Happy Enough Bryn?

A short tale set in the fictional Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, England, during a time when three conferences - science fiction, medical, and pigeon-fanciers - were booked.

This was a creative writing task - and each student had to invent a character, and tell a story from their point of view. They may encounter the characters highlighted by other students. When the tales were read out aloud, it was amusing to see the crossovers. Anyway, this is my tale - and my character was an attended at the science fiction conference. His name is Bryn Johnstone.

Happy Enough Bryn?

They called it Paradise but it wasn’t angel wings I saw on that last day. Last day of the conference that is. Perhaps I should explain.

First of all, my name is Bryn Johnstone. I was staying at the Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, attending the sixth MultiVersiCon, and yes - I am a self-confessed sci-fi geek and don’t apologise for that.

It hadn’t been as good as the last two gatherings I’d attended, but was still reasonably good fun. Part of the reason was that the hotel, in their wisdom, had decided to book two other conferences at the same time. One was some sort of medical or pharmaceutical jolly, and the other was full of the flat-cap brigade and cages of what I later discovered to be pigeons. As a consequence of this we had less meeting rooms allocated to us than usual, so it was a little more … intimate. We still had the main hall though, so the celebrity guests could address us all and share their anecdotes.

It was a quarter-of-an-hour until the next luminary was scheduled to appear, and the autograph queues were too long to join until then, so I’d gone to the dealers’ room to have another look around there. It was packed. Amongst those clad in black tee-shirts displaying slogans and promoting their favourite shows, there was the usual quota of costumed attendees, cosplaying their roles to various degrees. I saw all variations of Klingons – from those sporting the fishnet costumes and questionable fake tans, through the Mars-bar-bonced next generation, to the newest unusual incarnation. Between two stalls I even saw Wonder Woman and a Wookie closing a deal – under the disapproving eyes of the hotel concierge. I myself was clad in a uniform reminiscent of Space 1999 – I’d unpicked the sleeve from a grey track suit and replaced it with that from a black one.  Well, you’ve got to make an effort, haven’t you?

I’d made some decent purchases. Within my Forbidden Planet rucksack I had a set of Babylon 5 Minbari/Earth-Alliance trading cards, a Stargate keyring, and an old magazine from that 80s cult show “Spark Farmers” that I’d had signed by Val Dirmitage himself. Oh, and a TARDIS pencil case.

Speaking of the TARDIS, when we filed back into the main hall, I noticed that they’d erected a blue box at the corner of the stage. Fans were milling about, making their way to get seated on the conventional – no pun intended – red plush chairs. Someone dressed in a cat costume – don’t ask me why – was weaving their way through the crowd in the opposite direction to everyone else, when I heard a commotion nearby – through an open doorway to the side of the hall.

When a flock of pigeons flew through the doorway, I was in their path. Two or three flapped in my face before gaining height, one even leaving me a present on my head. Unfortunately – although I didn’t know it at the time – I seem to be severely allergic to pigeons.  I was finding it progressively hard to breathe and I dropped to my knees feeling disorientated, the black marble-effect vinyl floor looking – appropriately – like a star-scape. Someone shouted for a doctor, and the last thing I saw was Sylvester McCoy looming up, carrying an umbrella.

It was just as well the medical conference had some doctors who hadn’t originated on Gallifrey. They gave me something which brought me round. I think someone mentioned epinephrine, although it’s quite possible they were asking “Happy enough, Bryn?” After all, when you’re in paradise, and paradise is in Scarborough, you have to make allowances for the Yorkshire accent.

The Dentist

“Fling your coat over there, love,” said Cathy North, “Back of the armchair, that’s right. Now come and give your mum a hug.”

DC Sean North edged past the glass-topped coffee table, avoiding stubbing his toe on the ornate eagle-clawed feet, and wrapped his arms around his mother. He broke away and sat on the sofa, smiling as he did so. He always felt comfortable here, having spent his teen years in its unchanging surroundings. 

“I was in the area and couldn’t leave without calling in,” said Sean.

“Are you involved with the doings down the road? At number twenty-six?”

“For now, yes, but probably not for much longer.”

“What’s it all about?”

Sean hesitated. “You know I shouldn’t talk to you about it, mum.”

“I thought we didn’t have secrets from each other?”

“Well…,” he began, “if it goes no further – and I mean that. Not even dad…”

“You know your father. If it’s not about snooker, the old goat isn’t interested. But you have my word. Whatever you tell me will be strictly between us.”

If Sean had been honest with himself he would have admitted that’s one of the reasons he had called in. Talking things through with his mother always seemed to clarify his thoughts. And events were moving quickly.

“Okay mum, so long as that’s clear.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a murder.”

“Oh my God. Who? Not Diane?”

“You know her?”

“Not well. I sometimes see her in the corner shop. What happened?”

“They’re still working on the exact cause of death. But they’ve found enough to – and again, I have to stress that this is confidential – found enough to suggest that she’s the latest victim in a series of killings.”

“A serial killer?”

“Yeah. And that’s why they’re bringing in the big guns. One gun is the Serious Crimes Analysis Section from the National Crime Agency. They deal with behavioural analysis and have been involved with the previous killings.”

“What makes them think it’s a serial killer?”

“It’s to do with the teeth. Each victim has had their front two teeth removed – post mortem – and had them replaced with those belonging to the previous victim. Stuck in with super glue.”

“Oh Sean…”

“I know. They’re calling the killer ‘the Dentist’, but are keeping it hush-hush. The Press would undoubtedly pay for this sort of information and you know the greed of some people.”

“Shouldn’t people know?”

“Not my decision. As I say, I’m not likely to be working on this much longer. Scenes Of Crime Officers are moving out, but they’re keeping the house sealed for now. I have to go back to the station to give a final briefing, so I should make tracks.”

Sean stood and moved over to the window, looking towards his car.

“Oh, typical. Someone’s boxed me in.”

“White van?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be picking up Denis next door. You won’t have to wait long.”

“Right.” He looked back at his mother. “You say you didn’t know Diane Morris that well?”

“No, love. She didn’t leave her house much. Borderline agoraphobic. I once saw her come home in a taxi after she’d had to go to the town centre. She was in a terrible state.”

Sean frowned. “So it’s not likely she’d travel to London?”

“Oh God, no.”

“That’s odd. I wonder why she had a new Oyster card?”

The Dentist was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time: fling, eagle, goat, _un, dentist, greed, tracks, boxed, wait, oyster.

A Message from Moriarty

     I wonder continually about Sherlock. He takes it for granted he can bank on me – which he can, of course – but once some new mystery is on his mind, he barges in like a rogue elephant, no thought of anyone else.
    Take this morning, for example. There I am in my underpants and vest, in the middle of getting dressed, and I look up to see him there. I’m getting the impression he doesn’t believe in door bells.
    “Ah, John,” he says, “I’ve been going through the condolence cards from my funeral.”
    I pull on my trousers and make an attempt to quip, “It must be interesting to see what people don’t think about you.”
    He looks up from something in his hand and, amazingly, for once my words seem to have penetrated his single-mindedness. But not for long.
    “Going for the jugular, eh? Well, get over it.” He waves a small card in the air. “There’s a cryptic message from Jim Moriarty.”
     My mouth must have dropped open, for he looks at me with one of those patronising stares. “Yes, I know he shot himself, but he was a man to think ahead. Here. Read this.”
    Taking the card from his outstretched hand I read aloud. It is unsigned.

    “Around, over the width of a circle, Hitler’s bodyguards are separated 
    from a unit of resistance”, the Danish prince would say logically.

    “How does that prove it’s from Moriarty?” I say, and attempting to decrypt it, continue, “Width of a Circle – that’s from the Bowie album The Man Who Sold The World. Is that anything to do with it?”
    Sherlock puffs out his lips in despair, then starts to explain.
    “Take each bit in turn. ‘Width of a Circle’, that’s the diameter. ‘Around’ – that’s the circumference. Divide one by the other, and you get?”
    “Pi.”
    “And Hitler’s bodyguards?”
    “The S.S.”
    “The unit of electrical resistance?”
    “Ohm.”
    “So that’s ‘O’. And Hamlet is the Danish prince. Who is famous for the quote ‘To be…’”
    “’…or not to be’. Yes, I know. Get to the point.”
    “The card says ‘logically’. So if we write the quotation as an expression using Hex numbers –
2B OR NOT 2B – and minimise this using some Boolean logic, what do we get?”
    “Enlighten me.”
    “We get ‘FF’.”
    “So?”
    “Put them all together, and that’s why I know it’s from Jim Moriarty – PI. SS. O. FF.”

The Unwilling Guest

My first post is a copy of a submission I made in response to a Creative Writing exercise. We were given ten particular words to use within a piece of short fiction. I won't bother listing the words, although you may be able to guess a couple. The piece is here because I had fun writing it.

The Unwilling Guest

I dropped the cruet in the punch bowl and the conversation around the table stopped.

Maureen, my wife, apologised on my behalf, claiming that I was suffering from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome – the annoying tingle of pins and needles that can result in numbness and pain in one’s hands. There was a collective hum of sympathy, but it was only a brief respite before the inane chat continued.

The truth was: I had needed to do something to relieve the boredom. Perhaps it’s something to do with age, a growing intolerance with people wasting what remains of my life. Perhaps I’m entering a second childhood – I don’t know. I do know I’d rather knit fog than hear about the latest celebrity gossip. And why this preoccupation about footballers and their teams? I know diddly squat about that and don’t want to.

Not that it would have been any better sat amongst the bride’s guests – they all seemed like they had corks up their proverbials. Or a number three wood, as they’re all golf fanatics.

I had told Maureen I didn’t want to come to the wedding. Of course, when she said I didn’t have a ghost of a chance of avoiding it, I wasn’t going to argue. Yet when we arrived and I gazed around the room at the range of numpties there, I decided I wasn’t just going to sit around.

Before anyone else came into the dining area I managed to switch around quite a few of the name cards on the tables. That was entertaining. I told a few guests that I am called John Royd, and my wife is called Emma. And that fake telegram I was able to slip into the pile: I can’t wait for that to be read out.

I’m sure Maureen suspects something is going on.

Ah well, they’ll be divvying up the wedding cake soon. I can flick sultanas at the bride’s mother.