If Wishes Were Horses 6

Today’s word count:      1673                                                 Total word count:  10, 893

Eventually I realised that I needed much more information than I currently had. This creature I faced was not the kind of threat life usually threw at me. I had to find out more. I wasn’t sure where I was going to start looking for details about supernatural beings and wish granting, but I thought maybe old folk tales might be one place where memories of such creatures might survive. I have a very old book of tales from my childhood but I’m not sure how traditional any of them are and I suspected that the stories in it might have been made up by a modern author. Hardly a source of useful information on how to deal with my curse, whatever it turned out to be. I decided a trip to the library would yield the best results. I still haven’t graduated to looking up everything online like the rest of the world does now. Somehow I don’t trust the information fed to me on a computer screen. I like the reassuring feel of an old book in my hands. If someone has committed information to print, somehow I am more convinced that it contains facts. I’m probably wrong, but that’s just how I am.

I left my car at home, figuring that if anyone from work saw it they’d know for definite that I was bunking off. I couldn’t afford to be easily spotted. If I was seen in town I could always say that I’d gone to find some medication for how I was feeling. I practised my excuses: “I caught the bus because I didn’t feel safe to drive. I really do feel very rough.” Did I need to cough after that to make a point? Maybe not. It’s a migraine I’m recovering from, not the flu. So I set off on public transport, which isn’t my favourite way of getting around. I kept hoping that it wouldn’t be too traumatic and trying desperately not to lose my temper with any of the other passengers in case my inner thoughts were heard and translated into some horrid end for an innocent bystander. Keeping my brain calm wasn’t easy, and my mind started to wander off onto all the potential fates my fellow travellers might suffer if I couldn’t control my own mind.  I caught myself picturing a dreadful collision between the coach and a lorry, driven coincidentally by someone who’d cut me up on the motorway at some time in the past. Then I started to panic in case the pictures in my head were vivid enough for old NotMyFault to interpret as a wish.  “Please, please don’t let that happen,” I thought, but I must have said it out loud because a woman across the way turned and smiled at me.

“It is a bit of a bumpy ride, but I don’t think we’re in any real danger,” she said, trying to pacify me.

I just started to think “Mind your own business you….” when I caught myself and stopped the thought in its tracks. “No losing your temper, Angela, smile back nicely and be friends.” Which I did, with a great deal of effort.  I turned to face her directly and thanked her, politely, with the best smile my fright would allow, but inside I still worried that I might have more deaths on my conscience and my heart thumped almost loud enough to hear for the rest of the journey. 

As a way to make my thoughts behave I began to consider what I would need to research when I arrived.  I had my notebook with me so I could begin with the points I’d identified earlier, and write down anything new that might be useful.  Doodad seemed to have me pinned down from all directions in this deal. The whole calamity was extremely unfair, but associating with the underworld was always that way, wasn’t it? Deals with the devil and all that. He’d told me he wasn’t called Beelzebub, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t some other demon. Did I know any demon names? That would be worth researching when I got to the library, though I hadn’t the first idea what section would cover it. I could ask the librarian. Or should I? I didn’t want to draw attention to myself too much by asking ridiculous questions. I could almost imagine seeing the library staff whispering to each other behind their hands but looking pointedly in my direction with worried expressions on their faces in case I was some kind of lunatic. Would they think I was dangerous and likely to attack if they didn’t find exactly what I needed? Life certainly wasn’t getting any easier. It would help if Gizmo had told me a few of the rules. He claimed he had told me a lot, if I had paid attention, but I don’t think I took much heed of his actual words. I was still reeling from the whole concept that he was magical to take proper notice of details while he talked to me.

Once I got to the library I wasn’t sure where to start. It was a magnificent building, dating from some time in the Victorian era, at a guess, and the shelves were high and made of rich, dark wood, polished over the years by thousands of hands. The atmosphere suggested this was just the place to find out more about my questions, but the endless rows of spines gave few clues about the direction in which I’d find my answers. I considered looking in the children’s section to see if I could find any books of fairy tales, but you have to be careful these days as an unaccompanied adult doing anything around young people. It doesn’t matter how innocent your intentions are, there will always be someone around who will be quick to shout ‘up to no good’ and you can find yourself in court with a ruined reputation before you can protest. That’s not to say that there aren’t some proper weirdos out there and kids should be looked after, but it’s not easy if your legitimate business coincides with the presence of kids. I gave the children’s literature a wide berth and headed for non-fiction instead. I wandered round a bit aimlessly at first, but eventually wound up in the paranormal section and selected a few likely-looking titles.

A surprising number of authors have tackled the subject. Being granted wishes is not the blessing that everyone, including myself before it actually happened, believes it will be. It turns out there are far more stories of how wishes went wrong than when they were granted properly. Apparently sprites and piskies all around the world have a habit of tricking the unwary. I found lots of instances where careless folk were granted three wishes – not three a day, just three – and they wasted them on stupid things. There were even a few where the grantee took so long to think about their wish that they made an unplanned one by mistake and got something they didn’t intend. There’s a French tale, for example, where a woodcutter wishes for a black pudding, because he’s hungry. For not very obvious reasons his wife ends up with the pudding stuck to the end of her nose and they have to use wish three to remove it. Variants of that story crop up all over Europe. This is a long way from Aladdin! There are plenty of stories and one thing they seem to have in common is that the sprites and goblins who offer the wishes do not intend anyone to benefit by them. Tales in which people made sensible choices and lived happily ever after are very few and far between. In fact the ones who come out best are those who decide, after careful thought, that their lives aren’t so bad after all and they don’t want the wishes, thank you very much.

Meanwhile I was making no progress on my own situation. I had spent an entertaining afternoon learning about all manner of poor people who were offered a way out of their poverty. They were often poor people in the stories, woodcutters, cobblers, farmers and other sons and daughters of toil, which made the lack of success even more cruel, somehow. Some of the stories were amusing, but most left unfortunate and desperate peasants in exactly the same state as they began, although maybe a little wiser. This did not bode well for me.  I needed a plan, but it was hard to draw up safety measures if I didn’t know exactly what I was defending myself against.

There was the ‘up to three’ wishes thing to consider, of course. I thought back through the stories I had read to see if they would give me any hints, but I had found no examples of any number other than three, and I hadn’t found any tales at all where the number varied according to the granter’s whim. Why not exactly three, I wondered. In most tales, like the French woodcutter, the last wish had to be used to undo the harm the first two had caused. If I wasn’t sure I would get the last two I would have to be extra careful not to cause havoc with the first. I was no nearer finding a solution.  I carried on reading, looking up as many tales as I could find from all over the world, but they seemed to be variations on a theme, and none of them matched my story. Doohickey really had the advantage in this, but there had to be a way around it. There had to be some means of stopping him. At this stage I didn’t even consider being able to control him well enough to get my wishes. It would always be too dangerous to risk asking him for anything. I just wanted out of the whole arrangement, and my life back to normal. I really wished for that! 

If Wishes Were Horses 5

Today’s word count: 1799                    Total word count: 9220

The headache eventually subsided, but I took a couple of extra days off work to recover fully. I figured fainting at the office would give me credence if I told them I still wasn’t feeling well, but in reality I wanted to have time on my own to think about my current straits.

I did what I always do in these situations and set out to write a battle plan. I’m an inveterate list-maker and whenever I have to sort a problem I reach for pen and paper and put the challenge into black and white. I know all the techniques, chunking down, prioritising, blue-sky thinking, I’ve read every lifestyle book you care to mention. It doesn’t actually make the problem go away, of course; it doesn’t actually solve anything, but at least you can see precisely how deep the hole is that you’ve dropped into, and quite how chaotic the surroundings of that hole have become.

However, the system usually seems to calm me enough to find a route out of my troubles, even if all I end up doing is tearing up the paper and deciding not to worry about the future any longer. Perhaps that’s what I was hoping for this time.  I made my preparations with care. First I cleared the table, an act of improvement in itself, to make room for my thoughts. I didn’t put anything away, naturally, just swept all the papers, letters, magazines and other detritus that had accumulated into a large pile and plonked it under the table instead of on top. I made sure it was far enough back to be out of the way of my feet so I wouldn’t disturb the flow of inspiration by kicking it.  Then I got a new notepad off the bookcase. I have a small collection of notebooks that I keep for just this sort of occasion. I can’t resist them, and have all sizes and thicknesses, in lots of different colours and patterns.  The one I chose had birds on the front. They looked black at first, but there was a twinkling effect in the print that made them look as if they had multi-coloured sparkles among their feathers. I remember being captivated by the illusion when I bought the pad. The front cover informed me they were starlings and gave their Latin name as S. vulgaris. “How sad,” I thought, to have a name that says you’re vulgar.” I laid the pad on the cleared table, then found a pencil and used a sharpener on it until I saw a vicious point that could have served as a weapon in a pinch. I laid that above the pad, exactly parallel to the paper, then headed to the kitchen.

Next step was to put the kettle on, and while it was boiling I got out a mug, a teapot, a small jug of milk, and a huge packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. I stopped short of putting them onto a plate: this was a council of war, not afternoon tea. Can one person have a council of war? I doubted it, but I did feel like a general contemplating a forthcoming skirmish with the enemy.  When the kettle boiled I warmed the pot, added two hefty spoons of tea, then poured the hot water onto the leaves.  I gave the pot a quick stir, causing it to billow hot steam up into my face. I love the sensation of that first waft from a fresh pot of tea. You can tell why tea became the proverbial answer to everything. It has such an uplifting quality that it makes anything seem possible – even defeating my nemesis.  I carried the pot, mug, milk jug and biscuits through to the lounge and placed them to hand near my notepad.  I waited a couple of minutes for the tea to brew and poured myself a nice, hot cup of cha. “OK,” I said to myself, “Let’s do this,” and took a good long draw from my mug. But nothing immediately sprang to mind.  I really didn’t know what to do next.

“So,” I continued to talk out loud, I find it can help. “If we don’t know what to do, let’s find out what we do know.” And I started to write down words and phrases, randomly on the paper.  Wishes, Three, Up to three, Name, Who is he? What is he? Weaknesses, Pendant. Oriental. Antique. Monkeys. Dragons, and so on. I carried on like that until the page was almost full, and when I ran out of ideas I put down the pencil.  I took a deep breath and then allowed myself to finish the mug of now quite luke warm Earl Grey.

“How to begin,” I mused, then struck on the idea of choosing a topic at random. I closed my eyes and turned my hand in circles over the sheet before pointing a finger and diving it down to the table. Opening my eyes I saw that I’d chosen ‘Name’ from the options. Well, it was as good a place as any to start.  He had carefully avoided telling me his name, and even told Minty to call him Sir Galahad when she asked him, so I had no idea what he called himself.  Having something to call him might help me form a strategy so far I had nothing solid to work from, no foundation, so I pondered names for a while.

I wasn’t sure how to think of him, and I had to take care since it seemed he could read my mind. I knew he objected to being called a genie, in spite of his close resemblance – or at least the similarity between his actions and those of the Arabian spirits. I had to find a name for him that I could use in my own head, but wouldn’t offend him in case he was listening. I wanted something that wasn’t too common. I would hate to pick a name then meet someone called the same thing. It could ruin a potential friendship right from the start. So all the obvious Johns, Garys, Brians, Rogers and similar were out of the question. I considered something outrageous for a while: Montmorency, perhaps, or Wykeham, or Featherstonehaugh. But I soon gave up on that idea. Nothing like that seemed suitable.

Then I toyed with the idea of naming him after some item, a tool or an everyday object. Toilet Brush came to mind, but I thought that would upset him for sure. Chair and Table seemed too ordinary. Whatever I thought of his behaviour and his intentions, I had to admit that a creature capable of granting wishes needed a special name. I wondered idly about what his actual name was, and whether it was something very embarrassing, like Snotnose or Pimplebum. I laughed at the idea and tried hard to push it out of my mind, but somehow it stuck, but I was sure he’d take it badly and really needed to think about anything else but that.  I figured it was time to move onto the next topic, so I turned the page of the notebook and wrote ‘Name’ on the top line. Then I refreshed my mug of tea and took a couple of long swigs before moving on.

Turning back to the front page I did my random word choice again. This time my finger fell on ‘powers’. That was a good question and made me wonder what skills he had that I had yet to encounter. I considered what other challenges my new situation might present. If Whatsisname really could drop into my brain at any point I had to be extremely careful of how I phrased my thoughts. I had to avoid the words ‘I wish’ at all costs, and wherever possible I should try not to have strong emotions about anyone or anything either. I know I hadn’t used the word ‘wish’ about poor Mr Elliot, but Thingummy still claimed that he’d acted on my orders. I wondered if there might be some self help books to teach me processes to avoid unwanted thoughts and feelings passing through my mind uninvited.  I have a shelf full of little tomes offering advice and practical tips on coping with modern life. I still don’t cope well, but they make me feel like I’m at least making an effort.

I turned to page two of my notes again and wrote ‘Thought control’ under ‘Names’ and took another swig of tea. By now it was stone cold, so I returned to the kitchen to make a fresh pot and top up the milk jug. While I stood waiting for the light to go out on the kettle I remembered the previous night when I had stood in exactly the same place while Whoosit sat on my sofa being smug. I wondered why he hadn’t turned up while I’d been making my lists. I’d called him some pretty unpleasant names and if he could truly read my mind he should have known that. I would have thought he’d have arrived in high dudgeon and ticked me off about being impolite. That was a thought. I looked down, surprised to see that I had brought the notebook to the kitchen with me. “That’s lucky, although rather odd,” I thought, and carefully added ‘Impolite’ to the growing list on page two.

Back at the table, and charged up with another mug of tea, I considered whether or not I might be able to take avoiding action against my tormentor. It really was strange that he had failed to appear at precisely the time when I gave him so much thought. “I wonder what I’ve done this morning that’s different,” I said aloud. “Perhaps he’s just sulking about yesterday, or maybe he’s somewhere dreaming up another torture for me.”

Then an idea stuck me. “Have I already wished for three things today and had them granted, but I don’t know yet?” I wondered if I could get up every morning and wish for three silly, little things, like an extra tube of toothpaste, a cup of coffee and a small black pebble, then be safe for the rest of the day.  But it seemed he could pick and choose whether he granted my wishes or not. Those were complications. He might just ignore those early wishes and wait until I said ‘go take a long walk off a short pier’ to a shop assistant or something. Before long I’d have another death on my hands if the poor person couldn’t swim.  Knowing Oojamaflip’s sense of humour, the small black pebble would probably be delivered by a young boy with a catapult; and Heaven only knew what he’d dream up for the toothpaste.

If Wishes Were Horses 4

Today’s word count:  1898           Total word count: 7421

When I came to, the area around me had been cleared of people and Minty was telling everyone to stand back and give me air. My wish granting sprite was also there, offering in a very sympathetic tone to give me a lift home because I was obviously still rather ill. I tried to object but Minty, thinking she was doing me a favour, announced that it would be a good idea and how kind of him to offer. She gave me a sly wink when no-one was looking, and completely ignored the frantic shaking of my head and my pleas that I was fine and could go back to my desk if I could just take a short while to get myself together. 

“No, no Angie. You know you’ve been really poorly. Let ..... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” she said, turning her most winsome glance towards my nemesis.

“Just call me Sir Galahad,” he replied, offering an equally winning smile but failing to show any sign of the points on his teeth.

“Ooo how romantic is that? A genuine knight in shining armour,” she said to me, but I was horrified. 

“Trust me, he’s no gallant rescuer, he’s a chancer, “ I whispered back as quietly as possible, but he leaned down towards me and put his hands under my shoulders as if he was helping me up from the floor. 

“I heard that,” he hissed savagely in my ear, then turning to the assembled crowd he put on his pretty face again and said, “Come on now, let’s get you off the floor and into your car. You need to be at home.”

My protests went ignored by the whole crowd, in fact many of them muttered support for my apparent Good Samaritan and even offered compliments on his generosity. It was all I could do not to shout out that he was an impostor, but a sense of self preservation held me back. Suppose I’d told them who he really was. I could just imagine the response.

“This is actually some evil spirit who is solely responsible for Mr Elliott’s death. Somehow he cast a spell and made the poor man stand around on a railway line, waiting until a train came along and with no thought of escape from his fate.” It would have got me out of there fast, but right to the local asylum in a straight jacket. Just like in the game Monopoly. “Go to jail. Move directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200.” Not a chance!

There was no choice but to give in and I acquiesced, allowing myself to be guided away from the meeting hall and out to my car. Along the way somebody handed me my bag and coat, and Minty walked alongside uttering soothing noises and phrases and encouraging Rumpelstiltskin to take his time and make sure I was OK before he came back. “In fact don’t leave her until you’re certain she’s not suffering any serious damage.”

I  gave out an exasperated sigh and rolled my eyes, but Minty mistook it for a return of my symptoms and only urged my guardian more intently to take care of me. I couldn’t win. I allowed him to escort me to my car, but once we reached it I turned on him.

“What the hell are you doing?  What were you thinking?  Why are you at my work? What the HELL do you want?” 

He looked at my fuming face for a full three seconds before replying. “That’s a lot of questions.”

“Too right it’s a lot of questions, and you’d best start answering them buddy!”

“Wrong.”

“What? What’s wrong? What are you talking about?”

“I’m not called Buddy.”

“More like Beelzebub,” I thought to myself. 

“Nor that.”

“Nor what?”

“I’m not called Beelzebub either.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “How did you know.... What do you..... You read my mind.  Can you read my thoughts? You read my thoughts! Get out of my head!” My voice was rising and I could feel hysteria creeping in.

“Now, Ange. If you just thought about things for a while you’d realise that you already knew that. After all, you didn’t wish out loud for the poor squashed beggar to play on the railway line, did you? I must have read your thoughts.” I hate it when people call me Ange, but I guess he knew that too, if he could hear what I was thinking. If he continued to push me this way I was going to explode. Suddenly I realised that he could read that thought too, and it would be just like him to make me blow up for real and claim I’d wished for it.

“Blow you up? Well, if you’re going to be ridiculous I’m going to leave you alone until you come to your senses.” And there he went again, just like turning off a table lamp. 

How I got home in one piece I will never know. My temper reached incandescence by the time I parked outside my flat and I was ready to fight someone, anyone, but preferably him. I had to compose myself if I had any chance of beating him in an argument though. I needed clear thoughts and a calm approach.  I took several deep breaths before I walked up to my floor and inserted the key in the lock. 

I’m not sure how I knew, but I wasn’t surprised to see him already sitting on my sofa as I went in. His appearance had changed again and he was more like the old version of him, the human version, that is, not the hairy monkey man figure who’d appeared originally. 

I walked straight past him and into the kitchen, where I began pointedly and noisily to make myself a cup of tea. I filled the kettle and plugged it into the wall socket, flicking the switch as loudly as I could. Then I started rattling crockery around and arranging mugs, a milk jug and sugar basin on the work top. I don’t take sugar, but it was an extra item to shuffle about.

“Not for me, thanks!” he shouted from the other room, but I didn’t reply.  Then, after a pause, “Are you ignoring me?” I ignored him. 

I selected a bag of Earl Grey from the boxes in the cupboard and dropped it into a mug. Then I poured steaming water onto it and watched it steep for a while. I found a teaspoon and fished out the bag, being careful not to squeeze it too hard so I wouldn’t get the bitter dust in my drink. I carefully dropped the soggy bag onto a plastic tray by the sink, and finally I opened the fridge door and reached in to find the milk. All the time I was taking deep breaths and trying to lower my blood pressure.

“Milk in Earl Grey? How very plebeian of you.”

He was doing everything to annoy me and so far he was extremely successful. “Don’t let him get to you,” I tried not to think, but it was impossible. Whatever I did he would always be ahead of me. So I figured I had better face him and try to make the best of a very bad situation. I carried my mug of tea through to the lounge and sat down in the arm chair opposite the sofa. I said nothing, but I sipped my tea and waited for him to speak. I knew he would. He was too much in love with himself to be quiet for long. 

“You’re confused, I know. You’re still getting used to all of this and you had a shock today. You didn’t realise how strong your wishes can be. You mustn’t blame yourself for that poor man’s death.”

The outrage of such a statement started my hackles rising but I managed to stay calm. “I don’t blame myself. I blame you.”

“Now hang on a minute there. How is it my fault? I only granted your wish, it was your idea to hit the guy with a train.”

“I did not.....” I took a deep breath and started again in a more measured tone. “I did not wish to hit anyone with a train. I merely wanted him to go away.”

“Then you should have been a bit clearer with your instructions.”

“What instructions?  I didn’t wish for him to be killed. I didn’t wish for anything!”

He gave me a long, strange look before replying very slowly, as if he was speaking to a particularly stupid child. “Yes. You did.”

“I never said ‘I wish’. How could you think I wished it?”

“Because, Angie Baby, at that moment in time your whole being wanted that man to go away and stop bothering you forever. That makes it a wish.”

“Not forever, just for then.”

“Nope. Forever. Trust me. I know your mind, even if you don’t.” He gazed at me with such a look of pity that it made me want to cry, and I hated myself for it. 

“But that’s so unfair. I never intended anyone to get hurt, let alone killed, you should have known that. You shouldn’t have killed him.”

“You shouldn’t have thought it.”

“He had a family, you know. A wife and a couple of kids, and now they’re alone.”

“Yes, I know he was a husband and father, but did you give his family any thought when you wished him dead?”

“But I didn’t wish him dead! I just wanted him to go away. You took it completely the wrong way. You did it deliberately and now Mr Elliot is dead and it’s awful.” I fought back tears, but lost. I couldn’t escape the awful thought that somehow I should shoulder some of the blame. Had I actually wished the man dead because he’d caught me sleeping at my desk?  Oh god that would make me a terrible person. 

“This is so unfair. You’ve landed me with this wishes thing and not given me any clue how it works. It seems like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a huge game but I don’t know the rules. I wish you’d tell me the rules.”

“Later.”

“What do you mean ‘later’? I just wished. You have to tell me because I wished it. Three wishes a day, remember. You have to grant my wishes.”

“Wherever did you get the idea that I have to grant your wishes? I don’t have to do anything of the sort. This is a purely voluntary position. I told you, I’m not a genie. And it’s ‘up to’ three wishes a day. I also warned you that they might not happen immediately. Do pay attention.”

My temper finally burst. “Get out of here. Get out of my head. Get out of my life. You’re a monster. A filthy, rotten, murderous monster and I want you to leave now.” I took the pendant off my neck and hurled it at him. “Go away!”

He pointed a bony finger at me and bared his sharp teeth. “Now I know I warned you about being polite. Don’t ever shout at me again.” This time he disappeared slowly, and as he diminished the pain in my head grew until it was a full-blown, stabbing, migraine.  

If Wishes Were Horses 3

Today’s word count: 1857              Total word count: 5523     

Fortunately my desk is in a kind of alcove so I have a bit of privacy from everyone else. Most of us have these little cubby holes because the management think we work harder without distractions, but in fact it means we can get on with all kinds of personal things without many people being able to see. And the few people who can view our screens are so busy doing their own business that they’re too engrossed to bother about anyone else’s.  So it was easy that morning to coast along without contributing much work. We’re an insurance company and I work in the assessor’s department, so there is a deal of paper shuffling, back and forth, where not much happens except form circulation Eventually someone will take pity on a client and progress a claim for a stage or two, but most of them have been around the office a few times before the insuree sees any cash, and the majority make several circuits before being refused and sent back to the injured party with a polite letter explaining how it’s their fault that we won’t pay out, even though they made every payment on time and believed they were fully insured for the event. There’s always something in the small print we can get them on. If you ever have a successful insurance claim you’d better believe you are a very, very lucky person in a tiny minority.

So that morning I took life very casually, picking up an occasional sheet of paper, staring intently at it for a second or two, then entering something into my computer. Once or twice I gathered a bundle of papers together and straightened them into a pack by tapping them on the desk, just to make it seem like I was being productive. I wasn’t, of course, and my boredom level eventually took over. I even fell asleep at my desk for a while. In fact all was going extremely well until I came to my senses in response to a loud cough from somewhere above my head. I opened my eyes to see one of our sales directors looming over me with a particularly unfriendly expression on his face. 

“Short of sleep are we, Miss Fry?”

“Actually sir I’m…..”

“I believe you were asleep at your desk. Is that what we pay you for?”

“I’m sorry sir. You see I’ve got this…..”

“I don’t want to hear excuses. Why are you slacking in this way?”

It was just my luck that the ugly old man would choose the moment I was napping to do his rounds.  Actually he’s really not that bad. He’s quite kind in his own way and he doesn’t often disturb us, but when he’s had a bad time from his bosses he turns up to make our lives hell in exchange. You know what they say about mushroom management – kept in the dark and fed on manure – well in our case it’s liquid fertiliser and it trickles downwards. 

Out loud I said, “I really am sorry sir but I have a migraine. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all weekend” but inside I thought, “Oh go play on a railway line you stupid old twit”. At that moment the inside of my skull gave a specially hard thump and the headache came back with a vengeance. It must have shown on my face because his expression softened and he told me to report the illness to HR, then take the rest of the day off. “Maybe he’s a sufferer,” I thought, “Most people aren’t so sympathetic.” But all I said was, “Thank you, Mr Elliott.” And I did what I was told. 

By the time I arrived home I felt much better, but I decided to take care anyway, and I went back to bed and slept off the rest of the pain. I must have needed it because I didn’t wake up until the next morning, and I went through my usual routine looking forward to work for once, having missed the dreadful Monday almost entirely and with just four days left to go to next weekend.  There are some advantages in having migraines.

Tuesday morning began much the same way that Monday had with my pal Minty rushing over to me to offer condolences and sympathy for my headache and hopes for my future well being. This morning her hair was wound around her head in loops that spiralled their way upwards and joined in a top knot on the very apex of her head. The strands were secured in place with a large plastic grip in the form of an orange butterfly. I hadn’t the heart to tell her it clashed badly with her colouring, and I doubt if she would have taken too much notice even if I had.  Minty is as Minty wants to be: hang what anyone else thinks, and I wouldn’t expect her ever to change. She really is a dynamo and once she’s wound up she’s hard to stop. Almost as soon as her duty inquiries about my health were finished she launched into her next topic.

“Don’t look now but have you seen the beautiful looking guy who’s here with the auditors this morning. He’s a real reason to make your pulse beat faster.”

I glanced over in the direction she was looking. “Don’t look, don’t look. You’ll make it obvious. Be a bit more subtle than that!”

I made as if to reach a plastic cup from under the water dispenser so that I could be more surreptitious about it. I’d never make a spy. I feel so clumsy whenever anyone starts a sentence with ‘don’t look now’ because I immediately react and look straight over to where I shouldn’t.  Even with the sideways glances I was giving the new man I thought he couldn’t fail to notice, but he stood side-on to me, talking to one of the older auditors and obviously deep in discussions about a sheaf of papers he held in his hand.  That gave me chance to make a better inspection and Minty was absolutely right. Our new, young auditor was exactly what every woman would wish for. Tall without being lanky; soft, dark hair with a kind of wave that fell over his face, that he brushed absent-mindedly away from his eyes as he spoke; well dressed in very smart jeans and a shirt that showed off just the right amount of muscle in his arms and his broad shoulders; and his face had a movie star quality. He was probably very photogenic. His eyelashes were thick, dark, long and shaded startlingly green eyes.  “Oh yes, I wouldn’t mind a go at that,” I thought. Just then I felt a brief twinge at the back of my neck. “Oh no,” I said.

“What’s the matter, do you know him?” Minty asked.

“No, no, it’s just a bit of a remainder of my migraine. I thought it was completely gone, but obviously not.  I’ll take it easy and see how it goes. I should be OK.”

But now she came to mention it, Auditor Man did look vaguely familiar. Perhaps it was because of his star-quality looks, but I was sure I had seen him somewhere before, I just couldn’t quite place him. 

“Ssssssshhhh!” Minty hissed, “He’s looking over here. Look away, look away!” But I was still staring his way when he turned his head and caught my gaze. I think I blushed, and he gave me the cutest, coy look with a kind of half smile that made him even more handsome, if that was possible. 

“Wow, I think you might have cracked that one,” Minty said, “He gave you a proper come-on smile then. You lucky cow!” 

Adonis Auditor now turned slowly away from us, but I had the clear sensation that he knew we were still watching as he stood with his back towards us. From that angle I had my first glimpse of his perfectly rounded, sexy bottom, and as if to confirm my suspicions, his buttocks made a single, tight clenching signal and then relaxed. To my side I heard Minty sigh. It was exactly like one of those soft drinks ads where the office women watch a tanned and slightly sweaty workman take off his shirt. 

“Pull yourself together,” I said to her, “It’s just a man.”

“Yes, but what a man,” her voice had a husky tone to it and she had a strange look in her eye, almost as if she was hypnotised, or even bewitched. 

“Oh Minty! Are you ever planning on reaching adulthood?”

“He could help me with that,” she replied, and we both laughed and set off to our own cubicles. I had every intention of doing real work this morning, since I’d missed a whole day on Monday. I settled down to review some claims, making much the same movements and sounds as I had the day before, but this time my computer entries were genuine, and the papers moved into the next stage in the system, rather than back around to my in tray. 

Mid morning a message flashed up on my screen. Our computers allow the management to issue statements to individuals, departments, or the whole building when they need to communicate. It’s considered more effective than face to face, because you have to switch each one off automatically and the system records that you have done it. That way nobody can say they didn’t see the message.    It was a general announcement calling everyone immediately to a meeting in the break-out area at the centre of the building. There was a lot of chair scraping and muttering as everyone followed the order. This had to be something very important if we were all being called together. Maybe the company had gone broke and we were all out of work. There was a sombre tone as we all gathered, not helped by the sight of the managing director’s secretary Elaine, standing at the front of the room with a shocked expression and apparently suffering the after effects of crying. 

“I’m afraid we’ve had some very bad news”, she announced, “and the MD wanted you all to hear it together.”  There was a murmuring across the room and she help up one hand to quieten everyone.  “We’ve just been told that the sales director David Elliott was killed in an accident yesterday evening. He was taking a short cut, rather than using the foot bridge at the local railway station, and he was hit by a train as he walked across the line.” 

Everyone stared silently at Elaine, except for Auditor Man, who was looking directly at me, and smiling a very broad, toothy grin. I remembered my thoughts of yesterday when I silently told Mr Elliott to go play on a railway line, and now I knew exactly why the handsome accounts hunk looked so familiar.  There was no mistaking those pointed teeth. My genie was real, and he had granted my wish. As the realisation sank in, I passed out.