into the sitting room. She looked at the dish and wondered, would it have killed him to stack it in the dish washer?

***

The next day started just like every other. She fed John and the kids, got them all they needed for their days, and once they were gone, she started the ironing. She flicked on the TV, to fill the silence, and worked the stack down from a mountain to a pile. It was a sunny morning, and this seemed such a waste. She unplugged the iron, grabbed her keys, and headed out. She backed out onto the street, on the tyre she had changed, and took off toward the city.

This time, when she pulled into the weed-strewn car lot, Stan was sitting on a totalled Mustang, smoking."

"Hay, lady. What you busted now?" he asked, taking a drag before flicking the butt away.

"I wanted to ask you about that bike you got."

"I sell cars, lady, not bikes," he said, shaking his head as if talking to a toddler.

"What about the bike in the back," she said pointing to the back of the garage. Stan looked confused but realisation washed over his face.

"Oh, the old Shovel-Head, what about it."

"Want to sell it?"

He folded his arms over his chest and regarded Becky as if he was missing the punchline to the joke. "Why would you want a pile of junk like that?"

"Why would you?" she countered.

"Actually, I was going to do it up, just never got the time," he said, leaning back on the Mustang and lighting another butt.

"So how much do you want for it?"

He scratched his head and looked at Becky like she was mad, "Fully restored, she might make eight, even ten thousand, but like it is…she's worthless."

"Stan, you're the worst salesman in the world. What would you say to a thousand dollars?"

"I'd say the old rust bucket is yours."

"Old, Rust Bucket, I like it. It's a deal, but I have two conditions," she said, holding out her hand.

Stan kept his hands to himself, "Conditions?"

"I want to restore the bike and I want to do it here. That is condition one. Condition two is that I want to hire you to show me what to do." Becky waited patiently as Stan mulled over what she’d said.

"It will take time, and money," he said, eventually.

  

"I have plenty of both. Do we have a deal?" she asked, still holding her hand out.

Stan got to his feet and looked at her hand, but didn’t take it.  "I'll tell you what to do, but you do the work?"

"I'd have it no other way," she said.

"Deal," he said, shaking her hand and giving her a smile.

As Stan pumped her hand, she asked, "Why do you call it a Shovel Head?"

"It's to do with the engine. Ah, you wouldn't understand," he said, joshing with her.

"You really piss me off, Stan. Anyone ever tell you that?" she asked.

"Yes, actually. More than one," he said, laughing and walking into the dark interior of the garage.

That night, while she was preparing dinner, thought about telling John what she’d done except she knew he would say she was stupid for spending a thousand dollars on rubbish. She decided the this should be her project and hers alone. It was a strange feeling, having something just for her, for once.

***

She stripped the 1969 Shovel Head, back to the bare bones in the months that followed. The engine was goosed so she ordered a new one and sanded the frame down to bare metal. Every step of the process was overseen by Stan, but all the work was done by her.

By Christmas, the filled and primed frame was sitting in a power coating jig, waiting to be cooked on the same night she kept a careful eye on the turkey cooking in her own oven.

When the fourteenth of February arrived, she was in the midst of rewiring, Old Rusty, as she’d christened it. John was becoming increasingly aware of the changes in her behaviour and had been asking a lot of questions. She had thought of telling him what she was doing, but no; it was her secret, not his. On Valentines, he'd booked a table at Gino's, but this time he was the one left waiting on the couch. She lost track of time at the garage and it was only when Stan said he was locking up did she realise how late she was running.

She rushed in the front door, saying, “Sorry, give me five minutes.”

He bounced up from the couch, and asked, "Where have you been?"

"Five minutes," she said again, and raced up the stairs, pretending she hadn’t seen the half angry, half worried look on his face.

It took her a bit longer than five minutes to get ready, but not a whole lot longer. She came back down a stylish blouse, jeans and brown leather boots. John looked at her, and asked, "Are you wearing that?"

Becky looked down in confusion, then back at her husband, "Why, what's wrong with it?"

"It's Valentines!"

"So?" she said.

“Are you not dressing up?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I like what I’m wearing and its comfortable.”

“But everyone dresses for Valentines?”

“Well, bully for them,” she said taking the keys out of his hand. “Come on, let’s go or we'll miss our table. I'll drive." She walked out, leaving John to lock up the house.

***

By April, she was ready to fit the new engine. At the same time, things at home were changing. More often, John was finding that he was making his own coffee in the morning. Josh only got one call, and if he didn't get up, he was late. Sam was the first to suggest to her face that something was going-on. One Saturday, she was sitting alone with Becky when she said something. At first Becky thought she was hearing things so she asked, “What was that?”

“You’re not you anymore,” she said quietly.

“How do you mean?” asked Becky, but she knew what Sam was talking about. She didn’t feel like her anymore either. She was Becky2.0; new and improved.

“You’re more…sparky. It’s like you’re…” Sam drifted off into silence.

“Like I’m what?” Sam wouldn’t answered, she simply drew deeper inside her shell, which worried Becky. She thought about telling her about Old Rusty, but she wasn’t ready to share him yet, not with anyone.

***

June saw a new tank go on, and custom rims. Day by day, she needed less of Stan's help and grew more confident of her own skills. The road she was on was her road, not their road. With all the heavy work done, she packed Old Rusty off to the paint shop, and waited. When it came back, she cried, truly cried, at the beauty she’d made. The day she poured gas in the tank, and stomped on the starter, was right up there with the first cries of her children.

***

Sam was hanging out in the mall with her friends when her mobile beeped. It was a text from her Mother.

'Sam, come to the main entrance, I need you for a minute. Mom.' 

She rolled her eyes and showed her friends the screen. Not one of them suggested ignoring the message, after all, they might be rebels, but they still needed a lift home later. The small group of pale, over-made-up girls, trudged toward the main doors. Once outside, Sam searched for her Mother’s car but there was no sign of her. Then, a gleaming motorbike, rumbled up to the kerb, causing everyone to take a second look.

Sam was about to go back inside when she heard her Mother’s voice calling over the thunderous rumble of the biker’s engine. She turned but there was still no sign of her Mom. The biker kicked out the stand and leaned the still running bike to one side. When the helmet came off, the biker shook out a long mane of golden hair. That was when Sam recognised Becky.

“Mom?” It was half a question, half an expression of astonishment.

“The one and only,” she teased while sitting back on the rumbling machine she had built.

“Where did you get that?” she said, pointing at the Harley.

“You like him?”

“Hell yea!! Shit, sorry…yea,” she corrected herself and her mother actually laughed at her.

“This bike is a hell yea kind of bike, and don’t you ever forget it!” she laughed.

“Who are you and what have you done with my Mother?” Sam joked back, and for once she didn’t feel stifled by the woman who had brought her into the world. She looked at that leather clad, happy woman, and wanted to be her. In her mind she asked the question again; Who are you?

"Want to go for a ride?" Becky said, tossing a helmet to her. She grabbed it and looked at her friends. Envy radiated off them all, even through pounds of foundation.

“See yea!” said Sam, as she jogged over to the bike and slipped on the helmet. As they roared away, Sam wrapped her arms around her Mother;s waist and never felt so safe.

***

Later that evening, John arrived home to find the house very quiet. Josh was playing video games in the living room.

"Where's your Mom?" he asked.

"Don't know."

"Sam?"

"Don't know," repeated Josh, not looking up from his video game. John frowned and walked to the kitchen. The oven was cold and empty. Then he looked in the fridge. No hints there either. That was when he noticed a small envelope sitting on the table. He ripped it open and pulled out the note.

Gone to Burning Man, with Sam. Don't wait up!

X x x – Becky.

PS,              I still love you.

PPS,            Feed the other one!

Cat Lady

A scent of Jasmin rose from the old lady in the ancient coat. On the conveyor belt beside her lay a packet of carved ham, milk, and four deluxe tins of cat food. With expert hands the teller scanned her items and said, “Ten ninety seven, please.”

The ten Euro note trembled in her fingers, as she stared into the depths of her empty purse. She began pushing the ham away when I slid a single coin to the teller. I saw shame in her face as she hurried away. There goes a woman who loves her cat more than life.

I  came across a community called 101, so this story is for them. exactly 101 words long.

Tubby Tommy

If there's one thing I've learned from years of standing behind this bar its that the more stupid a person is, the more convinced they are of the brilliance of their words. Only the wise are filled with doubt. I know this was said by someone very famous, I just don't know who.

Another thing that I am convinced of is that stupidity and cruelty go hand-in-hand. As proof of this theory, I'd like to tell you about Tubby Tommy.

The other night, a few blowhards had gathered at the end of the counter, trading stories. As the tide of bullshit flowed from them I pretend to listen, and polish a few glasses. Sometimes you have to be a bit forgiving of crassness, it is a pub after all.

As the night drew on, the tales got taller as pint after pint vanished. About an hour before closing-time the door swung open and Tommy entered the bar. Tommy is a lovely chap, it's true, he's about as tall as he is wide, but that hardly justifies calling him, "Tubby Tommy," which is just what one meat-head at the end of the bar shouted.

"Well if its not, Tubby Tommy himself. Come over here and grab a stool, lad," said the biggest of the guys, sharing a nasty wink with his buddies.  I can tell you, my hackles began to rise, but these fellas had been filling the till all night so I bit down on my tongue and moved a little closer to keep an eye on the group. Tommy smiled in his innocent way and wobbled over to join them. Tommy is a famous face about town, he works for the council, keeping the place tidy by sweeping the roads. Rain or shine, he'd push his cart around the town diligently taking care of his business while sharing a friendly smile with anyone he passed. Tommy isn't about to appear on "Mastermind" any time soon, but that only put's him on par with the men he was joining at the end of the bar. It was clear they thought differently. I served Tommy up his usual pint of Harp and as he sucked the foam over the lip of the glass. The guy who had given the nasty wink asked Tommy if he was going to vote, yes or no, on the upcoming referendum. The referendum the man was referring to was on being the first country in the world to allow same sex marriage.

"I haven't decided yet," said Tommy, putting down his glass and licking his lips.

"Ah, Jesus, Tubby, it's either yes or no, how hard can it be?" sneered the big ape, making all the chimps join in with jeers of there own.  Tommy just smiled, the ridicule going completely over his head.

"It's a lot to think about," said Tommy.

"It's easy, Tubby, should they allow gay people get married, or not."

Tommy smiled and said, "When you put it like that, yes."

"So you don't believe in God, so?"

A worried look passed over Tommy's face and he said, "Of course I do, I go to mass every Sunday."

"If you vote yes, Tommy, the priest will throw you out of the church and you'll go to hell when you die," said the guy, sharing a sly wink with me. I felt like pulling that eyeball out of its socket.

"They wouldn't do that," sputtered Tommy.

"Oh yes they would. It's in the rules, Tubby."

"I'd better vote no, in that case. Mammy would never stop crying if I got thrown out of the church, she'd be shamed."

"So that means your a Homophobic, Tommy, they will put your name in the papers," sneered the guy finishing the last of his drink and slamming the glass on the counter.

"I am not," said Tommy, sheepishly clearly having no idea what a homophobic was, but not liking the sound of it.

"Not what Tubby?"

"What ever you said," said Tommy.

"A homophobe, Tubby. A gay hater, if you vote no, that's what you will be," teased the group. Taking it in turn to call Tommy different names. I'd had enough so I swiped up their glasses. "Enough now," I said, in a way that made it clear they were about to cross a line.

"Yea, fair enough," said the leader of the group, getting off his stool and walking toward the door followed obediently by his shuffling disciples. When they were gone, I turned to Tommy and said. "Don't mind them Tommy, you vote what every way you want."

"It's still a lot to think about," said Tommy seriously, sipping his drink while I cleaned up the rest of the bar. I was mobbing the floor behind the counter when something made me stop and ask, "Why did you let them call you Tubby?"

"Them lads?" asked Tommy, pointing towards the door.

"Yea, them and all the rest," I said, leaning on the mop.

Tommy laughed and slapped his belly for emphasis when he said,"I'd rather have a keg than a six pack."

"Don't you mind, it then?"

"Na," said Tommy, finishing his pint. "Them kind of guys just feel bad about themselves. That's why they say those things, it make themselves feel better I think. It's a bit sad really."

Tommy wobbled to the door throwing a cheery wave over his shoulder. "Night so Squid, I think I'll vote yes, just don't tell Father Tom," he said, and with a shy giggle Tommy vanished into the night. I was stunned by the pearl of wisdom I had just heard and from Tommy no less. Perhaps he might appear on Mastermind after all, if they have a category called seeing the world as it is.

Reality Bites

Day 24 in the Big Brother House, 8.35am.

After successfully completing the circus challenge last night, Big Brother is awarding the remaining housemates a celebration basket of beer, wine, and snacks, to be delivered later in the day. Zoe, Shane, Clare and Ann are sleeping. The only housemate up, is Kit, who is doing sit-ups in the living area. 

Kit concentrated on getting through the last of his hundred sit-ups. It was hard to believe he’d only been inside this place for four weeks; it felt like four years. All around him, the house was silent, except for barely audible whir of focusing camera lenses, as they followed his movements. He bunched his well-chiselled stomach muscles one more time, and wondered, how many women out there were ogling him? Thousands? Tens of thousands? All gagging for a taste of the Kittster, while he was forced to remain blue balled, and captive.

It was a hell of a price to pay, all so he could be famous. He thought he would have been fine, going without sex, but by day ten, he was gagging for a bit. He couldn't even indulge in a little, "five finger shuffle", for God sake. He'd tried to knock out a sneaky one under the duvet, but every time the material rustled, he imagined his mother watching, live, on high definition TV. Let's just say, things withered. 

It didn't help having Zoe, and Clare, around. Zoe would look right at home rollerblading down Venice Beach, in a string bikini. And, she insisted on constantly doing yoga. That's enough temptation for anyone, but add in Clare, and the situation rose to volcanic temperatures. Clare was a lesbian, and her eyes devoured Zoe every minute of the day. Imagining the thoughts going through that girl’s mind was worse than a death by a thousand cuts. The frustration of it all.

Kit was a professional surfer, just not a very good one. His body was perfect; with shoulder-length blond hair and a posh English accent drove the girls wild, particularly Americans. He'd always wanted to be famous, to have all the trappings that went with it, he just lacked the skill to deserve it. God bless reality TV, which offered fame for the sake of fame. When he’d auditioned for the Big Brother, he didn’t think he had a real shot of being chosen. But when the producers announced he was one of the fourteen housemates, it had been a dream come true. How things have changed.

Now, he hated the plush walls that surrounded him, and the sexy female voice of Big Brother. He hated the stupid games they made them play for the amusement of the mindless masses, and he hated the boredom. He wished he could paddle out into a rising Atlantic swell, until he could see nothing but ocean, wave, and sky.

He strained through one last sit-up and collapsed backward. He was getting soft. He heard a camera move as it focused on him. He felt the waterproof microphone tickle his sweat-soaked skin, and reminded himself; one week to go. He got to his feet, and towelled off, before going to brew some coffee.

The smell of roasted Java, wafting through the house, soon roused the rest of the gang. So began another day, of doing nothing, talking shit, and waiting for the public to vote one of them out.

Day 24 in the Big Brother House, 10.20pm.

Big Brother's sexy voice reverberated through the house. "The diary room is now, open."

Zoe dashed to the flashing door, giggling like a schoolgirl, and Clare was quick to follow. When the girls returned, they carried between them a weighty looking case, decorated like a pirate’s treasure chest. When they flipped it open, there was a feast of alcoholic delights, and salt-laden snacks. The party that followed went on well into the night, and finished with all of the housemates in the hot-tub, roaring drunk.

Day 25 in the Big Brother House, 11.54am

Shane was the first to wake from his vodka induced coma. The communal dorm smelled of beer farts and Ann was snoring noisily. He struggled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. He peed, then washed, and decided to wake Kit.

"Kit," he said, shaking a duvet covered shoulder. "Kit, come on man. It’s time to get up."

"Fuck off," he said, but the words were muffled by the duvet. Shane persisted until Kit finally admitted defeat and threw back the covers. 

"Alright, I'm up, I'm up," he said, groggily.

"I bet that party made the front page of the Mirror," said Shane, with a grin. 

Kit rested an arm over his eyes and tried to put the pieces of last night together. He remembered touching Zoe's boob in the hot-tub, and she didn't seem to mind one bit. Later, the two of them had ended up in his bed but then the shit hit the fan. Clare went nuclear, and tried to drag Zoe out of bed. Zoe told Clare to, "get a life," which resulted in shouting, and Clare storming off in tears. Zoe followed Clare, (the stupid cow), and Ann followed both of them, relishing the role of peacemaker. When all the girls came back, they quickly ended up in their own beds, while he was left with a raging hard-on, and nothing to do with it.

He swung his feet out of bed and reassured himself quietly, "One more week."

The house looked like it had been burgled. Furniture was upended, bottles were strewn everywhere, and in the corner was a small puddle of puke that nobody was going to take responsibility for. He needed coffee before tackling that lot. What difference would another half hour make? After all, they were hardly expecting visitors.

Day 25 in the Big Brother House, 3.34pm.

All the housemates are congregated in the sitting area, relaxing after the party clean-up.

"Guy's, did you notice that?" asked Ann.

"Notice what?" said a grumpy Clare.

"That camera hasn't moved in an hour," she said, pointing to a unit mounted above one of the many one-way mirrors dotted around the house.

"Rubbish, you just didn't see it, is all," said Clare, burying her head under a pile of cushions, her hangover was still in full roar.

"I'm telling you; it hasn't moved!" Ann insisted.

With nothing else to do, everyone watched the camera, and after fifteen minutes, Kit had to concede, it hadn't moved. 

"Perhaps it's broken," he said.

"It could be," agreed Zoe. "But then, why hasn't that one moved either?" she asked, indicating a different camera, one in the far corner of the room. One by one, the housemates got to their feet and started walking around. Any other time, this would have caused every camera in the place to spring into whirring motion. Today, nothing happened. Not one camera moved.

"That's bloody weird," said Clare, coming back from the garden. "It's the same outside."

"I think I should report it to Big Brother," said Ann, always the golden girl. She jogged to the diary room door and pressed the button. It flashed and kept on flashing, but the door didn't open. After a few minutes, she began to call out to Big Brother.

"Big Brother, there's something wrong with the cameras," she said, to the roof, as if she were talking to God. "Big Brother, can you hear me?"  This went on for quite some time, while all the rest of the them sat on the sofa, and watched. At no point did any of the cameras move, nor did Big Brother decide to answer Ann’s bleating.

Day 26 in the Big Brother House, 5.07pm

Shane came back into the kitchen, after trying the diary door for the hundredth time.

"Any change?" asked Kit.

"Still locked," he said, dumping the last of the coffee into his mug. They'd received no fresh supplies since the alcohol chest and things were starting to run out. Clare had used the last of the bread, and no sign of the, "pantry fairies."

"There is no way this could be a challenge; could it?" he asked, looking to the older man for leadership. Shane might be five years older than Kit, but he was just as lost.

"It could be, I guess, but it's a fairly extreme measure, don't you think?" he said, sipping his coffee.

"Those knob-heads would sell their grannies, for a good rating. They'd think nothing of starving us, or scaring the crap out of us!" said Kit, staring at one of the one-way mirrors.

"I guess it is an interesting experiment," he mused, but Kit exploded.

"Fucking Experiment is right! They think we’re rats in a maze, but we’re not. You know what they’re doing? They’re playing with our lives is what!" he ranted, knowing he was letting the frustration of captivity overwhelm him, but it felt so good.

"Ah come on, it's hardly that bad. We only ran out of bread this morning; we're not exactly starving."

"No, not yet, but how far will those wankers go?" he shouted.

The girls had been in the garden, chatting, but the sound of raised voices got them back into the house.

"What's happening," asked Zoe, simultaneously excited and anxious.

"Bloody nothing!" said Kit, storming out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Day 27 in the Big Brother House, 11.34pm.

Zoe, Ann, Clare and Shane are on the couch, watching Kit trying to force open the diary room door, with an egg turner.

"You're wasting your time," said Clare, rubbing her GI-Jane haircut.

"But at least I’m doing something. What have you done?" he asked, throwing the spatula across the room, hitting one of the one-way mirrors and cracking the glass.

"I haven't panicked, that's what I've done," she said, her tone superior, as she lay back like King Tut. She draped her arm across the back of the couch, and if she moved it forward an inch, it would also be draped around Zoe's neck.

"I'm not panicking, I'm bloody starving!" he growled, throwing himself into one of the bean-bags.

"It’s bound to be a game. Big Brother will call an end to it soon," added Ann, her voice full of trust and innocence. He looked across at her and couldn’t believe she was being sincere. Nobody was that goody-goody.

"And what if they don't? When will we start to act for yourselves? Can't you see that something is wrong here? This is not the way the show should be going. If nothing else, why haven't two of us been evicted? Tell me that?"

The problem was, none of them had an answer to his question, not even himself.

Day 28 in the Big Brother House, 9.45am.

Zoe and Kit are sitting in the garden, Ann is in the bathroom, while Clare and Shane are cooking the last of the housemate’s rice, for breakfast.

"Can you smell that?" asked Kit.

"It smells like smoke, but more disgusting?" said Zoe.

"Yea, have you ever smelled anything like that before?"

"No," she said, watching him get to his feet. It was like burnt hair and rubber. He looked into the sky, shielding his eyes with his hands.

"I think I can see something over there,” he said, pointing at the south wall of the compound. They walked across the yard and when they reached the wall, he linked his hands into a stirrup and hunkered down.

"I'll give you a boost," he said. "See if you can grab the top of the wall." Zoe put her foot in his hands and he hoisted her up. She came up a long way short. He wasn’t bet yet. “Wait here,” he said, and dashed away. A few minutes later he returned, with Shane, and the couch. They tipped it on its end so it formed a ramp of sorts. They helped Zoe clamber up and this time when she jumped, she managed to wrap her fingers around the top of the wall.

Kit and Shane cheered, but Zoe screamed.

She crashed to the ground, blood flying everywhere. Her fingers were sliced open in several places. As they hurried inside to bandage Zoe’s cuts, the smell grew stronger. Kit couldn’t help wonder had the wire been put there to keep other out, or them in?

Day 29 in the Big Brother House, 11.35pm

All of the housemates are gathered in the living-area.

Throughout the day, the stinking black smoke had grown thicker and thicker. While Ann continued to plead with Big Brother, the rest of us sat in the hot-tub and watched the sky grow blacker. Kit felt like Nero, fiddling while London burned.

 "What do you think they're burning? he asked, laying his head back in the luxurious bubbling water.

"Could be rubbish, I guess," said Clare. "But whatever it is, it stinks."

"I'd love a burger," said Zoe. The seeming random comment, not so random at all. The thought of food was now all consuming. They’d passed from hungry to starving days ago.

"Burger King or McD?" asked Clare, continuing to torture us all.

"Burger King, of course. Double Whopper! Heaven!" cried Shane, sinking below the water in mock ecstasy.

Inside the house, Ann's voice rose to a ferocious level. "FUCK YOU, BIG BROTHER!" followed by the sound of smashing the glass. As one, they sprang from the tub and raced toward the house. They found Ann, in front of a smashed one-way mirror, holding a chair in her hands.

They were shocked into stillness. Nobody believed Ann would be the one to break the golden rule; thou shall not escape. Kit moved forward, picking his way through the shattered glass littering the floor. He poked his head inside the tiny room behind the shattered mirror. There was an upturned chair, dozens of pieces of paper, and an unattended TV camera. On the back wall, a black door beckoned him, like a gateway to salvation. He climbed inside and took the doorknob. The handle turned, but the door was locked. He rattled it and pulled with all his might. It wouldn’t budge. He turned around and saw the hangered faces of his housemates, framed in broken glass. It would have made a great horror movie poster. After so long of doing nothing, it was completely disheartening to have breached the barriers of Big Brother's world, only to be stopped in their tracks by a simple door.

Ann dropped the chair and began to wail uncontrollably. It made everyone jump.

"I'm sorry Big Brother, it was an accident. It was an accident!" she screamed, sinking to her knees.

"Stop it, Ann," said Clare, taking her in her arms.

"NO! NO! NO! I shouldn't have done it!" she screamed. Clare lead her away from the broken glass and lay her on the couch. The others simply wandered away. Kit was about to climb out of the room when he spotted a crumpled newspaper under the upturned chair. He picked it up and the headline hit him like a hammer blow.

"Guy's, I think you should look at this," he said, shakily climbing back into the house. He held up the paper with the headline facing them.

"DOOMSDAY!" it declared. The lead picture was of a body lying in a doorway. A plague! While they had been locked up in here, it had swept planet, killing millions. The story detailed; civil unrest, the fall of governments, marshal law, and mass cremations. They read the story a dozen times. Trying to digest it all. What about their friends, their families? Kit looked back into the camera room. It was obvious the crew had abandoned them and left them locked inside. The question was, had they saved them, or doomed them? What lay beyond the door? Salvation, or destruction? 

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Those of you that have already read some of Father Tom's exploits, would be forgiven for believing that his life was idyllic. Perhaps it is the survivalist in us humans, which makes us remember the enjoyable moments in life, while quickly dispatching the more sinister ones, to the annals of time best forgotten.

One such moment occurred not long after Father Tom first moved to the parish, and of all places, it happened in the post office. Father Tom had a few letters to send to Dublin, so he made good use of the fine spring weather, and walked to the post office at the far end of the village. The walk took longer than he anticipated, because he was stopped by nearly everyone he came across, to wish him well in his new posting.

When he finally reached the post office door, he found it painted in the green livery of "An Post", the national postal agency. High on the wall was the small tin sign, confirming he was at the right place. What gave him cause to pause, was not the colour of the door, but the size of it. Standing fully erect, Father Tom towered over the tiny door by a full foot. You may remember that Father Tom was quite the man mountain, but he found most doors accommodated him quite well. However, this one seemed to be designed for Hobbit-size clientele. With little option, he opened the door and wiggled his way inside. The answer to the unusual size of the door lay within, the floor of the Post Office was a good foot and a half below street level, and clearly, the door had been hung from the inside.

"Lord, Father. Mind your head," said the postmistress, dashing from behind the counter to help the nearly wedged customer.

"Thanks, thanks," said Father Tom, fending off the helping hands that seemed to spring from everywhere. When he had himself straightened out again, he found himself standing in tiny little room, packed with people. Father Tom went bright red, when he realised just how many people had watched him limbo dancing his way under the tiny door.

"I think Jane has been feeding me too well," he said, causing the collected people to giggle politely.

"Well now, you must be the new priest. Tis great to meet you," said the postmistress, holding out her hand. Father Tom took her dainty fingers in his huge bear paw, and shook it gently.

"Tom," he said.

"Father Tom, ain't that just grand," she said, beaming. Then like any good hostess, she began introducing everyone in the post office by name, each one coming forward to shake Tom's gigantic mitt, in turn. One craggy little man seemed to keep himself back from the hubbub of greetings, and the post mistress glanced over him as if he didn't exist. When everyone had said hello, Tom turned to the little man and held out his hand. The small man positively bristled with aggression.

Undeterred, Father Tom held his ground and said, "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"I won't be shaking hands with no holy Joe," snarled the little man, backing farther into the corner. Father Tom was shocked, and his hand floated in vacant space for a moment, until the shrill voice of the postmistress broke the spell.

"Mr Baxter! How dare you speak to Father Tom like that!"

"And you can belt up, too!" Mr Baxter said, pushing past Father Tom, and scuttling through the tiny door without the least difficulty.

"I'm so sorry, Father. What must you think of us?" said the postmistress, clearly embarrassed. Father Tom regained his composure and laughed, which thankfully got everyone else laughing too.

"I seem to have my work cut out, there," Father Tom said.

Later that night, Father Tom mentioned the incident to Jane, as she was dishing up his dinner.

"Mr Baxter? That would be Vincent Baxter, a small scruffy man, about fifty?"

"That sounds like him," said Tom, taking a seat at the table. "Why do you think he reacted like that?"

"Couldn't say for sure, Father. He's not from around here, you see, he's a Limerick man, I think, and a right nasty one at that," said Jane, landing a scoop of steaming mash potato beside an inch thick slice of beef, swimming in a lake of gravy.

"Has he only moved here, so?" asked Father Tom, eyeing the plate like a hungry dog.

"God, no. Been living up on Kerrigan's mountain for nearly twenty-five years now. Himself, the missus, and six kids, God bless them," said Jane, adding some assorted veg to the plate. Only in the countryside, could you live in a place for twenty-five years and still be a blow in. Time has a different meaning in a place like this.

Jane turned to the table, holding the heaped plate with a tea towel. "Enough about him, Father, and eat your dinner," she said, laying the meal before him with a smile. Jane's plate looked like a child's portion in comparison to Father Tom’s. They bowed their heads and said Grace, before Father Tom demolished the meal, in seconds flat.

"My word, Father. You seem to like your beef?"

"It's my favourite meat in the whole world, you can't beat a slice of rare beef."

"Would you like another piece?"

"Oh, yes please, Jane. One from the middle, if you can manage it." Jane added a slice of slightly pink meat to his plate, which Father Tom tucked into with gusto. This particular meal gave rise to one of Father Tom's most treasured traditions, Sunday dinner with Jane, always beef, and always rare. Jane soon began calling it, ‘Sunday, bloody Sunday’, when she and Father Tom were alone.

***

Over the weeks which followed, Father Tom learned that Vincent Baxter had indeed come from Limerick, a Limerick work house, to be exact. That explained a lot to Father Tom. The work houses were horrible places, ruled by priests with fists of iron. It’s little wonder that the man reacted the way he did when they first met. Father Tom was looking forward to his next chance to talk with Mr Baxter, so he could show him that he was nothing like those priests, they only shared a uniform. However, chances to talk to Mr Baxter came few and far between. It was nearly eight months later when Father Tom and Mr Baxter exchanged their next words, and they were far from pleasant.

It was early December, and Father Tom had arranged with the school headmaster, for the sixth class children to hold a carol recital in the run up to Christmas. The whole class was in the parish hall, doing rehearsals after school had finished, when the main door burst open. Mr Baxter stormed up the middle of the hall and grabbed his youngest lad, Jamie, from the midst of the shocked children. He dragged the child by the scruff of the neck towards a shocked Father Tom and school master.

"Who told you that you could keep my lad after school?" yelled an enraged Mr Baxter.

"This is a school activity, Mr Baxter, kindly control you voice," stammered the Headmaster. Young Jamie began crying, and Mr Baxter shook the child roughly.

"There is no need of that!" said Father Tom, moving forward a step. Instead of shying away, the little man glared and moved towards Father Tom, not many men have ever done that.

"So, ‘twas you, you bible bashing shirt lifter!" spat the little man.

"Mr Baxter!" said the Headmaster, shocked.

Poking his finger savagely in the two bigger men's faces, Vincent Baxter said, “Neither of you will ever keep my boy after school again! Got it!" Then he stormed out of the hall, dragging a crying Jamie in his wake, and leaving a hall full of terrified children and shocked men behind.

Sadly, Mr Baxter was to continue to hold Father Tom in contempt, whether justified or not, for the rest of his days in the parish. After a few years, Father Tom had to concede that Vincent Baxter was a lost cause. The real tragedy of the situation was, Mr Baxter insisted in punishing his long suffering wife and children, along with himself, for whatever wrongs the world had laid at his door. They barely eked out an existence from the acres of scrub-land which made up the Baxter farm. The children were kept back from school to labour on the land. The few helping hands that were offered were slapped away by Mr Baxter, as unwanted charity. It was ten years after Father Tom became parish priest that the Baxter family sold up, and moved away. It was one of Father Tom’s biggest regrets that he never managed to get through Baxter's hatred.

***

On the plus side, Bloody Sunday had become a rock solid tradition in Father Tom's household. A prime beef joint was one of his few extravagances he regularly indulged in, that and a few pints down the pub. Each week, Jane would do the weekly shop on a Thursday, getting all that Father Tom might require, in the coming days. Tom always left the housekeeping money in a biscuit tin over the cooker, and Jane spent whatever she needed. There was always plenty in the tin, and he never asked for a receipt. Jane would buy everything, except for the Sunday roast, Tom took care of that, himself. He would visit Maher's Butchers on a Friday, to pick out his own joint of meat. Jane would drop by to pick it up, last thing Saturday evening. Mr Maher would have it waiting for her, seasoned and rolled, ready for the oven.

One particular Sunday, Father Tom was finishing off his third plate of seconds, when Jane asked an unexpected question. "Do you remember Mr Baxter, Father?"

"I do," said Tom, laying down his fork.

"Apparently he moved to Cavan, after leaving here."

"Is that so, he went far enough."

"True enough. The reason I mentioned it, is that Mrs Ryan heard from her sister, who happens to live in the same town. He died, yesterday." Father Tom just stared at his plate for long time, before shoving it away from him.

"Are you alright, Father?" she asked, taken back by his reaction.

"I am, it’s just a shock is all."

"He was well into his sixties, Father and not a very nice man, at that."

A frown crossed Father Tom's face, "Let he without sin, Jane."

She looked at her plate, saying, "You're right, Father. That was unkind."

Father Tom was out of sorts for the rest of the evening, and by the time Jane was ready to go home, he was nowhere to be found. His car was missing, so she assumed he had gone for a drive. It was close to eleven when Mrs Baxter heard a gentle knock on her door, in Virginia, County Cavan. The heavens had opened and rain was thundering down. At first, Mrs Baxter didn't recognise the huge bearded man standing on her doorstep, wearing jeans and a jumper. It wasn't until he said "Hello" that she knew it was Father Tom.

"Jesus, Father Tom. You’re drowned, come in."

"It's just Tom today, Mrs Baxter. I won't come in, if that's okay, I don't think Vincent would have liked it. I just come to extend my condolences."

Mrs Baxter looked at Father Tom deeply, and after a few moments, she smiled. "My Vincent was a difficult man, with troubles none knew. But I believe, if he were here tonight, Tom, he would gladly have done this." Mrs Baxter extended her hand, and in the cold Cavan downpour, they exchanged their first handshake.

"I'll be going now," said Father Tom, but before leaving, he held out a biscuit tin, and handed it to Mrs Baxter. "I thought you might make use of this," he said, then walked away.

On the following Thursday, Jane went to get the housekeeping money from the biscuit tin as always, but couldn't find it. When she found Father Tom, she asked him where the tin had got to. He just said, "A better home." Father Tom rummaged in his pocket, and pulled out two crumpled twenty Euro notes.

"I'll not get much for that, Father," Jane said.

"Whatever you manage, will be enough."

"But what about the roast? It’s a tradition."

Father Tom turned to Jane, and smiled, "You know, Jane, a man can sometimes have too much of a good thing. I quite fancy beans on toast this week. What do you say?" And then, he winked that naughty boy wink of his.