Welcome To Hellville - Part 14 By Rich Mills

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Remember, remember the fifth of November. Alan smiled to himself, he felt she'd smile back. As with all days leading up to any Bonfire Night he could ever remember, the gods were restless. A storm in a D-cup had met her PR-effect match, and the media for mindless meat-eaters was polishing off the shit-dish, like the ginger tom who'd got the cream.

We're all going to be rained off the face of this planet one day, the voice of Noah spoke from the television. Alan recognised the tea-cloth head-dress in his peripheral vision as having a biblical resonance. The news bulletin had ended, and the educational programmes for schools had started. Transfixed for an instant, he shifted his view back to the window, feeling guilty that he'd let an orthodox religion's fairytale capture his mind for a moment.

Rain, gust, slash, drop, whip, whistle, whirl and dance, and stop! Alan was sure he heard a voice, not in the wind, but above the wind, opposed to the wind. Yes he was sure he'd definitely heard her shout, Stop it now, I can't take this shit anymore. The rain had stopped, greeted by a barrage of fire-works that cracked a chorus dedicated to its immanent return. Time to leave, with heavy over-coat clung tight around him, Alan battled the elements, on this cold, cold, wet, wet, day. Procrastination was his maxim, but rules were made to be broken, just some he tried to break less than others.

This one he hated to break, especially on a day like today, a day designed specifically for the practice for hard-core procrastination. University was beckoning and he knew he had to go. He had to go and make his mark. Alan felt it was going to be he who would be lighting the blue touchpaper on a firework display set up as a true reflection of the symbolism of Guy Fawkes Night for him.

Not for him a smouldering Catherine Wheel that no one dare go back to, pyro-noia was for wimps. He growled back at the straining weather system slung over his head, warning of a wash-out. The heavens opened, the siren song of the angelic host reigned down on Alan. As the water flows over the bridge, as we walk on the floodland, as we walk on the water, we forget. The dark whispering voices punctuated by the thunderous beat of Doktor Avalanche and the Chorus Of Vengeance, The Gift came to Alan. He knew that the Jihad had started, it had been foretold by the rains from Heaven.

For the first time since childhood Alan had prayed for this merciful release.

The street folded round to the left, the wind picked Alan up and rushed him through the chicane of bending street lamps and tipped-over wheelie-bins. A loose ball of rags tumbled out of one of the bins, danced across the road and was whipped up into the air. Duster, dish-cloth, ripped sheet and old curtain all reeled and span, caught by frenetic cyclonic action of the winds. The wind dropped, the rags stopped dancing and came to rest in a gentle heap in front of Alan. The resting pile of rags seemed uncannily like a time-served old gentleman of the road sitting on the corner of the street.

As he approached the rags acquired structure, a calcified sub-frame from which to hang. A thin white hand took a watch out of a waistcoat pocket at first looking at Alan and then at a watch he was holding. An unimportant passing event on the way to his destiny, yet without rational hesitation Alan asked the figure, "Are you waiting for something?" The words escaped from him, as he hoped that the raggedy man's hearing aid battery was running low, and no reaction to his question would be received."No, nothing." The voice seemed to rise above the wind, and yet made of it.

Continued ....next page,

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