CULT WATCH

WARNING: SOME STORIES MAY CONTAIN DISTURBING SCENS
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WHERE’S THE BOY?

Anthony North

Mrs Abraham confirmed it. A sweet, elderly lady of seventy, she had seen the boy go into the surgery just after it had opened. ‘Yes,’ she said, stood in the street with her shopping bag and blue rinse, ‘he was about fourteen with blonde hair and glasses and he was waiting when they opened the door.’ But the problem was, no one had seen him come out.
‘Thankyou,’ said Detective Constable Lucy Spinks, becoming increasingly worried about the boy. After all, he had only gone to the surgery for a repeat prescription for his hay fever. But that was many hours ago, now. And she began to suspect the receptionist was lying when she said he had picked up the prescription and left. It’s time, she decided, to interview the doctors themselves. One of them, she surmised, just had to know something.
Dr Coker was the first GP she interviewed. Walking into his office, DC Spinks sat down and perused the doctor closely. And as the questions escaped her lips, she couldn’t help but notice his erratic behaviour, suspicious mind, and the gaping hole in his nose which made his nostrils form into one. Eventually having his office searched, cocaine was found in abundance and the doctor was arrested as a snorter.
Deciding that Dr Coker could well have abducted the boy, she did, nonetheless decide to interview the other doctors. And the next on the list was the little, moustachioed Dr Hister. Walking into his office, she couldn’t help but notice the jars on the shelves, filled with various items such as fingers, thumbs, shards of skin and eyeballs. This, and the swastika he wore on his arm, immediately alerted DC Spinks to the fact that he could well be a Neo-Nazi medical experimenter. And despite the boy’s blonde hair, a further van was called for to cart the bad doctor away.
Next on the list was kindly old Dr Skinner. And she was equally horrified to walk into HIS office only to be assaulted by the pungent aroma of decaying flesh. Quickly opening drawer after drawer, she identified a plethora of body bits, dripping and oozing all over the place. Deciding Dr Skinner was a serial killer, a third van was called for and the bad doctor was carted off to gaol. Which left only one doctor to be interviewed; Dr Venusian.
As she walked into his office DC Spinks was immediately taken by the doctor’s small stature, floppy ears and bug-eyes. Immediately suspecting him of being an extraterrestrial spy and abductor, she drew her asp as if to arrest him. Sensing danger, the little doctor jabbered away, momentarily, in a funny tongue before floating through his window to a re-materialised flying saucer, whereupon he disappeared inside, hovered above the ground before heading out of the galaxy at thousands of times the speed of light.
DC Spinks sighed at the adventures of her morning. Having arrested a crack head with psychotic tendencies, a Neo-Nazi butcher, a serial killer, and nearly arresting her first alien, she was nonetheless dissatisfied for she had not found the boy, and had realised, too, that the Blairite reforms of the NHS had a long way to go yet. However, eager to carry on her investigation, she called in two JCBs and builders by the bucket load to systematically pull the surgery apart and go on searching for the boy down to the foundations.
They were half way through this task when she heard a commotion outside. Running out, she was presented to a rather ruffled, embarrassed boy of about fourteen with blonde hair and glasses. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the good detective. ‘I’m afraid I got lost.’
 
© Anthony North, May 2002

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IT’S HARDLY HIS FAULT
 
Anthony North
 
It was not going well.
Marion had been in the World Court for an hour now. She had explained her position, hoping for some sympathy, but the techno-judge just didn’t seem to understand the moral implications. And who could blame him. Ever since supposed liberal democrats had begun playing about with the law, ignoring due process, beyond reasonable doubt and balance of probability, the techno-courts were bound to adopt a sense of  ’if it works, do it.’ Indeed, said the politicians, how else can we assess technology?
Well Marion’s brush with technology had gone horribly wrong. As she explained to the judge: ‘The implant worked perfectly to begin with.’
‘But,’ said the judge, ‘you must have been aware of the problem with such brain implants?’
‘I was never told properly – not that he could do that.’
 ’But the implant did the central purpose for which it was implanted?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Marion, a smile on her face. ‘My partner was no longer boring in bed. Infact, he satisfied me fully, and any time I wanted it.’
The judge consulted his books, looking for precedents. ‘You see, the problem I face,’ he finally said, ‘is that technology is built to be efficient. And if a product becomes over­efficient, do we really have a legal obligation to help you?’
‘I think you must,’ said Marion. ‘My life is so miserable now. And I really believe my only alternative is to have a divorce. ‘
‘You could have the implant taken out.’
‘Which would leave me with two alternatives; a boring husband, or a dead one, if the extraction went wrong.’
‘So you want the implant to remain, but you want a divorce, thereby taking away the purpose of the implant in the first place. ‘
‘My partner is happy for the implant to remain. But I just cannot think I could ever forgive him for the way he carried on. ‘
‘But it’s hardly his fault.’
‘Maybe so. But I feel the choice of a total bore, or a manic philanderer is too much for me to take.’

© Anthony North, April 2006

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THE WEDDING DAY
 
Anthony North
 
History May looked a picture of beauty as she walked down the aisle. Her short blonde hair was obscured by the veil taking away a big part of her person, but she didn’t really care about that. At the altar stood her man, and she was going to be happy ever after …
At least, that is what is supposed to happen. That is what she decided to do this day. Put her life on a different track. But with every step she took down the aisle, she left behind a little puddle of certainty. And when all certainty has gone, all that is left is the uncertain.
Bloke, her trans-sexual friend, had laid it all out before her. ‘You’re not the marrying type,’ she had said.
‘I may be, History had replied.
‘But you use men,’ said Bloke.
‘I may change my mind,’ said History.
‘Well by the time you get to the altar, you’ll have changed it again.’
And the last step and she was there. To her front, the vicar. To her left, her mother, who was reluctantly giving her away. And to her right, the groom and best man – and it took her long enough to decide which one to marry in the first place.
It was at that point that History decided she could not go through with this. And at the same time, she decided she didn’t have to. After all, someone would burst into the church and save her. Take her away. Run off with her. Like in the film.
The vicar spoke. The congregation sang. The vicar spoke again. The ceremony was on. And history turned to look at the door.
Faces flashed through her mind – of men she knew didn’t want her to marry. Faces of men who WERE men; who would stand up for what’s right. Who would save her. And she turned to look at the door again.
Bloke came into her mind then: ‘I was a man, once. And it doesn’t happen like in the films.’
History May was just about to decide men were failures and she’d have to run herself when the door burst open and a voice said: ‘Don’t do it. I won’t let you.’
‘I’ll kill the cow,’ said History, as the groom turned tail and ran.
 
© Anthony North, March 2006