Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

Ignoring the sites that spoke about the plough as a tool of cultivation, Tom focused on the quasi-religious, pagan sites. On these he read about how the constellation of seven stars has been called many things by many societies throughout history.

The Wagon, The Dipper, Arthur's Wain. Greek mythology described it as Ursa Major or the great bear. For the Egyptians it was the astral shape of their god, Seth. The Mexicans believed it to be the foot of Tezcatlipoca. To the Lapps it is the bow of a hunter, to the Sioux a bier. The Siberian Kirghiz legend calls it the seven watchmen. In Hinduism it is known as Saptarshi, or the seven rishis — semi divine sages and sources of all sublunary wisdom. Tom knew they were all wrong. The Plough was the seven Masters, hanging in the night sky, keeping a watch on Earth. And now they had chosen him as their prophet. They had told him how, for centuries, they had looked down as man had strayed further and further from their teachings. The wisdom they had imparted had evolved along false lines and greed had corrupted the people of Earth, tricking them into living lives of decadence and excess. His own wife and baby had been lost forever to it. Now, they had announced, was the time to act. Through him their words would be relayed and people would see the error of their ways. Through his teachings the evils of wanton consumption would be cast aside. A new Golden Age would be ushered in — one where people lived simple, happy lives. Their obsession with shopping would be cured. Superstores, hypermarkets, arcades and shopping centres — those temples built to pursue the activity would be razed to the ground.

With the realization that they had chosen him to spread their word, Tom began to weep. And his tears were born of fear: fear at what they would ask him to do.

In the front room he found his Sennheiser headphones, the type that clamped right over the ears. In the kitchen he searched through the drawers for foil, eventually finding the roll and tearing off great squares. Then he proceeded to wrap layer upon layer over each earpiece. By wearing the headphones at all times he intended to stop the Masters beaming their voices into his head.

Now that he had no job, Creepy George spent a lot of time parked outside Sixteen Moorfield Road. At night he could see the flicker of the computer monitor in the front room, but it was only ever Tom in the house. She had disappeared.

In frustration he started scouring the city centre. Guessing the types of places she'd visit, he wandered up and down King Street, glancing in the windows of Diesel, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY and Armani.

At lunchtime he'd switch his search to nice restaurants: Zinc, Stock, Lime, Croma. Then, one day, he glimpsed her going into Selfridges. He broke into an ungainly trot, making it through the doors thirty metres behind her.

She took the escalator down to the food hall and went across to the sushi bar in the corner. A man was already there and she took the seat next to him. As they kissed the bile rose in George's throat.

They ordered fresh fruit juices, then, for the next half an hour, plucked morsels from the conveyor belt. Eventually the man flicked his credit card on to the counter.

At the top of the escalator they kissed again and parted company. George followed her around Harvey Nichols for an hour, then trailed her across to Quay Street where she slipped into an expensive-looking health centre. Hesitating at the doors, George began to read the notices in the window.

State-of-the-art, fully air-conditioned gymnasium, swimming pool and spa, aerobics studio with classes in yoga, pilates and boxercise, spinning studio, beauty salon and relaxation room.

George stared at the photos of women in their leotards, determined expressions on their faces. He liked best the picture of the lady lying on a bed in the beauty salon. Her hair was tied up in a towel and her eyes were closed. Then he saw the notice inviting anyone in for a free tour and day pass. He walked into the reception area, its shiny wooden floors and halogen spotlights dazzling him. 'Hello, I would like a look around, if I may.'

The young lady kept her face bright and welcoming. 'Of course, sir. I'll just give one of our assistants a call.'

When the man appeared he had a glow of vitality that George knew contrasted all too obviously with his own pale face. As he was led around, George scanned each room for her. The pool was virtually empty, the aerobics studio deserted. At the gym he saw her, wearing a crop top and shorts, lifting a pair of pink plastic dumbbells up and down. He wanted to stand and drink in the sight of her, wanted the man's irritating prattle to stop. But after a cursory look at the remaining facilities, he was shown back down to reception.

'I'd like to apply for membership, please,' he said to the receptionist.

Taking the form and a brochure, he sat down in the cafe area and grudgingly ordered a cup of coffee. He took as long as he could to read the brochure, then pored over the small print about membership terms and conditions. Eventually he heard footsteps and she came down the stairs, blonde ponytail bouncing with each step. George looked down and, out of the corner of his eye, watched as she went over to the notice board and trailed a finger over the group exercise timetables.

'Jules,' she called over to the receptionist. 'Could you book me in for your pilates class?'

'Sure, which one?'

'Oh, at seven o'clock on Thursday nights, please.'

George scrawled the information down on the back of his brochure.

*

Tom heard nothing for three days. In that time he struggled with his newfound understanding. Rather than freeing him, the knowledge he now possessed was crushing him. He was unable to raise himself to his feet. Keeping the headphones on at all times, he dragged himself around the house, the powder his only source of comfort.

He was lying at the bottom of the stairs when they began to say his name again. Immediately he reached his hands up, assuming the headphones had slipped off, only to find they were in place. One by one, they took turns to speak.

Do not deny your destiny.

You are the one.

We have chosen you.

Chosen you to spread our word.

It is time to be strong.

Time for the Golden Age to dawn.

Stand up, Tom.

The enormous power in their voices couldn't be denied. The Masters had selected him. Tentatively he tried to get up. He found that he could stand without problem, so he removed the headphones and climbed the stairs two at a time.

Poking through the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor, he located a top and trousers that didn't seem too dirty. Downstairs he pulled on his coat and a pair of shoes. Pausing in the doorway to the dining room, he decided to leave the gun in its drawer. Instead he packed a spare pair of trainers and a towel into a small rucksack, then set off into Manchester.

Walking along Portland Street he looked again at the message on the tower:'Bruntwood welcomes all 72 Commonwealth Nations'. He was certain that the Games had finished a few months before, and he couldn't understand why the message was still there.

The city's few days of glory were long gone, and unemployment had crept back up as the hundreds of jobs created by the event had vanished with the end of the closing ceremony. The fountain in Piccadilly Gardens had been turned off several weeks ago for routine maintenance and had still not started working again. Tom walked slowly through the bare trees dotted around the gardens, carefully placing his steps until he made it on to the grass. He walked quickly across it, slowing down at the gum-marred pavement on the other side. The stuff had multiplied, like bacteria in a petri dish, spreading slowly across the stones, becoming ever more concentrated. With trepidation, he made his way to the top of Market Street, looking at the mass of humans crowding the area ahead. He told himself he was there to help them.