Offline Mystery

When Emily Boxer got back to her room, she heard the rings of her instant messenger. What he’s still online? She took a seat on her leather chair, moving closer to the computer. Scrolling to see who was emailing her. Expecting it to be her boyfriend Ryan. Instead it was Rachel Orlof, her best friend.
Not bothering to scroll up to see what Rachel had wrote. Emily typed rapidly asking why she hadn’t come to school today. Suddenly a series of words emerged on the screen: Help me, my dad…
Emily typed back frantically, what’s wrong?
No response.
She lifted her mobile of her bed, worriedly ringing Rachel’s number, it went straight to voicemail. Shit…pick up Rachel.
That’s when something changed on the computer screen. Rachel was now offline.

*

The drive to Rachel’s house only took ten minutes. Emily had interrupted her father while he watched a football match on TV. But he agreed as half time was nearing.
“I’ll wait for you in the car” Marty Boxer shrugged as he turned up the heat in the car. Attentively eyeing the time on the dashboard. Not wanting to miss a single minute of the match. As she paced to the front door, Emily noticed a flicker in the curtain. Someone was watching her from the inside. Before she could knock on the door, it fluttered open. Rachel’s mother, Vivian Orlof hugging her warmly. “I’m so glad you came, honey. Rachel hasn’t come home.”
Emily could see the hurt in Vivian’s eye. But she had a strange feeling that it was all a ploy. Either Rachel was using the internet at a nearby café or she was tied up somewhere in her room. Being held hostage.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
She couldn't help it; Rachel had told her many times that her parents were too strict and invaded her privacy. Couldn’t blame her, when your father watched your every move. “Did the school inform you that Rachel didn’t come to school today?”
Vivian nodded. “Yeah it’s strange. I remember she had her uniform on when she left this morning for school.”
Vivian’s husband galloped down the stairs, almost buckling on one of the steps. “Look at what I found in Rachel’s room,”
Vivian eyed the letter in his hand suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Seems to be a love letter…”

It's a Free Country After All (Part 2)

THE ROAD to McDonalds was the most difficult; we nudged and weaved our way past people. I looked back, stopped; the man was clutching his chest and panting loudly. I looked ahead, three eastern European men drinking their coffee, probably wondering why we were running so fast. Had they stole something?
Things eased up once we hit the highroad and we snuck into Woolworths, where a smartly dressed man nodded in greeting. He reached out and offered me a hand shake. “How are you, young man?” Why are you being so nice? He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like cologne, and let out the smallest puff. “It suits you, sir. It’s only twenty five pounds.”
I stood and felt the spray land on my nose. It smelled of wood, mixed with roses and apple. I didn’t even want to guess what kind of men brought cologne like this, it was clearly for women. The man gave a pleased nod, as if I was willing to buy it. I don’t do ladies perfume. I came across the music section and pulled out a CD entitled Lonely in the Rain and watched the muscular Indian man walking by. His face should have been on the cover of this CD. Everything about the moment seemed picturesque, apart from the fact that it wasn’t raining.
Eventually we went outside and a man in blue rimmed glasses and a rain coat handed me a card. Another one of those calling cards I guessed; nothing seemed unusual about it. On the other side of the card, was a close up picture of me. This was strange and I felt my body tingle. I noted the mans crinkly hair, his narrow lips and uneven nose. I supposed, all of this would be useful, if the police later came to ask what he looked like.
This must be a terrible joke, I thought. One of those just for laughs pranks that I had seen on the TV, but something told me this wasn’t a joke. “What’s my picture doing here?”
He looked at the numerous cards in his hand and his eyes widened. “He looks just like you!” Meanwhile, Hakim was talking to his mother on his mobile. The Principle had informed her of our circumstance. Yet, he still insisted he wasn’t bunking. “Mum, I was buying something from the store and lost track of time.” He said firmly. He listened for a moment, and then tossed me the mobile.
“Was it your idea to bunk?” Hakim’s mother asked. “No,” I said back, creating some artificial noise. “Connections really bad, I’m sorry.”
“That’s you,” Hakim said, as the man handed him a card as well. “What’s your picture doing on here?”
“He’s a model,” Omar added. “Part time I suppose, lets get back to school now.”
“We’re not going anywhere!” I shouted.
“We are,” Hakim and Omar corrected.
I decided that I was going to stay and sort this out.
“Don’t worry,” the man said, handing me another card. Stop handing me more cards. “Call the number on the card.”
Good idea. I looked up at the sky, and wondered how they day could get much worse. I would have to call a number, which I found out was a premium line. That in turn would cost me money; some of that money going to this mans wages. No way was I going that route.
“Haven’t you got a 0800 number?”
“We do but we don’t advertise it on the card” A wink. “Have you got some paper?”
I handed him the receipt for the CD I brought. I ended up buying that Lonely in the Rain crap. I watched as he jotted down the numbers, especially pinning the last number before giving me an awkward look. Don’t give this to anyone.
I tucked the receipt into my pocket, listening to the sounds of loud engines, and shouts of bus horns, trying to remember the last time I had watched Top Gear. Laying there on the side of the road, a ten pound note fluffing in the wind. My fortune was starting to take a turn for the better.

Beaming Like a Spaceman

Astronaut Greg Chamitoff hovered up and down inside the International Space Station, as he spoke to a class full of pupils via a satellite link up. He was in his navy NASA crew polo shirt, with a lot of computer equipment in the background. Looking like a scene from a Hollywood movie.
Back at the London school a young boy with chocolate smudged on the side of his face asked “How do astronauts go to the toilet?”
“You have to be very careful going to the toilet. We have to use suction, which takes a little time to get use to.” Chamitoff explained.
The second question was from a young girl with her hair in a half-up half-down pony tail. “What does the Earth look like from space?” she asked smiling.
Beaming like a spaceman he replied “It’s beautiful and it’s great when you can make out whole countries like Australia or the boot of Italy.”
“The next question is from someone very special to you Dr Chamitoff.” Head teacher Vivienne Orloff announced. Standing next to her was a tall woman with blonde highlights in her pitch black hair. “Will you marry me Greg?” the woman asked, delight showing on her face.
“Karen is that you?”
“Yes it’s Karen” all the school children shouted simultaneously.
There was a tense ten second wait before Chamitoff replied, cheering “I should be proposing to you and yes I will!”
Suddenly there was a roar of applause from the classroom. Without warning the gigantic television screen showing Astronaut Chamitoff turned black, a series of words in red scrolling from the side of the screen. Disconnected Due To Emergency.

The Football of Love

Can I dribble with your thoughts?
If I let you score a goal in my imagination
Because you are my match
Intellectually and physically
You make me take a substitution
If I get out of line blow that whistle
And give me a red card intentionally
Let us both referee this feeling that I call
The football of love

It's a Free Country After All

TWELVE O’CLOCK in the afternoon. The sun washed over the empty parked cars along the street. We were walking to the nearest McDonalds, my blazer in hand. Alongside me, Omar to my left, Hakim to my right. The growl of a car picking up speed behind us. Hakim suddenly turned to me, “Watch what I’m going to do,” he said with a wink. He walked ahead of me to the edge of the pavement, picking up an orange safety cone, and placed it in the middle of the road.
I handed Omar the drink in my hand, and let my eyes skip past the cone: the blocked Vauxhall, the young female Indian driver, and the elderly Indian woman sitting in the passenger seat. Probably her mother. I stood there, staring at the helpless expression on the elderly woman. Blocking the reasonable shouts of her daughter, “You stupid kids!” Somehow I felt responsible for my friends’ action.
I rushed to the cone and removed it from the road, watching the daughter mouth to me, thank you as she drove off, then feeling the nagging prick on my shoulder. “Why did you do that for?” Omar asked. I did it because it was the right thing to do. I tried to remember what my mother had told me once, when I was questioned by my Principle, as I had witnessed a fight take place involving a number of my friends. If your friends are doing something wrong, never follow them. Be your own man.
I had learned to be my own man.
“You don’t know how to have fun anymore,” Hakim said.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Why didn’t you let the lady in the car move the cone?”
I didn’t need to hear this anymore. I had done the right thing and that’s all that mattered. I started to ask him how he would have felt if someone had done the same to his mother, or sister. He cut me off before I could finish. “Did you hear what she called us, she said ‘You stupid kids’”
“She said it for a good reason. That was embarrassing what you did.”
“Let’s ask Omar if it was embarrassing”
I looked at Omar, waiting for an answer. He thought for a moment, wanting to sound sincere and fair. “It was kind of funny in the beginning, but it turned out to be embarrassing. I’m just being honest.”
I suddenly felt that Omar was learning to be his own man. I was surprised by his reply, in the past he would have just found it funny without thinking about the consequences. Instead of thanking him, I laughed at Hakim, who now felt self-conscious of his action. “Hakim, next time you want to pull a stunt like that, let us know before you do it.”
We continued walking, and I finished my drink. The silence was weird, and I suddenly felt very angry. I turned to my side, to stare at the open window of a semi detached house. Upstairs, I could see a muscular Indian man, his head sticking out of the window. “You fucking Somalis!” he shouted at once. “I saw what you did over there,” he added, the muscles on his arms bulging. “Do that again, and just watch.”
Did I hear right? Was he trying to threaten us? This is what I had feared, the consequences of Hakim’s actions. I looked back and saw Omar and Hakim whispering to each other. Finally they both grabbed me and told me that we should just go and leave, no point of arguing with a racist. I told them no, we would stay and talk peacefully with him. It’s a free country after all.
“What’s going to happen if I do it again,” I asked.
“Stay there,” he said. “And I’ll show you.” He studied me from his window. “You look fifteen. If I was you, I wouldn’t be talking like that.”
“So what your saying is you pick on fifteen year olds. Go pick on someone your own again, you dickhead.”
The mans shoulders slumped, and he closed the window with a sigh of anger. “That’s it. You just stay there.”
It made Hakim and Omar Laugh. I was surprised at myself; I was doing the opposite of what I had advised my friends to do. I suppose, I was just doing the right thing. My father had advised me, if I ever got into a brawl that I should just let it go and walk away.
So why couldn’t I just walk away?
“Look,” Hakim had said, pointing at the door knob. He turned to me. “Let’s run.”
Hakim was not conscious of his actions, but to run was a good idea. I needed to do one more thing. I was still angry that the man had called us fucking Somalis. I wanted to make him pay. I went to the side, and picked up a brick, smashing the front mirror of the mans Mini Cooper. I somehow felt obliged to explain.
“He deserved it,” I said. “Now is the time to run.”
Hakim laughed, but Omar didn’t. Hakim said, “You’re the man.”
The expression caught me by surprise. It’s a free country after all.