‘Funny, look at this!’ I stopped editing the newsreel and squinted, trying to figure out what Francesca wanted me to see. She paused the video and pointed at one of the aliens. ‘There,’ she said.

The huge insect-like figures, clad in silk robes, strode across the square, alongside human dignitaries and military officials in ceremonial uniform.

The video was Francesca’s footage of the “G20+” inauguration, which had taken place a few hours earlier. An historical event, the first official meeting involving an alien race.

Despite the media’s pessimistic predictions, dialogue between our species was already underway. The size of the aliens had initially caused much general concern. But diplomatic delegations had met in orbit, exchanging messages thanks to Google-based translation softwares.

Who would have thought those enormous, arachnid-shaped extraterrestrials would manifest expressions of peace and respect? Not many of us, but the news was immediately welcomed by the UN Secretary General, Guterres, in an open letter published in the New York Times. Many of the Heads of State in Rome for the Summit, had echoed Guterres’s words in press releases and tweets. The Pope himself had acclaimed the arrival of these ‘distant relatives’ during the Sunday Angelus.

Hosting an “Inter-World Summit” within the G20 framework in the Eternal City seemed auspicious. A plus sign was added to the G20 logo in honour of the extraterrestrials.

There was no building large enough to host the meetings, the aliens were simply too big. So the venue chosen was the Olympic Stadium. Massive crowds converged on the edge of the Tiber. Thousands of curious citizens, pilgrims, protesters, swaying in a formless mass, had been giving the police a hard time.

‘Look carefully at how they walk,’ Francesca’s finger tapped on the screen. ‘It’s awkward.’ I could see now. Though the robes hid most of the asymmetrical bodies, the clunky movement was evident. They proceeded clumsily. Two legs tripped against each other, while the third intervened to prevent falling. ‘Precarious,’ was the word that came to my mind. ‘Unstable,’ Francesca said. I returned swiftly to my newsreel, which was almost due.

In my report I underlined how the G20+ talks proceeded with few points of discord. My press contact at the Foreign Office informed me that the arachnids shared human concerns on climate change. They too had issues due to excessive exploitation of natural resources. So they were particularly interested in our calls to action on sustainable development goals.

Potentials for trade emerged. Apparently resources which were particularly scarce on earth flourished on the extraterrestrial planet and vice-versa. The sullen newcomers appeared benevolent and well disposed. It looked like we were destined to co-exist and collaborate in perfect harmony.

The talks came to an end and the ‘Rome Planet Pact’ was drafted. An opera to celebrate the signing was out of the question, for logistical reasons. But the Rome Film Festival was due that week, with projections dedicated to the silent film era. An open air projection of a historical silent comedy film in the marvelous location of the Baths of Caracalla, seemed like a perfect occasion.

There was much excitement. The authorities and international stars and guests took their seats in a very festive atmosphere. Speeches of welcome and expectation by the Mayor and the Festival’s president opened this very special night to the general appreciation of all present.

As the first black and white images appeared on the large screen, the first laughs sounded across the audience, with Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy fumbling and tripping over each other.

The alien representatives were seated in the front rows as guests of honour. As the audience participation and the laughs intensified, their faces changed colour. A vibration occurred between their eyes. Their oyster-shaped mouths twisted into a strange grimace. Was this their way of laughing? Or was this some other emotion that we humans could not yet interpret?

Alas, it was no laughter.

The arachnids’ rage ripped through the air. Their wrath wiped out everything like a shock wave. Vessels dived down from earth’s orbit and devastated cities, towns, villages. Little could our conventional weapons do against the power of the arachnids’ force. Humanity was decimated in a few days.

A couple of months had passed when I met Francesca in the Metro Ottaviano shelter, yet we looked twenty years older. The muffled rumble of the detonations echoed from above ground. The war against the aliens was raging on. We embraced, Francesca’s hand touched mine. At that moment I remembered her finger tapping on a video screen, on a day which seemed like years ago. ‘Of course…’ I exclaimed, grabbing her index finger. Francesca looked at me, puzzled. ‘You had seen it. The single most important thing… the reason!’ She looked at me, wide-eyed. My jaw dropped. Images of the G20+ opening ceremony unraveled in my mind. The aliens striding across the square. Their struggling, irregular legs, stumbling…

Traveling inconceivable distances, they had come across our strange blue planet. Here they found words of peace, respect, dialogue, exchanges, a future of collaboration, the preservation of nature…

Seated amidst the wondrous ruins of Caracalla at the Film Festival, the arachnids could not believe what was happening. On the enormous silver screen, people were falling, hurting themselves, tripping over, tumbling to the ground, humiliated. Yet the human audience around them was noisily laughing their heads off, almost in tears.

Thus the demise of the human race. Almost completely wiped out now by the fury of the arachnids. Cities on fire, seas boiling, mountains crumbling under thick smoke and a blacked out sky.

So it had come to pass that it was Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy who had been, somewhat remarkably, responsible for the end of the world.

The mud was becoming too much for the horse. Axton could hear the driver getting nervous. He knocked on the trap door on the ceiling, ‘I can proceed on foot!’ he called. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

The rain had given way to a dense fog, which washed away all colour from the dark landscape of the marshes. It felt like it was past midnight, yet it probably wasn’t even six o’clock. Axton paid the driver and set off, his feet sinking into the mud, much more than he had envisaged. As he glanced back towards the hansom, he shuddered while its silhouette faded into the mist.

The woman Axton was going to visit risked puerperal pyrexia. Concentrating on the procedures, he felt the weight of his leather bag in his hand. He had left his London study as fast as he could, with all the necessary tools, and more.

The storm began raging again. The sideways rain whipped his face. He cursed himself for letting the hansom go. He couldn’t tell if he was on the road any more. He had no bearings. A cold feeling crept up his spine.

Fear and frustration blended into an icy mask, clinging to his wet face. Nowadays, you could get a message through to Newfoundland in two minutes, huge ships were unloading electrical cables under the oceans, but getting to Clapton Hill was an ordeal.

The thunder echoed in his head, sending his thoughts in a whirlwind. How could he still have to wade, half buried inside the ground, drenched and frozen in a globalized world of iron, steel and machines? How could everything be so projected into the future, yet so backward at the same time?

A tiny speck of light appeared in the distance. Axton squinted and eventually made out a figure, staggering in the distance, holding a torch, its flame sweeping in all directions, disappearing and reappearing in the gale.

A technological world, yet we are animals. Beasts. The way we come to this world. Through excruciating pain. And often accompanied by death. We have overcome distances, we have the telegraph, but we still die like animals. He frowned.

At that moment a pale, wide-eyed face emerged from the raging storm. A limping old man agitated his arms and ushered the doctor to follow him. ‘The baby is born already!’ he said, his hoarse voice covered by the screaming wind. ‘How is the mother?’ the doctor shouted. But there was no answer, the man was already several feet ahead, making a huge effort, as their boots sank deeper into the ground at every step.

As the two advanced for what seemed hours in the storm, Axton recalled opening rib cages, cutting through skin, hammering bones. A butcher, he thought. That is what I am. The divine construction of the human body, enclosing the horror of its insides, a hellish mixture of flesh and bones, entangled in a web of infinite tiny ducts, soaked in flaming red blood. I carve my way through it like a meat merchant.

The woman was almost unconscious, but Axton swiftly acknowledged she was not in danger. She was kept warm, her brother and daughter next to her, the old man who had come to meet him, tending the fireplace.

Axton’s mind was a perfect storm, an ocean of swarming thoughts, eyes frozen into a cold stare, trying to pierce through the desolation before him. The contradictions of a world he was beginning to refuse to accept.

‘The shed…’ the old man said, his voice almost imperceptible. All stayed silent. Axton crossed the stables and reached the shed, where the baby had been settled next to an old metal stove.

As he moved toward it he could hear the wheezing, rasping breaths. The small blob of rags stirred. The man leaned forward and looked into the eyes of the baby. Its eyes, black like coal, like its long beard, looked up at him. A skin scarred by hundreds of years of perseverance. There was an ancient wisdom in those eyes.

Its face lit up, a smile making its way slowly through the wrinkles, a familiar expression of delight, of recognition.

Then the baby in the rags opened its mouth and spoke, in a low, ancient voice.

‘You have no idea how far technology will go,’ it said. ‘You have no idea.

‘The body that you see has come back many times, transformed. And you cannot imagine what it means to be conscious while your own spinal cord reforges itself, while you feel each vertebra reinventing itself.

‘All while your memories, like crystals, gradually fall back into their timeline.

‘Believe me, I suffered, how I suffered. You cannot imagine the pain. The muffled sounds of the world outside. Not knowing until the last moment, whether I would reemerge in the time and place I hoped for, or if the body could bear me once again.

‘You see, humankind will ultimately be detached from the physical, the essence of time transformed, and nature bent beyond recognition.

‘Humans will free themselves of the bonds of nature, and to overcome overpopulation, will encapsulate their existence within a framework devoid of the laws of physics.

‘Eventually they will find a way to tune into the wavelengths which ignite life itself, synchronizing the instant of death with the spark of life.

‘And so will it be that no new humans will be born, for it will be those that are alive that will repeat their lives again and again for eternity. And they will die and be reborn throughout the ages, moving back and forth through time, bringing linear time itself to an end, an endless closed loop in its stead.

‘And one day the sole desire left will be to reach back to the origin. To confront the moment in which it all began.

‘I came back here to gaze straight into the eyes of he who started all of this,’ the baby said. ‘He who was responsible for draining existence itself of all purpose.

‘To try to remember why.’

It stared into Axton’s eyes, black as coal, clearly its own, only one thousand years younger.

The city was darker than ever. The blackness enveloped Malick like a dense liquid. His footsteps echoed in the silence. He had to get out. He feared they could be after him already. The streets were cold, arid, lifeless. No one around. An endless river of articulated driverless trucks, flying past, their tyres muffled by sound-canceling technology. It had been years since he had seen a street. He gazed at the sheer size of the masses surrounding him. Unaware of the hundreds of cameras tracking his every step, he tried to reach the central station of the megacity, walking close to the walls and endeavouring to stay in the shadows. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of uniformed dark figures in alleys or on board small black vans, which sometimes emerged from the sea of trucks on the suspended highways. As soon as he saw them, he instantly changed direction, seeking to hide from sight. Colossal orange lanterns high above, beyond the flyovers and bridges connecting the massive residential blocks, hardly lit anything. Malick was out of breath. He was desperate. He feared he would be finished if he was caught. The city extended in infinite directions, as well as deep down towards an abyss of underground basements. Above him a forest of sky-high, degraded towers of steel. He frantically sped down metal stairs, through wet, stench-filled tunnels, across vertiginous bridges, a spherical maze of entangled concrete expressways, electrical cables and sewage tubes.

But the more he tried to escape the more he seemed to find he was back on streets he recognized. The city seemed to push him to where it wanted him to go.

Hours passed. The central station was nowhere to be seen. Had there ever been a central station? He stopped and observed, leaning on his walking stick, out of breath and covered in sweat under his mantle.

Then he caught sight of a manhole. And he had an idea. Using his stick as a lever, he managed to move the heavy metal cover and slip down the narrow chute. When he emerged, a few yards away, he was shocked. As he had feared, things were not what they seemed. The facades of all the gargantuan buildings around him were attached to giant mechanical arms, moving them, like industrial cranes, to create impressions of streets, squares and spaces, which weren’t actually there. Combinations of structures assembled to resemble city streets. But as Malick observed in horror, there was nothing before him, but an illusion.

At that very moment, the social media integrity militia pulled up beside him in a black van, and he was swallowed into the metal vehicle’s bowels.

Malick was tortured. His old bones cracked, his mind snapped. He was found guilty in 34 seconds, thanks to a portable social media feed analysis scanner in the van.

A society based on a delicate paradigm. A logic designed to firmly hold together the totality of society’s collective mind.

‘Your opinions do not comply with socially accepted opinions,’ the guard in black with a thumbs-up logo on his cap shouted in Malick’s ear. ‘Your opinions have been marked as unacceptable by a very high number of users, I’m afraid, Sir,’ another one said, taking down notes on a typewriter, 'and you attempted to deactivate your social interactions account.' ‘Your ratings are unacceptably low. And in addition to this, you roam the streets. At this time of night!’ ‘What on earth could you need at this time?’ a third militiaman screamed in his face, spluttering saliva into his eyes. ‘There are no shops, there is no food, there is no drink! You should order! Order! ORDER!’’

Malick tried to speak but realized he had no idea how. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had uttered a word. Had he indeed ever spoken?

The creaking wouldn’t stop. It moved across the wall, following the ray of moonlight, creeping up towards the ceiling. Tom tracked it with his left eye, his head half wrapped in the blanket.

The shadow of the air conditioning vent’s frame, drew an ominous, oblong grid on the opposite wall. Every time a car flew by on the flyover, it opened up for an instant, and then shut again.

Tom knew better. That was not just any shadow. That was a cage. They were letting them out. One by one. He could hear the scuttling. The sniffing. He clasped the covers.

The appearance of the cage meant his room had already been detached from the rest of the apartment. His parents were asleep in the other room, but actually far away. Beyond the gargantuan columns of gas, on the edges of the known universe. Light years and billions of miles divided his room from the suburban condo. “The between” had opened, and the laws of Tom’s world were not valid on this side.

‘Sleep well, tomorrow’s going to be fun!’ his mother had said, putting him to sleep. He had looked away, trying to hide his thoughts, his cheeks burning with a feeling he had not experienced before. He had followed her with his eyes as she left the room. His voice locked behind his throat. He couldn’t call out to tell her not to leave. As she closed the door, already he could feel his mind roll out of the back of his head, sinking into the pillow.

Most of his room was dark. He could just make out the door, the other side of which now faced an abyss of emptiness. The cupboard and the armchair glowed with blades of silver rays from the void outside. Somehow he could still hear the sound of the expressway. This was most certainly due to a space-time paradox, catalyzed by the aluminium “Three-dimensional map of the solar system” hanging in the middle of his room.

The creatures were closing in. Worming their way under the carpet, out of the cracks of the old wallpaper. Micro-wraiths were swarming down towards the floor. Clad in thermal camouflage robes, they were invisible, yet the sound of their furious skeletal steeds could be heard, in between the whistling of the trucks, speeding down the expressway.

A low fog spread across the floor, a viscous, oily mass, hiding an army of eyeless, undead orcs. Hairy-legged, fat spiders, with toothed eyes, walked beside them, leaving a trail of gelatinous slime behind them.

A glint appeared in the eye of the elongated clown, its body twisted in between the armrests of the armchair. Clearly all creatures responded to the clown. It was he who imparted orders to them, by means of a procession of ants, leading to a part of the room Tom couldn’t see. That was likely where their directional centre was situated.

The clown ruled over the creatures of the lands beyond the west of the bed; a despot who kept control of his subjects with a firm hand; a third eye on his forehead, always set on Tom. He had been careless enough to have drawn it on himself, with a marker, to scare his little sister. While he told her it was all-seeing, he felt something inside him, in his brain, a cackle, warning him that what he was saying was true.

Tom would be the last of the inhabitants of the room to succumb to the clown. It had been six years since he had entered the lands, as a newborn. The time had come for him to give up. And today was the day. The hurricane swirling inside his mind was the sign.

What defences did he have? Tom desperately made an assessment, as sweat trickled down the side of his eyes. Or were they tears? ‘No tears! Boys don’t cry!’ his father’s words echoed in his head. So this must be sweat.

He had two pillows. They could be used for defence. But only for one side of the bed. Two sides remained exposed. Maybe he could fold the bed covers to make a rampart?

He needed weapons. Conan’s sword! Alas, it was out of reach, on the chair next to the door. There was no way he could get there. The skinless, slimy hands would reach out from under the bed, the moment his feet touched the floor.

As he lay still, shaking with fear, his eye fell on the cupboard. Something worse than all the creatures arranging the siege, was watching him. From the slit between the cupboard’s doors, he felt the malignant gaze of a deep darkness. An entity beyond time, a faceless void, emanating a heaviness, which enveloped Tom and shook his soul. Like a dense liquid pouring into his chest, a feeling of oppression grew, pulsating with the rhythm of the thousands of wooden legs of the stick insects, now marching up the sides of the bed.

Tom tied himself into a knot, pulling his feet as close to himself as he could. He couldn’t take any more. His breathing was frantic, his throat clenching like a fist, inside his neck.

He slid under the covers, wrapping himself as tightly as he could, with blankets and covers. But as he did, he realized this was his biggest mistake. The entity in the cupboard was waiting for just that.

From under the covers he heard the hinges scrape. The figure sliding down onto the carpet, advancing slowly. Tom tightened his fists, almost ripping through the mattress. He held his breath. He knew the colorless, grinning mass was now inches above his head, staring with its red-hot flaming eyes. In the deafening silence, the dark entity and all of the creatures would be on to him, any moment now.

The next morning Tom rushed at hurtling speed to put the chocolate biscuits his mum had made for his sister’s birthday, back inside the jar in the kitchen.

Finally, light. Only the sound of the cicadas. That hypnotic, perfectly rhythmic, accurate sound. Almost electronic.

Katie breathed. She felt it was the first time that week. ‘When was the last time you actually breathed?’

Everyone needed something from her. Since when had she been so essential to all of them? All of them doing their thing, except her.

She realized she was close to the edge of something. A limit. She had flung her phone across the office space and had left, her face a frustrated frown.

‘Now, everyone just disappear - including you.’ she thought, looking up at the building where she pictured her boyfriend, John, loitering inside, his face permanently buried in his mobile phone, as always.

Finally, peace now. Birds, children playing. The breeze. A feeling of relief, caressing her forehead, but also questioning her choices. The enormous park was only a few steps away from her apartment. Why didn’t she ever take refuge in this wonderful place?

She felt the softness of the ground on the back of her head. The blades of grass embracing her toes. The wind, carrying the scents of early summer, whispering in her ear. Gentle messages. For the first time in days her lips curled into a smile. A smile for herself. For no one else.

Blackness. Freezing wind. An icy stickiness scratching her back and waist. Katie shuddered and stood up.

She had fallen asleep in the middle of the park. There was no one around. It was freezing now. And very dark. How long had she slept? She instinctively reached for her phone to see the time. But it wasn’t on her. Of course, she had dismissed it on leaving the office. ‘It must be past nine,’ she thought to herself. The park had probably closed by now.

Around the vast clearing where she stood there were thick woods. And behind them the city. She could see the taller buildings along the sides of the park, a mere few hundred yards away. But the trees were so dark. She could only make out a blurry mass.

Her glasses! She couldn’t see clearly without them. They weren’t on her forehead any more. She turned around, but she had moved a few steps away. She frantically felt for them on her knees. Then a crack. And the feeling of something piercing the skin of her left foot. The pain enhanced the feeling of cold. She had disintegrated her spectacles.

Like a liquid spreading slowly through her veins, dread began to engulf her. The park had closed. There was no moon. She could well be a thousand miles from where she was.

John’s face, unsolicited, abruptly appeared in her mind. A grinning, distorted, mocking grimace. An expression designed to transmit instant guilt-complexes. Demeaning. ‘How could anyone be so stupid as to get lost a block away from home?’ the face in her mind barked.

Whispers. Then eyes flickering. Katie was out of breath in minutes. Trying to figure out in which direction she should go. Everything was so blurry without her glasses, and her ferocious myopia and astigmatism teamed up at night, to wash out all colour. Except for the red eyes she thought she noticed just now, inside a swaying bush.

She started running away from the centre of the clearing. The tall buildings, soaring above the blackness of the treetops, seemed to look down at her, somehow displaying satisfaction with her distress. They felt insulted. She had dismissed them in such an arrogant way. She had wanted to get rid of them, and of the city and everyone in it. The lit rows of windows, like an audience, watched the arena in which she was now trapped.

Katie reached the edge of the central field. The trees were breathing loudly in the wind, the leaves eerily fluttering, almost a muffled laugh.

‘The rock garden!’ Katie could finally tell now where she was. She dashed in the direction she figured was correct, the pain in her foot making her limp. Then she tripped on a large stone.

The gazebo. A figure was sitting there. Katie froze. This couldn’t be. A cloaked, dark figure in a mask, sitting perfectly still in the darkness. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She turned to the direction she came from and froze again. There was the rock she tripped on, only now it was closer.

She held her breath. Was this an animal? She had begun to back away, when the rock turned to her. ‘You don’t want to cross their paths…’ it said in a deep voice. Katie’s eyes widened. ‘Whose path…?’ she said. ‘Those that you see are memories,’ the rock said, quietly. ‘They wander around the park during the night, trying to fade away.’ ‘Fade away?’ ‘Memories of regrets, of burdens, of violence.’ Katie looked up towards the gazebo. The masked figure was moving towards them now. It seemed to float silently, blending with the damp fog.
The rock plodded away, murmuring, ‘People leave them here. There are many.’ She turned and noticed more and more figures, slowly trudging through the park, accompanied by the mist. There was a great sadness hovering above the glade.

Katie no longer felt any fear at all. The darkness of the park was now warm. As it had been before she had fallen asleep.

She thanked the rock and moved towards the silent crowd. As she came closer, she sensed the thoughts hanging in the air, welcoming her. More and more figures turned towards her as she walked towards the park’s west gate. Many more of them came together, until the crowd was so large Katie couldn’t make out where it ended.

As she moved through the trees followed by this strange grey army, she smiled to herself, and looked up in the direction of the looming buildings, looking forward to the encounters which would soon take place.

There was an old man from East Coring, Who could barely get up in the morning, Though very unfit, His sledgehammer wit, Made your time spent with him far from boring.

I must say I soundly agree, When you say youth is no guarantee, Though they often look bold, Many youngsters are old, I dare say, even older than me.

You mention the feeling of youth, Well now, let me tell you the truth, When I tie my own shoe, I turn purple, then blue, Then fall over, head first, on my tooth.

Few things left I can do by myself, Many years since I last reached that shelf, Bones reduced to a patchwork, My eyes count on guesswork, My mind seldom sure of itself.

Feeling young, a sensation so tender, Is something I cannot remember, As far as I know, I was always this slow, Annoyed, fed up, vexed, quick to temper.

Old man, you sound irky and bitter, Your reasoning no more than a whitter, Seniority’s strong, Plus it doesn’t last long, Live well, leave the bickering to Twitter.

After the party there’s another party. A silent celebration. Empty plastic cups, trees painted white. Leaves melting on the shivering worms, twisting themselves around the exposed roots. Ears still ringing with the super bass, ultra-subwoofers the size of a road train.

Weblock and Proxy swaying through the woods, looking for Tuttle’s red van. They zigzag, hopping first on one leg, then on the other. ‘How long have we been walking?’ Oh dear, was that my voice? No way. Proxy shoves her hand in her jet black hair. Her bloodshot eyes, lonely islands on a pale bloodless face.

‘Weblock, Weblock, that’s not my voice! Or have I ever spoken before? Maybe not. This is the first time. That’s why I can’t recognize myself. I’ve never heard it before.’ ‘We’ll never get to the van, Proxy…’ ‘There isn’t a van. Just like there isn’t a forest.’ ‘So where are we? When are we?’’ ‘Where are we indeed…’

The silent after party of silence continues. The rhythm, the footsteps in the mud. Weblock and Proxy’s skintight spandex lined with beige mud. Ears still ringing. ‘That was loud…’ she says. Weblock rolls a cigarette or something. The blades of grass reach for their ankles. Are these trees? Or enormous blades of grass, seen by an ant. ‘Could be, Proxy. We shrink sometimes, only we’re asleep and we don’t notice.’ ‘Actually I do, my good friend, every time.’

Proxy loses her balance and hangs onto Weblock’s sleeve. His head disappears under the collar. ‘Come on my headless friend. We need to get to the van. Tuttle’s red van. I haven’t seen him for ages, though.’ ‘For years, I’m afraid.’ ‘Decades I’d say.’ ‘He was never here, I tell you.’

The trees agitated by the wind, seem to scream. The two crouch down. Weblock shaking. Cold. Freezing. Sweating and freezing. ‘How long have we been walking?’ Difficult to tell. Our brains, dollops of wobbly matter, drenched in amniotic something. Red eyes. Looking for the red van. ‘Is this asphalt under my feet?’ Proxy tries to focus. But she can’t. Lens flare on her eyes. So beautiful. Night lights, all of them out of focus. And shadows flickering all around her. Black and white. Long white stripes on the black asphalt. Cars whizzing past. Cars in the forest?

Such wonderful sounds tonight. Still echoing. Hovering in the night air. Enveloping. Liquid music, gushing through the body. A state of trance. Eyes dozing. The purity of all those bodies moving in sync. All moving to the same sound. Elementary monotones. Essential, synthetic, plastic music. Notes bouncing off each other in an electronic quadridimentional logic. And all of us synchronizing to the sound, glowing in the mist, intertwined between the flashing beams. Nature and electronics blending in an endless fluorescent night.

An after party on this guardrail. That’s nice. Through this dizziness. Labyrinthitis. Swaying. Dizzy. The after party of the after party now. An after after party. Proxy has trouble balancing. ‘How can I stop the spinning?’ Nausea now. So much nausea. I mustn’t lie down. What’s he doing? Weblock, don’t lie down on the floor. You’ll choke to death, like Jimi H. I don’t want to die like Jimi. Jimi, so young. Such a unique sound. Sway, dizzy, zigzag. Sleepy, so sleepy. Fumes. Tyres screeching. After after after party. What a night. What a night. My friend. What a beautiful night.

‘I will not answer your question,’ the skipper said, without looking away from the sausage he was peeling.

He let the silence hover. His long hair fluttering in the breeze. For a good whole minute, there was only the sound of the sails, the halyards gently clanging against the mast, the waves caressing the hull. All four of us looked at each other, waiting for him to continue, not knowing what expression to put on.

I remember that moment very clearly. I’ll never forget. It always raises the few hairs I have left on my head.

The skipper eventually put the sausage and his knife down, and rolled himself a cigarette. Then he looked up at us, lighting up. ‘Instead of answering your question, I will tell you a story.

‘Ten years ago, or maybe twenty, there was a small boat, just like this one, on a beautiful evening, just like this one, with on board a small crew of passionate people in love with sailing, just like you.

’The coast was in view, the sea was moderately calm. There was a nice wind, not too strong, but not so weak either. In fact, the wind was a bit too strong for the way they had rigged their sails. For some reason they hadn’t reefed them.

‘Reefing the sails, as you know - as you should know - is the first thing you do when the wind increases in intensity. You have to shrink those sails, or you’ll be in trouble.

’So that group, they didn’t. Maybe they were talking, maybe they were relaxing, maybe they were drinking, we will never know. But we know that the wind raised the pressure on the keel. And their rudder snapped. Gone in an instant.

‘They found a quick solution. They were fast-thinking. They were good. They took the scull oar and stuck it in the stern rowlock, to use as a sort of makeshift tiller. It seemed like a good idea. It usually works if the wind isn’t too strong, and if you’ve reefed your sails.

‘But they hadn’t. And for some reason they still didn’t. Instead, they made fun of the youngest of the group, a skinny bloke who was having a hard time holding the oar still. And he played along with them. Though he could feel the pressure. The oar was way too long. He had a hard time holding it still. So he perched it under his sternum.

‘The atmosphere was light, the weather was nice, everyone was smiling, despite the issues.

‘But the pressure was much too great. The young man was catapulted overboard, together with the oar.

‘The first reaction was a huge laugh. Everyone roared with laughter. It was funny. The way he disappeared off the side, his legs flying up in the air. Hilarious.

‘The thing is, they had no rudder, and they had no oar now. The wind was stronger and the sun was setting. It was dark. The boat, like this one, had no motor. So there was no way of governing it any more. It didn’t take them long to realize they had no way of getting him back on board.

‘The evening was beautiful, the sunset was breathtaking. The water was freezing.

‘In just a few minutes, he was out of sight. For the whole night they tried to find him, trying to control the boat using only the sails. In vain. He was never seen again.

‘A small group of tourists cheered and waved from the high wharf as the boat slowly sailed past, entering the port. The crew maneuvered in silence, as the children above applauded and took pictures. They were one less than when they had left.

‘So, now,’ the skipper said, picking up the sausage and biting a huge chunk off one end, ‘the next time you ask me if you can take off your life-vests because it’s hot, and it’s such a great day, and the sea is calm, and you can sea the coast, think of my story.’

The long, thin grey tube slowly moved across the wall towards the window. It hesitated, then rose to the ceiling.

After crossing the width of the small office space, the barrel pointed to the two large computer screens, then the loudspeakers, followed the cables and reached the door, where it found Max. The long metal bar rose up to her face and stopped there, aiming at her stern expression. ‘Drop the gun; I’m here for you,’ she eventually said, offering a paper bag with a big yellow M.

Alex immediately lowered the Sennheiser MKH 8070 professional shotgun microphone and took off her huge headphones. She grabbed the bag and sank her teeth into the fuming burger.

‘How much longer are you going to stay awake all night, spying on the neighbours?’ Max asked, sitting down on the floor next to her. ‘You should be working on digitalizing the studio’s sound archive…’ Alex replied with her mouth full, ‘I don’t have much choice, Max.’ ‘You’re still convinced there was a murder upstairs?’

Alex stopped chewing for a moment and looked at Max with a frown, ‘You make it sound silly.’ ‘It is silly.’ ‘Only because of the way you say it.’

Alex balanced the half eaten burger on top of a portable DAT tape recorder, and pulled her laptop towards her to show Max some audio files. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m here 24/7, my leg is fractured and I’m blocked here.’ ‘No one forced you to move into the office and sleep on the floor,’ Max said. ‘Boss is obsessed, he’ll kill me if I’m not done by Friday.’ ‘So how many DATs have you sampled?’ ‘I’m half done.’ Alex said. Max turned the laptop around and fiddled with the keyboard, opening folders. ‘It doesn’t look like your half way,’ she said, ‘Your still on ambient, you haven’t even started interior backgrounds or footsteps.’ ‘Look, don’t worry about that. You should worry about this!’ Alex pointed to several images of oscillator patterns on the screen.

‘The old tenant in the apartment upstairs is dismembering her, sawing her to bits and putting her in plastic bags, which he then takes away somewhere with his car.’

Max didn’t flinch. Her deadpan expression stayed the same. ‘Ok,’ she then said, her eyes half shut-half open, as usual, ’how do you know he is cutting her up?’ Alex handed the headphones to Max. ‘I recorded this yesterday evening, listen. He begins at the same time every night. Look at the oscillator pattern. I have the DAT equivalent, exactly the same, they correspond: it’s an electric knife. Every night. Goes on for hours.’ ‘She could have just left, Alex.’ ‘She was in a wheelchair. They’re old. They were always arguing.’ ‘And?’

Alex took the shotgun microphone and began pointing it to different areas of the ceiling as she spoke. ‘There’s the kitchen, the bedroom, living room,’ then she pointed the tube to a corner of the room to the side of the window, ‘that is where it happened, a blow with some heavy object. Then he dragged her to the kitchen. This was three days ago.’ She pointed the microphone towards the other side of the ceiling. ‘And this is where he’s cutting her up.’ ‘So you never heard her voice again?’ ‘No way. Every day, every night, their lives were like clockwork. I could hear the squeak of her wheels. Now it’s only him, she’s disappeared. There’s only his distinctive step left, trudging from kitchen to bathroom, trying to clear up his mess. And there’s no one else in the building. He has no idea I’m here. We’re closed for the summer and there’s no one around. He thinks he’s alone around here.’ Max looked at her friend, then at the huge black tutor velcroed to her leg, finally at the half eaten burger on the DAT. ‘You really should get some sleep, Alex.’

The following night, Max finished taping the lavalier microphones to the ceiling of Alex’s office space, and in the adjacent room. Dozens of wires hung from them, like a huge thick web. ‘These work like wall-contact microphones now,’ Alex said, excited. Max continued being unimpressed and looking tired. ‘This will show you that nothing is going on. The man is probably a cook, and preparing a dinner party.’ ‘He’s not, he’s a lawyer, and he’s killed his wife.’ Alex rapidly and deftly connected cables and hard drives, with her giant headphones on. Eventually Max sat next to her and wore a pair too. The short cables held them close together and the two looked each other in the eyes for an instant. ‘You believe me?’ Alex asked, in an unusually gentle tone. Max sighed, pulled her hand up from her pinky and tightened it, ‘I believe IN you. Which is a bit different.’ Alex smiled.

Max adjusted her headphones, ‘My mission is to get you back to work, to finish off the archive. So I guess I’ll do anything to make that happen and put you off this obsession...’ Alex turned back to her devices and turned the lights down. She lifted the shot gun and the oscillator began vibrating.

The two girls followed the sounds as they emerged around them. Seagulls, distant traffic, a dog barking. Laughter echoing somewhere in the distance. The yellow light from the street lamps drew a large oblong shape above them.

Then the footsteps began from the apartment above. The two followed them, Alex aiming with the shotgun mic. Buzzing sound from the kitchen. ‘The electric knife!’ Alex whispered in Max’s ear, pulling on her headset. The two girls listened with their eyes closed, both hands clasping their earphones. Then the sound stopped. A large plastic something was crumpled. More footsteps, a front door opening. Stairs. A car door opening. Then driving off.

Max turned to Alex, her blank tone unchanged, ‘He didn’t shut his front door.’ ’You’re right, I didn’t hear that either,’ Alex exclaimed, electrified. Max got up and took off the head set. She moved to the door. Alex looked at her, wide-eyed, ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ ‘I’m going upstairs,’ Max replied, leaving the room. ‘Are you mad! No!’ But there was no way she could stop her. Plus, she couldn’t even get up, or walk. Her leg was paralyzed, locked by the tutor.

Alex frantically grabbed the shotgun mic and pointed it towards the corridor. She nervously followed Max’s footsteps up to the front door. She heard the sound of the door opening. Max left it open and slowly made her way up the stairs. Alex listened, her eyes glued to the oscillator vibrating on her screen, sweat trickling down her temples. The hinges of the door upstairs. Max’s footsteps slowly crossed the apartment. Alex followed them across the ceiling, then she jumped on hearing her phone beep. A text from Max.

NOTHING HERE.

Minutes passed.

NOTHING HERE EITHER.

Then the footsteps stopped in correspondence with the kitchen.

THERE’S A WHOLE LOAD OF MEAT HERE.

Alex’s heart was thumping so loud she didn’t notice the sound of a car coming in the driveway.

THERE’S A LOT. I MEAN IT COULD BE ANYTHING.

Alex suddenly noticed the oscillator vibrating in a rhythmic pattern. The stairs! She pointed the shotgun to the far wall. Then she fumbled with her phone.

MAX HE’S COMING BACK! GET OUT!

But an instant later the sound of the front door upstairs came through her headphones. There was a silence. Then a cry. Voices, indecipherable, agitated. A verbally violent exchange. She couldn’t make out what was being said. The lavalier microphones weren’t made for this. The voices were much too muffled. Then a sound which took away her breath. A thud. Like the one she had heard a few days ago. Then nothing.

Alex froze.

MAX! ARE YOU OK?? DID HE FIND YOU IN THE APARTMENT? I CAN’T TELL WHAT’S GOING ON!

At that very moment Alex heard the beeping of her text coming through on Max’s phone, upstairs, directly above her head. She froze again, no answer. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Then the trudging footsteps again. Towards the entrance of the upstairs apartment. Then the stairs. Alex took off her headphones. She held her breath.

After what felt like several minutes, a faint, almost imperceptible sound came from inside her apartment. A creak. The slightest ever. Then another one. A bit closer. Alex’s eyes were fixed on the doorway. A drop of sweat slipped off the tip of her nose and hit the DAT with a tiny flump. The sound was just off the side of the door, now. Maybe less than an inch. Then the faintest hint of a shadow. The tiniest sound breaking the deepest silence.

A sudden 140 decibel siren can cause serious damage to eardrums but can also have effects on vital organs. A high sensitivity microphone placed in front of two powerful loudspeakers can create a “positive gain loop”. The speakers amplify the mic signal, and then the mic picks up the sound from the speakers. The loop continues and the system overloads, resulting in microphone feedback. 
The old lawyer, the tenant from the floor above “Studio-S, sound system and foley artists”, collapsed with a heart attack caused by the strong sound created by Alex using a RODE Nt1-a linked to two very large Yamaha DXR12 MkII, 1100 Watt speakers.

Her friend Max recovered from severe concussion in just under fourteen days. The tenant also recovered from heart failure and received a life sentence for the murder of his wife. He died in prison after just two months of serving in Wingdale.

Max, lying in her hospital bed, pointed index and thumb mimicking a gun towards Alex, as she came in with a paper bag with a yellow M, hanging from one of her crutches. ‘Drop the gun; I’m here for you.’

He stopped in his tracks half way through, The contents were much too taboo. He took a good look, Was this really a book, Made for kids? His anxiety grew.

Cinderella, for starters, drank booze, Her sisters, they never wore shoes, The prince was a bum, His parties a scrum, No one went, they had all an excuse.

He eventually got to Snow White, And was shocked, something wasn’t quite right, Bizarre circumstances, And awkward advances, Building up to a ferocious fight.

Would Rapunzel be genuine instead? All that hair, flying high overhead? But just as he thought, It was not what it ought, It was definitely not from her head.

He was shocked, and turned very blue, All those stories were not those he knew, The book had him confused, Not at all much amused, But returned for a final review.

Hansel, Gretel, the beast, the bridegroom, Chucking eggs on their heads with a spoon. After catching a glimpse, Of the three little pigs, He lobbed the book out with a broom.

Come now, sir, you seem very frustrated, These stories have much been updated, These fresh points of view, Kids will love them, not you, Modern versions, abridged and unrated.