Hello and welcome


Hi. Ma’at here. Welcome to my blog, where I seek to explore – both critically and creatively – the concept of balance, or lack thereof.

Do please bear with me whilst I populate the site. I will be going through and adding old writing over the coming weeks, and will endeavour to add new stuff on a regular basis.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy what’s already here. Feel free to peruse and comment if you so desire, and of course, give me a follow if you like what you see. I’m always open to constructive critique, discussion and reasoned debate, and I’m always open to having my mind changed should you feel the need to try.

Story for a snow day


Tavish gave a low whistle as the grainy mess on the portable screen in front of him coalesced into an identifiable image. Still grainy, but clear enough to coax a whistle out of the usually unflappable geologist.

“Pierce!” he shouted. “Oi, Pierce!” His voice sounded flat in the landscape, and this high up there was nothing for the sound to echo from – had it been able to fight its way through the heavy, crystalline air in the first place.

Tavish whistled again, this time through his teeth. A high-pitched tone that would have cut through less severe meteorological conditions and raised the attention of its intended recipient, but in these ones, did not. He called again.

“Ho there! Pierce! Fucking Pierce! Would you come look at this?! Oi!” He added an enthusiastic semaphore dance to his repertoire hoping to catch his colleague’s eye with the jumping and waving his arms in the air he titled ‘neon commotion’ on the spot.

Pierce looked up wearing the bewildered expression of one whose deep concentration has been wrested unwilling back to earth.

“Mmwhat?” he enquired.

“The screen. Just come look, will you? I think there’s a fucking road down there. With vehicles on it. And people.”

Although the words fell like ice cubes to the ground before Pierce could catch them, Tavish’s ordinarily muted face was animated enough with a shifting melange of excitement and horror that he got up in a hurry to go see.



“Yep. Okay. Gotcha. Man, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Uh huh, I’ll see you both in 30.”

Swift disconnected the neural net, gave her dog, Bones, a quick whuffle of the ears on her way down the short hallway and grabbed her coat – patched together from multiple mismatched shorthaired hides with an under-jacket of sheepskin and a gilet of thick, wiry wool on top – before opening the door and holding it there, expectant. Her expectation let down, she raised her eyebrows at Bones, who sat patiently at the other end of the hall, panting gently and sweeping the hard-pack behind her with her besom of a tail, head cocked to one side as though to say, “¿Que?”. Swift rolled her eyes and flicked her head towards the open doorway. “Come on, dog,” she said. “You’re letting the heat out.” And with that she strode out into the flittering dark, grabbing a torch from the sconce by the doorway and with the dog trotting at her heel, a loll-tongued grin on its freckled face.

There wasn’t much you could do for transport these days. It wasn’t so much that the knowledge was lacking as it was the ability to manufacture and shape the materials. Technology had adapted in some truly remarkable ways since the white wash, or WWIII, as it was sardonically known in the hubs, but raw materials were almost impossible to come by. Without raw materials there was no way to build the heavy machinery required for manufacturing at scale or mine for the fuel needed to run the heavy machinery to manufacture its bloody self to begin with. It was a whole chicken/egg thing nobody had ever quite managed to figure out. The upshot was that any remotely sizeable machinery was a) very thin on the ground, and b) only used in the most extreme of circumstances. You could power small electronic devices with your own electrical energy, and there were portable leg-powered turbines fitted with friction dynamos for anything a bit larger. But automated transport was all but unheard of.

Dog teams, or shaggy splay-hooved ponies. A goat cart. That was about the sum of your available options.

Swift set out on foot, holding the torch high ahead of her in the blizzard and keeping one hand on the day-glo pick-and-cord line that led all the way to her colleague Pierce’s house on the far border of the compound. Tavish was already there.



It wasn’t that anyone was naïve enough to think there’d be no-one down there. Under the tundra. Enough of history – hell, civilisation even – survived that the information was transferred from what remained of the archaic internet to the neural web, for those who had lived close enough to the remaining stuttering pockets of industrialisation to have it implanted when it was first released. A handful of the old places had lasted a while – after the Wash had swept across the globe – by dint of latitude, altitude, or some other good fortune that allowed it to survive where others were engulfed by the encroaching cold snap that took over the planet.

Everyone out on the fringes of what remained of humanity lived primitive lives at best, most of them with a good dose apiece of rickets, from the vitamin D deficiency exacerbated by their darker skin tone – olive was all it took – and scurvy, from lack of greens, which loosened their teeth in their skulls and gave their hair and eyes a dull look. Scurves, people from the hubs called them. ‘Biners, they were called in turn, on account of the chalky complexion that had triumphed with the increasing lack of meaningful sunlight. With humanity returned to a more tribal existence, in-group preference was exaggerated, and it was hard to move from one group to the other without being made to feel like the most royal of sore thumbs.

Swift was a Scurve. Well, without the namesake, anyway. But neither Tavish nor Pierce really noticed such surface-level inconsequences when there was a half decent thinking machine to be tussled with beneath. Swift, in short, could hold her own, even among those adapted for this life. And for the rest, she took homemade vitamin D supplements made from dried powdered mushrooms and hydro-farmed algae blended with a good lug of rendered animal fat. Whatever animal could be trapped did the job, although how palatable the resulting concoction was depended largely on the species of the binding agent. Never mind. She sucked it down dutifully each day. Eggs helped, too, when she could get them. There wasn’t much scratch around for poultry.

Gathered all together now in Pierce’s firelit cabin, the three self-styled scientists – a geologist, a meteorologist and a climatologist – discussed today’s findings and batted some ideas around as to how they might go about learning more. It might be an important scientific and historical study, but – which was more vital – there might be salvageable ‘stuff’ down there. Stuff was the agreed-upon scientific term they decided to go with. Stuff could be useful. Or it could be life-saving for the inhabitants of this particular frozen corner of the earth. Learning more about what was down there, under Great Static, would help them and the hub leaders decide whether to risk the fuel on a full-scale excavation.

Bones lay by the fire allowing her face to be head-butted by Pierce’s bobcat hybrid and cocking an occasional ear at crescendos in the conversation, before settling with a pointed huff-and-grumble when it resumed normal pitch.

When they had decided on the best course of action, along with one or two contingencies, they conferenced into the network and put forward their suggestions to the hub leaders. In the meantime, all the information gleaned so far would be uplinked to the neural web and thus be made available to anyone implanted, on the off chance that someone in one of the hubs dotted around the world had any useful input.

They decided on spiders for the initial exploration, and set about charging them from their own source – even Bones and Bob the sort-of bobcat were roped in – ready to set out for the glacier at first light. Equipment and provisions went into tough skin bags and were packed on a sled, to be pulled by Pierce’s ragtag team.



He – or rather, his depressing and piecemeal record and his seventeen-year-old bag o’ bones – was discovered by scientists drilling for ice cores on the vast edifice known as the Great Static glacier, in the Hog’s Rump Tundra, erstwhile East Anglia, UK. At a depth of some 800m the drill had struck a thin layer of metal followed by a sizeable air pocket, and mobile ground-penetrating radar had been brought in to investigate at great fuel cost. The reason behind the glacier’s name was what made it of interest: the densely compacted snow-ice was on more or less flat footings, and so it just kept getting thicker and thicker as more snow was deposited and compacted, never actually flowing anywhere. Which explained how it had gotten so damn thick in the relatively short time since the White Wash back in 2018.

Safe excavation of the magnitude required to allow a team down from the surface was impossible; the ice river didn’t move much, but it did move some, and the danger of any tunnel bored through it becoming warped and trapping whoever might be down there was simply too great. The lead scientist, Dr. Pierce, had opted for octicbots, otherwise known as ice-spiders, to be sent down instead; the mechanical spiders had the advantage of coming in a variety of sizes, and the fine-yet-robust machinery could both drill partway into the ice using the distal articulations in their eight telescopic legs, and hammer them into any tiny fissures they found with enough percussive force to send webs of cracks skittering across the surface of the ice. Pun intended. The skittish, tickling noise a pack of them made moving across it was of a type to make your skin crawl, even with the general lack of invertebrate life around to serve as a backlash of childhood nightmares.

Scavenging for usable hardware bore little fruit; the immense pressure exerted by the surrounding ice coupled with the year-round sub-20 temperatures meant that most things shattered when even gingerly probed by the scuttling spiders. To the scientists’ surprise, the 30 metres of ice running through and immediately above the road was composed of salt water – like an immense tidal surge had been frozen solid while still in motion – but the lack of oxygen had prevented corrosion. Now the site was exposed to even the thin atmosphere of the tundra they would have to work fast, because that was about to change.

The road had been gridlocked when the surge hit, they discovered, although many of the vehicles had been crushed over time. But somehow, a large bus – complete with its very own air pocket ­– survived. And so, for a while, had the driver and his twelve fleeing passengers, including one teenage boy and his account, begun as a video diary on his phone, then a series of other phones and devices – the preserved micro-SSDs could be uploaded to the neural web easily enough – then, when batteries had all given out, his own notebook, followed by a spread to any scrap of paper he could lay his hands on and finally, scratched into any exposed metal on the buckled inner shell of the coach with a bit of broken glass. According to a forensic analysis of the spider pics sent up to the surface via neural relay, the last few entries were made with bits of gnawed rib.

The spiders retrieved what they could, spraying any perishable material with an insta-set polymer compound before touching it, and took pictures of the rest before the rust obliterated everything. It began cheerily enough, given the circumstances.

KC Video Transcript, 2 March 2018, 10:14am, Duration: 13m47s

KC [teenager, animated]: Yo, Internet. Fuck. Fuuuck. Check this out. We all [pans phone camera around a gathered group. Flash on. Dark] just survived the craziest apocalypse shit! Like, two, three days ago. It’s been fucking mental. [A number of the group – older – tut. Presume at his language?] Get this. So, when the flood warnings start blaring everything hits the fan [contemporary idiom?], yeah, and I reckon the whole fucking world starts running around like a headless fucking chicken. [Cont. id.?] [More tutting.]

We [pans camera again], us lot yeah, we all end up together on this bus – this fucking miracle of a bloody bus [some smiles, some shell-shocked expressions among the group] – but we’re alright. We’re alright. There’s two fully loaded snack trolleys in the galley, and look, it’s cold enough to keep the fresh stuff fresh a while, am-i-right? [Winks.] And there’s a few miniatures to keep us warm n’all [winks]. But we’re gonna need rescuing pretty soon, alright? [Various gestures of assent among group.] We’re on the A47 [location marker?] near Trowse heading in the direction of Norwich? Just past the lights before you turn right towards County Hall.

I’m gonna go round the group now so you know who’s here, and then we’ll get this little beauty posted, alright? [Looks around group.] [Moves phone so camera points at first person on left and goes around each member in turn.]

Soft-spoken woman [middle-aged, shy]: Er, hi. Uh, I’m Vicky. I’m from just outside Norwich and I’ve got a daughter and a grandson to get back to at home. [Waves at camera.] Hi kids. I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry about me, I’m sure they’ll send help as soon as they realise we’re here. Love you both.

[Pan right.]

Old couple [both shocked]: [Him] Um, well, hello. We’re – that is, Di, my wife, and I. Um, I’m Ed – we’re actually from Portsmouth, just at the seaside for our summer holiday. We’ve got family waiting for us [squeezes wife’s hand and smiles at her]. We just want them to know we’re safe [squeezes hand again] and, God willing, we’ll be there as soon as we can. [Turns to wife.] Isn’t that right, love? [Her, shaky voice] Oh. Yes loves. Course we will. And we’ve got sticks of rock for the kids, Janet. Will you tell them, dear? [Tapers off.]

And so on around the group. There’s Tamsin – Tammy – a forty-seven-year-old divorced stylist with a teenage son; she doesn’t seem to notice KC’s Estuary idiolect. Then there’s Pete and Marie, middle-aged couple out on a day trip to the beach for that bracing sea air with Pete’s mum, Greta; Betty, Vi (short for Violet), Linda and Prim (Primrose is the flower this one’s named for), a pair of Bridge partners out having tea and scones at a tearoom near the coach station when the sirens set up their mournful, persistent wail; David, local business man hoping (though he doesn’t say so) to see his younger mistress again, if only for one last romp, please God; and finally, Len, the driver, who didn’t sign up for any of this and who has a grown-up son and daughter and a granddaughter on the way, due imminently. We come back round to—

KC [turns camera to face himself]: And I’m Dan: apprentice bricklayer and all-round dude, and I ain’t never letting my boys forget who’s tha [cont. id.] boss, innit. [Cont. id.]

[Long pause. Face and voice drop, group looks uncomfortable.] But look, yeah. Not all of us made it… There’s three people. Two guys and a woman. [Female voice sobs off camera.] Down in the luggage hold. We put them there, cuz [id.], you know.

[Reaches in pocket, pulls out three small cards, looks at each in turn] Caroline Matheson [holds ID up to camera], Robert Murray [holds up ID] and Mike Ford [ditto]. Sorry. To their families, I mean. [Drops camera to side.]

[Shakes himself, to group, camera shows floor of coach] Okay, so I’m gonna get this baby uploaded everywhere, alright? Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Send it to my whole address book, all that. Anyone who’s on social add me and share. BigBadDan2001. [Ends.]

The leaders searched the archives, such as they were. What with the age of his fellow passengers, KC – Dan-the-apprentice-bricklayer – didn’t get many takers. And anyway, most of the internet was gone, frozen in time in the space of a few hours. But the four old Bridge dears were on Twitter and Instagram somehow, the respective feeds the leaders pulled up full of the meanderings and unselfconscious biddy-isms of a generation that grew up pre-internet. Tammy, too, of course, and Len as well. Oh, and David the horny businessman, albeit furtively. Caroline Matheson and Robert Murray were hooked up to social too, but they were dead in the luggage hold. At any rate, there was no sign of the video anywhere in the archives.



Tavish, Swift and Pierce transcribed each video meticulously, and then set-to tidying up the handwritten ‘Stuff’ and putting all the scraps and pictures of scratched-out entries in chronological order, becoming more maudlin as the pile of transcripts mounted up.

KC video transcript, 12 March 2018, 19:08pm, Duration: 6m17s

KC/Dan [thin sounding cough, sunken eyes and sallow tone, chapped lips, skinny]: Please. Someone has to be seeing this. Nearly everyone’s gone from the cold. Just fell asleep and never woke up, except for Dave who went fucking barmy, raving like a fucking loon about some Becky chick and how he was gonna leave Sarah – I guess that’s his missis – and drank his own piss for fuck’s sake [coughs]. It’s just me, Tammy and Len left now. [Mumbling female voice off camera.]

[Shouts] No, Tammy, I can’t, right. I just fucking can’t. [Protracted coughing fit.] I… [cough] I… [hacking cough] Just… [heavy wheezing] Just no, okay? I won’t. I won’t do it. [Prolonged coughing.] As if this wasn’t bad enough for fuck’s sake. [gestures ahead of him, sound of lighter sparking off camera, more coughing followed by retching and hawking to one side]. Their hair. Jesus. I’m burning their fucking, cunting hair. [Cough.] I can’t…I won’t…Just no. Not gonna happen. Someone will come, I’m telling you. No, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t…[Trails off, sobbing interspersed with more coughing and retching.] [Ends.]

“Jesus effing wept,” said Tavish, as always his colourful language belying his stoic nature. “I can’t look at any fucking more of this right now.” Swift groaned her agreement, and Pierce pushed his netpad aside, relieved to cut the link for a beat. “That poor kid,” he said. “Those people.”



When the transcripts were completed they were uploaded as a package to the web. Horrifying – hope consuming – as it was, news was still news, and there wasn’t much of it to go around the handful of hubs dotted at intervals on the surface of the snowy globe that was once blue and verdant. Travel between them was all but impossible – the distances too great and the conditions too poor to navigate by. The only thing making communication possible at all was the neural web, a small network of collected humanity joined by an implanted neural interface that succeeded the thing known once as the internet. News was news, and people were glad of it. At least now there would be no more surges and flash frosts. Those things were behind and beneath them, and there to stay.

Eventually, the Scurves would die off or mutate to better fit the climate, but that was a way off, and in the meantime they rubbed along at an uneasy distance with the ‘Biners, the two remaining branches of humanity always suspicious of one another, never quite mixing. The Scurves got the Chinese whispers [contemporary idiom?] mix of the road and the bus and the lad. It was more a legend than anything their malnourished imaginations could muster. Except, perhaps, for the kids.

But stories round the night-banked fire were what kept the people from crumpling to the ground somewhere out on the tundra and never bothering to get up. They told them they were still human. With history.



The atmosphere in Pierce’s hut was hazy and full of potential sleep, perchance not to dream of things seen and words written down here over the last several days. Perchance to forget there had ever been a road. Pierce stared blankly into the dancing flames, head nodding; Tavish had left almost an hour ago, and the two stragglers hadn’t exchanged a word since, instead wallowing in the silence and their own morbid reveries.

Rousing herself, Swift sighed large and downed her drink – some kind of unforgiving corn liquor imported from a hydrostill in Hog’s Hub, near the foot of Great Static. She rose creaking to her feet, patting her thigh to summon Bones from her stupor on the hearthstone and lifting her torch from the sconce on the mantel. “Come on old girl,” she said. “Time to get back.” The dog rose with a grunt, shook itself and padded to its master’s side, glancing back at the fire before huffing and giving a brief, questioning shake of her tail. “’Fraid so girl,” said Swift. “Time to rip the plaster off, eh. G’night, Pierce.”

Pierce muttered something incoherent and gave a snort, mumbling darkly as he settled back into his corn-liquor-numbed slumber.

Swift opened the door, whistled for Bones and thrust her torch out into the night. It had taken an age to piece together the diaries of the lost child who became – morbidly – known over the neural web as Kid Cannibal, and it was an age she would rather forget, buried deep down under the tundra where all the dead things slept. The tundra she now crossed with her dog, headed for home and hearth.





  1. The hammer falls (pt. 1)

The hammer fell and John left the courthouse a free man, but vindication was a distant prospect. The victory was a hollow one, and part of him almost wished he’d been sent down; that it would have been safer for him inside.

His accuser didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed when the not-guilty verdict was read out, instead swept away by paroxysms of outrage punctuated by snot and hiccoughed tears.


She was escorted to the court’s dedicated safe space by female security staff murmuring soothing platitudes. Sympathetic and heartfelt, but platitudes nonetheless.

Mired in a daze of relief mingled with terror, he barely registered as his counsel pumped his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, so transfixed was he by the pointed malevolent stares – only half imagined – directed at him from the public gallery. He was reminded of high school hierarchies as he took in the deliberately too-loud susurrations hissed in pairs from behind garish, look-at-me manicures and accompanied by looks of unveiled disgust.

He swallowed painfully; a year being raked naked over the coals in court had been bad enough, but somehow he knew his troubles were not yet over. Reputation destruction – that was how women fought. Unbidden, the social hashtag #NotAllWomen popped wryly into his head, but he wasn’t ready even for sardonic humour yet, and he sincerely wished that she’d just punched him. At least that would have been honest, something he could understand and respond to.

He became aware of someone speaking to him. His lawyer, Diarmuid O’Carroll, debriefing him in his soft Irish lilt.

“…and once that’s done all you have to do is parrot the ‘no comment’ line, then we’ll get you to the car and you’ll be home before you know it.”

The man was misleading to look at. Looked more like a professor of comparative literature than a public defender, but in this case that had been a blessing. He was singularly non-threatening – even liberal – in appearance, with overlong, iron grey hair that flowed back from a receding hairline, but had a core of steel that would put you neatly in your place should you find yourself regurgitating clichés and doublethink acquired by rote.

He had talked circles around John’s accuser in cross, drawing her out by cunning degrees before slamming point after point home until her lawyer pleaded for a recess so that she might recover from the ‘violence’ – that’s how the lawyer described it – he’d meted out, while her #MeToo army cried hate speech from the gallery. One of them – a pudgy blogger with breasts, faded-pink hair and an artfully mangled hammer and sickle tee in his early twenties – had even swooned, requiring paramedics with oxygen to revive him. The look of smug self-satisfaction was already on his face when he fluttered open his eyes and took in the concerned faces peering at him from among the aroused, angry ones.

O’Carroll paused in his speech to give John an appraising look softened with sympathy. Shellshock, he concluded to himself.

“Look, John,” he said, lowering his voice to confidential levels. “It’s been a rough year for you, man. Let me give your statement to the vultures outside, eh? Then you just go home and try to relax for a few days before we decide on any counter action, okay?”

John flicked his attention away from the gallery, now chanting in unison as the irate judge rapped his gavel to no effect:

“Hey hey, ho ho, teach these rapists that no means NO!”

He nodded in mute assent.

The year had left him a chewed-up husk, wan, withdrawn and stooped so that he seemed much smaller than he really was. He was thinner, too, and his hair had started to grey a little around the temples. He was twenty-eight, but stress and malnourishment had taken their toll. His eyes had lost their light, his skin its bounce.

The fatherly hand of his lawyer in the middle of his back guided John toward the exit and he wanted to weep at the touch, instead taking in a vast lungful of air to hold, opening his eyes wide so that the blooming tears would evaporate, all in an effort not to give in to the wretched vulnerability he felt.

John had his supporters in court, but most of them were strangers; the ones he’d known from Before had fallen by the wayside in ones and twos as the case had dragged on and he’d climbed further into his own navel. Those that were left he shrank away from, fearful of physical attack as they reached out sympathetic hands to pat him as he passed. No air of triumph permeated them; rather, they exuded an air of haunted solidarity and brotherhood – rapists, abusers and feckless fathers all. Or so they had been labelled, if only by virtue of that pesky, privileged and inherently toxic x chromosome they had had the good fortune to be born with.

He was grateful to have the back of O’Carroll’s neck to look at as his statement was read out on the court steps. In his peripheral vision he recognised several of the reporters that had gathered – regular faces over the course of the trial – from local papers and national. And Buzzfeed. Microphones brandished like stilettos as their owners bristled with sarcasm and bloodlust. Plain bloody lust, to look at the size of their pupils and the flush on their cheeks.

“…and it is our conviction that justice has been served here today. My client will not be taking questions at this time,” finished the corduroy-clad defence lawyer before ushering John down the steps to the waiting police car that would take him home. “No comment,” mumbled John whenever a mic was pushed under his nose. “No comment.”

The word ‘RAPIST’ spray painted without artistry on his front door was a dull knife in John’s gut when he got back to his sad looking house. The policeman that had driven him home said that he and his colleague would stay until nightfall to ward off the worst of the two-bit reporters and rubber-neckers that were already camped out when they arrived. None of them seemed happy he had won.

He sighed and shuffled down the path, defeated in victory.

Some of the windows that had had bricks thrown through them boarded over, and John wore the gloom inside like a blanket of pathetic fallacy cocooning him in his state of mind.

The hallway phone was ringing before he’d even shut the door, so he unplugged it, ignoring the blinking of voicemails left, and went to the kitchen to retrieve the four-pack that was the sole occupant of his fridge.

In the living room, he collapsed into the only chair and sat staring at the wall in the semi-dark, his right index finger flicking a monotonous rhythm against the rim of the untouched can in his hand – a meditation to allow his mind to rest a while, if it could.


  1. Conviction

His boss had let him go the moment the story broke, saying, “Look, I’m sure it’ll blow over eventually, but my hands are tied. Sorry, mate.

“Tell you what – I’ll write you a reference if you get cleared, yeah?”


The left-wing press were the new police, and he’d been tried and convicted before ever catching a whiff of the inside of an interrogation room.

John wanted to yell Coward! in his boss’s face but the cocktail of adrenaline and cortisol that had been coursing through his system for days since he’d learned what she’d done had left him shamed and shaking, and it was all he could do to mumble Yeah. OK. Thanks. before making his red-faced escape, hoping against hope that he’d be able to get away without running in to any of his colleagues on his way out.

Strangers hadn’t started to recognise him, yet.

Uniformed officers were already waiting for him when he got home, a couple of reporters skulking nearby, and his flush deepened as he felt the neighbourhood curtains twitch as one. They’d sure as hell recognise him soon, he thought.

The female officer presented him with the warrant to search the premises and what he thought was a smirk, and he shrank another inch as he let them in. His place bore all the signs of a successful young bachelor who took pride in himself, albeit a little on the clinical side – all angles and clean lines and neutral colours. He winced as the officers began to rifle through his belongings, rubbing his hand through his hair reflexively.

John liked his life well enough, but it hadn’t quite seemed enough of late. He craved a woman’s touch – both literally and figuratively – although he might have hesitated to phrase it thus if pressed. He just knew that, unlike most of his peers, who were all about the good times, he wanted to settle down, raise a family and build a life with someone he could just, you know, rub along with. Someone who’d challenge him and lift him up all at once, and for whom he’d do the same.

He’d been on a handful of dates – he hated that word – but no-one had really stood out. Pleasant enough, but dull; no spark in them.

When the police officers started to pile up his electronics and – he didn’t know where to look – porn collection by the front door, it occurred to him that he should have known better than to download that hook-up app, but busy as he was he thought he’d give it a stab anyway, just in case. You never knew.


  1. Connection

Sandra Solomon was her name. She talked a good game but she was damaged in not-so-obvious ways, product of an absent father and strident, irresponsible mother who taught her to be the same. She came on strong at the end of their second date, and John had had to put on the breaks. “That’s not what I’m after,” he’d said, but gently. He liked her and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Oh, she pouted a little – John thought it was sweet – but he’d persuaded her not to take offence. He was looking for something serious.

Sandra wasn’t. At least not with him.

Sandra liked one of his colleagues, Ollie. She’d spotted him looking convivial with John as she’d swiped through his profile pics on the app. He’d never shown anything beyond polite interest in her and she wasn’t sure how to make herself noticed. When she saw him in that picture with a pint and his arm draped around John, she barely hesitated before saying Fuck it and swiping up with a frisson of adrenaline.

She wasn’t a bad actress, he had to give her that. When, after a few weeks, he introduced her to his friends, she played the part of cool new girlfriend to a tee. Funny, cute, quick-witted but feminine. Everyone was impressed – and trying to impress – including Ollie. She wore a Che Guevara t-shirt. They all just thought it was a cool icon. John was so thrilled the night was going so well that he didn’t register Sandra and Ollie cutting their eyes at one another when each thought the other wasn’t looking.

On a high, he took her back to his place that night. He put some music on and got them a drink, and they’d made out for a bit on the sofa before Sandy had breathed in his ear that they should take the party upstairs. After the success of her first outing among his mates John felt ready to take that step. He’d been tentative, not wanting to mess up their first time together. He wasn’t interested in hookups or casual. She hadn’t seemed bothered at all, even put on a bit of a show.

“Pull my hair,” she’d said. “Fuck me harder.”

John didn’t lack an adventurous spirit, and he enjoyed wild sex as much as the next twenty-something, but it felt a bit cold, if he was honest. Although he knew the first time with someone new often resulted in overcompensating, so he didn’t let it get to him.

Although he was surprised when she said she was going home an hour later.

The next day, she responded to his messages in terse monosyllables, and when he tried to call her that evening it went straight to voicemail. John was concerned, but figured she just needed a little space after taking such a big step. Perhaps when she’d figured things out they could discuss where this was going. He texted her as much and signed off with a kiss.

He didn’t hear from her directly again.


  1. Explosion

The beautiful, erudite young woman with piled-up, messy-chic hair the colour of roses switched the camera on and sat down to tell her story to the world. It was a story of hair pulling and rough treatment marked by a lack of verbal consent. Her tears and artfully smeared eye makeup underscored the problem that had become endemic in these times.

She spoke with a home-counties clip, a grad student at LSE who was, conveniently, writing her thesis on rape culture and gendered violence. Her channel name was Ella HitzGerald, and she had a couple of thousand subscribers. As of the other night, a couple thousand and one.

Between sobs and wrung hands she described how she’d been interested in this guy, a night of pool and drinking and banter, friends and colleagues. One in particular hadn’t left her alone, and she’d been too tipsy to make her feelings clear when he took her back to his place only to treat her roughly. She still had bruises on her scalp where he’d pulled her hair, she said.

The comments section had blown up – mostly in her favour; the video was used to bolster the message of similar content creators around the web, and pretty soon another round of pieces referencing, among others, John, was appearing in such august publications as Cosmo and HuffPost; another smattering of hashtag-me-toos, and solidarity for survivors of sexual violence ranging from those awkward knee-fumbles to cat-calls and beyond.

One in four women! Rape culture! Patriarchy!

The next day, John picked up his extension and moments later was on his way, as requested and unsuspecting, to speak to his boss.

That night he couldn’t tear himself away from his laptop except to throw up.


  1. The hammer falls (pt. 2)

John hadn’t moved from his chair. He hadn’t even drunk that beer, and in the absence of life signs and the presence of a sympathetic, drenching drizzle, his little band of scavengers had slunk away to their various holes for the night.

At dusk, the police assigned to John’s house knocked on the door to let him know they were heading off. They reminded him that he should let them know next time he planned to have consensual sex. He almost laughed at that, before he remembered his dream of settling down with a nice girl and having kids one day. Before he remembered his burgeoning career, the friends he never heard from anymore and the note of jaundiced disappointment in his mother’s voice the last time he had spoken to her. The laugh was swallowed before his throat could remember what to do with it, and he wondered if he’d ever laugh again.

After speaking to the coppers, John paced in the dark trying to still his thoughts, but they were unrelenting. He told himself that he’d been exonerated, that life would go back to normal, eventually.

The bleak and nihilistic voice that lives in us all told otherwise, and compelled by its destructive impulse, John opened his laptop – its cold, blue glow the solitary source of light. And the single greatest source of darkness.

Social media was awash with third- and fourth-hand news of the verdict; the vast majority of it shockingly referenced and spewing vitriol either at John, the society that bred rapists, and men in general, or sympathy for Sandy and solidarity for survivors.

#MeToo #FuckThePatriarchy #EndRapeCulture

Voices that spoke up in support of John were mobbed and shouted down. Shamed into silence. Some had their details posted online. Naturally, John’s were among them, and the threats piled up.

Ollie watched from his car on the street corner as the police pulled away; saw the flash of blue pulse out and expand into the room downstairs. A silhouette moved to the window, put both hands to the glass, and stood staring out for a long moment before turning away. The quiet residential street glistened and dripped in its dappled halogen glow, the buzz of the streetlamps a soothing hum in concert with the trickle of water picking its way down the street’s cambered edges.

Ollie’s phone buzzed on the seat next to him and he tapped out a quick reply, eyeing the Louisville slugger – a present from a mate who’d visited the States a few years back – in the passenger-side foot well as he did so.

He and Sandy had hooked up about a week after her video went viral. He hadn’t questioned that she’d slept with him right away; hadn’t questioned that she wanted him to do all the things she’d told the internet John had done to her against her will. And more. He was proud to call himself a feminist ally and she didn’t have to take responsibility or justify herself to anyone.

He ended his message with a promise to see her right and a kiss and picked up the bat as he slid from the car, shutting the door quietly behind him. The street was more or less deserted, but he kept the bat close to his side and skirted the pools of light cast by the streetlamps, his hood up against rain and recognition.

As he drew near to John’s front door Ollie was startled by a flash of white light over the steady blue, and the sharp strike of a muffled shot. Through the window he watched the tall shadow fold itself down toward the floor. Although his pulse quickened, he thought of his sweet, vulnerable, dirty, willing girl at home, shrugged inwardly and walked back to his car.


  1. Turning point

The case turned in John’s favour when a video that had been deleted from Sandra Solomon’s phone was retrieved. The public gallery was cleared while those involved in the case viewed its content, which was not made public beyond the gospel of speculation. A large number of loud voices shouted that it didn’t matter if John was innocent. He was guilty simply by dint of being a straight, white man, and if a few innocent men had to go down in flames to serve the cause, so be it.


John’s death was ruled a misadventure the day Sandy first struck Ollie and he apologised to her for making her do it; the day after a famous libertarian YouTube commentator told the tale of a young woman who had used one man to get to another; a sexual predator who cried rape to inflame his need to be heroic in the only way he’d been taught how – subservient and weak; who walked away from the destruction of an upright young man’s life as the hero walks away from a slow-motion explosion in an action movie: without a scratch. At the end of the video he displayed John’s first, last, and only tweet, from the night he died. He left it there a full minute before fading to black.

@JohnIrons tweeted: I just wanted to live a good life. Thank you to those who supported me. I wish I’d known some of you in person.




Wednesday came around

Low-lit corners give way

To a light, persistent rain

Warmed over with bathtub gin and animation;

The spotted river a susurration

Of pleas not yet uttered,

A dance not yet beheld.


But Wednesday comes around

And the river swells anew:

Today, its flow has twice been pushed under

For to spill and rend itself asunder

Wants once more to surge

And then to bloom.


And 8 o’clock is hard

When no greeting’s to be made,

And Wednesday came around and went again,

And, quite unbidden, the force that brought the rain

Got in its boat

And went along its way.


When she opened her eyes, her view had been reduced to two tantalising, far-off pinpricks surrounded by a blur of red-black, as though they had been disconnected – not only from each other, but from her brain as well. The noise in her head was a roar of silent heat, receding. She was hollow.

She appeared to be moving but had no notion of her arms and legs. She could neither tell where she was nor who might be there with her; a rumbling sort of vibration both was and wasn’t – sensed but not heard, nor even felt. She sensed that perhaps she ought to panic, but somehow could not.

Groping for her fever dreams she tried to position herself within this new state of being, and felt part of herself – her physical self – lurch as though trying to emulate this mental seeking in the real world, if that was what this was. She tried to identify herself but, unable to pinpoint why it would matter, reverted instead to instinct – fuzzy proprioception, a feeling not quite felt, movement, hunger – although she could no more name the feelings than she could herself, just now. She felt incomplete, like some vital part was missing; she was a passenger to impulse with no inkling how long she had been travelling. Awareness came and went, unattached to linear time.

A montage of disordered tableaux whose common thread was marked by the sounds of building chaos played a disjointed show reel through what was left of her mind. The sharp reek of blood, piss and shit was an immovable bolus lodged in her sinuses, highlighted by a bass note of cloying sweetness, burned rubber and fuel.

Her ravaged memory clasped onto the mayhem and rewound in a morbid attempt to replay some sense of being, but all it found were sensations – hot, wet hands, and an acid reek burning and bubbling the tender skin at the edges of her mouth; the taste of new decay; the echoes of screams, men’s, women’s and children’s. The rusted haze of the fever that had enveloped her, scorching first through her skin, then down through adipose, flesh, organ and bone until only her autonomic nervous system remained intact. Sort of. A cursor, blinking; waiting for instruction.

The nauseating show reel of her senses ended not by fading to black but in the manner of an old super8 home movie – flipping the same final image over and over and over, the effect enhanced by the rusty vignette fadeout of her blood-washed peripheral vision. The two small and crumpled forms that lay next to the bicycles on her front lawn were discarded marionettes and not her children. Someone was tearing their stuffing out. A broken and twisted wreck, wearing her clothes. A voice she intuited as hers filtered into the scene from the outside, keening tortured anguish.

What was she?

Her now-body responded to comprehension with revulsion; she gagged and felt a thick, hot ooze rise up her gorge and flow down over her chin and neck, onto her chest. It burned. She could not locate her hands to wipe it away. She tried to scream but the sound that escaped was a thin and watery gurgle, made sinister as it bubbled through the viscid morass leaching from somewhere inside her.


It was a sunny summer Saturday, and Jenny stood washing dishes at the sink, watching through the open window as her children – shaggy-haired boys of nine and six – played out on the grass in the early evening light. Her husband, complaining about a deep scratch he had sustained while clearing the garden, had gone to shower, saying something about the risk of infection.

He snaked his arms around her now from behind, made an animal noise in his throat, and she reached up over her shoulder to touch her fingers to his lips. She smiled as he took the middle and ring fingers of her right hand into his mouth, began to say “later, honey,” but her words were cut off as his molars and 150lbs of pressure crushed her finger bones, and morphed into a strangled cry as she whirled to face him and tried to extricate her hand from his jaws in shock. Her bones cracked and splintered, and she withdrew instead two ragged stalks of grisly pulp.

Her husband’s skin was mottled green and grey and bore the oiled foam-rubber look of a cadaver, and she choked back vomit and a groan of horror as she backed away. He was naked, and the scratch across his forearm a livid purple oozing blackened blood and yellow pus. When she caught sight of her children, still playing on the lawn, she couldn’t choke it back a second time and turned, and ran, their names a strangled croak on her lips as she rushed to scoop them up and get them away.

Whatever the infection was it acted fast.

By the time she reached the door the mottling had radiated from the remains of her fingers and was reaching out tendrils of rot up her neck and jaw, and girdling her torso as her blood coagulated in her veins in a thick magma wave of searing heat and pain.

As her brain began to die she tried a final time to call out to her children, but her voice box was gone already. Her pace had slowed, and as she neared them she came to a juddering halt and stood convulsing for an interminable half-minute. She barely registered when her paroxysms broke her own neck as her boys looked on in horror, unable to move or cry.

They ran to her when the seizure slowed to an occasional hiccup, grabbing her arms with cries of “Mama!” and “What’s wrong?” They started to panic and sob when they saw her blank eyes, every capillary in the corneas haemorrhaged when the blood inside them coalesced and expanded. She cocked her head at a hideous angle as though hearing their cries, and her hands clenched reflexively as she appeared to notice them anew ­– those two trusting boys who couldn’t find it in themselves to believe it was true when their mother reached out and started to remove their stuffing.



A shadow to my left

A flicker in my eye

A hollow in my chest

A sigh,

A sigh.


The story left unsaid

The laugh that isn’t heard

The poem never read

A cage,

A bird.


A table’s empty place

A jar of coffee full

A bed that’s mostly space

The push,

The pull.


The days that drag their heels

The nights I lie awake

The way that numbness feels

The burn

The ache.


The quandary at hand

The right, the maybe wrong

The line drawn in the sand

Too short,

Too long.