Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Gone Away

Look at him! Hesits there as if he's bolted to the chair. His eyes never strayfrom the telly screen... Though I don't think he actually watchesit, really sees it: he just stares at it out of habit - becauseit's there. There could be anything on that damned box - like themind-numbing daytime rubbish that's on now - it wouldn't matteras long as pictures, any old pictures, flicker in front of him.
So thought Mrs Amble to herself as she vigorously dusted andpolished. Replacing a gaudy ornament, a relic of a long-agoholiday, precisely back in its original position among its manypartners arrayed on the mantelshelf, she stood back to appraiseher efforts with a fastidious eye.

Satisfied, she turned her attention to the wide sill of her frontwindow: a jungle of houseplants; figurines of cute animals andother ceramic whimsies peered from the foliage as she advancedwith her duster. Gently picking up a fancifully stylised puppy,she lovingly rubbed its unlikely green body, peevishly consciousof her husband's slumped, silent presence in the armchair behindher.

What happened to the lively, get-up-and-go man I married; thefunny, charming, exciting man who thrilled me and made me laughand made me tremble with pleasure? He turned into a vegetable,that's what - a statue; a waxwork dummy; a... Oh I don't know!She put back the puppy, minutely readjusted it; then selected anequally unlikely kitten and began to minister to it with hercloth. Give him his due: he was a good provider. He used to worknearly every hour God sent. I never knew anybody so keen onovertime - I hardly ever saw him. I could excuse him being tootired to bother much with me then - the poor dear was always soshattered - but since he had to take early retirement.... Well,he could be one of these ornaments for all the company he is!

Thus she continued: treating each ornament with equal care andconsidering her spouse in increasingly discontented vein, hereyes gazing morosely unseeing through the window. Lost in herthoughts, she uncharacteristically didn't immediately spot theactivity across the otherwise quiet street. When she did, hereyes focused keenly and her concentration shifted from itsprevious absorption and locked itself on probably her favouritepastime - that of observing the affairs of others.

"Looks like the Brownings opposite are going away," shesaid aloud to Mr Amble, neither expecting nor receiving an answer."They're packing cases into their car. I hope they're takingthose horrible children of theirs with them: the neighbourhoodwill be a lot safer and quieter without them."

Her attention stiffened: "They must be going for a longtime; they seem to be packing everything but the kitchen sink.My, my! Those suitcases have seen better days. You'd think withall their money they'd be able to afford better than those - talkabout shoddy! And look at the way she's dressed - I'd like tothink that if I were going away I'd have made just a bit moreeffort."

Mrs Amble maintained her vigil, keeping a running commentary ofthe proceedings to her unheeding husband, until, with a finalbanging of car doors, the Brownings made their departure.

"Well, that's them gone to wherever they're going. Withtheir hooligan offspring too, I'm pleased to say - at least we'llhave a bit of peace now for a while," she gave in finalcomment.

Mrs Amble had no sooner resumed her interrupted dusting than herinterest was recaptured by further events outside the window;this time at the house directly adjacent to her own. "Next-door'sare bringing out luggage to the car now," she remarked to MrAmble; stepping behind the cover of a Swiss Cheese plant, mindfulthat her neighbours might catch sight of her and come to themistaken conclusion that she was at all nosy. "They must begoing away too."

"I wonder where they're going?" She received a grunt inresponse; but, as this was Mr Amble's usual form of communicationand she was never quite certain whether he was merely clearinghis throat, she discounted it. "They never said anything tome. You'd think they'd have mentioned it. If they had, I'd havebeen pleased to keep an eye on the house for them - I'm not atall sure I will now."

The pink tinge of insult faded from Mrs Amble's face as shebecame more engrossed in her neighbour's preparations. They too,appeared to be making ready for an extended absence: "Justlook at all the stuff they're taking. I wouldn't have imaginedyou could fit so much in such a little car: cases and boxes andbags - there won't be room for them if they cram much more in.You really must come and look, Gordon."

But Gordon Amble remained unmoved and unmoving, his eyes fixedvacantly on the television screen. If he heard his wife he madeno sign, and she, with a resigned sigh, turned back to the window.Her neighbours, a devoted old couple who had lived in their housefor as long as any one could remember, were rapidly coming to theend of their packing. They seemed to be in a great hurry to getaway: Mrs Amble was amazed how quickly they'd filled the car,given their age and the amount they had transferred into it.

Within a remarkably short time the last few items were loaded -to Mrs Amble's mind, strange things to be taking on holiday: abox of groceries; a food mixer; several heavy blankets; a wallclock; a garden spade; even a large first aid kit, and, of allthings, framed family photos - all urgently squeezed into anyavailable space, as if life depended on stowing as many householdbelongings as possible into the overburdened vehicle.

Finally, there remained only two more pieces of impedimenta to befound room for: the old couple themselves. This was easier saidthan done; but with much squashing and squeezing and lookinguncomfortably cramped they eventually occupied the front seats.The car was started and, surrounded by luggage, the pair droveponderously out of their drive and down the street.

Was it her imagination, or, as they had driven past her window,had the two looked directly at her, and, were the expressions ontheir faces ones of panic? No, more than that: fear; terror;desperation? Or were they just simply concerned that their ownbaggage might crush them?

Mrs Amble had little opportunity to gnaw on these questions, for,as she frowningly watched the little car disappear heavily out ofsight, happenings of more puzzling proportions were unfolding.The street she lived in was long and straight: it sloped quitesteeply up the side of a hill, and a row of closely builtsemidetached houses fronted by small gardens marched up each sideof it. Her house stood in the middle of one of these rows and thebig bay window at which she stood commanded an uninterrupted viewof the whole street. She had always been of an inquisitivenature, and it was this view that had mainly commended the houseto her at the outset of her marriage when she and Gordon had beensearching for somewhere to spend their lives together. Mr Amble'sobjections - that the house was far too old; that it needed toomuch work; that it was too far from his job - had easily beenoverruled. The work had been done, and, over the years, thecomings and goings of the street had been an endless source offascination to Mrs Amble.

Never before though, in all the many hours spent lurking behindthe lush greenery of the windowsill like a large animal in searchof lunch, had her curiosity been fed such a feast as now. For,amazingly, all up and down the street, as she ascertained byspasmodically turning her head one way then the other, the scenesshe had witnessed opposite and next door to her were beingrepeated at house after house.

It was as if a chain reaction had been set in motion. First, theresidents of one house came out laden with baggage andfrantically stuffed it into their car; then another; then another.Soon the whole street was alive with bustling, fevered activity.Struggling under heavy loads, heaving and pushing and squeezing,wiping sweating brows, cursing laggard children, slamming doors,revving engines - at almost every house the same actions werebeing repeated. The entire neighbourhood seemed suddenly unitedin just one purpose: to get away, and to do so with maximum haste.

Mrs Amble swivelled her head back and forth, her eyes wide, hermouth hanging wide. Absurdly, she was reminded of the brand newsuperstore she'd visited recently for the first and last time:all that rush and push; the two rows of checkouts stretching formiles; the insane scramble to leave the place carrying as much aspossible. It was all so similar, even down to the glazedexpression on everyone's faces.

What on earth was going on?

Behind her, her husband sat on; the hyperactive host of a time-fillingquiz show screaming at him from the television set. How could hejust sit there when so much was happening so close to him? MrsAmble turned and looked at him, took a breath to speak, to rousehim from his stupor, to have him by her side - to sharesomething, to be together. She saw only his inert bulk, his blankface - his utter unawareness of her - and turned from him,swallowing the breath.

I might as well not be here!

He might as well not be here!

Who'd ever believe we were once so close? So loving andinseparable? When did we last talk? And laugh? And care?

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes to clear the mistinessthat had momentarily clouded them. The oddest thing about the odddeparture of, as far as she could tell, everyone in the streetwas the astounding speed of it all. Already, the mass exodus waswell advanced. Ferocious packing was still being done by some, afew were only just starting, but the majority had finished andwere on their way.

Three years ago, a royal dignitary had visited the town: a longprocession of stately cars had swept importantly past Mrs Amble'shouse, down the hill to the Civic Centre where an exorbitantreception was held. There were similarities to that occasion now;except that the stream of vehicles passing her window couldhardly be called majestic, neither was its progression sograceful, nor did Mrs Amble feel at all inclined to waveexcitedly at it as she had the royal cavalcade.

There was little regal splendour and formality here. Cars, vans,trucks, motorcycles, the occasional caravan, all loaded tooverflowing, limped, lumbered or sped past according to theirstate of repair. Honking, hooting, backfiring, gear grinding,they rolled by with no regard to courtesy or the Highway Code.The street was not very wide, and there was much screeching ofprotesting paintwork as those with more power viciously overtookthe stragglers. Some even mounted and drove along the pavement,so desperate were they to get on their way. Dents and bumps andscratches accumulated on gleaming and rusted bodywork alike.Nobody stopped to complain.

"I've never seen anything like this in all my life,"said Mrs Amble. "Just literally everybody seems to be goingaway. I don't understand it. It's total madness. You really oughtto come and look, Gordon, the whole street's gone crazy. You'llnever believe it. Why, I've just seen that nice Mr Scott fromnumber seventy-eight plough down Mrs Grace's new privet hedge.And, as for that thug with the ginger hair from that scruffyhouse higher up... Well, you'd expect that type of behaviour fromhim, wouldn't you?"

Apart from the drone of the television, there was the customarysilence from behind her. Mrs Amble tutted peevishly, but didn'tturn to her husband, not wanting to miss any of the spectacle."I wish you'd take an interest in things, Gordon, the worldcould come to an end and I'm sure you'd still be sitting there infront of that box."

She did not normally express her discontent of her husband outloud, preferring to believe he was just going through a phase, amid-life crisis. That he'd been going through this crisis most oftheir time together, she chose to ignore, in the hope that if shekept her council he might, just might, eventually snap out of it.But voicing this sentiment had suddenly thrust an outlandishnotion into her mind. Was the world coming to an end?

No, that was ridiculous. Yet something was happening, that wascertain. Something had persuaded everyone to leave their homeswith as many worldly possessions they could muster. But whydidn't she know anything about it? She cast her mind back. Withhalf an ear she'd heard the TV news a while ago. She was sure shehadn't heard anything out of the ordinary. A sex scandalinvolving an MP; a massacre in a remote, unpronounceable Africancountry; yet another interest rate rise... The usual stuff.Nothing about some mad dictator declaring war on everybody;nobody with a finger poised over a little red button in a cosyunderground bunker; no air raid warnings; no evacuation notices.Even more unlikely, there had been no mention of a giantmeteorite's imminent collision with earth or even an invasion byan alien race. Just an ordinary day.

This really wouldn't do; she was letting herself get carried away- just concentrate on what was happening outside. The street wasbecoming quieter; settling back to its ordinary dull serenity. Afew people were still hurriedly preparing to leave, but most hadalready got on their way. The hellbent, headlong stampede ofcharging machinery had subdued into a more orderly trickle; therewas little more than the everyday amount of traffic passing now.Again, Mrs Amble was amazed at the extraordinary speed of thestrange and sudden decampment of the entire neighbourhood. Soon,everything would seem virtually normal again; it was alreadygetting difficult to believe that anything had broken thestreet's mundane routine.

Yet it had, hadn't it? Even yet there was still plenty ofevidence of it. That flighty woman at the house with the redcurtains was just finishing her leaving preparations: putting alast case, probably full of make-up and scanty undies, into herfancy sports car, and old Mr Tompkins was struggling at the wheelof his ancient boneshaker, trying hard to get some life out of it.A few people, those who didn't possess cars (Mrs Amble had alwaysattempted not to feel superior to them because of this), weredeparting on foot - they wouldn't get very far carrying all thatstuff. Even the odd bicycle wobbled its way down the streetbearing much more weight than it was ever designed to.

As she watched the tardier tail-enders setting out in the wake ofthe initial pell-mell scramble, one realisation was suddenlyshouting at Mrs Amble - they were all going in the same direction.Each and every one of them, all sharing that same fixed look ofapprehension, all heading the same way - down the hill towardstown.

Were they all going to the same place?

That was it. Everybody had won a holiday in an enormous publicitypromotion. They were always doing things like that. Somecompanies would give you all kinds of things: furniture,satellite TVs, double glazing, lifetime supplies of dog food -anything - if it advertised their name widely enough.

But a whole street? That wasn't very likely, was it? Think of howmuch it would cost. And why hadn't she been selected? Hadanything come in the post: one of those envelopes with SPECIALEXCLUSIVE ONCE ONLY OFFER plastered all over it? No, she wouldsure to have seen it - she devoured junk mail. There had to beanother explanation for all this weird behaviour.

The more Mrs Amble thought about it the more perplexed she became.Every answer that presented itself to her she discounted as moreimprobable. She considered the possibility of a huge bring-and-buysale being held somewhere in town - that would at least accountfor the rubbish she'd seen some people taking with them - butsurely the more upmarket of them would never patronise such anevent? A gas leak? No, she would have smelt it (Mrs Amble had aparticularly strong sense of smell). An unexploded bomb? The armywould be there by now. Subsidence? She would have felt it.Earthquake? The same. She could not accept that if something ofmajor importance was occurring she, of all people, knew nothingabout it.

She would have consulted Mr Amble, but she was well aware therewould be no enlightenment there. The opening signature tune of anAustralian soap opera was playing on the TV; she'd never be ableto drag him away from its latest imported intrigues.

There was only one solution. She would just have to go into townand find out for herself. She needed some shopping, anyway.

"What do you fancy for tea, Gordon?" she asked, turningfrom the window to address her husband. "A couple of nicepork ch..?"

Wonder of wonders! He wasn't there. His chair was empty, and shewas talking to herself. She didn't remember hearing him move -she must have been too absorbed in the events outside. I wonderwhere he is? Must have gone to the loo. He certainly wouldn't bemaking her a cup of tea. Not like him to miss what was happeningin Aussie land. Oh well.

She went to the hall to get her shopping bag and coat. Mrs Amblepossessed that type of body that begins life voluptuous, butwhich almost immediately upon marriage balloons. The buttons ofher coat seemed to get harder and harder to fasten, and once moreshe considered the diet she was always going to put herself on asshe took a deep breath to fit the last one in its hole.

The coat on, she picked up her bag and called up the stairs,"Just going to the shops, Gordon. Won't be long."

There was no reply, but then, she didn't expect one. What therewas, though, was a lot of banging about. What could he be doing?Perhaps he was making a start on the bedroom that had neededdecorating for so long. Yes, and pigs might grow wings! Sheshrugged resignedly and opened the front door.

The phrase, 'a deafening silence', had been employed in a storyshe had read in her magazine last night. She'd thought it a sillything to say. How could silence be deafening? It didn't make anynoise. Now, as she closed the door behind her and stepped ontothe drive, she knew exactly what the writer had meant. It was soquiet it hurt her ears. She had once had a very bad cold that hadstruck her deaf for an entire day. This was like that, only moreso. All the inconsequential, everyday sounds: the perpetualbackground murmur that accompanies human activity, which by itsfamiliarity goes unheard, had simply stopped. And by its absenceit was glaringly, shoutingly loud.

Mrs Amble put her hands to her ears, rubbed and pressed, tookthem away - it was still the same. The same complete and utterhush. She felt a moment of fear; almost fled back into the house,then the moment passed. Mrs Amble was nothing if not independent,twenty-four years with Mr Amble had made her so. Apart from that,her inquisitiveness was a powerful thing and she was determinedto learn the reason for the sudden collective migration. Shecouldn't do that in the house. There was no use in appealing forher husband's aid; he would be ensconced in front of thetelevision again by now. It was up to her. Besides, she reallydid need to do some shopping. With the courage of the obstinatelycurious, she set off down the drive.

The crunch of her footsteps on the gravel was so magnified in thehollow stillness that she found herself walking on tiptoe. It waswith some relief that she reached the pavement outside her house.Once there, she stood and hesitantly looked up and down thestreet. It was absolutely deserted. The unnatural quiet seemed tohang over her and weigh down on her. She shivered, turned to facedownhill, took a deep breath and resolutely began to walk.

Again, she was acutely aware of the sound of her tread and feltstrangely thankful she was wearing soft-soled shoes: the clatterof high heels would have been somehow sacrilegious in thecathedral-like atmosphere. Even so, she walked tentatively, as ifin fear of waking someone or something a long time dormant. Andas she walked each step took her further into an eerie new world.

The houses she'd passed so many times before seemed frighteninglychanged. To Mrs Amble they had always before provided fascinatingsnippets of other people's lives, each window revealing glimpsesinto deliciously private lives. Now she hurried past them withouther usual lingering neck-craning, no longer so eager to see pastthe net curtains of her neighbour's secret routines. The housesloomed emptily, crowded in on her; their windows, darkly vacant,seemed to watch her like the eyes of sentient beings. No longerthe observer, but the observed, she warily eyed them, stiflingthe urge to scamper by like a timid, hunted creature.

Hemmed in by brooding, menacing houses, the street had lost itsfriendly familiarity. It appeared longer, steeper, narrower. Itwas like descending a never-ending sloping tunnel. Each stepseemed to take Mrs Amble further from the bottom of the hill.Even the trees in their neat squares cut into the pavementslooked alien: not a hint of wind stirred them; they stoodpetrified, like rows of sentries. The sky too was motionless,and, though clear and bright, was queerly forbidding, as thoughit might fall down and crush her.

Mrs Amble knew she had to get a hold of herself. She was gettingpanicky, imagining things; seeing sinisterness where there wasnone. Several times she had almost turned and run back home. Whatwas there to be afraid of? The houses were just houses, the treesjust wood. There was nothing watching her. There was nothingwaiting to pounce out on her. There was only the desolate, emptystreet and the suffocating silence and the...

No! There was a logical explanation behind all this. Had to be.And she was going to find out what it was. She took a deep,gulping breath, pulled her coat more securely about her, grippedher shopping bag tightly as if it were a weapon and strode ondeterminedly.

With her newly resolved courage, the street regained its naturalaspect and, with fresh purpose in her stride, she was soon at thebottom of the hill. On the way she formed a theory that reassuredher unease: a super-charismatic American evangelist (they werealways American) must have come to town, and everyone for milesaround was gathered in the Town Hall caught in his spellbindingeloquence. She had once accidentally found herself at such ameeting and well knew how beguiling they could be. She had beenfilled with religious fervour for a fortnight afterwards. Thatthe Town Hall was hardly big enough for such an event she choseto ignore.

At the bottom of the hill the street terminated at a main road,at the other side of which was the town itself. Mrs Amblestopped, dutifully looked both ways and stepped onto the road.She was halfway across before she realised what was wrong.

The road was totally empty.

It should be throbbing with traffic. She often had to stand forseveral minutes waiting to cross. The road was a well-known blackspot: the scene of many accidents and the focus of a long ongoingcampaign for a safe pedestrian crossing. Now she was able tostand in the middle of the road in complete security.

Where were all the cars?

Mrs Amble continued walking, more falteringly now and with adeepening feeling of dread. Soon she was in the heart of thesmall town.

Her tightly clung-to self-assurances that all would be explainedonce she got there, she had to relinquish along with herdesperately contrived suppositions.

She wasn't going to discover the entire population congregatedbefore a silky-tongued saviour or acquisitively snatching up thenot-to-be-missed bargains of some unlikely marketing promotion.

Mrs Amble was the only person there.

She might have been a part of one of those old westerns herhusband was so fond of: where the stranger first sets foot in theghost town. She half expected balls of dried-out tumbleweed to berolling about. She wandered forlornly among abandoned buildings:shops and banks and pubs and cafes and offices alike - they wereall deserted and lifeless. No use in entering the Town Hall, orthe Civic Centre, or the new sports complex, or even St Peter'schurch. No point at all. She knew what she would find there.

Aching, echoing emptiness.

The shops were the worst. Mrs Amble was an avid shopper; shegained an almost sexual gratification from the pursuit. Theprolonged, teasing foreplay of fingering through shelves andracks and counters of provocatively displayed goods, theclimactic triumph of reaching that must-be-had item and the finalrelease of purchase, fulfilled a need in her that her marriagenever had or could. Now the shops spurned her.

The enticing window displays were still there, as provocative asalways, but to look at them was slightly voyeuristic. She couldnot have what was on show. A few shop doors had been left open,so keen had their proprietors been to get away. Mrs Amble wentinto a couple but immediately came out upon finding them asdeserted as everywhere else. They were dead places without afriendly attendant to administer to her. Most were locked andbarred, however, some of them had hastily scribbled notes pinnedto their doors. Instead of a reassuring little message such as,CLOSED FOR LUNCH, BACK SOON, the notices bore just two stark,brutal words, words that had all the finality of an ended loveaffair: GONE AWAY.

Mrs Amble walked on. The tiny bus station was barren, except forone lone single-decker with OUT OF SERVICE on its destinationboard. Likewise, the taxi rank. The vain hope of reaching thenext town where things would surely be normal was dashed. Shefound an unvandalised phone box and fumblingly dialled everynumber she could recall. The receiver was a dead, unresponsivepiece of plastic, only static rang in her ear. The policestation, where with small-town faith she still expected there tobe a fat, smiling desk sergeant to turn to, housed no blueuniformed salvation, only a bare desk. On her way out she pausedto study two missing persons posters. How many posters would beneeded now? Everyone was a missing person.

She sat in a small park, staring at the wooden bandstand whereconcerts were sometimes held, the sole spectator to an invisibleperformance. How noisy her body was in the pervasive silence: thegurgling of her stomach, the pops and crackles of her ears, thesound of her short, nervous breathing, were loud accompaniment toher unquiet thoughts.

She wanted to shout, to scream out at the top of her lungs, butwas too afraid of hearing her own voice come back to herunanswered.

She kept the scream inside herself, echoing in her mind.

There was no one to hear her.

Only her.

She didn't want to move from the park bench - didn't know whereto move to - but she could not sit there all day. If she did,night would descend on her, adding its own brand of darkemptiness to an already soulless world. It was too terrifying aprospect to contemplate.

She would have to go back home. It was the only place to go. Shehadn't thought of her husband all the time she had been out; nowshe did. So accustomed to his taciturn, unresponsive presence,presence she only recognised by the space he filled, she hadgrown to accept him as merely a barely functional householdfitment.

Now she suddenly needed him. Needed someone. Anyone.

All right, he wasn't much company, and he'd certainly be no usein locating a missing population - but he'd be there. That atleast she could count on. Armageddon could arrive early (and itmay well have) and he would sit through it, placidly awaiting thenext television program. Yes, he would still be rooted to hischair, unaware that she had left the house - unaware thateverybody else had left, for that matter. But still there, forall she knew apart from her the only living, breathing humanbeing left on earth.

Mrs Amble left the park feeling a little brighter than she hadfor some time. A ridiculous image: that of her husband and she asa sort of middle aged latter-day Adam and Eve almost dispelledthe cloud of depression that had settled on her. Just imagine:Gordon with his potbelly, skinny legs and bald head, and she withher... well... plumpish, figure. How absurd! They'd never get figleaves to fit them. She giggled slightly hysterically and hurriedback through the untenanted town.

The emptiness threatened to engulf her again in the unpeopledstreets and forsaken shopping precincts. It was only by keepingher eyes rigidly focused ahead that she avoided populating everycorner with imagined phantoms and by humming a weak, nervous tuneto herself to drown the dreadful silence that she again reachedthe main road. This time she crossed the road without a glance ineither direction and was soon half running, half stumbling up herown street, her still empty shopping bag clutched tightly in herhand.

A creeping presentiment that grew with each solitary step madethe lonely hill stretch up and up endlessly. It was like goingthe wrong way on a down-escalator; every step seemed to take herfurther from her house. By the time she eventually reached it andput her hand on the front door handle the presentiment had becomea foreboding. She swept into the house - and saw what she hadalready foreseen...

Her husband's empty chair.

"Gordon?"

"Gordon!"

Only the television stared back at her, still switched on butsilent, its screen showing some words of information. She ran tothe kitchen, then to the hall.

"Gordon!"

Only her own voice rang back hollowly down the stairwell.

She dashed up the stairs, went into every room. Doors and drawershung open; clothing lay strewn and cast aside. Everywhere thesigns of indiscriminate, hurried packing. Nowhere a sign of MrAmble.

Hurtling back down the stairs and out the front door, she sawwhat she had missed in her panic to get into the house. Thegarage door gaped wide open. The car hadn't been out for months.She'd almost forgotten they possessed one. It must have takensome starting. Yet it was gone.

Gone.

She went back into the house and slumped into a chair. Theninstantly got up again. It was Gordon's chair, moulded by longusage into his shape. It was like stepping into a dead man'sclothes.

But he wasn't dead. It was worse than that. He was gone.

Gone away. Like everybody else.

No goodbyes. No nothing. Just gone.

Gone.

Much more than lonely: completely alone, she stood in the middleof the room and looked about her. The television glared back ather, still bearing its mute message. The words on the screen, notcomfortingly advising of a temporary, soon to be remedied,interruption to normal services, were a final amen. Two words, inwhite on black, words she had read so many times that day. Twoicy cold, conclusive words:

GONE AWAY.

She reached out to switch off the set. As she did so, the screenflickered, faded, and then went blank. She dropped her hand. Noneed to press the button. No thought-numbing images would play onthe dead glass tube again. No need either to try the radio, orthe lights, or anything else man-made and man-powered.

They were all gone.

Gone.

She went to the window and looked out as she had so many timesbefore on the street. So many houses. So many houses, all thesame. Had all the lives lived in them been as meaningless as hers- as empty? Had all their occupants merely existed from day today, not knowing why but doing it because that is what everybodyelse did? Because there was nothing else to do?

Sad, purposeless, useless lives.

So many houses. How long would they last, now that the people hadgone? How long before they crumbled to rubble?

The gardens would become overgrown to begin with. Slowly butsurely, the hedges and plants and grasses and trees would creepup and undermine weakening foundations. Roots and tendrils wouldforce through rotting doors and cracking windows. Wind and rainand weather would do the rest. Long before that, the streetsurface and pavements, unmaintained, would soon fracture andcrack and become fertile ground for seeds.

And not just in this little street, but everywhere, the same slowprocess would take place. The cities would take the longest, buteven they, big as they were, would eventually disappear as naturereclaimed them. Brick and stone and metal and tarmac were nomatch for time. And there would be lots of time.

Yes, it would take a long, long time. But gradually, oh sogradually, wherever people had been there would only be memories.And, with no one to remember them, memories don't last long.

Mrs Amble unlatched the window and threw it open, careless anduncaring of the ornaments that fell and smashed. They meantnothing now - it was hard to believe they ever had. The air wasclearer and cleaner already. She took a large lungful, though sheknew it wasn't for her. Birds started singing and the sun brokethrough.

She took one last look up and down the street. In the past whenshe had stood there looking out, she had felt comfortable - nowshe didn't. She felt she was spying. It hadn't mattered beforewhen it was only people she was watching - she was one of them.It was different now. She didn't belong there any more. Now shefelt she was the one who was being watched. It was a patientwatchfulness, but it was also resentful. She was an intruder. Itwas time to go.

She sighed and turned from the window. She didn't close it -there was no need. She stood a moment and glanced around the roomat all the senseless symbols of her life. Soon they would allcrumble and rot.

She sighed again, and then went heavily but calmly upstairs.

Mrs Amble began to pack.