Revenge: The darker side of Christmas

At first, I loved the Hendersons. I was overjoyed to have been adopted by them and accepted into their warm home which smelled of cooked apples and spice.

I'd had a tough time of it in my short life. I'd fallen victim to evil traffickers who had ripped me from my homeland. I was scarred, bewildered and frightened, but the Hendersons took me in and gave me a new home, and a family. I loved them, and I thought they loved me, too.

I remember the day Mr. Henderson carried me over the threshold into their little terraced house. It was warm after the cold winter air. He set me down tenderly on the living room floor and called to his wife. She came rushing in to look at me, and gasped with delight. "Absolutely perfect!" She beamed.

Mrs Henderson gave me food and water to drink and then she dressed me. I was amazed at the things she had for me. Such beautiful jewellery! I had never seen anything like it before. My reflection in the window was splendid indeed. I was so pleased they had chosen me, above all the others, to adopt. I knew I was going to feel right at home here.

When she had finished dressing me, Mrs Henderson sat down next to me and turned on the TV. I'd never seen a TV before - they don't have them where I come from, and I was entranced by it. The music, the lights, the colours! It was brighter than a forest floor in springtime, for all its wild flowers.

I had a lot to learn, naturally, about the new culture I found myself inhabiting, and the family I was now part of. There was Mr. Henderson, who worked at something called the tax office, which meant he was away from the house most of the time, but in the evenings he would return, put on his slippers and sit by me to watch the news. I soon learned by the comments he made that he didn't like a man called the "prime minister" all that much, but he loved it when a man in a red shirt managed to kick a ball between two posts.

Mrs Henderson stayed home all day. She said her job was taking care of her family and she did that very well.

Olivia was the eldest daughter, and I liked her because she gave me a beautiful set of beads in red and gold. Her brother Sam was less likeable. He was noisy and boisterous and would kick a football around the room when no-one was looking. A couple of times, it hit me. Still, I know he didn't mean to do it and his mumbled apologies were sincere.

The one I really didn't like was Tess. She was there when Mr Henderson brought me home and she just sat on the chair, staring at me with her bright green eyes and saying nothing. She would eye my jewellery jealously and once or twice, tried to steal it, but Mrs Henderson would always take it away from Tess and give it back to me. I suppose that's why Tess would settle herself beside me and silently dig her long nails into me. I never trusted her. Thankfully, she seemed to go out a lot and mostly only came home for meals and sleep.

The ones I liked best, though, were Spider and Vera. I felt a kinship with them. They were adopted like me, and we were similar in many ways. They spoke a little of my language and we could understand each other. We could have conversations between the three of us that none of the other Hendersons could understand. It was from them that I learned the things I really needed to know.

One thing I learned very quickly was that I had arrived into the family just in time for something they called Christmas. From the conversations I heard, from the TV programmes I saw, I learned that Christmas was a special family time that happened every year. It was something to do with the birth of a baby a very, very long time ago, and that everyone was supposed to be nice to each other and give each other gifts. It seemed like a fitting time to have arrived.

There were lots of visitors to the house. They would sing outside the door and Mr and Mrs Henderson would invite them in for mince pies and wine. Alcohol was a big part of Christmas, I discovered, as even I was allowed a little tot of vodka in my water every few days. The guests would come in and meet me, and they would always say how pretty I was. I knew the Hendersons were proud of me.

One night, soon after I arrived, Olivia came into the room. She looked lovely. Not quite as lovely as me, but lovely just the same. She'd piled up her hair and put on make up. "What do you think, everybody?" She said, twirling around so that her dress glittered and sparkled under the Christmas lights. "You think Callum will ask me out?"

"He's a fool if he doesn't," Mr Henderson grunted.

"Yuck, is that mistletoe in your hair?" Sam wrinkled his nose. "Kissing... ugh!"

"You look gorgeous, darling," Mrs Henderson said. "Have a great time and I'll come and pick you up at eleven."

She left for her Christmas party and Mr Henderson went to the pub. Sam disappeared up to his room to play computer games, and Mrs Henderson went upstairs for a bath. Tess was out - I don't know or care where. Spider, Vera and I stayed where we were.

Then at about half past nine, Olivia came in, slamming the door behind her. There were dark smudges all down her cheeks and her eyes were red. She flung herself down next to me and wailed, "It's not fair! I hate Callum! He only gave me a peck on the cheek, but he was snogging the face off that Michelle, the common bitch! He ignored me the whole rest of the night! I hate them both!" She covered her face with her hands and cried. I knew there was nothing I could possibly do to comfort her, but I felt privileged that it was me she had confided in.

I so loved being part of this family.

Then Spider told me something that chilled me to the core.

"They're planning to kill you, you know," he whispered to me one night.

"They wouldn't do that," I replied. "They're good to me. How can you say such a thing?"

"Oh, they're dressing you up nicely and feeding you well now, but you're not part of the family. You never will be. Come the new year, they'll strip you of all those fancy things and throw you out in the cold to die."

"You're lying. You're just trying to scare me."

"He isn't," said Vera, in her soft, soothing voice. "It happens every year. They always do it. We've seen it time and time again."

"It's always the same. You're to be sacrificed. I've never worked out whether it's to Santa Claus or Jesus or Old Father Time - but you have two weeks to live, tops. Look, I'm sorry to have to tell you this. Vera and I have been agonising over whether or not to tell you for days, and how to put it."

"We're so sorry," Vera said.

For a time I refused to believe what they'd said. It had to be a cruel joke.

Then Mrs Henderson herself inadvertently gave herself away. She had started vacuuming the carpet every day, and seemed to dislike having to do it. I heard her grumble to herself. Perhaps she thought the noise of the hoover would drown out her voice, but I still heard her say it. That she'd be glad when they'd got rid of me. So they really were going to kill me. How could they do that?

My love for the Hendersons turned to loathing, but I gave no sign that I knew what they were plotting. Only now, as we all sat together watching the TV, I was plotting myself. I was fantasising about ways to kill them all before they killed me.

I would spare Spider and Vera, of course. They were different, like me. It wasn't their fault; they had no part in it, and they had warned me. They didn't deserve to die. I didn't tell them what I intended to do, though.

On the fourth day of Christmas, Mr Barry Henderson was found dead on his living room floor. Water had got into the plug socket and had dripped onto the floor, making the carpet around it sopping wet, but not so much that he'd notice when wearing his slippers. He'd bent to turn on the Christmas lights; there had been a spark and a puff of smoke and he'd collapsed, twitching, onto the floor, his finger still on the switch. He twitched for a good ten minutes before falling still as I stood there and watched.

Nobody suspected me for an instant. It was just one of those things; a freak accident, rendered all the more tragic by its proximity to Christmas.

Tess was next. On the fifth day of Christmas, The Hendersons' black cat was found crushed under the weight of the pot of soil and the Christmas tree, which had toppled over in the night. It was assumed she'd been trying to reach a particularly tantalising bauble and pulled the whole lot down on top of her. There was no suggestion it could have been my fault.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Mrs Christine Henderson was found dead, too. Another freak accident. A broken Christmas ornament had sliced the major artery in her arm as she'd struggled to put the fallen Christmas tree back. She bled out over the living room carpet. And still nobody suspected I was responsible for any of it.

The seventh day of Christmas was meant to be Sam's turn. Another freak accident, but that day a strange couple came to take Olivia and Sam away.

She glanced into the room where Spider, Vera and I were, and quickly closed the door behind her. "That room gives me the creeps," she declared. Especially that Christmas tree. There's an evil vibe coming off it, I swear."

"Don't be silly, Dorothy," the man said. "No doubt it's just some energetic residue left by the deaths. That's what they say hauntings are. It's an inanimate object. It can't hurt you."

Spider and Vera and I watched silently as the Henderson children were led down the garden path and bundled into a waiting car. We had the house to ourselves. We could live here forever, just the three of us.

I was wrong, of course. A few days later, Dorothy came back. She muttered as she entered the house. I could only make out snippets of what she was saying. "...unlucky to leave them up after the 6th... enough bad luck to last a lifetime... don't need any more... " She began stuffing the cards and tinsel into black bags. Then, finally, she looked at me, her eyes narrow slits. For the first time I feared someone might actually suspect me; that she'd guessed what had been going on. But then she turned away.

"Steve! I'm going to need your help with the Christmas tree. I don't want to do this alone. It still creeps me out."

Steve came into the room with a small pink case. The sleeve of one of Olivia's jumpers was poking out of the top. "Be with you in a sec," he said. "I'll just put this in the car. Is there anything else you want me to put in the car?"

Dorothy glanced quickly around the room. "Yes. You can take the spider plant and the aloe vera plant. Poor things probably haven't been watered for days."

They stripped me of all my finery, and as predicted, I was dumped on the pavement. I watched Spider and Vera being driven off to a new home while I was left to die in the dust.

*******

If you like this story you can buy a collection of my short stories, Jigsaw, on CreateSpace, Amazon, Amazon Kindle

My novel, Death and Faxes, is also available. It's the story of a young psychic juggling her life and her powers in London.

Paperback - CreateSpace or Amazon 

Or get the E-book: Amazon Kindle (Follow this link to look inside and read the first few pages).

A Christmas Novella! 

A Very Variant Christmas

Last year, Jade and Gloria were embroiled in a bitter conflict to win back their throne and their ancestral home. This year, Queen Jade and Princess Gloria want to host the biggest and best Christmas party ever in their palace. They invite all their friends to come and bring guests. Not even the birth of Jade's heir just before Christmas will stop them.

The guest list includes most of Britain's complement of super-powered crime-fighters, their families and friends. What could possibly go wrong?

Gatecrashers, unexpected arrivals, exploding Christmas crackers and a kidnapping, for starters.

Far away in space, the Constellations, a cosmic peacekeeping force, have suffered a tragic loss. They need to recruit a new member to replace their dead colleague. The two top candidates are both at Jade and Gloria's party. The arrival of the recruitment delegation on Christmas Eve is a surprise for everyone; but their visit means one guest now faces a life-changing decision.

Meanwhile, an alliance of the enemies of various guests at the party has infiltrated the palace; they hide in the dungeon, plotting how best to get rid of the crime-fighters and the royal family once and for all. Problem is, they all have their own agendas and differences of opinion on how to achieve their aims.

Not to mention that this year, the ghosts who walk the corridors of the palace on Christmas Eve will be as surprised by the living as the living are by them.

Available from Createspace, Amazon and Amazon Kindle

Death and Faxes: Chapter One

Clare was trembling as she slowly and carefully got to her feet. Oddly, there was no pain, not even in her throat. She was surprised to have regained consciousness at all. She glanced over her shoulder, dreading what she might see. All she saw were the outlines of the great oak trees, barely visible against the night sky. All she heard was the rustling of leaves in the breeze. He was gone. So was her handbag – he'd robbed her, too, then.

Clare felt a cold wetness between her toes and realised she was barefoot.

As she glanced around looking for her shoes, she saw a woman’s body lying on the ground at her feet, lying face down in a muddy puddle. Clare gasped and took a step back, hands over her mouth, then, as her initial shock subsided, she leaned forward for a closer look.

The dead woman was wearing an Air London stewardess uniform, identical to the one Clare herself wore. Her brown hair had, at some point, been twisted into the regulation chignon, which Air London cabin crew were required to wear if their hair was longer than chin length, but it had come loose and covered her face. Clare couldn’t tell if she knew the woman or not.

As Clare stared at the body of the young woman, she couldn’t help thinking how short and fragile life was, and what a lucky escape she had just had.

She recalled the bitter row she’d had with her boyfriend that morning. It replayed like a high definition film in her mind.

‘Just get out, Mark, I don’t want you here when I get home tonight,’ she had yelled, storming out and slamming the door behind her.

She remembered how she’d wished today's rota was sending her somewhere exotic and far away, not just Manchester and back; how she had resolved to flirt with any good-looking male passenger, purely from spite.

No one had caught her eye on the outbound flight, but on the return journey there had been passenger 27B. The killer.

Nothing could bring this poor woman back. Reporting it could wait. Making up with Mark had to come first. She ran towards home in her bare feet.

**

Standing outside the flat she shared with Mark, she saw that the light was on, and the door was open. She padded into the kitchen.

Although the kitchen light was on, Mark wasn’t in the room. His briefcase was on the chair, where he usually dropped it. He’d picked up the post and left it unopened on the table. Junk mail and bills, Clare guessed, left for her to deal with, as usual. A dirty plate, fork and glass were in the sink. When he’d realised she wasn’t going to be home for dinner he’d fixed himself beans on toast. She could hear music coming from the lounge.

It was dark in the lounge, but she could see Mark, sitting on a stool by the window, playing his guitar. The street-lamp outside bathed him in an eerie orange glow. A lock of his dark hair fell forwards, hiding his face as he bent over the instrument.

The song he played was so sad that it wrenched at Clare’s heart. She hadn’t heard it before, and guessed it was one he was in the process of composing. She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening, before she spoke.

‘Mark?’ There was no answer. ‘Mark, I’m really, really sorry about this morning.’

He still didn’t reply, but kept on playing the same sad, mournful tune. Tears sprang to Clare’s eyes. She didn't usually get emotional about music. She realised she was trembling. If ever she needed Mark, it was now.

She tried again. ‘I love you, Mark. I’m sorry. Speak to me, please?’ Nothing. ‘I know I’ve been stupid, Mark. I apologise. I didn’t mean any of those things I said. I love you. What more can I say?’

For one heart-stopping moment, he stopped playing. Clare took a step towards him, arms outstretched. He turned away from her to the window and peered out. Then he turned back to his guitar and started to play another tune, even more mournful and heart-breaking than the first. ‘Stop it, Mark,’ she cried, tears dripping down her cheeks. ‘Look at me! Please.’ He carried on playing.

Clare was about to wrest the guitar from his hands and force him to acknowledge her, when she noticed they weren’t alone.

A young woman was leaning on the bedroom door. ‘Hello, Clare,’ she said.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Clare demanded.

‘Why, it’s me, Persia,’ the woman replied, seeming slightly surprised, as if Clare was supposed to know exactly who she was.

‘That’s not a name, it’s a country,’ Clare said, petulantly. ‘And I’ve never seen you before. What are you doing in my flat?’

‘You don’t recognise me, do you? Even though I’ve been with you all your life.’

‘What are you, my conscience?’ Clare’s voice had a sarcastic edge. ‘Come to tell me off for having a row with Mark?’

‘Not exactly. That argument hardly matters now.’ Persia met her gaze without a trace of the guilt Clare would have expected from a woman who’d just been caught with someone else's man. Her hair was short, black and spiky and she wore a black lace blouse over a short black denim skirt and leggings. She was tiny: the top of her head barely reached Clare’s shoulder. She looked very young. The most remarkable thing about her was her eyes; vivid turquoise, the colour of a tropical sea. Almost, Clare thought, like something from another world. Clare told herself not to be so fanciful. She’d never believed in aliens or anything of that sort.

‘Okay, so I know your name,’ Clare said, ‘but you haven’t really answered my question. Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my flat? As if I need to ask. It’s quite obvious what you’re doing.’ Clare turned to Mark, now standing gazing out of the window, his back to them. ‘How long has this been going on, Mark?’

He ignored her, but Persia spoke. ‘Clare, there’s nothing going on between me and Mark, but there is something you need to know.’

‘So. If you’re not Mark’s fancy woman, who are you?’

‘I’m your spirit guide.’

‘My what?’

‘I know, it sounds crazy. But everyone has a spirit guide. Some people call us guardian angels. We’re the little voice that suggests that you do or don’t do something, to keep you on the right life path.’ Persia walked across the room and sat on the shabby armchair, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles. Making herself at home, Clare noted, bitterly.

‘Sounds the same as a conscience to me,’ said Clare.

‘Similar, except only we’re not there to make you feel guilty. Just stop you from getting things wrong. Keep you out of trouble.’

‘Well, if you’re here to stop me getting things wrong, and keep me out of trouble, you didn’t do a very good job of it today,’ Clare snapped. ‘Did you?’

‘You have free will, and you chose to ignore me,’ Persia said, brightly. ‘You know those nagging gut feelings you get sometimes that perhaps you shouldn’t do something? Well, that’s me.’

Recalling the events of the day, Clare realised that she knew the kind of feeling Persia spoke of only too well.

Passenger 27B. Dark and brooding, not her usual type, but she had found his attention flattering; the way his steel blue eyes had met hers and his well-manicured hands had lingered just that split second too long when she took his glass from him during preparations for landing.

When she had walked out into the arrivals hall, he’d been standing there, and had walked over to her as she waved goodbye to her colleagues.

‘Drink?’ he’d asked.

She’d blushed like a teenager. Then she’d relished the revenge she was about to have on Mark for his unreasonable behaviour. That was when the nagging feeling had whispered, ‘Don’t do it, Clare. He’s dangerous. Don’t go! Say no.’

But she’d said yes. A little danger was just what she’d fancied.

They went to the airport bar and he’d bought a bottle of Chardonnay. During the hour they spent there, he’d put her completely at ease. He was easy to talk to, a good listener. He’d listened as she told him about her row with Mark. He’d just let her talk, yet he hadn’t given away anything about himself, not even his name. He’d filled her glass much more frequently than he’d filled his own.

‘Let me give you a lift home,’ he’d said when the wine was all gone.

The feeling had been there then, too, saying, ‘Don’t, Clare. Leave now. Get a cab home.’

Clare had ignored it, remembering how Passenger 27B had bought an Air London Stewardess Mitzi Doll from the trolley for his niece. A man who would buy a souvenir for his niece couldn’t be bad, surely? Besides, cabs were expensive. It was another week till pay-day and Clare was already overdrawn.

She had gone with him to the medium-stay car-park and got into his car. Even when he had stopped the black Audi at the edge of the common and suggested walking the rest of the way in the moonlight, she had stifled her misgivings, telling herself that, having been captain of the school running team, she could make a quick getaway if necessary.

She had wondered why he’d paused to take the carrier bag containing the Mitzi Doll out of the boot. ‘We’re alone together. We need a chaperone,’ he had quipped. ‘She’s coming to keep an eye on us, make sure we don’t do anything we’re not supposed to.’ Clare had laughed, but as they walked, that nagging gut feeling had told her his behaviour was extremely odd and she should run for it. Now. Instead, she’d set off with him across the common.

‘How old is your niece?’ Clare had asked. He hadn't answered. ‘Do you travel to Manchester often?’ He had said nothing, walking so fast she had found it hard to keep up. Her smart heels kept sinking into the soft ground. He’d changed from the open, friendly guy she’d started to get to know in the bar. He was closed to her, focussed on something deep inside himself. Clare had looked back and seen that they were a long way away from the main road. Clare's heart had begun to race. This felt very wrong. She’d stopped, turned and had begun to pick her way back to the road.

He had moved fast, dropping the bag with the doll in it and grabbing her from behind. ‘Let me go,’ Clare had said, trying to sound calm. ‘You’re hurting me.’

He had pushed her to the ground and pinned her down with his body, ripping at her clothing. She had struggled, in vain, as he undid his fly and forced her legs apart with his knee. She had seen the doll lying on the ground, and as he violated her, violently and painfully, Clare couldn’t help thinking what a rubbish chaperone Air Stewardess Mitzi had turned out to be.

When it was over, Clare had struggled again, trying to twist herself out of his grip, but he had his hands on her throat, tightening, tightening until she could no longer breathe. Panic took hold of her. Desperately, she’d clawed and scratched at his face, drawing blood on his cheek, but he was too strong for her. Her vision was blurred, and the last thing she’d seen before blacking out was the blank stare of Air Stewardess Mitzi.

‘I told you not to go with him,’ Persia said, shaking her head. ‘Several times. But you didn’t listen, and now it’s too late. Such a shame. You and Mark had a great future together.’

‘What do you mean had?’ Clare demanded. ‘Mark? Speak to me, Mark?’ He still didn’t respond. It seemed Persia was right. Mark had frozen her out.

Clare glared at Persia. ‘I don't know who the hell you are, but you've got a damned nerve. Spirit guide, my arse! Is Mark paying you? To get back at me?’

‘Mark has no idea you went off with that slimeball.’

Clare took a step back. ‘How did you know about that?’

‘I told you. I'm always with you. I know everything about you.’

‘Tell me something,’ Clare challenged her. ‘If, as you say, you’ve been with me all my life, how come I’ve never seen you before and you suddenly turn up now?’

‘Well, like I said. There’s something you need to know. People in your position often don’t realise what’s happened.’

‘What’s happened is perfectly obvious,’ said Clare. ‘There’s a strange woman in my flat with my boyfriend and he can’t seem to look me in the eye. I don’t believe any of this spirit guide claptrap for one minute, so cut the crap and tell me what you’re really doing here.’

‘I’m here to take you home,’ said Persia, standing up. ‘It's time we were going; there's nothing more for you here.’

‘I am home,’ snapped Clare. ‘This is my flat. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I'm not going anywhere with you. I’m going to the police station, because I was raped and nearly killed on my way home.’ She spoke the last sentence a little louder, directing it at Mark, who stood peering out of the window. ‘Not only that, he only let me go - I only survived - because he was disturbed. The woman who disturbed him is lying dead in a puddle. I have to tell the police all I know so they can catch the bastard before he does it again. And while I’m there, I might just report you for breaking and entering, not to mention trying to steal my boyfriend.’

Persia shrugged and walked towards the door. In the doorway she turned back and said, ‘Have it your own way. I can’t force you to do anything. When you’re ready to go home, just call me.’ Then she was gone.

‘Who was that woman, Mark?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Okay, Mark, ignore me. Ignore me when I really need you. I was attacked and raped and nearly killed. I’m going to the police now. Come with me – please?’ Clare prayed that he would turn around and look at her and realise she was telling the truth. He didn't. Her anger flared again. ‘Suit yourself,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll go on my own.’

Clare turned on her heels and stomped out into the night. As she approached the police station, her resolve began to crumble. Her pace slowed and she paused at the door, looking up at the blue sign above her head. They’d say she’d asked for it. If only Mark was with her, it might be easier. Even if there was no hope for them as a couple, he should be supporting her. Whatever happens, she thought, grimly, when this is over, a serious re-think about our relationship is on the cards.

**

As Clare left, Mark turned away from the window and looked around the empty room with a puzzled look on his face. He shivered.

**

The police station was quiet. The reception area was lit by a dim, sickly yellow light, and smelled of sweat and floor polish. A clerk sat at a desk writing. The only other people there were a young black man and his girlfriend, sitting on the plastic chairs opposite the counter.

Clare marched up to the desk and cleared her throat. The clerk didn’t look up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. Still no response. Just like Mark, Clare thought. It’s as if I’ve become invisible all of a sudden. ‘I’m here to report a murder,’ Clare continued, more loudly. ‘There’s a body on the common, I know who did it. He nearly killed me too. I’ve got his DNA on me; he was in seat 27B on the 17.15 Air London flight from Manchester.’

The clerk stood up. At last, Clare thought. I’ve finally got his attention. But he turned his broad back on her and shuffled into a back office. Clare turned to the couple. ‘Did you see that?’ she cried, exasperated. ‘No wonder there’s so much crime in this city - they don’t want to know!’

The couple, too, were ignoring her. The girl shivered and turned to her boyfriend. ‘Cold in here, innit?’ She said. ‘Can I borrow your jacket?’ The young man removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Neither of them looked at Clare at all.

Before Clare had time to ponder this, the clerk reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee and settled back into his seat. ‘Excuse me,’ Clare tried again. ‘There has been a murder! M-U-R-D...’

Before she could finish, the door opened and Mark walked in. Finally, the clerk looked up. ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ he said.

‘Mark!’ Clare cried. A wave of sweet relief flooded her being. He was going to support her after all. ‘Thank God! Perhaps he’ll listen to you. Tell him, there’s been a murder!’

Mark looked right through her as he stepped up to the desk and said, ‘I want to report my girlfriend missing.’

Want to find out what happens next? Buy the novel:

Paperback - CreateSpace or Amazon 


Or get the E-book: Amazon Kindle 

Characters in Control

Most writers will have experienced the phenomenon of a character developing a mind of his or her own and taking their story in an unexpected direction.

I've been experiencing a fairly extreme case of this over the past few weeks.

Before you read any further, I should point out that, although the story I'm working on is as yet untitled and isn't anywhere near finished, there could be potential spoilers in the following account. When you've read it, you might want to find a friendly vampire to wipe your memory before this story gets published anywhere. Though given how long it's taking me to get the first one published, and the fact there are several others further up the pipeline than this one, you have plenty of time and you may well have forgotten all of this by then, anyway - but you have been warned.

I wanted, for this particular story, a "kiss and tell" article about one of the main characters to illustrate a) that he was a bit of a playboy and b) that another character, who was reading the article, was a tiny bit obsessed with him. I needed a title for this and the name of the supermodel who had written it.

It was one of those occasions when a name popped into my head, rather than my having to go through a mental list of all my friends and family for a name I haven't used yet, peruse my bookshelves for a likely name among the authors or activate a name generating app. In hindsight, it seemed this time that the character was out there in the creative ether somewhere already and wanted to introduce herself. Her name, she told me, was Puffball McKenzie. Yes, I know it sounds like a daft name, the sort celebrities saddle their kids with, but since she lives in a parallel dimension, odd names are fine (Although there are other characters in the same story with perfectly ordinary names that could easily belong to some bloke you meet down the pub).

I had what I needed for the scene I was writing. That was to be the extent of Puffball McKenzie's part in this story.

Then Puffball unexpectedly shows up when the aforementioned playboy character is on a date with another woman, and almost causes a scene - except her latest squeeze ushers her out of the restaurant before things get ugly.

I'd decided that I wasn't going to include an account of Puffball's encounter with the playboy character. I already had some romantic scenes involving characters whose relationships had a chance of going somewhere, and I reckoned that was enough.

Puffball didn't agree. She started telling me about it. To her credit, she didn't dwell on the most intimate parts of the evening, but she wanted me to know how they met and what happened immediately afterwards. She was also showing me what she looked like; a very clear image which inspired me to pick up a pen and draw her, even though she was still, at this point, a very minor character.

Then, as her account of that evening unfolded, she gave me some insights into her character. She showed me the inside of her apartment, where absolutely everything is either white or made from clear glass. All her clothes are white. The one splash of colour in her apartment is the green stems of some white roses she has in a clear glass vase on a clear glass coffee table. She gets more and more interesting.

As she tells me what happens in the morning, when she wakes up and finds him gone, it is as if she wants to correct the misconceptions people might have of her. Rather than being a cold, calculating character selling her story for money, she is disappointed, angry and feeling rejected. She writes the article in the heat of the moment, because she wants to hit back at this man in the only way she can think of that could possibly hurt him. She doesn't think through what the consequences might be for herself, and by the time she does, it's already gone viral.

That, I decided, is all we need to see of Puffball. We need to get on with the main focus of the story which involves a nuclear explosion that opens up a wormhole between Puffball's dimension and ours, and what happens to the characters who get sucked through it. Puffball isn't one of them; here is where we leave her behind.

Until I started writing about what would happen if those characters found a way back home; a way to produce a more stable wormhole so they can move freely between the two worlds.

Puffball wanted in on that.

I don't know if it was my growing sympathy for her, or part of the story she was telling me, that had me have her find love with someone totally unexpected, but that is what happens. That is also how she gets invited along to the big homecoming bash of the characters who've been missing for a couple of years. There is a closure with her and the playboy character, who is one of the people returning. All's well that ends well. Or is it?

Puffball seems not to be finished with me yet. She wants to go through the wormhole. As I write the conversations between the returners and their old friends, it is Puffball who asks if it's possible to visit Earth. She is told no, because passage through the wormhole had unexpected and random effects on people (some of them got super-powers) and so it is only really safe for people who've made the trip before.

I know exactly what Puffball is saying to me now. "Get me through the wormhole. I don't care how you do it. I want a super-power. I'm willing to take the risk."

I was thinking the story was nearly over, but it looks as if Puffball is going to go through, and of course a bunch of people are going to have to go through and rescue her, which is likely to result in at least one more person getting a super-power. Strangely enough, that person would be exactly the one Puffball would want to grant a super-power to, given the choice.

This is how Puffball went from being just a name on an article to being a major character and a super-heroine to boot! 

What was I saying about her not being calculating?