Daft Wee Stories (20 page)

The doctor phoned an ambulance and she was rushed to hospital, where they prodded and poked and did some scans. There appeared to be something wrong with the scanning machine, it was giving some strange results, so they did another round. But it was the same thing. That couldn't be right, it couldn't be. They scanned somebody else; they were fine. Then another; they were fine as well. Then they scanned Sally once more, but there were those strange, strange results yet again. Sally's heart monitor started going haywire. They were going to have to operate.

The surgeon started with one of her fingers, somewhere inconspicuous, a small cut at the end of her left thumb. He was reluctant to jump in head first with a slice right down her belly, regardless of what the scans said, because the scans defied belief. He just wanted a peek. He pulled the skin apart at the cut, and saw that the scans were right. Dear God! He cut open the rest of her fingers, then her arms, then everything. He cut her open like a teddy bear being torn apart at the seams, and revealed what was inside.

It was Sally!

Inside Sally was Sally, another Sally. It was like the inner Sally had been wearing an outside Sally as some kind of Sally suit. But now it was gone, and she woke up feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, back to her old self, albeit a wee bit smaller. They peeled away the rest of her skin, got her all cleaned up, and then they asked her what she wanted to be called. She couldn't keep her old name; she was a new person in effect, the computer wouldn't allow it. She liked her name, though, so she said, ‘I know. Call me Sally 2.'

Sally 2 walked out the hospital and right back into her life, feeling better than ever. Faster. Lighter. After a month or two, she began to slow down, but she put that down to her body just settling in. Then not long after that, she started to feel even slower. Sluggish and stiff, heavy, until she didn't feel too well at all. Then she collapsed. An ambulance was phoned, and back to the hospital she came for some more prodding and poking and another few scans, only this time there was no hesitation. She was wheeled to the operating theatre as quick as a flash, where the surgeon cut her from head to toe with one big swoosh of the knife like she was a box of flat-pack furniture. And inside Sally 2 was, you guessed it, another Sally. Sally 3.

Sally 3 was smaller again, but identical in every other way. She woke up, refreshed and reinvigorated, before getting cleaned up, dressed, and walking right out of there, feeling even better than before. Two weeks later she was back, and out popped an even smaller Sally 4.

Sally 4 walked right out of there, before collapsing in the hospital car park. Back she came, and out popped Sally 5, who collapsed right there on the bed.

Sally 6 was fine, though, for the best part of a year. But then she died. She was taken to the morgue, where they cut her open for a post-mortem, only to find Sally 7. Dead. They cut her open, only to find Sally 8, also dead. So was Sally 9. But when they cut her open, to their surprise, out popped Sally 10, refreshed and reinvigorated and all raring to go. All two foot of her.

But then she died.

They decided to bury Sally 10, to put her out the misery of this Russian doll carry-on, to let the woman have some peace, for heaven's sake. Plus it was a nice round number. So they put her in a coffin and stuck her in the ground.

Some years passed, with no mention of Sally 1–10, but after a while, people began to talk. They began to wonder. Sally 10 was dead, yes, but what about Sally 11? Or Sally 12? What had they done? And what would they find? So out came the shovels, and the coffin was dug up. As curious as they were, nobody was in any rush to be the one to open it. The surgeon stepped forward, and quite rightly. He leaned down and pulled off the lid, then stood aghast at what was inside.

The coffin was full to the brim with layer upon layer of dried-up Sally skin. It was like puff pastry. It looked like all that crumpled paper you get inside a shoe box. Except there were no shoes. And no Sally.

Sally was gone.

They cleaned out the coffin carefully, looking for what might be a wee Sally 15, or a tiny Sally 30, or a minuscule Sally 100. They couldn't find her. Not even with a microscope. Not even with the best microscope in the world.

But she was there.

Sally 1,000? Higher.

Sally 1,000,000? Much higher.

Sally a billion billion?

Even higher than that. And, therefore, even smaller.

So small that she had slipped between the fibres of the coffin. Then she slipped into the space between the atoms. And then she slipped between space itself.

So small that she slipped between hours, minutes and seconds. She slipped between the smallest definition of a moment. She slipped between time.

She was so small that she slipped between knowledge. Infinitesimally small. She slipped between and beyond understanding itself.

Now, think for a moment about how small that is. Try and wrap your head around something so small, can you do it?

Well, see that size?

That's yer da's cock.

It was a simple mistake, but a deadly one. He knew the rules.

If you gave them any reason to believe you weren't cut out for the job, they had to let you go. If you gave them any indication that you were a liability rather than an asset, they had to let you go. With immediate effect.

It really was such a simple mistake, but he could understand their concerns. He had his finger on the big red button, after all. He knew the launch codes. If communication was lost or the General was incapacitated in some way and a decision had to be made, then he'd be the one to make it. You couldn't have somebody in that position making mistakes like this. Not just on the field, but here at home. Not even right here in his own home. And they were watching. He knew the rules. They had to let him go. That's how they put it when he took the position. If anything like this should arise, ‘we'd have to let you go'. He knew what that meant.

It was understandable. He wasn't just some pencil-pushing office worker. They couldn't just ask him to clear his desk and show him the door. Not with his knowledge. Not with what he knew. Why, he'd walk right out and right into the wrong hands.

And they couldn't just place him on an island somewhere to live out the rest of his days. The other side would stop at nothing to find him and promise him the world. Promise him a bigger island. And all he would have to do is tell them a secret or two.

No, they couldn't do that, but neither could they keep him. Not after a mistake like this. Such a simple mistake, but so revealing. Repeat a mistake like that on the field and, well, it would cost the lives of billions. Perhaps the world entire.

He took a moment to reflect upon his life, in the remaining few moments before it would come to an end. He looked at the box of cereal in his hand, the one he got up for in the middle of the night, the contents of which he'd just poured into a bowl because he was feeling peckish.

And as the sniper bullet pinged through his kitchen window towards his head, he couldn't help feeling a bit silly. Well, it was silly, taking the cereal out the cupboard and the milk out the fridge, then, when done, walking to the fridge to put the milk back, opening the door, wondering for a moment why the milk won't fit back in, then realising it's because you're not holding the milk, you're holding the box of fucking cereal instead. That was silly.

Yet such a simple mistake.

But he understood their concerns.

Louise was walking through the park with her mate. What a day, sunny with a light breeze. And this bit of the park was lovely, a wee quiet bit, all peaceful and tranquil. She smiled, and was just about to say to her mate how beautiful everything was when she saw something that put the cherry on top.

‘Look, a butterfly!' said Louise, as it landed on a leaf. She whipped out her phone to get a snap, but the thing flew off. ‘Awww,' she said, ‘I think I scared it.' She watched as it fluttered away, this way and that, before doubling back. ‘Where's it going?' she asked. She laughed as it hovered around her head for a while, before landing right on her nose.

‘Oh. My. God,' she said quietly, not wanting to scare it away a second time. She reached for her phone slowly; she didn't want any sudden movements to fuck this up. This was definitely going to be her profile pic, for a very long time.

‘Don't move. I've got it,' said her mate, pulling out her phone instead.

‘Thanks.'

Louise began breathing as slowly as she could to stay calm and still. She was almost more nervous than this tiny wee thing on the end of her nose. ‘This will probably make me sound really stupid,' she whispered, ‘but butterflies don't bite, do they?'

‘No, they don't,' said her mate. ‘Anyway, it's not a butterfly. It's a moth.'

Louise jerked her head away suddenly, like somebody had presented her with a teaspoon of shite. The moth fluttered away. She watched it, repulsed, and rubbed her nose with her hand.

It was every bit as beautiful as the butterfly she thought it was, but not to her. Not any more. Because she was told it was a moth. And as it fluttered back towards her, she ducked and dived like a boxer, trying to smack the thing out of existence. Her mate had to grab her arm and pull her away. They left the park, with Louise still wiping her nose, her day ruined.

What the fuck is her problem, man?

He'd looked it all up, how to do it. How to fuck with the traffic lights. From one place you could control the traffic lights for the whole city, turn them all off, turn them all red, amber, green. You could make them all flash like a disco if you wanted. But he didn't.

If he was a terrorist, he would have turned them all green. Drivers would speed through green light after green light, thinking it was their lucky day, until they turned their head to see another lucky driver heading in from the side. But he wasn't a terrorist.

He could have turned them all red. If he was some kind of anti-capitalist activist, he would have jumped at the chance. Right in the middle of rush hour, he could have stopped the rat race right in its tracks and dealt a crushing blow to the Man. But not him. Call him a bore or a fascist, but that wasn't for him.

He turned them all amber.

The world was moving too fast. He didn't want to put on the red lights, he didn't want to cause a major disruption, he wasn't against people earning a bit of money, he didn't want anybody to lose their job. He just wanted everybody to slow down a bit, that's all. They would slow down, and then stop, for a while. They'd stop long enough to look over to the other drivers in the other motors, to decide on what to do. Who's to go first? Me? You? Their eyes would meet, they'd sit in their cars communicating with hand gestures, with shrugs, with smiles. People would step out their motors and talk. That's all he wanted. He just wanted people to talk, to each other. To slow down and talk. They'd talk about what's going on, they'd maybe laugh, and realise that they weren't in such a hurry after all.

That was the plan.

What happened was in many ways worse than if he had just set all the lights to green. People got confused, they felt like idiots, they got defensive and angry. They got out their motors, not to chat and laugh, but to argue. People swore in front of other people's children, people were told to watch their fucking language, people were told they could say whatever the fuck they wanted and you better get that fucking look off your face, mate, I'm warning you. People got battered, some got killed. Two guys started fighting with each other over a broken tail light, until some other guy tried to break it up, at which point the two guys put their differences aside to murder the do-gooder with a car jack – before all three of them were run over by a 70mph amber-gambler hoping to beat the camera, who himself died after being decapitated by his seatbelt.

So the plan didn't work out.

But at least it got them talking.

Billy was about sixty. He was walking through some spare ground, walking back home from feeding the birds. And it was there he saw the teacup.

It was a dainty wee thing, a white cup with flowers painted on it and a gold rim at the top, lying there in the grass next to some broken bottles and a used johnny bag. It looked old-fashioned, like something you'd see on the
Antiques Roadshow
. It looked like it might be worth something. He knew it wouldn't be, otherwise it wouldn't be lying here, but it was worth something to him anyway; it looked nice, simple as that, and he'd like to have it. It was probably cracked, though, knowing his luck, so he picked it up and had a look, bracing himself for disappointment. But there were no cracks to be found. No cracks, no scratches, not even a speck of dirt. After lying there in that tip, not one speck of dirt. That was strange. But good. He put it in his pocket and carried on walking home, a wee bit chirpier than before.

When he got there, he took the cup out his pocket and went into the kitchen to see if he had any tea bags. He quite fancied the idea of sipping tea out of his new teacup. He was a whisky man, usually. Well, he used to be a whisky man, to be more accurate. He knocked the whole thing on the head six months ago. That's partly why he was off feeding the birds. The folk at AA told him it would be good for him, to get out the house, get out the pub, just go for walks and breathe in the fresh air. He felt a bit daft feeding birds to begin with, a man like him, and he took some slagging for it. Eventually, though, he just thought the slagging was interesting. It was interesting to observe. They were fine with him queuing outside the pub at eight in the morning, they were all right with him having to get carried home at the end of the night. That was Billy for you. What a legend. But going for a walk in the park to feed the birds? What the fuck was he playing at? What a joke.