I waited patiently at the window for Kieran to show. The afternoon dragged into evening.

He never appeared.

It was eight o'clock and night transformed gnarled trees and shuttered houses into grotesque silhouettes. I walked down the narrow staircase. I could hear the cough of the old man in the antique shop. I scrambled over clapboard fencing and kicked my way through the creepers. I saw The Spook standing under the shadow of the church. He was watching me intently, rubbing his pale hands together. When I looked again, he metamorphosed into a stone gargoyle right in front of my eyes. The lips were curled up in an eternal and abhorrent sneer. I shivered and pressed on.

I searched the cemetery, stooping to look behind and between tombstones. I couldn't find him.

I stumbled upon the angel, brooding under those old willows. I gazed at her for a while. Then, as I turned right around, I saw a memorial sculpture I had never noticed before staring at me from tall yellow gra.s.s.

Recognition clicked as I met his dark eyes.

I stepped back and felt cold stone against my hands and realised he wasn't looking at me at all.

I returned to my apartment and dug through some boxes under my bed. I found a Polaroid amongst my old clothes and books.

I crossed the cemetery. The moon was full and the stars were scattered like chips of gla.s.s. Behind the railings, the willows were thick and silent. I brushed away some dirt and twigs with the back of my hand. I knelt before my angel and raised the camera. As my fingertip poised over the switch, I wondered whether my pictures could ever be half as good as one of Kieran's.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000].

CONCENTING ADULTS.

by Hugh Cook.

Burton Hurst saw Matilda at the Electronic Grandmother launch. Her fluroescent pink name tag proclaimed her corporate handle, but her real name, of course, was unknown to him. A woman of phosph.o.r.escent beauty, the light gleaming from her white, white teeth.

"And you're Paul," she said, reading his corporate tag.

"Burton, actually," he said, using his real name, A mistake. In one fingersnap instant, he was blanked out of the launch. He found himself in a corporate lecture theatre, empty but for the cartoon figure of a Vigilant.

"You know the rules, Paul," said the Vigilant.

"Sure," said Burton. "Mea culpa. It won't happen again."

The rules of Business-Business were simple. Business is business, and leave your personal life out of it.

However, a month later Burton saw Matilda again at the Pyongyang condominium launch. (Pyongyang? Sometime capital of North Korea. Available for development now that there were no more North Koreans. And, once you've made your house into a cheery home by installing an electronic grandmother, you're going to want somewhere to put the real one, and what better place than an all-care automated condominium in Pyongyang? Right?) "I'm going to be expert-systemed next month," she said, all matter-of-fact.

Expert-systemed. That meant she would appear no more in the vitual world Business-Business. Instead, a computer would be doing her job. A computer model of the real woman would perform all the woman's business functions, and any chance of ever meeting the real-and-truly flesh-in-the-flesh Matilda would be lost to Burton forever.

He pet.i.tioned Dave Glingor, his boss.

"I'm in love," said Burton.

"In love!" said Dave. "What a nonsense! You've only seen her twice! Besides, you know how it is."

Burton knew. Ever since the virtual T-Rex had eaten the kid in the Dinosaur Wonderland, initiating the virtual malpractice lawsuit, virtual corporations had turned mother-nanny cautious. Virtual rape lawsuits, virtual s.e.xual harra.s.sment lawsuits, molestation lawsuits - it had got to the point where the hard-hit corporations had no option but to compel their employees to behave like robots in suits.

"You know how it is," said Dave. "If I so much as give you permission to ask her real name, that lays us wide open to a s.e.xual harra.s.sment suit."

Checkmate. Or was it? No! There was one more thing to try. So Burton did it. Masquerading as the c.o.c.kroach control man, he penetrated the headquarters of Business-Business, and burgled Matilda's personal details.

Tuesday was her day off. And so, the next Tuesday, Burton headed out to her personal residence. The landscape through which he travelled was desolate, deserted but for pizza delivery vans. In a world of virtual work, virtual holidays and virtual education, hardly anyone was on the move during the day except the pizza delivery guys and the relocation trucks which handled the grandmothers.

Bing-bong. Anyone home? Maybe she's still in her hook-up suite, doing a virtual day in virtual Hawaii. And maybe, too, she's not like her Business-Business image. Maybe the real Matilda is 56 years old with hair like the Medussa. Then the door opened and - hey. There she was.

"Burton," she said.

"You remember!" he said.

"Of course I remember," she said. "I was sure you'd get here. I'm... I'm attractive to men."

Such confidence! It suggested - in a way that Burton did not entirely like - that Matilda had done this before.

"Who knows you're here?" she said.

"n.o.body," said Burton. And then: "Matilda! I've waited for this moment for so long! Tell me - what's your real name?"

"People like me don't have real names," said Matilda. "Come on in."

She didn't waste time. She dragged him inside and flung him on the floor. He grinned. So quick? This right-down-to-it stuff was amazing!

Then she bit him. Her long sharp fangs sliced into his neck. More surprised than shocked, he just lay there, listening to the vacuuming guzzle and suck of her hunger. By the time he was ready to start fighting, he was already too weak to fight back. Then she handcuffed him so he couldn't fight any longer.

"You're not going to get away with this," he said. "Dave will figure it out."

"Dave?" said Matilda. "Who is Dave?"

"I don't think I want to tell you that," said Burton, realising he might have made a mistake "Share a woman's privilege," she said, putting some water on to boil. "Change your mind."

After he talked, she used the last of the water to make a cup of coffee.

"Coffee," she said, grinning at him as she lowered her mouth to his neck, "is very good for the digestion."

A long while later, she finally raised her head again. He was very weak by then, and realised he was not far from pa.s.sing out.

"So," he said. "Will I become a vampire like you?"

"Somehow, I don't think so," she said, walking to the corner where she kept the chainsaw and the rubber sheets.

And she was right - he didn't.

The next day, Dave Glingor saw a woman of phosph.o.r.escent beauty smiling at him at the Bubble of Joy design-a-baby conference. Her corporate handle was a bit clunky - Matilda - but the gleaming enthusiasm of her long-toothed smile more than compensated for the name.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998].

ON THE EDGE OF REALITY.

by Davina Marsland.

Have a corner I sit in. Corner of Mind. Almost free from madness and fear. Can explore every inch but day to day it shrinks. Darkness creeps in and gobbles up more s.p.a.ce. Then when return to reality, am in little corner. This has a bed, a locker, a wardrobe, a door. Locked door. To keep me safe they say. Keep them safe they mean. Have no keys to the room. None for mind either. Push against gaping holes where the memories leak out. Fill them with something. Have this pen, this paper, can write. This way have right for something. Control pen. Don't control life.

Would like to scream, cry, shout but this would only result in a needle. For my safety. When needle comes, I go. Into the dark. Where voices wail, hands stretch out for flesh. Can't cry. For my safety, mustn't make a sound. Instead I tell you a story, my story. Pretend it's Oprah Winfrey. Pretend you can see me. Some can. Watching me. Mustn't make a sound. Write story for you. Used to be like you. Had job, home, family, children. Katy and Peter and husband John. Happy. Played Happy Families. Then changed. Not like you now. Not happy. Have nothing except room in head. Live there. Edge of reality. Reality fading. One touch and it turns to dust. Katy and Peter dust. Killed. Dead. Waiting in dark. Not right they said. Not normal. Have to die. John said yes. Yes kill them and let him live. But killed too. Took me...

Want to know my story? Want to see my mind? Only blackness. Dust shrouds memories. Remember though, was coming. Not just guns. Chemicals to kill. In cans like hairspray. Not hairspray. Deathspray. Not us, our village safe from spray. But not water. Drink to survive. Drink to change. Not like you anymore. Contaminated. Flesh grey and all hair gone. Am thing, not person. Have changed, not for better. Change is not always for best. After war, cleansing. Had to be cleansed. Cleansed village. Everybody dead. Not me. Study me. Poke, probe, lift skin. ? Find out truth. Why I'm like this. Don't talk to me much though. Scared of me. Touch with plastic gloves and cold eyes. Could catch my disease. Like to lock door and throw away key. Curiosity is the key, so keep turning lock. Can't write now. Must go to my room. Pretend I am normal. Pretend I am like you.

4.

Could call this day Tuesday, Monday. Anyday. Now all the same day. Have to keep writing. Writing keeps me sane. Every letter I form, makes me real. Room in head so small now. Scrunch into little ball and squeeze inside. Room like museum. Store faces and times. Dusty. Do the watchers see me writing? Is this an experiment? Give me tools to see if I can write still? Can write. Can feel too. Want to die. Think about John. He wanted life. See children dead for his life. Daddy. Daddy was scared. Daddies are meant to be brave. Not bargain with babies. Did they understand? Please G.o.d, let them not have understood. Only three and five. Not normal, they said. Normal to me. Beautiful to me. Mummy's little bundles of joy. Not normal enough for this world. Did anybody escape? Friends, neighbours with their grey flesh and hairless bodies. Do they live in secret? Perform in a circus act as freaks? Are there reports on T.V. about monsters? About my friends? Or are they all dead? Ticked off the list, one by one. Stop now. Door opening.

3.

Frightened. Frightened when hair started falling. Didn't know what was happening. Couldn't find out. War was everywhere. Had to keep in Village. Katy's hair first. Baby hair. Then skin. Rough like sandpaper. Grey. Knew it was bad water. But needed water. Had to drink. Ugly. Became so ugly. Shocked when saw neighbours. Shocked when saw self. Broke mirror. Seven years bad luck. Bad luck happens in threes. Bad luck just happens... To anybody. Left alone at first. Months of wondering. Then came. Wearing clothes to protect. With guns. Came to help they said. One soldier too scared. Peter's friend ran towards him. Shot him. Then we knew. Too late. Rounded up like cattle. Screams. Blood. Not red blood anymore. Yellow blood. Spewing over the ground. Took me. Who else? Is this place full of us? Or is there just me left.

2.

HAVE TO LIVE. CAN'T DIE. IF DIE THEY CAN PRETEND. PRETEND NOTHING IS WRONG. CRAWL INTO HOLE AND THINK. CAN'T THINK NOW. HAVE TO LIVE. AM HERE TO TELL STORY. WHEN I WAS CHILD, LIVED WITH MOTHER. SHE SAID I COULD DO ANYTHING. BELIEVED. BELIEVED IN GOOD. GOT BIG. GOT JOB. DID WHAT WANTED. TAUGHT. TAUGHT ENGLISH. TAUGHT GOOD THINGS, NOT VIOLENCE. TAUGHT LOVE. SOLDIER KILLED PETER'S FRIEND, MY PUPIL. BEST MARKS IN CLa.s.s. NICE BOY. DID HE KNOW ME? DID HE SEE HIS TEACHER? OR DID HE SEE MONSTER? AM MONSTER. STILL BELIEVE. SOMETIMES. STILL THINK THAT THERE IS GOOD. SOMETIMES. NOT REALITY. ONLY PRETEND. LIKE CHILD WHO MAKES BELIEVE. THIS IS END. SICK OF LIFE. SICK OF PEOPLE WHO LOOK AT ME. LIKE YOU. AM LIKE YOU. COULD HAVE BEEN YOU. FEEL. THINK. CRY. LIKE YOU. DIFFERENT BUT SAME. STOP NOW. THINK NOW. MOURN LOSS.

1.

LOOKED FOR ROOM. ROOM GONE. CRY FOR ROOM. MUSTN'T CRY. BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY. FOR MY SAFETY. MUSTN'T CRY. MUSTN'T MAKE SOUND. CAN'T SEE FACES NOW. CAN'T REMEMBER FACE FROM BEFORE. ONLY GREY FACE. FALL DOWN. MUSTN'T CRY. FALL DOWN AND STAY DOWN. MUSTN'T CRY. TEETER ON EDGE. THEN FALL. CAN'T TELL WHAT IS TRUTH. AM I MAD? CAN'T TELL. ONLY TELL THIS STORY. YOU DECIDE.

[Originally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996].

HORIZON.

by Caroline Dunford.

The horizon was cool and blue and distant: a thick band between the sea and the sky barely visible to the eye; a place of mystery, a sign of romance, somewhere that no human eye could see beyond; a special place outside of time. Sarah stretched out her fingers to touch it, her eyes half closed beneath her tangled fringe, giving her the illusion of closeness. As she watched the sun dimmed and the sky turned a pale purple, as delicate and beautiful as a lover's dream. Sarah shivered with cold, shuffled by feet and prayed for a bus.

Gathering fresh mussels had seemed a gloriously romantic idea. However she had no one to share them with and due to a slight mishap with a rockpool her feet were rapidly becoming blocks of ice. The bus-stop was on a bend and Sarah could see quite clearly that there was no traffic coming in either direction for a least two miles. Actually there was no-one in sight. She looked down at the bucket.

"Just you and I guys," she said and then felt remarkably foolish.

The hue of the sky was darkening rapidly and Sarah began to wish she had checked the bus times more carefully. This was a wonderfully romantic place, but it was also very isolated. Sarah began to be afraid.

Think of something else, she told herself. This is a remote seaside. No madman in search of a victim would some here. Did anyone come here? A slight sea breeze rose and litter tumbled across the beach and up onto the pavement. Obviously people did come here.

Then with surprise she saw a wallet skid along the ground past her. Abandoning the muscles to their own devices, she chased it down the road. The wallet skipped and weaved as if it were alive.

"Stay still! Won't you?" cried Sarah struggling with her own scarf and hat, which seemed envious of the wallet's freedom.

It caught under a bush. Sarah fished it out and headed back to the bus-stop. The leather was whitened by salt, but the pouch was dry. Feeling like a thief, she opened it. The edge of a blue note peeked up in front of a folded paper. There were no credit cards or bank cards. Sarah pulled her left hand glove off with her teeth and picked out the paper. It was a birth certificate. It read Sarah Mary Swan, born 12th June 1960, Cliffton Memorial Hospital, Brighton, Mother Helen Swan, Father Unknown.

Sarah Mary Swan dropped the wallet and sat down suddenly. The wind whirled the wallet and the paper away. Sarah sank her hands deep in the soft embankment, clutching the sank, trying to feel the real world.

"Oh my G.o.d," she breathed softly. "He's alive."

The last time she had seen her own birth certificate had been in court. It had been stolen from her house the night before her mother had died.

The day she went to court came rushing back. The bitter bile in her memory made her gag. It had been a sweltering August day, a confusing day. All she could remember clearly was the deep bell-like voice of the judge.

"You have been found guilty of the murder of Helen Swan."

And then she had fainted, slipped into blessed oblivion, but not before she had seen the expression on his face.

"Dear G.o.d," she breathed. "He's here. He's here."