It was Saturday at last and the warm sun glowed on Jack from a bright blue sky as he paused
under the arbour of sweet smelling honeysuckle. He tentatively held out a finger to place it
next to the pink and white flowers and watched in fascination as a large bee settled upon it.
He could feel all six of its hairy legs as it explored right to the end of his nail, flicking its
proboscis in rapid licks before it buzzed off to find a flower that contained nectar instead of
blood.
That was Jack, always brave and pushing the boundaries of conventional life.
The black and white cottage in front of him had been Kate’s grandma’s home since she was
born 73 years previously. Grandma claimed she had been born on the night of the full moon
at 7 pm on the 7th day of the 7th month and that was why she was psychic, and that meant
she could predict the future. Kate had once calculated and informed grandma that her birth
date of 1940 was equally auspicious. She had added the individual numbers together,
1+9+4+0, it made 14 i.e. two sevens and therefore quite magical for many people on earth
who believed in the superstitious nonsense of numbers. Grandma had commented on the date
too. It was auspicious, it was the start of World War ІІ. Grandma had also told most visiting
children that she weighed 7 kilos at birth, which was really far-fetched. But Kate saw things
that others didn’t, that others missed, and knew that her grandma could have unique insights
into the future, and these always came true. But Kate would never share that knowledge, they
would think she was as crazy as grandma if they knew she saw things too...
The pretty cottage nestled under a straw thatched roof and stood halfway between Jack’s
house and The Old Manor house where Roger was due home at 12 noon.
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Jack had wandered to the rear of the cottage and seeing no one through the dirty kitchen
window, he decided to go in via the backdoor. It squeaked as he pushed it open.
‘Hello, anyone at home?’ He jumped in fright as a large grey shadow leaped onto the floor in
front of him. ‘Why do you always do that? You know it scares me silly.’ Wispy the Persian
cat appraised him from the floor. Her green eyes blazed and made him feel like Wispy could
see straight through him but that was impossible of course. ‘No, I am not going to feed you.
Go and find your own food, there are loads of mice in the garden.’
Wispy turned her head on one side and meowed. ‘No, no, no.’
‘Yes, yes, yes’ said grandma walking into the kitchen. He jumped again and clasped his hand
to his heart.
‘Goodness me grandma, why is it you and the cat always manage to scare me?’
‘Because we are scary my dear! I’m a witch and Wispy is my peculiar.’
‘Don’t you mean your familiar?’
‘Do I?’ She replied with her head tilted to one side.
Jack felt uneasy again. ‘Well she certainly is peculiar. Too fat by far, as well as the runt of the
litter.’
‘Now now young man, she can understand you, you know.’
‘Don’t be daft grandma, she’s just a cat!’ Wispy looked up haughtily at Jack as she brushed
past his ankles and jumped on grandma’s knee as soon as she was settled in her rocking chair.
Kate appeared with a thump as she jumped the last two stairs that led into the kitchen. She
was wearing a short pink dress to accentuate her golden locks and looked like a Disney
princess. At age nearly 12, she was still a girlie girl. She kept her soft toys on her bed and
preferred reading books to Facebook or TV.
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‘Hello Jack’ she fluttered her eyelashes, ‘have you come to take me to the cinema? There’s a
lovely film about ponies that has just come out.’
‘Are you jokin or what?’ Jack could be very rude to his best “friend-girl” who adored him. ‘I
wondered if you were coming to meet splodger as he’s home soon.’ He stared at her white
ballet shoes, making her self-consciously look down. She had put them on as she was reading
about the fairy queen and felt the need to look like her. Grandma could see her
embarrassment.
‘They were her mum’s Jack. I thought Kate might want to take up ballet. Her mum was really
quite good at it.’ Jack felt awkward. Kate’s mum had died four years earlier and now he was
sorry he had been so rude. He attempted a joke.
‘If we play footie, you’ll have to go in goal. Goalkeepers sometimes wear pink.’
‘Back in a minute.’ She trilled and then she turned and lightly ran upstairs to change into
jeans and converse basketball shoes.
Her “girliness” was becoming more of a dilemma, she didn’t want to change her fashion but
the boys in their gang were always taking the Mickey now. ‘Why shouldn’t I wear pretty
clothes?’ had been the argument at Easter. They had been playing in the park and she had
started to cry when likened to Lady Gaga. However, the boys had been sufficiently ashamed
to walk across and pat her on the shoulder. Hugs would never have been considered and even
pats were a sign of weakness. In unison they had said sorry and Jack had explained ‘It’s a boy
thing, you know, teasing and all that.’ But they were growing up whilst grandma tried to keep
her beloved granddaughter as a child. She thought it was a way of protecting her from the
loss of her mum. At the time Kate had replied.
‘Well you should show some consideration for others Jack George and Roger Ponsonby-
Smythe. We all have a right to be individuals!’
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She bounced back down the stairs and stared at Jack waiting for his approval of the new
outfit. Jack was sat on a bench by the pine table with his arms crossed. He totally ignored her.
However, her tears had dried up whilst in her bedroom and she was back to her skippy self.
‘Do you fancy a cup cake Jack? They have lovely pink icing on the top?’ He was such a boy
with his answer.
‘No way. Maybe if they were chocolate.’ He left it hanging and grandma smiled as she could
see how much Kate wanted to impress him.
‘Come on Jack, I helped her to make them and they even have strawberry jam fillings. Be
tempted my boy.’ Jack selected the largest cup cake and demolished it in two bites. He dwelt
on his guilt to persuade him to accept their kindness with an odd ‘good’ and ‘quite yummy’;
which made Kit Kat happy again. This was Kate’s nickname, given to her by Jack the
previous hot summer, when he had caught her licking her fingers smeared with chocolate
after she had demolished two of the bars. He had also likened her to Wispy’s favourite cat
food. Now, whenever he used the nickname it made her feel guilty about the episode and
delighted by his attention. Grandma could see he was fidgeting and restless to leave. She
sniffed loudly, her fat jowls wobbling.
‘I can smell something acrid, a burning sulphurous smell of rotten eggs. It’s so warm in here
children, have I left the oven on?’ Kate and Jack looked knowingly at each other. Grandma
was off on one again. One of her silly predictions was coming, they could tell. She slowly
walked to the oven and checked it was turned off. Then she flopped back into her brown
leather armchair by the old-fashioned range.
‘Dear me, I am so forgetful nowadays. I felt all hot and bothered as if I was inside a cave, it
was stifling and smelly.’ Kate and grandma exchanged glances. Kate knew she had seen the
future but it was a skill to be hidden from everyone but themselves.
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‘Come on Jack, let’s go and see Roger.’ Kate kissed grandma on the cheek and followed Jack
out the door and down the winding path of the pretty cottage garden.
* * *
As they neared the pond at the centre of the village, they could hear a dog barking inexcitement. Turning the corner by the ancient church, they could see it was Licko, Roger’s
brown shaggy mutt that was running up and down the plank of the village ducking stool.
Roger was seated on the landward end, whilst Licko ran towards the seat that precariously
perched above the water. The long stool dipped slowly downwards and kissed the pond
allowing Licko to sip the dirty water before racing back towards his master and re-balance
the seesaw, ensuring the crazy dog stayed dry.
Kit Kat and Jack looked down on Roger and beamed welcoming smiles. As Licko ran to the
opposite end of the ducking stool, Roger explained the game.
‘Hello men, I was teaching Licko some basic mechanics that we learned at school this term.
Change the weight and distance from the fulcrum to achieve a balance.’ Kate had crossed her
arms and was hugging her purple “X-factor” T-shirt.
‘And hello women’ she said adamantly. She admired Roger for his intelligence but not for his
old-fashioned views on the female sex. She stared hard at him to remind him she was female.
Roger was a lightweight, gawky boy with black hair and heavy black glasses.
He pushed his glasses tighter on to his nose. ‘Oh yes, sorry, just an expression you know.’ He
stood up to shake hands with his friends, just as Licko was at the far end of the plank. There
was a howl followed by a loud splash as the dog somersaulted into the green stagnant water
causing the ducks to complain loudly as they quacked their way to the opposite shore. ‘Oh I
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say.’ He turned, appalled, to watch his dog paddling towards them as Kate and Jack collapsed
onto the grass laughing hysterically.
Jack was the first to recover as he sat with his arms around his knees to hold himself upright.
‘I think your fulcrum must have moved dimwit.’
‘No Jack, actually no. It was the temporary aberration of my weight, a little displacement
rather than a change in pivot point.’ Jack was lost with the use of the big words and he
certainly didn’t understand mechanics, he preferred any sport at school and excelled in them
all.
He was shaking his head as he replied. ‘What? Is that the same thing as - I forgot my dog and
stood up?’ All three started laughing as Licko looked dolefully at them through a pile of green
algae perched on the crown of his head. But the laughs quickly turned to screams as he
started to shake his heavy coat, covering them with mud and water laced by spots of green.
They raced away from the dog but were chased by Licko who was full of excitement after his
adventure and it wasn’t until they had slammed the side door at The Manor that they were
safe from the silly mutt.
An awfully posh voice echoed down the corridor leading to the snug. ‘Roger, Roger darling.
Is that you?’ The three friends trooped through the door to find Maria and Rupert Ponsonby-
Smythe sharing a Financial Times and a cafetiere of finest blue Tanzanian coffee. They were
sat on a large brown settee made out of leather that had seen better days, they were rich but
careful with their pennies. Maria carried on. ‘Katie and Jack G, how nice to see you. How
were your exams last term, did you get all A’s?’ Maria smiled at them giving time for Jack to
reply.
‘We didn’t do no exams Mrs Ponsonby.’ Maria tilted her nose downwards to peer over her
Dolce and Gabbana reading glasses.
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‘Smythe.’ She completed her name for the boy. ‘Dear me, what are state schools coming to
Rupert?’ The beautiful dark-haired women with a large nose tried to encourage her husband
to join in the conversation.
He grumped instead. ‘FTSE’s down again Maria. Dashed inconvenient that BP oil spill off
Libya.’
She encouraged him gently again. ‘Darling, look who’s here!’ He briefly raised his bald head
to appraise the three children.
‘Watch you don’t get that mud on the carpet you three. Now toddle off and play, whilst we
get on with adult business.’ They were dismissed by the busy parents and immediately
disappeared to Roger’s study in the attic. On the second floor he also had a cavernous
bedroom, his own lounge to watch the latest Sky 72 inch 3D Sony TV and an Apple PC in his
equally large attic study. Roger’s “occasional” living area in between the boarding school
terms, was the size of Kate’s grandma’s cottage! They settled down to play “world
domination” on the sofa in the study. Jack fetched Roger’s laptop from the bedroom and Kate
borrowed Roger’s IPad Air from the lounge. Although she was new to gaming, the boys were
surprised how quickly she picked it up and over the next two hours she had amassed an
exciting batch of new assets. 15 houses, 100 horses and a commercial stable for breeding
racehorses. Jack now had 25 destroyers, 6 stealth fighters and an army of 1000 men. Whereas
Roger had diversified into gold and diamonds on the “futures” market i.e. trading the
valuable commodities today based on the expected prices in months to follow. He found he
had the knack for this sort of trading, which imitated his dad. He looked like his dad, he
traded like his dad and he was intelligent like him. By 5 pm the three friends called it a day
and went their separate ways vowing to play the game that evening and keep in touch via
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Facebook chat. The next morning they planned to visit “The Place” at about 10 am, their
secret hideout on the outskirts of Christleton, near the playing fields.
As Jack walked into his home, little did he realise that a faceless technician under the volcano
in deepest Africa had logged a statistic on his computer that named Kate, Jack and Roger in
the world’s top ten newcomers to the Facebook game of “world domination”.
‘Mum...is tea ready, I’m starving.’ Jack always shouted each demand at home.
‘Ask your dad,’ she partly turned from the computer screen where she was looking at the
work emails from the day before that she hadn’t had time to review. ‘He’s in charge.’
‘Dad... what’s fur tea?’ Jack shouted again at the top of his voice without knowing where dad
was. Timmo, Jack’s brother came into the kitchen and slid on his stocking feet across the
shiny tile floor before ending his skid next to Jack.
Timmo announced in his best BBC voice. ‘Fabtastic, Tim - nice and thin, has now perfected
his skiing technique, whilst waiting to be summoned for training with the British squad in Val
D’Isere.’
Jack ignored his younger brother’s ambitions. ‘Dad.......what’s fur...’
‘He won’t answer you bro, he’s on the bog.’
Mum closed the lid of the laptop. ‘Timmo! Please don’t use that word.’
‘But isn’t it better than crapper, like they constantly use in America?’ Tim had an answer for
everything. Jack turned and vigorously pushed him along the floor as Timmo balanced in a
perfect snowboarding pose before collapsing onto an armchair with a ‘yippee.’
‘Boys, please!’ She remonstrated.
They stopped giggling as soon as Dad appeared. ‘Did someone want me?’
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‘Yes’ the boys said in unison, ‘what’s for tea?’ Dad busied himself by the cooker and
mumbled something. ‘What dad?’ He mumbled again and found his wife had approached
from behind to give him a hug.
She whispered in his ear. ‘Did we forget tea my wonderful man? My hunter-gatherer who
guards the nest until mummy bird comes home?’ Jack turned to Timmo and made a poking
sign with his finger prodding towards his open mouth.
Jack mouthed the words ‘love’ just before his mum turned to announce. ‘Fish and chips is
what we are having for tea my honey buns, so who wants to come and fetch them with their
mum?’ Raucous shouts of ‘me’ surrounded her as she found her car keys to drive the boys to
King Louie’s chip emporium in the next village. Which left dad with a single task to
complete that Saturday teatime, the best part of the week apart from later when watching
Match of the Day. He gratefully opened a can of cold lager and sat down with a sigh.
As England slept, the same faceless technician was on duty at 11 pm GMT, Greenwich Mean
Time and was surprised to see Kate, Jack and Roger had been joined in the top newcomers to
the “world domination” game by someone nicknamed Timmo, who happened to share a
computer IP address with the boy called Jack. This new boy’s Facebook profile photo was a
Bentley Mausanne Cabriolet and Timmo had been busy all evening trading in sports cars,
mainly Ferraris. His Facebook profile said that he was brother to a complete twerp who kept
calling him dim, when indeed he was not. The notes also said his only interests in life were
Top Gear and fast cars. One of his family picture albums showed a nine-year-old boy, who
was the spitting image of his brother who lay snoring on his back in the small bedroom next
door. The Facebook age restriction didn’t matter to the technician, all that mattered was skill
playing the game.
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* * *
It was also 11 pm in East London and all good children were asleep to make sure they were
fresh and alert at school on Monday morning but Marshall Hines couldn’t sleep. His dreams
had become too scary recently. He was tall and gangly, with a mop of red hair above his thin
white face. His mum was at work in Canary Wharf, as a cleaner on the 27th floor, as Marshall
crouched in front of her netbook playing “world domination”. As she flicked her feather
duster across the PC’s of the world’s biggest bank, he studied his assets and guessed at which
to trade. He wasn’t particularly good at it, he bounced around the world buying and selling
assets made from cocoa because he liked chocolate and then he bought some sugar cane
because sugar went into the chocolate. He couldn’t understand why he was doing so well in
the league tables as he only played three evenings a week and always when his mum was at
work, but somehow his scores were terrific. He sold a tonne of cocoa powder to a trader in
China and turned the netbook off. Now he was sufficiently tired to go to sleep but he still
dreaded the newly recurring dreams of his dad running away and the brother he vaguely
remembered making a crystal radio set. The ongoing nightmare was his mum not returning
from work. An illogical nightmare, as she was just a cleaner in the big offices of The City, so
nothing could possibly happen to her. However, the emotional scars of desertion ran through
his heart and straight into his brain as he slept.
What he didn’t see later, was his mum kneeling by his bed to stroke his hair and kiss him
goodnight. After coping with her husband’s desertion, she had thought of suicide when her
eldest boy had runaway. It was the love of Marshall that had kept her alive and when she
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stared at the lights of the city from the heights of Canary Wharf she would sometimes cry
into her reflection as life was so hard.
* * *
Twip Twop was quite a nasty piece of work. Techno had given him the crazy nickname afterseeing the Twitter site called “Twop Twips”, which was one of his favourites. Now the name
was commonly used by everyone in the volcano rather than the real one, Les Teppes. Twip
Twop was uncontrollable and unpredictable, like the Twitter website. His white hair, and
small pink eyes made him scary. He was an albino 1.5 metres tall with stooped shoulders and
pigeon toes. He had met Madame Musseine and Biceps in the grimy French prison near Nice.
The judge who had sentenced MM, had decided she was stronger and more ferocious than
any man and so had decided a man’s prison was the only safe place for her. No one had ever
dared approach the black duo but the French albino idiot called Les Teppes, felt compelled to
sidle up to them one day. His nonsensical mind had no boundaries and so fear of the two
brutes was not on his agenda.
‘Getting out soon are we?’ The gruesome twosome ignored him. ‘If not getting out, maybe I
can help you leave?’ MM signalled to Biceps with a nod.
He asked the obvious question in a rough and accusing voice. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have a plan that involves garbage from the kitchen.’ Les Teppes squirmed his feet in the
dusty yard and rung his hands together as he waited.
‘And your point is?’ Said the brute.
‘My point, my giant friend, is I work in the kitchen and I put the garbage in the refuse lorry
each day.’
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MM turned to the albino and smiled with brown teeth ruined by years of hashish. ‘Dear little
man, or should I say Les Teppes? May I be so bold to call you that, my new friend?’
Twip Twop giggled uncontrollably, his mind was warped. ‘Yes Madame, you can call me
anything you want based on the numbers of men you have murdered with your bare hands!’
He giggled again before she led him aside to work out the escape plan and arrange for his
reward. But Les Teppes was never paid, he wanted a job. One of power and in submission to
his dearest love, Madame Musseine. That was why the technician delivered the computer
printouts of the world league tables to him at midnight GMT. It was Twip Twop who delved
into the software matrix that controlled the core of the game and it was he who manipulated
Marshall Hine’s scores to make him win, no matter how badly he played.
MM had told him Marshall must be a winner and what MM said, Twip Twop did.
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