In the distant past, when animals wore human faces and magic lived in the soul, Snail was a powerful magician of great renown. Where other magicians made their livings performing healing spells or illusions to entertain crowds or hunting the great monsters that roamed the far reaches of the imagination, Snail had chosen a different path.
The day had started off well for professor Frank Rouass, but had taken an unexpected nose dive around lunchtime, when an alarm had been set off. What kind of alarm, Rouass was unsure - the knock-out gas had been piped through the ventilation at approximately the same time, and it left his recollection blurry.
The problem with modern technology, Khopesh mused as he dug through wires and displays, was that the things weren’t tested by anyone who actually had to use them, and everyone seemed loathe to install so much as a tiny ‘manual override’ button in case some tyke smacked it and sent trillions of dollars hurtling to a fiery doom.
Tanya smiled sleepily, hearing the sounds of cooking creep beneath the door and into the cosy bedroom. Luxuriating in the purple satin sheets, she stretched cat-like for a moment before sliding out from between the bedlinen and padding to the door.
Only thirty-nine years ago, people had to live with all the detritus of their lives, all their messy emotions and foolish embarrassments swirling through their brains, making it hard to think straight, see clearly.
It was always the same. Dingy orange light filtering through the windows, bent and twisted by the warped glass panes, the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Last strains of some old song fizzling out on the jukebox.
Fat and black like grapes, barely a sliver of iris left to show that her eyes were usually a pale green and not bloated ink blotches staring out of a worn face. They quivered under his scrutiny.
He was contemplating whether to risk the staff toilet, affectionately called the Toilet of Doom by everyone who had ever had to use it, and so was surprised when the door chime announced the arrival of a customer. Roscoe glanced up, and then stiffened and stared like a deer in headlights, his brain frantically grinding gears as it tried to deal with the fact that Chadwick Smithson had just walked through the door.
I listen to their breath and sometimes, very faintly, in the middle of the night, if I lie flat on the grass and listen hard with my whole body, I can feel them shifting as they dream of the world beyond their earthen cradle.
Cloves and cardamon and fresh grass mixed with damp loam like a symphony as they all clatter to the car - shouting over who gets front, who gets back, youngest pulls second-youngest’s hair, but he gets his seat, as he always does, despite the howling and stamping.
