The third short story

For Miss C -

Lynda Day

Lynda fiddled with her long, silk skirts in the back of the limosine.
'I'm getting all creased.'
'No you're not.' Sarah wasn't even looking at her, though. She was gazing dreamily out of the window.
'I think this dress was a mistake,' sighed Lynda.
Again, Sarah didn't so much as glance at her. 'You look great.'
'It's getting creased,' repeated Lynda. 'I'll be creased in all the photos. And look at this.' She took hold of the impressive cleavage that the corset gave her in both hands and tried re-arranging it. 'What am I supposed to do with *this*?'
Sarah finally slid her a look and smiled at her. 'Keep loose change in it?'
Lynda sighed again and started playing with the bouquet in her lap.
'Nervous?' asked Sarah.
'No!' Snapped Lynda, 'Why should I be nervous?'
Sarah shrugged. 'I just thought... maybe... and in front of all the people and everything.' Sarah noticed Lynda's expression, the expression that categorically stated that she Did Not Want To Talk About It.
'I mean,' said Sarah, changing tack, 'you're used to writing the front pages, not being on them.'
'Don't remind me,' growled Lynda.

They turned a corner and there it was. Lynda reeled a little at the sight in front of her. It wasn't the gorgeous, rose decked manor house which took her breath away, or the throngs of Paparazzi and fans who had somehow worked out the secret location, it was the man in the doorway. Spike Thompson. The only man she'd ever loved. Looking beautiful, just beautiful in a grey designer morning suit. And there, beaming next to him, was his beautiful wife, and in her arms was his beautiful son.

She had been invited to the wedding in America, just like the others, but unlike the others had come up with an excuse and spent the weekend working instead. She had known that day would tear her world apart, but hadn't realised the extent until afterwards. Colin, Frazz and Kenny's drink fuelled brainstorming session on meeting up for the first time in several years had resulted on an idea for a record company being scribbled on a napkin which had, amazingly, worked. None had taken their return flight after Spike's wedding, and today would be the first time she'd seen any of them since. Sarah had had to fly back to Britain for her work, but had done so with several lovebites and Spike's new brother-in-law's telephone number. And Steve was such a very lovely guy, really he was, and as soon as he'd taken the step of moving to London to be with Sarah, Lynda had been in no doubt as to what would happen next.

The limo pulled to a halt and the chauffeur opened the door. The fans and the Paps went wild. Lynda stepped out first. Her skirt *had* got creased, she noticed. She stepped to one side to give Sarah room to maneouver herself and he many ivory skirts out of the car. Behind barricades, teenagers and men with cameras screamed.
'Sarah! Sarah! Miss Jackson! Over here, Sarah!'
Sarah graced them with a brief pause and a smile, in which bulbs popped crazily. She politely declined to sign any of the books that the fans were extending to her, however - this wasn't a launch or a premiere after all, this was her day.
It was her day, Lynda reminded herself, her friend had had so much trouble with the opposite sex, she deserved to marry a wonderful guy, even if he was too American, too caring, too close to You Know Who. And she was so talented a writer, she deserved the success that her childrens' books had brought her. She had to concede that. She had to give Sarah this day. She had to walk quietly behind her, and smile and make small talk even though all she wanted to do was scream and scream and scream.

Spike beamed at Sarah. 'Hey Sarah. Turns out you do scrub up OK after all.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' replied Sarah.
'Hey,' shrugged Spike. 'What are Best Men for?'
Lynda glared at his right ear throughout, but he deliberately didn't meet eyes with her. Instead, he ushered Sarah through into the mansion. Lynda bit her lip and followed the procession through.

The fourth short story

For Scarlett

Sawyer

Tony Jefford knocked politely on the door of the childrens' home and waited. It was answered by Martha - the stout, worried looking Black woman he had spoken to before on the phone.
'Dr Jefford?' enquired Martha, breathlessly.
Tony held out a large, warm hand to her. 'Martha. A pleasure to meet you at last. And please, call me Tony. As soon as kids hear the word "Doctor" they tend to freeze up.'
'Sure. Tony.' Martha shook his hand quickly and lead him in.
'So how is he?'
Martha shook her head.
'Still bad, huh?'
'He usually goes through phases,' explained Martha, 'sometimes very lucid, sometimes off the rails. Violent, y'know? But he's been like this for weeks now.'
They stopped at an open bedroom door. A boy was lying on the bed, playing quietly with a GI Joe and a Barbie doll. Surely that couldn't be him?
'Violent...?' murmured Tony. 'You mean, physically - towards grownups or other kids?'
'Both,' replied Martha, 'and he's verbally agressive too. Knows all these cuss words, all these hurtful words... *sexual* words... a little kid like that shouldn't know stuff like that...'
'You'd be surprised' whispered Tony, 'what kids can pick up. And if he's suffered a severe trauma...'
'It's not just that,' said Martha quietly, 'see what you think, but from what I've seen... it smacks of schizophrenia... multiple personalities, I mean.'
Tony stared at her. 'You serious?'
'I'm no doctor, but, well... he's the kind of case my old Grammy would say it was time to call a Priest 'cause he had the Devil in him. Now I know that's all Hocus Pocus, but the boy's sick. Real sick. I'm starting to think a kid's home isn't the place for a boy like that.'
Tony frowned. Still, the boy played quietly.
'Thanks, Martha,' he said, and stepped into the room.

The boy didn't look up from his game. Tony sat on a small chair at the foot of his bed.
'Hey there, Jimbo.'
'S'not my name,' drawled the boy.
Tony blinked, taken aback at the kid's Texan accent. He *was* far from home!
'Sorry. James.'
The boy scowled up Tony with bright blue eyes. 'I said, that's not my name.'
Tony nodded, thinking for a second, then changed the subject. 'So what are you playing there?'
'You the shrink?' asked the boy. 'They said they were gonna get a shrink in, get me to put a stop to my mischief.'
'I am a child psychologist, yes,' admitted Tony. 'But I'm really just here to talk today.'
'Well whoop-de-fuckin'-doo,' replied the kid. 'Whaddaya wanna talk about then, Doc?'
'I'd like to talk about what you're playing.'
The boy stared up at Tony, maliciously. 'House,' he replied. He manipulated the dolls so that GI Joe was holding a gun to Barbie's face and spoke for them.
'You fucking bitch,' said the kid in a gruff voice, 'you fucking whore, how could you? How could you? We ain't got nothin' to live for no more.' He changed his voice to a squeaky crude imitation of a woman's. 'Maybe you got nothin' to live for any more you impotent fat assed son of a bitch but I still do... I still do. Oh God, Oh God, no, please please for fuck's sake...'
The boy threw the dolls down on the bed and grinned evilly at Tony. 'There. Is that what you wanted to see? Just another poor, troubled little kid, right? So what are ya gonna prescribe me? Happy Pills or Holy Water?'
'Is that what happened to your Mom and Dad?' asked Tony.
'You read your Bible, Mister?' asked the boy.
'I'm a Christian,' replied Tony.
'In other words,' smirked the boy, 'ya would, but it's just so long and boring, right? But you must have read the beginning. Everybody reads the beginning. Hell, even I've read the beginning.'
'You like Bible stories?' asked Tony, 'what's your favourite Bible story?'
The boy ignored Tony. 'So Eve takes the apple off of Satan, right?' said the kid, 'and what you're supposed to learn from that is that women are stupid, see? They're stupid and greedy and will listen to any old shit, right? That's what we learn about women, right?'
'James,' sighed Tony, 'the Bible doesn't say all women are like that. There are lots of very good, Holy women in the Bi...'
'But then Adam takes a bite of the apple,' continued the boy, 'because men are just as stupid and greedy and gullable as women, see? Show 'em a pair of titties and they go apeshit. And that's what God wants us to learn. People are shits. People are shits and they'll risk paradise for a snake's word that a mouthful of apple tastes good.'
Tony sat back in the chair and looked at the child for a good long time. the boy picked up his toys again.
'What are you doing here, James?'
'Told you. I'm playing House. And my name's not James. See ya, Doc.'

Tony paused for another while, then got to his feet. 'Would you excuse me for a while?'
'Knock yourself out,' growled the boy.
Tony let himself out of the bedroom. He was sure when he did that he heard the boy quietly making gunshot noises. Martha was still waiting by the door.
'Well?'
Tony nodded. 'He's very bright, isn't he?'
'Never said he wasn't.'
'And you are right, he is very, very disturbed.' Tony paused. 'Can I ask a question, though?'
'Sure.'
'What's he doing in LA? Wouldn't it have been better for him if he'd stayed in his home town? It can't be good for him being so very far away from Texas.'
'Dr Jefford... Tony...' sighed Martha. 'He was born not a half hour drive from here.'
'That doesn't make a difference, Martha, his home is in...'
'He's never lived in Texas,' replied Martha. 'So far as I can tell, he's never set foot outside of California. He does the accent when he's in a bad way. Does the accent and cusses and says his name's not James.' She paused. 'Did he hit you?'
Tony shook his head, swallowing thickly.
'Well that's something at least, I guess.' Martha looked at him, kindly. 'You look like you could do with a glass of water.'
Tony nodded and allowed Martha to take him through into the kitchen. Behind the door the sound of James Ford playing grew louder.
'Bang. Bang bang. Bang bang! Bang Bang!'

I just worked it out.

Kenny Everett. That's who Russell Brand reminds me of. They sound similar and they both put my back up in exactly the same way.