Reality Bites

Day 24 in the Big Brother House, 8.35am.

After successfully completing the circus challenge last night, Big Brother is awarding the remaining housemates a celebration basket of beer, wine, and snacks, to be delivered later in the day. Zoe, Shane, Clare and Ann are sleeping. The only housemate up, is Kit, who is doing sit-ups in the living area. 

Kit concentrated on getting through the last of his hundred sit-ups. It was hard to believe he’d only been inside this place for four weeks; it felt like four years. All around him, the house was silent, except for barely audible whir of focusing camera lenses, as they followed his movements. He bunched his well-chiselled stomach muscles one more time, and wondered, how many women out there were ogling him? Thousands? Tens of thousands? All gagging for a taste of the Kittster, while he was forced to remain blue balled, and captive.

It was a hell of a price to pay, all so he could be famous. He thought he would have been fine, going without sex, but by day ten, he was gagging for a bit. He couldn't even indulge in a little, "five finger shuffle", for God sake. He'd tried to knock out a sneaky one under the duvet, but every time the material rustled, he imagined his mother watching, live, on high definition TV. Let's just say, things withered. 

It didn't help having Zoe, and Clare, around. Zoe would look right at home rollerblading down Venice Beach, in a string bikini. And, she insisted on constantly doing yoga. That's enough temptation for anyone, but add in Clare, and the situation rose to volcanic temperatures. Clare was a lesbian, and her eyes devoured Zoe every minute of the day. Imagining the thoughts going through that girl’s mind was worse than a death by a thousand cuts. The frustration of it all.

Kit was a professional surfer, just not a very good one. His body was perfect; with shoulder-length blond hair and a posh English accent drove the girls wild, particularly Americans. He'd always wanted to be famous, to have all the trappings that went with it, he just lacked the skill to deserve it. God bless reality TV, which offered fame for the sake of fame. When he’d auditioned for the Big Brother, he didn’t think he had a real shot of being chosen. But when the producers announced he was one of the fourteen housemates, it had been a dream come true. How things have changed.

Now, he hated the plush walls that surrounded him, and the sexy female voice of Big Brother. He hated the stupid games they made them play for the amusement of the mindless masses, and he hated the boredom. He wished he could paddle out into a rising Atlantic swell, until he could see nothing but ocean, wave, and sky.

He strained through one last sit-up and collapsed backward. He was getting soft. He heard a camera move as it focused on him. He felt the waterproof microphone tickle his sweat-soaked skin, and reminded himself; one week to go. He got to his feet, and towelled off, before going to brew some coffee.

The smell of roasted Java, wafting through the house, soon roused the rest of the gang. So began another day, of doing nothing, talking shit, and waiting for the public to vote one of them out.

Day 24 in the Big Brother House, 10.20pm.

Big Brother's sexy voice reverberated through the house. "The diary room is now, open."

Zoe dashed to the flashing door, giggling like a schoolgirl, and Clare was quick to follow. When the girls returned, they carried between them a weighty looking case, decorated like a pirate’s treasure chest. When they flipped it open, there was a feast of alcoholic delights, and salt-laden snacks. The party that followed went on well into the night, and finished with all of the housemates in the hot-tub, roaring drunk.

Day 25 in the Big Brother House, 11.54am

Shane was the first to wake from his vodka induced coma. The communal dorm smelled of beer farts and Ann was snoring noisily. He struggled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. He peed, then washed, and decided to wake Kit.

"Kit," he said, shaking a duvet covered shoulder. "Kit, come on man. It’s time to get up."

"Fuck off," he said, but the words were muffled by the duvet. Shane persisted until Kit finally admitted defeat and threw back the covers. 

"Alright, I'm up, I'm up," he said, groggily.

"I bet that party made the front page of the Mirror," said Shane, with a grin. 

Kit rested an arm over his eyes and tried to put the pieces of last night together. He remembered touching Zoe's boob in the hot-tub, and she didn't seem to mind one bit. Later, the two of them had ended up in his bed but then the shit hit the fan. Clare went nuclear, and tried to drag Zoe out of bed. Zoe told Clare to, "get a life," which resulted in shouting, and Clare storming off in tears. Zoe followed Clare, (the stupid cow), and Ann followed both of them, relishing the role of peacemaker. When all the girls came back, they quickly ended up in their own beds, while he was left with a raging hard-on, and nothing to do with it.

He swung his feet out of bed and reassured himself quietly, "One more week."

The house looked like it had been burgled. Furniture was upended, bottles were strewn everywhere, and in the corner was a small puddle of puke that nobody was going to take responsibility for. He needed coffee before tackling that lot. What difference would another half hour make? After all, they were hardly expecting visitors.

Day 25 in the Big Brother House, 3.34pm.

All the housemates are congregated in the sitting area, relaxing after the party clean-up.

"Guy's, did you notice that?" asked Ann.

"Notice what?" said a grumpy Clare.

"That camera hasn't moved in an hour," she said, pointing to a unit mounted above one of the many one-way mirrors dotted around the house.

"Rubbish, you just didn't see it, is all," said Clare, burying her head under a pile of cushions, her hangover was still in full roar.

"I'm telling you; it hasn't moved!" Ann insisted.

With nothing else to do, everyone watched the camera, and after fifteen minutes, Kit had to concede, it hadn't moved. 

"Perhaps it's broken," he said.

"It could be," agreed Zoe. "But then, why hasn't that one moved either?" she asked, indicating a different camera, one in the far corner of the room. One by one, the housemates got to their feet and started walking around. Any other time, this would have caused every camera in the place to spring into whirring motion. Today, nothing happened. Not one camera moved.

"That's bloody weird," said Clare, coming back from the garden. "It's the same outside."

"I think I should report it to Big Brother," said Ann, always the golden girl. She jogged to the diary room door and pressed the button. It flashed and kept on flashing, but the door didn't open. After a few minutes, she began to call out to Big Brother.

"Big Brother, there's something wrong with the cameras," she said, to the roof, as if she were talking to God. "Big Brother, can you hear me?"  This went on for quite some time, while all the rest of the them sat on the sofa, and watched. At no point did any of the cameras move, nor did Big Brother decide to answer Ann’s bleating.

Day 26 in the Big Brother House, 5.07pm

Shane came back into the kitchen, after trying the diary door for the hundredth time.

"Any change?" asked Kit.

"Still locked," he said, dumping the last of the coffee into his mug. They'd received no fresh supplies since the alcohol chest and things were starting to run out. Clare had used the last of the bread, and no sign of the, "pantry fairies."

"There is no way this could be a challenge; could it?" he asked, looking to the older man for leadership. Shane might be five years older than Kit, but he was just as lost.

"It could be, I guess, but it's a fairly extreme measure, don't you think?" he said, sipping his coffee.

"Those knob-heads would sell their grannies, for a good rating. They'd think nothing of starving us, or scaring the crap out of us!" said Kit, staring at one of the one-way mirrors.

"I guess it is an interesting experiment," he mused, but Kit exploded.

"Fucking Experiment is right! They think we’re rats in a maze, but we’re not. You know what they’re doing? They’re playing with our lives is what!" he ranted, knowing he was letting the frustration of captivity overwhelm him, but it felt so good.

"Ah come on, it's hardly that bad. We only ran out of bread this morning; we're not exactly starving."

"No, not yet, but how far will those wankers go?" he shouted.

The girls had been in the garden, chatting, but the sound of raised voices got them back into the house.

"What's happening," asked Zoe, simultaneously excited and anxious.

"Bloody nothing!" said Kit, storming out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Day 27 in the Big Brother House, 11.34pm.

Zoe, Ann, Clare and Shane are on the couch, watching Kit trying to force open the diary room door, with an egg turner.

"You're wasting your time," said Clare, rubbing her GI-Jane haircut.

"But at least I’m doing something. What have you done?" he asked, throwing the spatula across the room, hitting one of the one-way mirrors and cracking the glass.

"I haven't panicked, that's what I've done," she said, her tone superior, as she lay back like King Tut. She draped her arm across the back of the couch, and if she moved it forward an inch, it would also be draped around Zoe's neck.

"I'm not panicking, I'm bloody starving!" he growled, throwing himself into one of the bean-bags.

"It’s bound to be a game. Big Brother will call an end to it soon," added Ann, her voice full of trust and innocence. He looked across at her and couldn’t believe she was being sincere. Nobody was that goody-goody.

"And what if they don't? When will we start to act for yourselves? Can't you see that something is wrong here? This is not the way the show should be going. If nothing else, why haven't two of us been evicted? Tell me that?"

The problem was, none of them had an answer to his question, not even himself.

Day 28 in the Big Brother House, 9.45am.

Zoe and Kit are sitting in the garden, Ann is in the bathroom, while Clare and Shane are cooking the last of the housemate’s rice, for breakfast.

"Can you smell that?" asked Kit.

"It smells like smoke, but more disgusting?" said Zoe.

"Yea, have you ever smelled anything like that before?"

"No," she said, watching him get to his feet. It was like burnt hair and rubber. He looked into the sky, shielding his eyes with his hands.

"I think I can see something over there,” he said, pointing at the south wall of the compound. They walked across the yard and when they reached the wall, he linked his hands into a stirrup and hunkered down.

"I'll give you a boost," he said. "See if you can grab the top of the wall." Zoe put her foot in his hands and he hoisted her up. She came up a long way short. He wasn’t bet yet. “Wait here,” he said, and dashed away. A few minutes later he returned, with Shane, and the couch. They tipped it on its end so it formed a ramp of sorts. They helped Zoe clamber up and this time when she jumped, she managed to wrap her fingers around the top of the wall.

Kit and Shane cheered, but Zoe screamed.

She crashed to the ground, blood flying everywhere. Her fingers were sliced open in several places. As they hurried inside to bandage Zoe’s cuts, the smell grew stronger. Kit couldn’t help wonder had the wire been put there to keep other out, or them in?

Day 29 in the Big Brother House, 11.35pm

All of the housemates are gathered in the living-area.

Throughout the day, the stinking black smoke had grown thicker and thicker. While Ann continued to plead with Big Brother, the rest of us sat in the hot-tub and watched the sky grow blacker. Kit felt like Nero, fiddling while London burned.

 "What do you think they're burning? he asked, laying his head back in the luxurious bubbling water.

"Could be rubbish, I guess," said Clare. "But whatever it is, it stinks."

"I'd love a burger," said Zoe. The seeming random comment, not so random at all. The thought of food was now all consuming. They’d passed from hungry to starving days ago.

"Burger King or McD?" asked Clare, continuing to torture us all.

"Burger King, of course. Double Whopper! Heaven!" cried Shane, sinking below the water in mock ecstasy.

Inside the house, Ann's voice rose to a ferocious level. "FUCK YOU, BIG BROTHER!" followed by the sound of smashing the glass. As one, they sprang from the tub and raced toward the house. They found Ann, in front of a smashed one-way mirror, holding a chair in her hands.

They were shocked into stillness. Nobody believed Ann would be the one to break the golden rule; thou shall not escape. Kit moved forward, picking his way through the shattered glass littering the floor. He poked his head inside the tiny room behind the shattered mirror. There was an upturned chair, dozens of pieces of paper, and an unattended TV camera. On the back wall, a black door beckoned him, like a gateway to salvation. He climbed inside and took the doorknob. The handle turned, but the door was locked. He rattled it and pulled with all his might. It wouldn’t budge. He turned around and saw the hangered faces of his housemates, framed in broken glass. It would have made a great horror movie poster. After so long of doing nothing, it was completely disheartening to have breached the barriers of Big Brother's world, only to be stopped in their tracks by a simple door.

Ann dropped the chair and began to wail uncontrollably. It made everyone jump.

"I'm sorry Big Brother, it was an accident. It was an accident!" she screamed, sinking to her knees.

"Stop it, Ann," said Clare, taking her in her arms.

"NO! NO! NO! I shouldn't have done it!" she screamed. Clare lead her away from the broken glass and lay her on the couch. The others simply wandered away. Kit was about to climb out of the room when he spotted a crumpled newspaper under the upturned chair. He picked it up and the headline hit him like a hammer blow.

"Guy's, I think you should look at this," he said, shakily climbing back into the house. He held up the paper with the headline facing them.

"DOOMSDAY!" it declared. The lead picture was of a body lying in a doorway. A plague! While they had been locked up in here, it had swept planet, killing millions. The story detailed; civil unrest, the fall of governments, marshal law, and mass cremations. They read the story a dozen times. Trying to digest it all. What about their friends, their families? Kit looked back into the camera room. It was obvious the crew had abandoned them and left them locked inside. The question was, had they saved them, or doomed them? What lay beyond the door? Salvation, or destruction? 

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Those of you that have already read some of Father Tom's exploits, would be forgiven for believing that his life was idyllic. Perhaps it is the survivalist in us humans, which makes us remember the enjoyable moments in life, while quickly dispatching the more sinister ones, to the annals of time best forgotten.

One such moment occurred not long after Father Tom first moved to the parish, and of all places, it happened in the post office. Father Tom had a few letters to send to Dublin, so he made good use of the fine spring weather, and walked to the post office at the far end of the village. The walk took longer than he anticipated, because he was stopped by nearly everyone he came across, to wish him well in his new posting.

When he finally reached the post office door, he found it painted in the green livery of "An Post", the national postal agency. High on the wall was the small tin sign, confirming he was at the right place. What gave him cause to pause, was not the colour of the door, but the size of it. Standing fully erect, Father Tom towered over the tiny door by a full foot. You may remember that Father Tom was quite the man mountain, but he found most doors accommodated him quite well. However, this one seemed to be designed for Hobbit-size clientele. With little option, he opened the door and wiggled his way inside. The answer to the unusual size of the door lay within, the floor of the Post Office was a good foot and a half below street level, and clearly, the door had been hung from the inside.

"Lord, Father. Mind your head," said the postmistress, dashing from behind the counter to help the nearly wedged customer.

"Thanks, thanks," said Father Tom, fending off the helping hands that seemed to spring from everywhere. When he had himself straightened out again, he found himself standing in tiny little room, packed with people. Father Tom went bright red, when he realised just how many people had watched him limbo dancing his way under the tiny door.

"I think Jane has been feeding me too well," he said, causing the collected people to giggle politely.

"Well now, you must be the new priest. Tis great to meet you," said the postmistress, holding out her hand. Father Tom took her dainty fingers in his huge bear paw, and shook it gently.

"Tom," he said.

"Father Tom, ain't that just grand," she said, beaming. Then like any good hostess, she began introducing everyone in the post office by name, each one coming forward to shake Tom's gigantic mitt, in turn. One craggy little man seemed to keep himself back from the hubbub of greetings, and the post mistress glanced over him as if he didn't exist. When everyone had said hello, Tom turned to the little man and held out his hand. The small man positively bristled with aggression.

Undeterred, Father Tom held his ground and said, "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"I won't be shaking hands with no holy Joe," snarled the little man, backing farther into the corner. Father Tom was shocked, and his hand floated in vacant space for a moment, until the shrill voice of the postmistress broke the spell.

"Mr Baxter! How dare you speak to Father Tom like that!"

"And you can belt up, too!" Mr Baxter said, pushing past Father Tom, and scuttling through the tiny door without the least difficulty.

"I'm so sorry, Father. What must you think of us?" said the postmistress, clearly embarrassed. Father Tom regained his composure and laughed, which thankfully got everyone else laughing too.

"I seem to have my work cut out, there," Father Tom said.

Later that night, Father Tom mentioned the incident to Jane, as she was dishing up his dinner.

"Mr Baxter? That would be Vincent Baxter, a small scruffy man, about fifty?"

"That sounds like him," said Tom, taking a seat at the table. "Why do you think he reacted like that?"

"Couldn't say for sure, Father. He's not from around here, you see, he's a Limerick man, I think, and a right nasty one at that," said Jane, landing a scoop of steaming mash potato beside an inch thick slice of beef, swimming in a lake of gravy.

"Has he only moved here, so?" asked Father Tom, eyeing the plate like a hungry dog.

"God, no. Been living up on Kerrigan's mountain for nearly twenty-five years now. Himself, the missus, and six kids, God bless them," said Jane, adding some assorted veg to the plate. Only in the countryside, could you live in a place for twenty-five years and still be a blow in. Time has a different meaning in a place like this.

Jane turned to the table, holding the heaped plate with a tea towel. "Enough about him, Father, and eat your dinner," she said, laying the meal before him with a smile. Jane's plate looked like a child's portion in comparison to Father Tom’s. They bowed their heads and said Grace, before Father Tom demolished the meal, in seconds flat.

"My word, Father. You seem to like your beef?"

"It's my favourite meat in the whole world, you can't beat a slice of rare beef."

"Would you like another piece?"

"Oh, yes please, Jane. One from the middle, if you can manage it." Jane added a slice of slightly pink meat to his plate, which Father Tom tucked into with gusto. This particular meal gave rise to one of Father Tom's most treasured traditions, Sunday dinner with Jane, always beef, and always rare. Jane soon began calling it, ‘Sunday, bloody Sunday’, when she and Father Tom were alone.

***

Over the weeks which followed, Father Tom learned that Vincent Baxter had indeed come from Limerick, a Limerick work house, to be exact. That explained a lot to Father Tom. The work houses were horrible places, ruled by priests with fists of iron. It’s little wonder that the man reacted the way he did when they first met. Father Tom was looking forward to his next chance to talk with Mr Baxter, so he could show him that he was nothing like those priests, they only shared a uniform. However, chances to talk to Mr Baxter came few and far between. It was nearly eight months later when Father Tom and Mr Baxter exchanged their next words, and they were far from pleasant.

It was early December, and Father Tom had arranged with the school headmaster, for the sixth class children to hold a carol recital in the run up to Christmas. The whole class was in the parish hall, doing rehearsals after school had finished, when the main door burst open. Mr Baxter stormed up the middle of the hall and grabbed his youngest lad, Jamie, from the midst of the shocked children. He dragged the child by the scruff of the neck towards a shocked Father Tom and school master.

"Who told you that you could keep my lad after school?" yelled an enraged Mr Baxter.

"This is a school activity, Mr Baxter, kindly control you voice," stammered the Headmaster. Young Jamie began crying, and Mr Baxter shook the child roughly.

"There is no need of that!" said Father Tom, moving forward a step. Instead of shying away, the little man glared and moved towards Father Tom, not many men have ever done that.

"So, ‘twas you, you bible bashing shirt lifter!" spat the little man.

"Mr Baxter!" said the Headmaster, shocked.

Poking his finger savagely in the two bigger men's faces, Vincent Baxter said, “Neither of you will ever keep my boy after school again! Got it!" Then he stormed out of the hall, dragging a crying Jamie in his wake, and leaving a hall full of terrified children and shocked men behind.

Sadly, Mr Baxter was to continue to hold Father Tom in contempt, whether justified or not, for the rest of his days in the parish. After a few years, Father Tom had to concede that Vincent Baxter was a lost cause. The real tragedy of the situation was, Mr Baxter insisted in punishing his long suffering wife and children, along with himself, for whatever wrongs the world had laid at his door. They barely eked out an existence from the acres of scrub-land which made up the Baxter farm. The children were kept back from school to labour on the land. The few helping hands that were offered were slapped away by Mr Baxter, as unwanted charity. It was ten years after Father Tom became parish priest that the Baxter family sold up, and moved away. It was one of Father Tom’s biggest regrets that he never managed to get through Baxter's hatred.

***

On the plus side, Bloody Sunday had become a rock solid tradition in Father Tom's household. A prime beef joint was one of his few extravagances he regularly indulged in, that and a few pints down the pub. Each week, Jane would do the weekly shop on a Thursday, getting all that Father Tom might require, in the coming days. Tom always left the housekeeping money in a biscuit tin over the cooker, and Jane spent whatever she needed. There was always plenty in the tin, and he never asked for a receipt. Jane would buy everything, except for the Sunday roast, Tom took care of that, himself. He would visit Maher's Butchers on a Friday, to pick out his own joint of meat. Jane would drop by to pick it up, last thing Saturday evening. Mr Maher would have it waiting for her, seasoned and rolled, ready for the oven.

One particular Sunday, Father Tom was finishing off his third plate of seconds, when Jane asked an unexpected question. "Do you remember Mr Baxter, Father?"

"I do," said Tom, laying down his fork.

"Apparently he moved to Cavan, after leaving here."

"Is that so, he went far enough."

"True enough. The reason I mentioned it, is that Mrs Ryan heard from her sister, who happens to live in the same town. He died, yesterday." Father Tom just stared at his plate for long time, before shoving it away from him.

"Are you alright, Father?" she asked, taken back by his reaction.

"I am, it’s just a shock is all."

"He was well into his sixties, Father and not a very nice man, at that."

A frown crossed Father Tom's face, "Let he without sin, Jane."

She looked at her plate, saying, "You're right, Father. That was unkind."

Father Tom was out of sorts for the rest of the evening, and by the time Jane was ready to go home, he was nowhere to be found. His car was missing, so she assumed he had gone for a drive. It was close to eleven when Mrs Baxter heard a gentle knock on her door, in Virginia, County Cavan. The heavens had opened and rain was thundering down. At first, Mrs Baxter didn't recognise the huge bearded man standing on her doorstep, wearing jeans and a jumper. It wasn't until he said "Hello" that she knew it was Father Tom.

"Jesus, Father Tom. You’re drowned, come in."

"It's just Tom today, Mrs Baxter. I won't come in, if that's okay, I don't think Vincent would have liked it. I just come to extend my condolences."

Mrs Baxter looked at Father Tom deeply, and after a few moments, she smiled. "My Vincent was a difficult man, with troubles none knew. But I believe, if he were here tonight, Tom, he would gladly have done this." Mrs Baxter extended her hand, and in the cold Cavan downpour, they exchanged their first handshake.

"I'll be going now," said Father Tom, but before leaving, he held out a biscuit tin, and handed it to Mrs Baxter. "I thought you might make use of this," he said, then walked away.

On the following Thursday, Jane went to get the housekeeping money from the biscuit tin as always, but couldn't find it. When she found Father Tom, she asked him where the tin had got to. He just said, "A better home." Father Tom rummaged in his pocket, and pulled out two crumpled twenty Euro notes.

"I'll not get much for that, Father," Jane said.

"Whatever you manage, will be enough."

"But what about the roast? It’s a tradition."

Father Tom turned to Jane, and smiled, "You know, Jane, a man can sometimes have too much of a good thing. I quite fancy beans on toast this week. What do you say?" And then, he winked that naughty boy wink of his.

The collector

Boys love collecting things, and some boys never grow out of the habit. Stamps, toys, baseball cards, even rocks; that's the joy of it, you can collect nearly anything. For some people, collecting is a hobby, for others it’s a passion, for a very few, it’s an obsession. Where Alex King was concerned, collecting had taken over his life.

When Alex was a boy, he’d heard the story of Rasputin, and became captivated. It was as if the Mad Monk had cast a spell over him from the grave. Alex had worked hard all his life, and became very successful, but his obsession with, Grigori Rasputin, never dwindled.  

He was on the trail of a piece of Rasputin’s history, and this one was a real gem. The rubber boot, which had been recovered from the bridge when Rasputin's body had been dumped into the Malaya Nerka River. An actual piece of clothing that Rasputin had been wearing at the time of his murder. If it turned out to be genuine, it was going to be the prize of his collection. Like all things connected with Rasputin, finding out if the boot was genuine was proving difficult.

He’d tracked it through a succession of hands and finally he had a lead on its present owner. An antique shop, in St Petersburg. It had no listed phone number, and with no other way to verify the story, he’d decided to make the trip to Russia. He boarded a flight at JFK, and headed east.

When he landed, he practically jogged to the taxi rank, giving the driver the address of the shop, rather than the hotel where he was due to stay. The taxi dropped him close to Kazan Cathedral and the driver pointed down a dark alley. Alex shouldered his bag, and reluctantly walked in the direction he had been shown. The crime level in Russia was legendary and he wondered if he was walking into a world of trouble. The tiny street curved away to the right, and got darker as it went. He was on the verge of turning back, when he saw a shop window, filled with aged collectables. Over the door was a hand-painted sign, declaring it to be, "Mikhaylenko & Co."

He pushed open the door and a brass bell tinkled. The shop was crammed full of display cabinets, assorted furniture, crockery, glass-wear, stacks of pictures, marble busts, and other oddments. A film of dust covered most things, even the price tags that dangled off each item. It didn’t seem to be a thriving business. A hunched old man came hobbling from the shadows. "Da ser," he said, blandly.

"Mr Mikhaylenko?" he asked, his American accent sounding too loud in the confined space.

"Yes, I’m Mikhaylenko," said the old man, in halting English. The fact the man spoke English was great, because Alex had about two words of Russian.

"My name is Alex King, Mr Mikhaylenko. I’ve travelled a very long way to ask about an item I believe you might have.

"I have many wonderful treasures, Mr King. Which one in particular are you interested in?" said the old man, spreading his arm's wide, encompassing his dusty inventory.

"A shoe."

"A shoe? I think you may have the wrong, Mr Mikhaylenko, Mr King," said the old man with a smile.

"To be exact, a rubber boot. Found on a bridge in nineteen sixteen."

"Oh…that shoe. May I ask, how you came to know this?"

"I have been a collector of Grigori Rasputin memorabilia for many years. Let's just say, I heard a mention, of a whisper, of a rumour, which brought me to your door. Do you have his boot?"

“It is very strange things you choose to collect. Rasputin…blaa,” said the old man, sticking out his tongue with the last word, leaving no doubt what he thought.

“If you feel like that, I’m sure you would be delighted to get rid of that old boot, should you have it?” said Alex, the game of haggling was the same all over the world. Everyone pretending they want the exact opposite to what they actually want.

"As it happens, Mr King, I do. Would you like to see it?"

"Seeing as I’m here, why not." He followed the old man behind his counter and into a back room. Alex was expecting him to extract such a valuable piece of history, from a safe, or some equally secure location. Instead the old man just reached into an unlocked glass case and withdrew a cracked, rubber-boot. It concealed its importance with plain construction. Mr Mikhaylenko handed over the footwear, as casually as one might pass the salad at a barbecue. He took the boot, carefully turning it this way and that, taking in every scuff and crease.

"Are you sure this is the real one?" he asked the old man, sceptically.

"Quite certain, Mr King," said the old man, rummaging in a drawer. He withdrew a large brown envelope, covered in official looking stamps. Mr Mikhaylenko handed it over Alex, so he could inspect it. The writing was beyond him, but the date stood out like a shining beacon.

"That is original evidence bag, and here some photographs of bridge, the boot where it lay, and its comrade, still on the body of Rasputin,” said Mr Mikhaylenko, dealing out black and white photographs like tarot cards. Alex’s hands trembled as they picked up the precious photographs. There was no doubt, the boot he held was the same as the one in the photos.

"This is amazing," he said, letting his awe overcome his haggling instincts. “How did you manage to lay your hands on them?”

"Mr King, Russia has very many secrets, and only so many vaults to keep them in. Old secrets often fall through the cracks, and this little thing, is hardly a secret at all."

"How much for the boot, including the photos and the envelope," he asked, knowing he was tipping his hand early, but he didn't care. He had to have them.

"I’m thinking, we can come to an arrangement," the old man said with a smile.

The negotiations weren’t as difficult as he feared. The man asked for six thousand dollars, he offered four, they agreed on five. Alex was delighted, as he would have paid twice as much. He made a call to his bank and arranged to have the money transferred. He would have it in twenty-four hours.

"As a man who follows the exploits of Mr Rasputin, you may be interested in this little item," said Mr Mikhaylenko, beckoning Alex to follow his slow shuffling steps, a few feet further into the gloom. On a mahogany sideboard, stood a small silver egg, on a delicate three-legged stand. It had a tiny glass circle in the front. Despite having no visible seam, the interior seemed hollow.

“May I?” he asked, and the old man nodded. He picked up the delicate item and peered through the tiny window. He was amazed to see the inside was decorated with tiny religious paintings. A gold cross, hung from a spider thin thread. The bottom of the egg was covered in some dark brown substance. In contrast to the perfection of the rest of the egg, the floor was dry and cracked.

"What is it?" asked Alex.

"It is called, The Eternal Orb, and was created by the Carl Fabergé, for Princess Irena. She suffered terrible nightmares where death stalked her. The Czar was so concerned he brought in Rasputin to advise. The holy man produced a vial of water, which he said came from the Garden of Gethsemane. He blessed the Princess with it and gave her the remainder, to keep her safe. The Czar instructed Fabergé to make a suitable container for the water, so his daughter could be protected forever. As you can see, he did an amazing job. No one is sure how Carl created the egg. He took that secret to the grave with him," said the old man, enjoying giving his lecture, and showing his knowledge.

"It's amazing," said Alex, unable to believe he was actually holding a Fabergé egg in his hand. "Sadly, the water is gone.”

"Ah, there you are wrong! You see, the egg and the Princess are reputed to have been in the cellar when Rasputin was murdered. The legend is, a miracle took place. The holy water was…transformed."

"Transformed?" asked Alex, placing the egg back on its stand.

"Yes. It is said, when fatal shot was delivered to Rasputin's forehead, the water in the egg changed into blood."

"Blood?" said Alex, clearly not convinced.

"Rasputin's blood to be exact. But that's not all! When the water transformed, the orb absorbed some of the evil in that act. It became cursed."

"So, your telling me this is cursed?" he said, with a hint of ridicule in his voice.

"Yes, cursed with life," said the old man, sadly.

"I don't understand. How can you be cursed with life?"

"The owner of the egg is blessed with nearly unlimited years on the earth, but that in itself can be a burden."

"If owning it is so bad, why don't you just give it away?"

"The orb can’t be bought or sold. It can only be claimed," said the old man, cryptically. Then, he shrugged his shoulders painfully and walked toward a small kitchen area. Alex thought the curse stuff was a load of balderdash, but it made for a good story. He lifted the orb again and looked through the window once more. Blood? Rasputin’s blood? Wouldn’t that be something.

"How do you know any of this is true, Mr Mikhaylenko?" Alex said, and the old man stooped to rummaging in a press. He retrieved a small coffee pot and put it on the cooker to boil.

"Put the orb in its cradle, and I will demonstrate," he said, wiping his hands on legs of his trousers. The old man shuffled over, each step clearly causing him considerable discomfort. He placed a shaking finger on the tip of the egg.

“Look,” he said.

Alex peered through the window and the substance at the bottom of the orb changed into viscous red liquid, rippling under the old man’s touch.  

"How did you do that?" he asked, astonished. The old man just shrugged, and removed his finger. The moment his skin lost contact with the orb, the liquid turned brown and solid once more. Alex pressed his finger against the thing, just as the old man had, but nothing happened. It was truly perplexing.

"Have you thought of selling it," he asked, marvelling at the orb.

"I told you, Mr King, the orb has no price."

"Everything has a price," he said, but he knew the price for such a treasure was beyond his means.

"If I could, Mr King, I would sell it to you for a single Rubble."

Alex placed the egg back on its stand, and accompanied Mr Mikhaylenko to the kitchen where he poured coffee into glasses for them. As they drank the bitter brew, Alex found his eyes straying, again and again, to the orb. The old man must have noticed but he didn’t comment on it. Instead they made small talk until it was time to leave. Alex arranged to return the following afternoon, when the money for Rasputin’s boot would have been transferred. Mr Mikhaylenko locked up his shop and insisted on walking, impossibly slowly, to the taxi office with Alex.

"This is not a safe city, Mr King,” he said. “Beautiful yes, safe no."

When he got to his hotel, he drew a steaming hot bath, and eased himself into it. He had found what he had travelled so far to find. Why then did he feel so deflated? He couldn’t get the orb from his mind. To him, it was like glimpsing heaven. The warm water soothed his tired body, but nothing was going to ease the ache in his mind. His dreams were filled with silver balls, and rolling waves of blood. By the time he woke, he knew he had to have the orb, no matter what the cost.

The next day, he withdrew the money from a local bank and took a taxi to Mr Mikhaylenko's shop. Again, the tiny bell tinkled, announcing his arrival. The old man shuffled painfully from behind a counter, extending a gnarled hand to welcome his visitor. When they shook, Alex saw the pain this slight contact caused. The old man did his best to cover it up.

"Mr King, you have returned," he said, with a smile.

"Of course, why wouldn’t I?" he said, happily.

"So many come with great promises, and vanish like morning mist in the cold light of day," the old man said, with a knowing grin.

Alex produced his fold of bills and said, "My promises are all made of gold, Mr Mikhaylenko."

Once more, strong coffee was brewed and served in the delicate glass containers, before any business was conducted. After the pleasantries, Mr Mikhaylenko parcelled up Rasputin's boot, along with the evidence bag and photos. Alex counted the money into the old man's withered hand. He looked so weak and vulnerable.

"Do you have a phone number that I can contact you on," asked Alex. Mr Mikhaylenko shrugged his shoulders. "I am an old-fashioned man, in an old-fashioned business. I have no telephone, nor ever understood the need of having one. Everyone knows where I am, if they are of a mind to look for me."

Alex was about to pick up the parcelled goods, when he paused. "May I see the orb, one more time. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since yesterday."

"Please, be my guest," said the old man, waving him toward the back. Alex went alone and the orb stood exactly where it had yesterday. Did this old man not know the chance he was taking, leaving such a valuable thing out in the open? There was nothing to stop him slipping the orb into his pocket and walking out. How would the old man stop him? Alex examined every detail of the object, even holding it, filled him with awe. He had to have it. He put the orb back on its stand, and walked back to where Mr Mikhaylenko was draining the last of his coffee.

"You said the orb was in the room when Rasputin was killed, this I can understand. What I can’t understand is how it came to be here, in a tiny little back-alley antiques shop. Surely it should be in a museum?"

"If it had still been at the Yusupov Palace at the time of the uprising, I imagine it would be. But by that time, the orb was already gone,” the old man said, placing his empty coffee glass on a tray.

"You are familiar with the history of Rasputin's murder, and the people who took part, Mr King?"

"Yes, although there are conflicting reports," said Alex, sitting at the table once more.

"The truth is, there were more than four men in the cellar that night. There were women of, course. After all, what kind of a party would it be without some female company. Then there were servants and butlers. Whether planning a murder, or not, the aristocracy never pour their own wine. When Rasputin tried to escape, and was shot for a second time in the yard. It was Yusupov manservant that dragged the injured man back into the cellar. When the deed was done, everyone knew they were going to be found out, including the servants. Yusupov's servant fled the palace, and he stole the orb when he left. He hoped to find a buyer and start a new life. That man was the first to fall foul of the curse. I know not what happened to him, or how the orb got passed on, but it eventually found its way into my father’s hands."

"That’s truly an amazing story, and an amazing artefact. I believe this is a chance of a lifetime, and I would like to buy the orb from you, Mr Mikhaylenko," he said.

"Out of the question," he said, sitting back waving a hand in dismissal. Alex was confused. The old man appeared to despise the orb but yet he would not part with it.

"I’m serous, Sir. I must have it. Name your price," said Alex, desperate to agree a sale. He would worry about financing it later.

"There is no price, because it is not for sale, Mr King. Why would you want such a thing anyway? Have I not warned you of its curse?"

"I don't believe in those kind of things, Mr Mikhaylenko, but I dearly wish to have the orb in my collection."

"The answer is no! Never, Mr King. Let’s leave it there before we lose this wonderful friendship, we have begun," said the old man, grim faced. He stood and smiled a strained smile. "Come, you will want to begin your journey. When did you say you were flying?"

"Tonight. Please, would you not reconsider. I will pay anything you ask," said Alex, standing and lifting his packaged purchases.

"You insult me now, Mr King. We will speak no more of it," said the old man, sternly. He hustled Alex out of the shop, the Yale lock snapped shut behind them.

Alex trudged his way back to the taxi office, with Mr Mikhaylenko shuffling silently by his side. When he drove away, the old shop keeper gazed after him. Back at the hotel, he began packing and was livid that the man would not sell the orb. What the hell did the old codger want with the thing anyway? Was he determined to leave it sitting on a shelf, like all the other rubbish he had cluttering up his shop? He was lucky nobody else knew it was there, or it would have been robbed years ago. That orb was worth tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands. Alex sat on the bed, brooding. His flight wasn’t until midnight, and already, the city streets were dark and cold. He wanted that orb and he intended to have it. He’d tried being reasonable and failed. That only left him one option. Someone was going to take the orb, it might as well be him. Alex left his bag half packed and walked out of the room.

A few hours later, the night was thick with falling snow. He stood at the top of the alleyway leading to Mikhaylenko's shop. In his pocket was a small suction cup, a glass cutter and a torch. The snow in the alleyway was pristine, nobody had passed this way in over an hour. It was now or never.

A light burned in a window on the second floor, but the shop itself was in darkness. Alex checked there was nobody watching as he attached the suction cup to one of the glass panels in the door. He scribed a rough circle around the cup with the cutter and pulled. The glass gave way with a pop. He stood stock still, ready to run should a light came on inside the shop, but it remained in darkness. He reached inside and opened the latch. Slowly he pushed the door open, reaching his hand up to stop the little bell from ringing. Once inside he left the door ajar. He intended to be in and out in a flash. After all, he knew exactly what he was looking for. 

He flicked on the torch and hooded the light with his hand, giving just enough illumination to move about. He slipped into the back of the shop, and there on its little stand, stood the orb. He picked it up and a shudder ran up his arm. It was like the thing was alive. He held it up and looked inside. He was shocked to see the brown wax change into a viscous red fluid.

“Oh, wow,” he whispered.

"It would seem, it’s found a new owner," said a voice from the dark. Alex jumped, coating the tiny window with a film of blood. He turned and faced the old man. He thought of running, but didn't. The old man looked sad, and not surprised. He moved forward but didn't try to take the orb. Instead he shuffled into the kitchen. The moonlight reflecting off the snow outside gave everything a ghostly pallor. His breath fogged in the cold air was coming in through the open door. The old man beckoned for Alex to follow. He produced a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

"Come, come. Join me," he said, as he might to a friend that had disappointed him. “What is done is done. I think vodka is more fitting than coffee, don't you?"

Alex went to replace the orb but the old man said, "No, bring it with you, the stand too, please." Alex did as he was asked, walking over to the table where the old man now sat, spilling vodka into the glasses, as well as on the table top.

"Are the police coming?" asked Alex.

"What for?" said Mr Mikhaylenko. "Is it a crime for two friends to drinks vodka these days? Sit, sit please. You have nothing to fear from me," Mr Mikhaylenko said reassuringly. Alex sat at the table and sighed deeply into his chest, the police must be on the way, what was the point of running? The old man knew which hotel he was staying in, what flight he was taking. The worst they could do was charge him with breaking and entering. He hadn’t taken anything, well not yet anyway. Mr Mikhaylenko shoved a glass of vodka across the table, and lifted his into the air.

"Nostrovia!" he said. Alex picked up his glass, and clinked the old man’s. They both drank and the strong liquor burned all the way to his stomach. 

Alex put his glass on the table, he shook his head in shame, before shoving the orb toward Mr Mikhaylenko. The old man pulled back in horror, holding his hands out.

"NO! You can't do that."

"I shouldn’t have tried to take it. I'm sorry, Mr Mikhaylenko," he said, once again pushing the orb toward the old man but he jumped away for the table, terrified. It was the quickest Alex had seen the man move.

"I said, NO!" he shouted angrily.

"Okay," said Alex, drawing the orb back towards himself. The old man must want the police to find him with it in his possession. If so, it was what he deserved.

"That," spat the old man, waving a finger at the orb, "belongs to you now."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Look at the blood! When you touch it, see how it flows? You have claimed it as your own, and it has claimed you. I never want to see, or touch it, ever again." 

Alex sat back, not believing what he was hearing. The old guy was completely mad, either that, or he truly believed this curse malarkey.  

"Okay, okay. Take it easy," said Alex. He picked up the orb, but the cold must have gotten into his hands, because they were stiff as he tried to close his fingers around it. The old man settled himself in his chair, wearily eyeing the tiny treasure.  He looked at Alex sadly.

“Remember I told you my father acquired the orb?"

"Yes, I remember," said Alex.

"Well, he swindled a man. That’s how he got the orb. You see, a righteous man can never possess The Eternal Orb. It needs a man with black on his soul. That was my father, a cheater and a swindler. It was me too, Mr King. I, like you, stole the orb, from my own father, believing it to be worth a king’s ransom. We are the same, you and I. But now, the curse passes to you," said the old man shaking his head. He stood and pointed at the orb, "That thing, that filthy thing has taken over half my life, now it will do the same to you, and more. I’m sorry that I have done this, I truly am, Mr King." 

Alex was sure of it now; the old guy was losing his marbles. He picked up the orb and once again, like magic, the wax melted within it, becoming a tiny lake of blood. 

"So, you are being serous? This is mine now?"

"Deadly serious," said the old man. He put the stopper back in the neck of the vodka bottle and drove it home with a firm slap. His hands didn’t seem to shake so much as he gathered the glasses. He strode to the wall and flicked on the overhead light. His back seemed a little straighter, his hair less gossamer. He looked healthier, even younger.

"It has been only minutes, but I can feel my strength returning," said the old man. Alex, by comparison, was drained by the shock of being caught, and the idea of going to prison. Mr Mikhaylenko walked toward the door, his step much more assured than before, and pushed it wide.

“I thought you said the curse gave you unlimited life?”

“Unlimited years…yes, but at a price.”

“I don’t understand. What is the price?”

"There is nothing I can say that will help you. You will come to your own realisations, in time," he said, his head bowed. Alex stood and Mr Mikhaylenko pointed it at the orb.

"Don't forget to take that thing, out of my shop, and out of my life…what’s left of it." Alex picked up the orb and carried it past the old man and into the snow-covered street.

"I don't know what to say, I still don’t understand what is happening," he said, turning to face the old man.

With the door half closed, Mr Mikhaylenko asked, "How old do you think I am, Mr King?"

Alex looked at him before saying, "Eighty, eighty-five, perhaps."

The old man pointed over his head, at the sign. "My father painted that when he first bought this shop. That was in nineteen fifty-seven, he was twenty-nine. In nineteen eighty-eight, I stole that thing, and lifted his curse. He couldn’t forgive himself for allowing it to happen, and killed himself. He was fifty-eight, but his body was racked by the pain of a hundred years. The day I lifted his burden, I was only sixteen."

"Impossible, that would make you..."

"That's right, Mr King. I will be forty-three soon. I hope your collection was worth the price," he said, closing the door on a nightmare. 

12 Year Old Scotch

One day, in a pub, in the middle of Glasgow, a man walked through the door. He was a striking figure of a man, weighing in at a good eighteen stone and over six feet tall. On his head was perched, a Deerstalker hat, he wore a three piece suit made from Tartan, in his hand, he carried a walking cane with a carved deer antler handle. He was every inch, a Scottish country gentleman, that was until he opened his mouth filling the room with a strong London accent.

The man sat at a table in the middle of the room and began rapping the cane on the floor, calling "GIRL, GIRL," at the barmaid. The young girl hurried out from behind the bar. When she stood at his table, the man said in a brash voice, "Bring me a twelve year old single malt and hurry about it love."

The girl was used to more polite customers, but went back behind the counter to get the man's drink. She searched through the bottles, selecting one, and pouring a dram into a heavy glass. The girl presented the drink to the man on a tray, who downed it, in one. Holding the empty glass he turned on the poor bartender, "I'm not  paying for that! I asked for twelve year old malt, that was an eight year old Irish, you stupid girl. Bring me what I ordered," he said dumping the glass back on the tray.

The girl scurried around the end of the bar once more, searching every bottle she could find for a twelve year old malt. With shaking hand, she poured another dram and presented it to the obnoxious customer. Just as before, he downed the whole drink, this time declaring the drink to be a ten year old single malt and he was not paying for that one either.

At the end of the bar, the owner sat reading his newspaper and watching with interest. He got off his stool and slipped quietly into the store room. When he came out he held a glass with a measure of deep amber liquid, one ice cube clinking against the heavy tumbler.

"Sally, give him this," he said, to the barmaid placing the glass in her tray.

She presented the glass for a third time, the man lifted the glass to his lips draining half the liquid before his face went scarlet. He spat the drink out in a great plume of spray. When he recovered the man stood and roared at the girl, "THIS IS PISS!!"

From behind the counter, the owner laughed at the man, "Yes, but how old am I?"