Here's a double helping of fantasy, a 1600 word story, from the guy who didn't think he could write fantasy. I suppose mine is too rooted in reality to be out and out fantasy - no swords, sandals or mythical beasts. Still, I hope you enjoy it.
I first noticed the difference in Tuesday’s English lesson with 4B. I suppose most teachers can manage the usual trick.
You know the one. Facing the blackboard, you might say, ‘Don’t go to sleep yet, Hutchings. Wait till the lesson’s finished.’ or (utterly reckless of your professional career) ‘If you don’t stay in your seat, young Potts, I’ll glue your disgusting trousers to it.’
It’s a combination of your knowledge of the usual class suspects and an ear attuned to every sound in the room, from creaking floorboards to the rustle of paper aeroplanes. Snoring of course is a dead giveaway.
That Tuesday afternoon I surprised myself. Terry Turnbull was dumbfounded.
‘That won’t fly, Turnbull. A Muller corner lid lacks the structural integrity for unpowered flight.’
I turned to face the class and an open-mouthed Turnbull - and immediately noticed a minor mistake I’d just written on the blackboard.
‘After you’ve shut your mouth, you can come out here and cross the final T in “tarts”. And I shall be watching you. Don’t even think about adding anything to the first one.’ A couple of seconds went by till they made the connection, then the whole class erupted with laughter.
The bell sounded soon after. The class filed out, still talking about my supernatural powers.
Driving home, it was very disconcerting at first not to have to check the mirror to see the traffic behind me. But already I was beginning to fantasize about how I might be able to use this new power.
At home, I asked, ‘Darling, can you see anything different about the back of my head? . . . Look closer, then. Anything at all?’
Sylvie carefully ran her fingers through my hair.
‘What’s that?’ she shrieked. ‘Oh, my God, what is it?’
She slapped my arm, quite hard. ‘You’ve been to that joke shop again, haven’t you?’
‘No, love. It just happened this morning. I don’t know what it is. What does it look like?’
‘It’s an eye - a bloody eye! It was looking at me.’
‘Yes, I saw you. You did look surprised.’
‘Of course I was surprised!’ She sat down suddenly on the nearest chair and started to sob. ‘You’ll have to see the doctor. I’ll phone Jim’
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen those flying saucer abduction movies. No, we’ve got to keep this quiet.’ I patted her shoulder while I looked around for a pen and paper. ‘Let’s think about it, Sylvie. This could open up possibilities we’ve never dreamed of. Now if I were a football referee, or a store detective . . hm . . wonder if MI5 could use me? Is it something I could teach others to develop? Start an Academy of the Super Senses?
Sylvia’s sobbing got louder.
‘Could you be quiet a minute, love? I’m thinking.’
She rushed off into the kitchen. A bit early, I thought, to start the dinner. Has she got something special to prepare? It’s not an anniversary or something, is it? I’m not very good at remembering them.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? How did I manage to see through my hair. It’s not short at the back. Sylvia hadn’t noticed anything odd till she parted it. No, not odd. Unusual, yes, Special, even. Special. It’s special. I’m special.
The point is, how could I manage to see so clearly - even that uncrossed “t” on the blackboard - if my special vision was obscured by hair?
The thoughts were coming thick and fast now. Next thing I found myself in the hallway, calling out excitedly to Sylvia, ‘Just had an idea, love. Nothing for you to worry about!’ I resisted the temptation to use the phrase “pretty little head”; I learned that lesson a long time ago.
I grabbed one of my trilbies off the hatstand. Sylvia was always at me to get rid of them. ‘Nobody your age wears a hat like that now. It makes you look ten years older.’ She worries about things like that.
First, I closed my front eyes - as I had already come to think of them. Immediately the world went dark. So, my special vision was somehow connected to them. Just as well, otherwise sleep would be a real problem. Carefully I put the hat on and lowered it over where I judged the special one to be, took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
I could see clearly everything behind me. Wow! How far coulod this go?
Pots and pans were clattering in the kitchen, as if Sylvia was searching for something.
I wondered, could I? Is it possible? If I can see through a hat, could I see through a wall?
I turned so that my back was toward the kitchen. Nothing at first. I concentrated, willing myself to see, trying to become aware of the focus of the eye, extending that focus further and further, till suddenly . . .
I could see Sylvia in the kitchen. I could actually see her, through the wall, clear as anything.
She was standing at the open door of the ‘odds and ends’ cupboard, where she kept the utensils that she hardly ever used. I could see that she was holding the cast iron frying pan my mother had given her some years ago. It was part of a gift set for her birthday. Can’t think why she’d looked that out. She had always resented it; called it a reflection on her cooking skills. Personally, I thought it was nice of Mother to try to help, always coming round with recipes for the dishes I used to like when I was at home.
I was getting really excited now about this new-found skill, attribute, whatever you like to call it. What could I do with it? What could I not do with it? I needed to experiment.
‘Just going out, love. Don’t bother about cooking anything special; I’m too excited to eat much, anyway. I’ve got to test this new skill, find out all the things I can do with it.’
I was on one knee in the hallway, putting a shoe on, when I saw Sylvia coming out of the kitchen behind me.
‘No need to come with me, dear. You won’t be able to help. Just stay at home and get on with your wifey things.’
I saw the heavy pan coming towards the back of my head, felt the wind of its swing, but I couldn’t do a thing about it, kneeling there.
A blinding pain in my head, flashes of light.
When I came round, much later, I was in a bed at the Royal Infirmary, head bandaged and tongue babbling. They told me later that I’d been singing, ‘Remember you’re a Womble’ over and over. People do funny things under anaesthetic.
Our GP was there, Jim Harrison. We’ve known him since schooldays. Sylvia was there, crying again. It’s an annoying habit. I’ve told her many times. The consultant was there. And the policeman. Forgot about him, sitting there taking notes. I wonder how many pages he had of ‘Remember you’re a Womble’. He was very young.
Jim was on his feet and quickly came across to me.
‘Hallo, David, good to see you awake. How much do you remember?’
Of course, I remembered everything. I pride myself on my good memory - well, except for birthdays, anniversaries, stuff like that. But I hesitated. I could see the warning in his eyes. I could see my little Sylvie, still shaking.
‘No, not much,” I said. ‘Did I . . . have a fall?’
‘We’re not sure, David. Sylvia was a bit confused when she rang 999. Then she rang me afterwards.’ Jim gave me a look that said, plain as anything, just as well she did.
The young policeman got to his feet. ‘Excuse me, doctor. I have to check.’ Then to me, ‘Are you sure, sir, there’s nothing more you can remember?’
‘Yes, there is.’ The room waited.
‘For some reason,’ I said, ’I think I was carrying a frying pan at the time.’
He seemed to be satisfied. Sylvia gave me a trembling smile from across the room.
Then it was the consultant’s turn. She told me I’d been taken straight to A&E and operated on. There was now a metal plate in the back of my head. She said they’d had a real mess to clear up, including what appeared to be a growth. Had I noticed anything there?
‘No,’ I said, ‘What sort of growth?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said, ‘We did a biopsy. It wasn’t malignant. Anyway, it’s all gone now. You don’t need to worry about it.’
‘But could you identify it? I mean what sort of…?’
‘Just a growth. Just tissue. Nothing to worry about. Really.’
All that was some weeks ago. Sylvia and I are picking up the pieces, as they say. She’s out of hospital, too. The other hospital, if you know what I mean. I’m on beta blockers for my blood pressure and on extended leave from school, and she’s on vallium again. The psychologist said we should take a break, get away from it all for a while. Bournemouth is still quite warm in September.
There was one thing I didn’t tell him. Perhaps because I’ve now lost that special extra sense, as it were, another sense has become more acute. I feel it now, as I put my hands behind my head and settle back on the deck-chair, and the murmur of the waves a few yards away grows louder.